No Timeouts - Page 6

With under five minutes left in the fourth quarter, the Giants up 27-23, the Eagles connect on a long pass deep into Giants territory, giving them a first and goal at the 8-yard line. The Finnegan’s crowd grows frustrated as the Giants call their final timeout. “C’mon G-Men, play some fuckin’ defense!” Scotty screams at the TV, his voice rising above the din, while the Giants jersey guy shakes his head in dismay and signals to Molly for another beer.

Bobby sits silently, watching the crowd with amusement; the raucous energy reminds him of a rivalry football (soccer, as they call it here) or rugby match back home. The fans go wild, finding an escape from their otherwise mundane lives, growing animated, vibrant and utterly consumed by the game. The power of sport and competition is truly transcendent, he thinks.

Bobby glances up when Molly places another pint of Guinness in front of him. “This one’s on Tommy, the manager. He likes to host you folks from the old country. His way a’ sayin’ welcome to our little slice a’ Ireland here in the North Bronx.”

Bobby nods appreciatively and raises his glass to Tommy, who stands at the end of the bar. Tommy meets Bobby’s gaze, cracks a smile and flashes a thumbs-up sign. Sitting on a stool next to Tommy is his father, the owner of the pub – old John Finnegan himself – brandishing a glass of whiskey. John glances at Bobby and holds his eyes for a moment, then nods and raises his glass as a slight smile forms on his lips.

Bobby returns the gesture but doesn’t smile. Drink up old man, he thinks to himself.

“So d’ya got an ‘other’ back home in Ireland?” Molly asks him.

The bar crowd groans as the Eagles score a touchdown; after the extra point, the Eagles take the lead 30-27 with four minutes left on the clock.

“Divorced about five years now, so it’s just me and my daughter Aileen. And now she’s moved here to the States, leavin’ dear ole dad for the riches of America.”

“All by your lonesome then?”

“I’m a tough one to live with I’ve been told, so prob’ly for the best.”

“Well, now that Aileen is livin’ down the road at Fordham, tell her to stop by the bar any time and we’ll take good care a’ her. We’re all family here.”

Now that’s the last fuckin’ thing I’d ever do, Bobby thinks to himself as he raises the fresh pint to his lips. He takes a long pull to stifle his scowl.

Suddenly, a cheer erupts from the bar crowd as the Giants return the Eagles’ kickoff thirty yards to their own 40-yard line. Tommy belts out a loud “Let’s Go, Giants!” chant that spreads through the bar like an electric current.

Molly winces from the sharp noise, putting her hands to her ears until the cheer subsides. “Now ya see what I gotta deal with every Sunday four months a year. All good fun though.”

Bobby nods. “So what about you then? What’s your story, Miss Molly?”

“Oh, it’s a long one that’d keep ya here all night,” Molly laughs. “But whattaya wanna know? I’m an open book.” She raises her eyebrows and leans forward on the bar.

“I dunno,” Bobby says. “Tell me somethin’ about yourself that nobody else in the pub knows, not even your regulars.”

“Well, I’m not great at keepin’ secrets. Pretty much what ya see is what ya get around here. But I do have one deep secret I don’t want these barflies knowin’ about.”

“Aye? Do tell, m’dear.”

Molly lowers her voice conspiratorially, then leans in further. “Sometimes I sing to myself in the shower. My favorite is ‘Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues.”

Bobby laughs. “Excellent choice!” he says with a grin. “Lemme know if y’ever need a duet partner; I could be the Shane to your Kirsty!”

“Now that’s a deal,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll make it worth your hop back across the pond.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Bobby lifts his glass and takes a pull.

“An’ I almost forgot.” Molly leans in so close to Bobby that their faces are just inches apart. Her smile disappears and her eyes lose their cheer. “I got one more dirty little secret.”

Bobby sets down his pint, curiosity piqued. “An’ what’s that?”

Molly looks him dead in the eye. “I never forget a face. Even when it’s hidden behind a beard and colored contacts. Especially one as pretty as yours, Bobby Kehan.”

Before Bobby can react, Scotty places a hand on his knee from the next stool. “Don’t breathe a word or move an inch, fella,” he warns quietly. “We got two guns on ya and men who know how to use ’em. Just sit tight and I’ll tell ya exactly what to do next. And ya won’t do a fuckin’ thing unless I tell ya to.”

Bobby, heart racing, pivots away from Scotty, only to come face to face with the Giants jersey guy, who’s pulled his attention away from the TV, a fierce look in his eye. “Don’t even think about it, mate,” he growls, pressing a small Beretta pistol into Bobby’s stomach. “Unless ya want your guts splattered all over the fuckin’ bar.” Keeping his gun trained on Bobby, he reaches down and removes the .38 from Bobby’s ankle holster.

Bobby takes a deep breath, then turns back to Molly and rests his elbows on the bar. He glares at her with smoldering intensity.

Molly shakes her head with a touch of sympathy. “Shoulda stayed in Belfast, Bobby. But somehow I knew ya’d show up here eventually.”