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Things were popping down at Biddy's Irish pub in Shockoe Bottom. Michaela parked her Land Cruiser in her reserved spot behind the bar and entered through the back door. She reviewed the messages on her desk and hung up her coat. She inspected her face in the mirror, rearranged her hair, and walked into the taproom with Angel at her side. Mic loved this bar—the smells, the polish, the scent of Murphy’s oil soap, and the décor. She loved the way Biddy's had turned out. It had taken her three years, all the money she had saved for twenty years, and several architects and contractors to build the exact bar she remembered from her childhood home in Ireland. Biddy’s bar in Dublin had been her dad’s bar, and it had been one of the most hoppin’ watering holes in Dublin. Seumas McPherson was a legend in the pub world, and Mic had spent her childhood in a booth doing her homework and eating vanilla ice cream after school each day. She had loved being the daughter of a pub owner. It had been great.
Michaela waved at Sean, her Irish bartender, complete with brogue, and walked over to the long mahogany bar that extended over thirty feet on one side of the restaurant. The mirrored wall of shelves, home to every kind of Irish whiskey, reflected beautifully in the low light. A Celtic string quartet played Irish music across from the bar on the small stage. The restaurant was beautiful, with the highly polished tables gleaming in the light. Sean waved back at her and deftly poured her a pint of Guinness.
Mic watched him carefully. Sean had the qualities of the ideal Irish bartender. He was expert at the true, five-step Guinness pour process. He deftly tilted the glass, pulled the tap forward for a carbonated beer blend and filled the glass just below the harp symbol. Then he waited for the beer to settle, tapped back and topped her beer off with pure beer just below or at the rim of the glass. He waited for the rising stream of bubbles to settle to the top and handed it to Michaela with a flourish and bow, the bubbles just a millimeter or so above the rim.
Mic nodded and accepted the beer. “How’re things?” she asked.
“Busy, been busy since lunch. The Shepherd’s pie was a huge hit. We’ve a little left if you are hungry.” He glanced down the bar and saw a man push his glass forward and mouth the word, “pint.” He smiled at Michaela and said, “Duty calls.”
Mic flashed him a brilliant smile and glanced over to the corner of the bar to what staff affectionately referred to as the “friends’ corner”. She saw a group of her old police buddies drinking and talking. Lieutenant Steve Stoddard raised his glass in greeting. Mic raised her glass in return and walked through the crowd to the corner table.
Stoddard gave her a long, appreciative look. “Honest to God, Mic, you look ten times better since you retired from the RPD. Much better than you ever looked on the job! What’ve you done to yourself?”
“Yeah,” another guy agreed, and two others raised their pints in agreement. “To Michaela and Biddy’s ...mostly Biddy’s, the best pub in town.”
Mic laughed and looked for a seat.
“Sit down, Michaela,” Ted Matthews said as he smiled at her. “Tell us what it’s like to own a gold mine restaurant.”
Michaela grinned at Ted, an old friend from the third precinct. “It’s got a gold mine mortgage and it’s as big a pain in the ass as being a Richmond City cop. Only difference is the coffee’s better, and the beer is plentiful.” She raised her glass to salute the men in blue who frequented her bar.
“There’s two reasons to quit the RPD right there,” Steve opined.
Michaela grinned again and asked, “Anybody seen Slade McKane? I’m hoping to catch up with him tonight.”
Ted raised his eyebrow and winked. “Uh huh, you and Slade gonna give it another try?”
Mic shook her head, even though she felt heat crawl up her neck. “Nope, we’re working on a case together. I’m private on the Allison Massie case. I’m hopin’ he has some info for me.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s bad business. Family’s having a hard time. No contact with anybody. You see Smirkowitz?”
Michaela nodded. “Yeah, and he’s definitely involved. I hope we’ll get him this time. My gut went into triple time just lookin’ at him.”
Ted raised his pint again, “Yeah, that slimy bastard’s been gettin’ away with stuff for years. Get him, Mic. He needs to go.”
Mic nodded. “That’s my plan, Ted. No one wants him anymore than me.”
“Not true.” a voice behind her said, “I want him more than you do, Mic. I’ve been after the creep for years.”
An excited shudder ran through Mic at Slade’s voice and she made room for him to sit.