11. NICK

Finn, the guy who owns and runs Murphy’s, is a bit paunchy, in his 60s, and is about as Irish as I am. He changed his name at some point in the past, but just as Storm did with me, I detected the faint hint of his accent the first time we shook hands years ago.

Like the piroghis we had with dinner last night, Finn is originally from Ukraine. And, just like Storm, I’ve never asked him about his past. He returns the favor, but I’m sure he knows a lot more about me than he lets on. He may not talk a lot, but, like all truly good bartenders, he’s an excellent listener. Over the years, we’ve developed a mutually beneficial relationship.

He starts drawing me a Miller Lite as soon as he sees me in the doorway, so that it’s ready when I sit down at the bar. The place is empty at this hour of the afternoon on a Tuesday, but trade will pick up after five o’clock, when the locals get off work. Murphy’s isn’t on any tourist’s list of places to visit – no artisanal craft lagers, no avocado toast, just domestic beer on tap and pickled eggs in a jar – which suits Finn just fine.

“Nicky,” he says, setting the sweating glass in front of me. “Been awhile.”

I nod. “How’s things, Finn?”

“Living the dream, like always,” he deadpans, sweeping a hand at the dank, empty bar.

I chuckle. Finn’s one of the few people who can make me laugh.

We chat about baseball – Finn is a diehard Mets fan, poor sap – and other meaningless bullshit for a while as I sip my beer. It’s a ritual with us. Then, after we’ve chewed the fat for a while, Finn will discreetly bring up… other subjects.

“Did I see you walkin’ down the street with a girl earlier?” he asks casually. Dipping a toe in the water, ready to pull it back if it’s too cold.

“You did,” I say, performing my part of the play. “She’s new in town.”

“Izzat right? Pretty gal.”

I raise my glass to him and take a long pull. “She sure is.”

“She from around here? I never seen her before.”

“No.”

He nods. “I was just wonderin’ is all. Heard somebody was looking for a young blonde, thought maybe it was her.”

This is what I came in for. “Huh,” I say. “Where’s this blonde from?”

“Jersey, I heard.”

“My girl’s from Arkansas,” I say mildly.

“Nice place, Arkansas,” he says, pulling the towel from his shoulder and mopping the puddle my glass has left on the bar. “Bill Clinton’s from there. Good Democrat.”

I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes; sometimes Finn works a little too hard at playing the Irish-American stereotype.

“So who was looking for this blonde?” I ask. “Just in case I see her.”

He screws up his face, as if having trouble remembering.

“Some guy with an accent,” he says. “Eastern European, I think.”

Shit.

“Didn’t catch a name, did you?”

He glances around the room before leaning closer.

“Can’t quite remember, exactly,” he says quietly. “Started with a V.”

Volkov. Christ.

Well, at least now I know.

“Huh,” I say before draining the last of my beer. “You know, if you hear anybody talking about this again, maybe send them out my way.”

Finn cocks an eyebrow. “You sure about that? I mean, you’re not exactly known for having company.”

“No, but we Russians need to help each other out. You know, like you Irish always do.”

He grins, obviously confused, and shrugs.

“Whatever you say, Nicky.”

I slide a hundred across the bar and he tucks it into his apron.

“Good talking to you, Finn.”

“You too, buddy,” he says. As an afterthought, he adds: “Take care of yourself, huh?”

I flash him a cold grin as I head for the door. “Don’t worry about me.”

The sun is blinding as I emerge from the dank of the pub onto the street. When my pupils finally widen, I see Storm, her butt propped on the Vette’s hood. She’s holding a bag from Ellie’s.

She grins under my aviators as she catches sight of me.

“I got stuff for supper tonight!” she says.

I return her smile. “Perfect. And I’m sure you got an earful from Ellie, too.”

“Just a little bit,” she says as she opens the driver’s side door and tosses the bag in the back. “She really cares about you, Nick.”

I nod and sit down in the passenger seat. “I like her, too,” I say. “I’m just not great at showing it. You know me – I’m not exactly a social butterfly.”

“Well, you better learn how to be one pretty quick,” she says, firing up the engine.

I frown at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I just invited Ellie and some others to the house for a dinner party on Friday.”

She drops the car into first and peels off down Main Street, the thunderous rumble of the big block drowning out my shouts of protest.