Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“Because it’s a waste of money. Don’t worry. They’re calling for a break starting tomorrow. That’s what Ma said. Besides,” I grab an order from the printer, “hot customers mean thirsty customers. It’ll be a good night for the pub.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t also mean a good night for a fight.” Rowen nods toward my hand. “Benoit came by earlier to have a word.”

I roll my eyes. The idiot doesn’t know what to do with his evenings now.

“That’s three tenners a week lost,” he reminds me. “At least.”

“He’s a thief.” I drop the pint on the counter a little too hard, splashing a bit on my hand. “We don’t serve thieves.”

“Fair enough, though we serve plenty of scoundrels.”

“This place is run by scoundrels!” one of our regulars pipes up from his side of the bar, earning a round of chuckles and a few handclasps. A lot of these men have formed friendships over their years on our stools. I wouldn’t necessarily call them healthy relationships, mind you—they depend on Delaney’s being open and the beer flowing—but there’s a sense of community here.

“Is this about the thief or the bird?” Rowen’s not going to let up so easily.

“Both,” I admit with a smirk, before grabbing another order coming in from the wait staff. It’s going to be a long night. Saturdays always are, even in a city graced with a thousand pubs.

“River. You’re here, finally.” Nuala, a long-standing bartender and waitress at Delaney’s, hip-checks me out of the way before bending down to pull a bottle of Budweiser from the cooler. “Which bird is your brother going on about?”

“An American damsel in distress,” Rowen pipes in, stealing a glimpse of her round, ample arse over his shoulder. “Benoit stole her wallet last night and this guy dashed in on his steed to retrieve it for her.”

“After an American. Really, River? Had enough of us pure Irish Catholic birds?” She bats her eyelashes at me. I can only laugh. Nuala and I have been friends for years now. Long enough to know that pure has never been the right word to describe her. “Do you still need me behind the bar or can I take tables now? I have me own Americans waiting.” She raises her brow suggestively. “A whole lot of them.”

“What’s wrong, had enough of us strapping Irish fellas?” Rowen turns his lip down in an exaggerated frown.

She leans into him, resting her chin against his bicep, her hand rubbing suggestively over his back. “Stop pouting. It’s unbecoming.” It’s impossible not to look at the wide gap in her front teeth as she flashes a broad grin. It’s even harder to keep our eyes on her pretty, though average, face when she adjusts her tight-fitting work shirt over a pair of giant tits. Rowen and I, and the entire row of regulars by the bar, always fail.

With a loud bark of laughter, she grabs her service apron and rounds the bar. All the staff like it when Americans come in. It usually means a decent tip, unless they’ve bought into those tourist guide magazines that tell them not to bother.

Heaven forbid. It’s not like we Irish need the extra money.

“Why’d you end that, again?” Rowen mutters, watching Nuala’s curvy hips sway as she strolls toward her section.

“We never started.” It wasn’t anything, really, and it was a long time ago now. A few late nights alone together and a few too many pints after closing the pub. Things were bound to happen eventually.

He just shakes his head, his attention shifting from Nuala to Greta as the willowy blonde punches an order in, bobbing to the steady thrum of Collin’s upbeat guitar rhythm.

I cuff him lightly upside the head. “It’s too busy for daydreaming.”

“Says the wanker who just strolled in,” he throws back, but he’s smiling. Rowen’s by far the most relaxed of the three of us. He could man this bar alone on a Saturday night and make it out alive.

“Fair enough.” I begin pouring drinks and collecting money while I flash the broad Delaney grin that’s something of a trademark. Coupled with drink, it usually works to help slide the edge off anyone’s shoulders, no matter how shitty their week has been. Working my way down to the end of the horseshoe bar, I find one of my favorite regulars sitting quietly, his face weathered, his gaze lost in the bottom of his pint. “Francis O’Reilly!” I slap the counter, snapping him out of his spell.

“River,” he chuckles softly. “How has your day today been, fine sir?”

I pause to ponder that. Dragging myself out of bed was tough, but seeing Amber put me in a good mood. “Just grand. And you?”

“Yeah. Grand.” His smile falls with his gaze and I know that he’s lying.

I reach under the bar and grab a pack of smokes. Francis always gets his week’s supply on Saturday night. “Nice and fresh, arrived from the Canaries last Wednesday.” We have a steady stream of friends traveling to Spain and bringing back a suitcase worth for us to sell behind the bar, to the Irish folk who don’t want to pay a tenner for a pack. Which is every person who walks into this pub. It’s good side cash for us.

With a furtive glance around, he slides them into his pocket. “You should be careful, selling these here. You’ll have gardai breathing down your neck.”

“They’re always breathing down our necks.” I rest my elbows on the bar with ease, unperturbed. “So they’ll confiscate the cases and I’ll get a slap on the wrist and wait for the next delivery to come in.” We’ve been selling packs under the bar for the last decade with only one incident. It cost us a bit in fines but in the end, it’s still worth it.

He sighs and then nods.

“What’s really going on, Francis?” I pause. This just isn’t like him. We’re normally three dirty jokes into the conversation by now. “Everything good with Cheryl and the kids? The grandkids?”

He nods, and for a brief moment his eyes gloss over.

“Business is good?” Francis and his family have run several popular fish-and-chip shops around Dublin for over forty years. I’d be surprised if it were to blame for his mood.

“It is. Too good, maybe, because it’s attracting attention I don’t want,” he mutters, pouring back the rest of his beer. He slaps money down on the bar and stands to leave.

“Hey . . . what’s that supposed to mean?”

He sighs, glancing around before leaning forward, his voice so low I can hardly hear him over the music. “Two fellas showed up at me store yesterday. They say they’ve taken care of a small debt I had with someone and now I’m to pay them. With interest.”

Unease slips down my spine. I’ve heard of this happening before. “So tell them to fuck off.”

“It’s not so simple, River. They said they’d hurt me family if I didn’t deliver a thousand euro every week to them.” His jaw tightens. “They showed me the tattoos on their stomach.”

I heave a sigh, but it doesn’t relieve my growing anger. If I find out this is Jimmy’s doing . . . “What do they look like?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Like assholes. The one had this scar,” he gestures at his forehead, “cutting into his hairline.”