3

ch-fig

MONDAY, JUNE 4
11:05 A.M.
LARRY’S BAR
NORTHEAST MINNEAPOLIS

Rory Doyle walked up the sidewalk to the sputtering Larry’s Bar neon sign and gave it a blow with the heel of his hand. It settled into solid blue fluorescence—before instantly sliding back into a stutter. With a shake of his head, Rory reached into his pocket.

No cigarettes. He’d forgotten: he’d quit this morning and had tossed every trace of tobacco he knew of. What was part of a fresh start at eight was bad timing at eleven, but there was nothing he could do now. Feeling shaky, he pulled open the glass door and went in.

For a late Monday morning, the place was hopping by Larry’s Bar standards. Two guys in booths. A woman at the bar. Two more guys at the pool table. One of those gave Rory a nod, and he returned it.

His usual booth was open. He tossed his jacket there, then stepped up to the bar. “Larry, I’m expecting a call. That a problem?”

The big-shouldered bartender shrugged. “Nope. Things are slow enough.”

“Good. I’ll be at my booth.”

He slid onto the bench and looked around. Hard to believe this day was finally arriving. He’d thought about it for so long it was like hitting a lottery ticket he’d always known would make things right someday.

That thought made his throat burn for a cigarette again. He twisted the ring on his index finger to take his mind off it, glancing around the bar to see if he could bum one from another patron.

“Rory,” a voice called. Larry was gesturing from the bar with a phone in one hand. “It’s for you.”

He kept twisting the ring until he’d taken the phone and pulled it down to the empty end of the bar. Clearing his throat, he put it to his ear.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Rory. So did ya think about what I suggested?”

Rory cleared his throat again. “The answer’s no.”

A pause, followed by, “That’s not good thinkin’.”

“I’ve done what the trust said. I deserve my share.”

The caller made a clucking sound. “Well, you’d better hope so. ’Cause if the lawyer finds otherwise, you’re done. You know that, right?”

“The trust rules apply to you and Ed, same as me.”

“Aye, you’re right, Rory. The trust rules apply to all three of us. It’s just that neither Ed nor me has done a thing to be worried about. We’ll get our share.”

“I’m entitled to my share too.”

“Entitled. Okay. So you’re not interested in a deal. Well, I’m still going to offer one, and you’d be stupid not to take it. If you back away—admit you don’t qualify for the trust cash—I’ll still give ya three hundred thousand from my own share. A hundred to you, and a hundred for each of your kids. It’s a one-time deal, and it goes away once I meet with the lawyer.”

“That’s not my share.” Rory gripped the phone like a knife. “And what’s this about you offering me a deal? I’m Jimmy Doyle’s son, not you.”

“I wouldn’t go down that road, boyo. It’s me your dad put in charge of the trust; it’s me who’s executor of his estate. But I hear ya. I’m settin’ up a meetin’ with the lawyer later today.”

Rory felt his heart pounding. “Good. Let’s get this done.”

“Sure, Rory. Let’s get this done.”

The line went dead. Rory reached over the bar and set the phone back on its cradle, his hand wet with sweat. He wiped it on his jeans.

“You okay?” It was Larry, filling a mug from the tap.

“Yeah. . . . Thanks for the phone.”

Rory retrieved his jacket and headed toward the exit. As he passed one of the men he’d been eyeing for a cigarette, he realized the hunger for one was gone. At least for now.

So it was really happening. A little more than a week and this would be over. The trust was finally getting passed out. The long wait was ending.

It was about time. And when it was over—when he and his kids had what they deserved—then it really would be a whole new start. For all of them. He was sure of it.