CHAPTER 2

“A little early, ain’t it? Even for you?”

I recognized the voice well before my eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the Ink and Pen, the preferred watering hole of Providence’s newspapermen and women since type was set by hand. Liam Dooley, a slight trace of an Irish brogue in his speech, which I’d always viewed with a reporter’s skepticism seeing as how he was born and raised in Providence, was at his usual place behind the bar.

“Ah, shit,” he said, and I realized he could see me clearly enough and must have noticed the tell-tale file box I carried into the bar with me. “Not you too? How the hell am I supposed to stay in business if that damned paper keeps firing my best customers?”

“I guess you’ll just have to water your whiskey down even more,” I replied as I approached my usual seat at the bar. Of course, I could’ve sat anywhere. The bar was empty at that early hour.

“Hold your tongue. An Irishman would no more water down whiskey than a Hindu would eat a steak.”

Slowly I began to distinguish Liam’s bulky figure manning his post. If ever a man was born to own a bar, it was Liam. He had a knack for remembering the name of every customer who ever entered his place and could make even the most miserable human being on the face of the Earth feel welcome. I was always amazed how he seemed to know enough about everything to keep a conversation going, but not so much as to appear an expert. He let the customer fill that role. He had an easy-going manner and a natural gift for telling jokes and stories. Despite his size--he was easily over six foot three and must have weighed well over 250 pounds--he moved behind the bar with the grace of Fred Astaire, and I swear he could hear an empty glass touch down upon the bar top, no matter how loud the bar crowd, and swoop in with a refill before a patron could call out for another round. Yet congenial as he was, he made it known, in his way, that he’d countenance no monkey business in his bar, and an unruly customer would find himself flying ass over heel into the street quicker than lager turns to piss.

I sat down and placed the box on the stool beside me.

“Well, just in case, pour me a double. And so I won’t be drinking alone, pour one for yourself and one for my late, lamented career at the Providence Sentinel, here,” I said, gently tapping the lid of the file box.

“Well, it is a bit early for me, but seeing as to the occasion, I’d be a poor friend to say no,” he answered.

Liam placed three shot glasses on the bar and poured some Powers whiskey into each right to the peak. The two of us raised our glasses, and then clinked them against the one sitting in front of the half-filled file box.

“To lost jobs and broken hearts,” Liam toasted.

We knocked back our shots and slammed our glasses on the bar with a loud thud.

“Your friend here doesn’t appear to be too thirsty,” Liam said, wiping some whiskey off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, well, he’s taking it pretty hard. I think it’s his first time.” I sat for a moment remembering mine. “I, on the other hand, do not have that problem,” I said and slid the full whiskey glass over in front of me.

“Well, you know, Wes, and forgive me if I’m sticking my big Mick nose where it doesn’t belong, but Jaysus, you must have seen it coming. I mean, some of the stuff you wrote was depressing enough to make Little Orphan Annie slit her wrists.”

“Everybody’s a critic,” I said. I polished off the remaining shot of whiskey. No sooner had I returned the glass to the bar than Liam refilled it for me.

“So, what are your plans? I can’t imagine, much as I’d miss you, that you’ll be staying around Providence. Not much, besides my dear friendship, to keep you around, is there?” he asked.

That was one of things I’d come to love about Liam. He would stick his big Mick nose wherever he thought it needed sticking and his honesty was refreshing. We’d hit it off pretty well the first time I came into the place and, once he found out we both had ancestors in County Donegal, he’d practically adopted me as a brother. I was going to miss him.

“Ya know, I did a little research on ya, seeing as how I’m the curious sort and like to know a little about my customers, especially those running a tab. I read some of your old stuff, from where was it...Boston? You were once a pretty good reporter--broke some big stories.”

I ran my finger around the top of my shot glass, eyeing Liam warily. “Yeah, and stepped on a lot of the wrong toes. So what?”

“So, I was wondering what happened.”

I raised the glass to my lips but only took a sip this time. It wasn’t yet noon after all.

“Nothing I really feel like talking about.”

“Yeah, well, unless you want to kiss your newspaper career goodbye entirely, you better start talking about it, and it might as well be with me.”

To hell with the hour. I finished off the rest of the whiskey in one quick swallow. I put the glass back on the bar and covered it with my hand to stop Liam from pouring me another.

“Okay, you want to be my psychologist. Well, here’s the road version and then we go back to you being the bartender and me being the soon-to-be drunk. Once upon a time, I had a good career and a great marriage. My wife died, my career went up in smoke, and I ended up getting a job here only because the father of a friend happened to be one of the bigwigs at the paper. Ever since I got here, I’ve written crap and got canned. End of session.” I moved my hand from atop the glass. “Pour me another drink...please.”

Liam was silent for several moments. Then he shook his head sadly and filled my glass. He poured one for himself.

“Sláinte!” he toasted and we drank our shots. We were back on familiar turf.

“So, what are ya going to do now?” he asked.

“Well, believe it or not, getting fired was actually the bright news of the day. Seems a friend from long ago days was murdered in my hometown a few nights ago. I’m debating going back for his funeral.”

“Why wouldn’t ya?”

“Well, before I left years ago, I broke a story for the local newspaper that pissed off some very important people and hurt someone I cared about deeply. I don’t think I’d be welcomed back with open arms,” I explained.

“You think those people are still mad at you?”

“People in my old hometown hold grudges the way folks in other places hold Fourth of July celebrations. Everybody’s just waiting for the fireworks.”

“How’d your friend die?” Liam asked.

“Haven’t gotten all the details yet.”

“Police catch who did it?”

“No, and knowing my friend’s reputation with the local constabulary, they aren’t going to knock themselves out trying to find the culprit. Stevie--that was his name--had a way of pissing people off.”

“You’re a reporter, or at least you once were. Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Of course I do. We haven’t been close for years, but there was a time we were as close as brothers, but I am not going down there to get involved. Those days are over.”

“Tough situation,” Liam said, pouring each of us another round. “You can do the wrong thing and go back and try to the find the killer, or you can do the right thing and go back and find the killer--or you can be a horse’s arse and do nothing.”

I shook my head and chuckled. Leave it to Liam to make me laugh at a time like this. “Yeah, I think it’s what they call a conundrum.”

“Ya know what I think you should do?” Liam asked.

“You mean other than start lining up a liver transplant donor?” I asked, eyeing the full shot glass in front of me.

“I say to hell with the people you might piss off. Maybe if you go back you find your friend’s killer, you start to find your old self as well.”

“I’m a reporter, or at least was, not a detective. Besides, I thought I said the shrink session was over,” I answered.

“I’m not saying that as a psychologist. I’m saying it as a friend.” He lifted his glass. “To old friends and new beginnings.”

We drank.