Private #1 Suspect (Private 2)

CHAPTER 33

MIKE DONAHUE’S TAVERN was an Irish pub with a restaurant that could have been transported from Galway or Cork and simply planted in Los Feliz.

When Colleen first came to Los Angeles, she was determined to get her citizenship. In the hours between quitting time at Private and going home to study, she stopped at Donahue’s. It was where everyone knew your name, and nearly everyone in front of the bar and behind it had relatives in Ireland.

Mike Donahue came from a town only a few country miles from where Colleen grew up. He had gone to school with Colleen’s father, and when they met, Donahue became an uncle to her in the City of Angels.

I was outside Donahue’s Tavern, the red-painted, gold-lettered sign hanging above the doorway, patrons spilling out to the curb.

Inside, the place was throbbing with loud music and the shouts of customers trying to be heard. The horseshoe bar was packed three deep all the way around. There was a raucous dart game going on in the back.

Mike was at the taps, serving up the suds. He was a heavyset man with a thick beard and deep lines around his eyes and across his forehead, grooves that came from smoke and sun and laughter.

But when he lifted his eyes and recognized me in the doorway, I saw terrible sorrow there.

He threw a cloth down on the bar and came out from behind it. I lost sight of him as he worked his way through the crowd, then he broke through a knot of drinkers and approached me.

I never saw the punch coming.

I was taken down by a fist like a two-by-four. The pain in my jaw seemed to shoot to all points: my nose, neck, shoulder, out to my fingertips. When I opened my eyes I was staring up into a circle of angry faces. Mike’s was one of them.

I wasn’t welcome here.

I’d gotten it all wrong. And so had Donahue.

I was enraged—with everything and everybody. I wanted to strike,

fast and hard. I could take Donahue. I thought I could take the three bruisers standing around him too. And if I couldn’t, it might even feel good to take a beating.

Turn the emotional pain into the physical kind.

I struggled to my feet, and Donahue put his hand on my chest and pushed me into the wall. He said, “You shouldn’t have come here, Jack. I’m mad enough to do bloody murder in front of God and witnesses.”

I clenched my fists at my sides. “Mike. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.”

“Is that your story, then?”

“Story? I was crazy about Colleen. Why would I want to kill her?”

“Maybe she was cramping your style, Jack.”

“Listen to me.”

I felt desperate for him to believe me. I grabbed both his biceps and shook him, shouted into his face. “I didn’t do it. But I promise, I will find out who killed Colleen. And I will hurt him.”

CHAPTER 34

I HELD AN ice pack to my jaw with one hand, a Guinness in the other. Donahue sat across from me at a small table in his dark restaurant, a candle flickering between us. After twenty minutes of shouting at each other, I had managed to convince him of my innocence.

“Did I say I’m sorry, Jack?” Donahue said in his Irish brogue.

“Yes. You did.”

Donahue sighed.

“It’s okay, Mike. I understand. And no harm done.”

A waiter brought my dinner, a plate of chops and chips, and put it down in front of me. I refused another drink, looking at my plate with two minds.