The Traveller and Other Stories by Stuart Neville

Author:Stuart Neville
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2020-07-26T15:17:03+00:00

The Last Dance

Treanor’s Bar never tried too hard to be an Irish pub. Maybe that’s why on a busy night you could find more Irish people there than any bar in the city. I don’t mean white guys trying to adopt some kind of ethnicity to ease their Caucasian guilt, but real honest-to-God children of Eire.

Plenty of bars gave you the shamrock treatment, Guinness on tap and fiddles on the walls, but Treanor’s was the real thing. It seethed with that self-righteous jingoism and sense of injustice that only comes from Ireland.

Do I sound bitter? Well, I have good reason to be. That’s why I got out, got away, across the ocean from Belfast to Boston. I couldn’t stand the hate anymore. But still, at least once a week, I felt drawn to this sorry excuse for a bar.

This one night, the place was empty save for an old duffer counting change on a tabletop, Mickey the barman, and one stranger who occupied a stool two seats down from my favourite spot. The stale smell of old beer filled my head. Mickey raised an eyebrow and grunted as I limped towards the bar. The weather had turned cold and damp, and my left knee didn’t like it one bit.

I loosened the collar of my work shirt. The ID laminate clipped to the pocket proudly told the world I had achieved the office of Warehouse Manager. I wasn’t quite a regular at Treanor’s, not a part of the furniture, but Mickey didn’t have to ask what I wanted. A pint of Smithwick’s was ready for hoisting to my lips before my ass was even settled on the stool. I grimaced at the creaking in my knee.

“Quiet tonight,” I said.

“Yep,” said Mickey.

And that was the sum total of our conversation most nights. Tonight was different, though. Mickey leaned forward as he pretended to wipe down the bar. Mickey never wiped down the bar. The beer stains on there were older than my car, and it’s a long time since that peace of shit was new.

Mickey inclined his head towards the stranger. “See that guy?” he whispered.

I tried hard not to look to my right where the stranger sat staring at a shot of whiskey and a pint of Guinness.

Mickey rested his chin on his hand, obscuring his mouth as if the stranger might be a deaf lip reader. I should point out that Mickey isn’t the brightest. Between you and me, he knows just enough not to eat himself.

“That guy’s been here a half hour,” he said.

I shrugged. “And?”

“And he hasn’t had a sip. He just sits staring at those glasses like they’re gonna start doing tricks or something.”

By now, the old duffer had finished tallying his wealth and he approached the bar. “I’m a little short, Mickey. Can you stand me the twenty cents?”

His accent, or what was left of it, sounded like Cork to me. I’d seen him here before, always alone. He probably came to America expecting to make his fortune.

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