Breathing a sigh of relief, Connie edged her way to the bar. “Excuse me? Sir?”
“Well, you certainly aren't from around here.” The shaven-headed bartender didn't look up from the shot glasses he was cleaning, if that was the right word for what he was doing with his gray, greasy dishcloth. “I think you've taken a wrong turn, Yankee girl.”
“I'm looking for someone.” Connie showed him the well-worn photo she always carried with her. “Very tall, very loud, very Irish?”
The bartender's eyes flicked from the photo to her face momentarily. “No idea.”
Connie fumbled through the unfamiliar bills in her wallet, pulling out a twenty. “You sure about that?”
The bartender gave her a long, thoughtful look. Connie put the twenty down on the bar, keeping her finger on it.
With a shrug, the bartender jerked his head in the direction of a door at the back of the bar. “You could try in there. Though if I were you, I'd go straight back home instead.”
Connie sighed. “Boy, do I wish I could.”
Leaving the money on the bar, she headed for indicated door. It opened into a narrow, dirty stairway that sloped steeply down into darkness. As Connie gingerly descended, a familiar Irish voice floated up the stairs.
“—the most beautiful plane you'll ever have the pleasure of laying eyes on, my hand to God. If you won't take my word for it then you can all come and see her in action at
the race next week. In fact, would any of you fine gentlemen care for a little side bet…?”
“Not again,” Connie groaned. She hastened down the last few steps so fast she ran straight into the door at the bottom.
“What was that?” said a man sharply.
The door opened, and an enormous hand grabbed Connie's shoulder. She stumbled as she was yanked forward into a small, smoky room.
A small group of men were seated around a green-topped table, cards and cigarettes in their hands. They started at Connie's intrusion, their cards reflexively jerking closer to their chests.
All except one man. He greeted her arrival with a dazzling smile—and not the slightest hint of repentance.
“Darlin'!” Connie's dad exclaimed with evident delight.
The huge man holding Connie's shoulder brandished her in her father's general direction. “This yours, West?”
“You'll not be speaking of my daughter like that, thank you,” her dad said indignantly. “Or else I'll be having to ask you to step outside.”
Connie twisted her shoulder free from the giant. “Dad, you promised!”
“Ah, now, don't be like that.” Connie's dad flung his arms wide, regardless of the other men’s scowls. “It's just a friendly little game.”
Connie looked at the not inconsiderable pile of money already stacked in the center of the table. Even with her unfamiliarity with British currency, she could recognize they were mostly high-value bills. “A friendly game? Dad, you know we can't afford this right now!”
One of the other men at the table folded his cards, casting a level look over them at Connie's dad. “Is that so?”
“I said I'd be good for it, and I will be.” Her dad gestured extravagantly at her. “With my lovely daughter copiloting my plane with me, we're a dead cert for winning the air race next week. The prize money is as good as in my pocket.”
“It is not,” hissed Connie. She cast a weak, apologetic smile around at the seated men. “We really have to go now. Sorry for any misunderstanding.”
“But I'm winning!” her dad protested as she tried to tug him to his feet.
“Yeah, you can't go yet, West,” said a man whose skinny, supple fingers seemed oddly out of proportion with the rest of his hands. Connie mentally nicknamed him Longfingers. “Have to give us a chance to win back our money.”
“That's only fair,” said another man.
A general rumble of agreement ran around the table. There was an ominous undertone to the sound that made Connie think of a pack of wolves, growling low in their throats as they closed in on their prey.
No matter how infuriatingly impulsive Connie's dad was, at least he wasn't stupid. “Ah, well,” he said, starting to gather bills toward him. “Better call it a night. Sorry, lads.”