Michal
Flannigan's pub is before me, a squat, brick building with dark windows decorated with gaudy neon signs advertising various beers, the word "open" the most pronounced. The evening air has a chill to it, and as I stand leaning on my car from my vantage point across the street, I attempt to scout the place—to get a sense of just what I might be getting myself into.
I'm here to start the process of squeezing the Donahue's businesses, and I'm not looking forward to it. The easy peace that's existed between our families has been on the rocks for the last few years, but I am loath to be one of the men to direct it to its grave.
But if I want Alina, it's what I have to do. Though I know that the feelings I'm developing for her are a liability and distraction, I can't pretend that they don't exist. I can only react to them.
Being that it’s a Monday night, the place looks about as dead as I'd expect, but that doesn't mean that there's any less danger. Pulling up my collar against the evening chill, I walk across the street and up to the bar, the jangling, rowdy sounds of Irish drinking music becoming clearer with each step I take.
I take a deep breath as I place my hand on the door handle before pulling it open.
The music hits me like a runaway car, the raucous tunes so loud I can barely think. The bar is an old-fashioned place, with a long, curving bar of dark, rich wood, brick walls, and low, homey lighting. There are only a handful of patrons, all men, in the place, sitting at the bar, their eyes down and shoulders slumped as they sip their tall, dark beers and low, brown whiskeys. A mean-looking Irishman with a beefy frame that looks about ready to burst out of his flannel shirt eyeballs me as I stand at the entrance.
In the time it takes me to walk to the bar, I already I have a headache from the music. I slide into one of the seats with its torn, red cushion and let my eyes drift over the packed-full shelves of liquors of various sorts.
"Somethin' I can get ya, friend?" the bartender asks in a brisk, Irish accent, though his tone suggests that I'm anything but his "friend."
"Club soda," I say. "Twist of lime."
He picks up on the hint of Polish accent in my voice and his features tighten; he understands who I am and what I'm likely here to do.
"I don't know if you're a little lost, but in a bar like this, you don't order a ‘club soda with a twist of a lime.’"
He's staring me down, trying to intimidate me. It's not working. I've wiped tougher men than him off of my boots.
"Club soda with a twist of lime."
His eyes narrow. The other patrons at the bar have picked up on the tension in the air and are now looking our way. His gaze still fixed on me, the bartender removes a glass from the rack of filthy, unwashed glasses and places it on the bar. Aiming the drink gun over it, he clicks the button for a brief moment, sending a splash of fizzy liquid into the glass, most of it sloshing over the side. Then, he reaches into the plastic barrier over the sink that catches anything that's not liquid and withdraws an old, used lime, which he plops into the glass. He places the thing in front of me, and now I can see the lipstick and fingerprints on the tumbler.
"There ya are, friend," says the bartender.
The men around us are snorting and talking amongst themselves.
"Anything else I can help ya with?" asks the bartender.
"Yeah," I say, pushing the glass to the side. "I'm looking to speak with the owner."
The bartender crosses his arms over his broad chest and leans against the drink shelves behind him.
"Well, you're speakin' to him now."
"I wanted to make a complaint about the customer service," I say. "Do you have a comment card I could fill out?"
The bartender narrows his eyes into even narrower slits, the dull green of them dark and menacing.
"Listen, you Pollack piece of shite—I don't know what you got in mind comin' in an Irish shop like mine, but I suggest you turn around and walk right back out the way ya came before things take a turn for the rough."
Now the men around us are watching with giddy excitement, as though we're a TV show about to get to an action scene.
"Easy," I say, holding up my hands. "I'm just here to do some territory negotiation."
"'Territory negotiation,' huh?" he says.
He looks around.
"Lucky for you, I'm in charge of not just this bar, but the half of this damn neighborhood. So if you want to negotiate, then I'm the man you want ta be speakin' with."
"Wonderful to hear," I say.
"But let's take such business matters of the barroom floor. I've got a lovely little office in the back that's much more …amenable to such topics of discussion."
I know where this is going.
"Well, then," I say. "Let's not waste another minute."
The bartender turns his massive frame toward the door leading to the back, and I follow him through.
# # #
Around fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the back rooms, the eyes of the patrons on me. My knuckles are sore from the fight and my jaw aches from where one of the Irish thugs lying in wait got the drop on me. Fighting three men at once was pushing it, but nothing I couldn't handle, especially since, judging by the smell and their motor skills, they'd all been pounding whiskey since they woke up this morning. And as I stood over the owner, the broken pool cue in my hands and the pair of thugs lying unconscious behind me, he found himself more than willing to negotiate Polish expansion in the neighborhood.
"Bartender's taking a nap," I say to the patrons over the blaring music. "Drinking on the job's never a good idea. He said to help yourselves to whatever you wanted before he went out."
The men all share a look that seems to suggest that they know that something isn’t on the level, but that as long as there is free whiskey, they couldn’t give less of a damn about the details. They snatch a pair of bottles from the runner just behind the bar and start pouring. I duck to the side of the bar and down a quick shot of something strong, hoping to numb the throbbing of my knuckles. Then I make a quick exit out of the front door before the men start with the old Irish drinking songs.
Sitting in the driver's seat of my car, I can't help but shake my head as I realize what I'm getting myself, and the family, into. The Donahues might be able to write off a few incidents like this as the normal sort of friction that's existed between the Nowaks and them for as long as anyone can remember, but once they learn that it's not just one or two businesses getting hit, but a whole string of them, they'll learn quickly just what's going on.
Before I can consider the situation further, my phone rings; It's my father.
"You did it?" he asks.
"Yeah. The owner at Flannigan's got the hint. Really got it."
"Excellent," says my father. "I knew that you'd be more than capable of doing what needs to be done for our family."
I say nothing, my mind on the violence that lay ahead.
"Trust your father," he says, seemingly picking up on my trepidation. "These next few weeks are going to be a little …rough, certainly. But once it's all over, and the Donahues have been run from this city, our family will grow more prosperous than we've ever thought possible. And you'll be able to enjoy the fruits of our labor with that lovely young woman of yours."
"I understand," I say.
He's right, and I know it. If I want Alina and me to be together, then this is what must be done.
"And you haven't forgotten your mother, of course. Think of this as not only doing what's best for the family, but honoring her memory."
Any doubts in my mind are cast aside at these words. The Donahues killed my mother, and we rewarded them with a peace treaty that has allowed them to grow rich and fat over the last decade. No more.
"You're right," I say, my words sincere.
"You're ready," he says. "Now, get back to the business at hand."
He hangs up. My eyes drift up, onto the downtown buildings that loom over me, the moon bright and full above. There's going to be violence, and I can only pray that Alina and I can make it through what's to come.