Locked Down with Mr. Right

Then he turned into a wizard, vanishing from the world without a trace, only to reappear at the worst possible moment. It was almost like a superpower.

Ignoring the barrage of insults and come-ons, as if I was walking past a factory as opposed to out of one, I got in my truck and drove away from it all, refusing to give my tears the satisfaction of falling.

The mass of metal and glass refused to move. I had known full well what I was getting into, but at the time it had seemed like a sweet relief. Sliding in the CD, I let the sweet tones of Nine Inch Nails lull me as the traffic stood silent in the August sun. The pack of people were all leaving at the same time, in the same general direction. Whoever came up with the idea of New York rush hour was one of history’s greatest monsters.

I was headed home like most of the rest of the millions when my phone let out its happy jangle. I wasn’t actually driving at the time, so I answered, still leaving it in the hands-free mount. Just in case, by some holy miracle, the traffic cleared before the call was over.

“Whato-ho?” I inquired.

“You’re only a ho if someone’s payin’. I am a bit of a slut, though.”

“Mercy.”

“More like charity, but close enough,” Mercy said, smiling down the line.

I had a psychic image of the entire thing.

“Charity how?”

“I’m taking you out.”

“Thanks, but -”

“But nothing. How long has it been since you’ve had a frivolous night out?”

“I-I can’t quite recall,” I said, searching the files of my memory.

“Three years, four months and thirty-two days.”

“Good memory,” I marveled.

“Only for the important things.”

“I don’t suppose there is any point in trying to resist?” I asked rhetorically.

“Nope, resistance is futile.”

“I know,” I confessed, “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“Cheeky vixen. Meet me at McGinty’s as soon as you can.”

“As you wish.”

Despite the name, neon shamrock and sign declaring it an “authentic Irish pub,” McGinty’s was founded by a Russian immigrant by the name of Morolov. However, given the anti-Russian sentiment after the war and New York’s very large and rather old Irish population, Sergei decided to hedge his bets and deceptively bill it as 100% authentic Irish.

If you ask me, it turned out to be a good decision. Most people who weren’t local couldn’t tell the difference, and those of us who were local didn’t care.

It was surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening. All but five of the freshly painted spots in the parking lot were utterly vacant. Pulling up near the door, I slung myself down out of the truck cab, landing like a cat, owing to years of practice.

I could hear it before I got there. The European soccer playing on the wall-mounted TV, the only pub I had seen who did such a thing, accompanied by the raging fiddle music from the P.A. system. The only way Dimity, Sergei’s oldest son, could try any harder was if he made ‘top o’ the mornin’’ the official greeting and dressed the staff like leprechauns.

“You sent for me, mistress?”

“Not so loud,” Mercy chided.

“What?” I asked, in purest innocence.

“Hey, no judgement on anyone. I’m into a bit of bondage and spank from time to time, but I am firmly with the menfolk.”

“Oh,” I said, the quarter finally dropping.

“Relax, I’m just messing with ya,” Mercy said, nudging me playfully.

The origin of her name had become something of a family legend, with the usual amount of embellishment, contradictions and exaggeration. The brass tacks of it were that Mercy’s mom, a lifelong atheist, had gone into labor unexpectedly and with more than a few complications. Exactly what these were, was a matter of some conjecture. The long and the short of it was that Mercy’s mom was rushed to the local Sisters of Mercy, who saved not only her, but Mercy, too.

In gratitude, she named her first-born daughter after the hospital, forever after saddling her beloved daughter with the name Mercy McGee. The tradition among friends and co-workers alike was to refer to her either by her first or last name, depending on one’s level of familiarity. Anyone who called her both was treated with a death stare that could drop a rhino.

“What can I get ya?” Lara inquired.

“Guinness,” I said, sticking to the theme.

“Vodka on ice,” Mercy said, with a wink.

“Right,” Lara said, with the most subtle and friendly roll of her pretty blue eyes.

“Bitch,” I teased, when Lara was out of earshot.

“And you love it,” Mercy retorted.

“Touché.”

Both drinks came, free of spite spit, and Mercy paid with a fresh twenty from a thick wad, not actually believing in wallets. She knew they existed. Mercy wasn’t that kind of crazy. Although she did question their efficacy, especially when coupled with a purse, which she saw as just more for someone to steal. Her way, someone would have to get their hand inside her jacket. Something that lead to an elbow in the throat when done without permission.