You Can Lie to Your Friends... But Never to Your Bartender

All I could do was stir things up. Sometimes that was the best way to get answers. Shake up the scenery and see what comes crawling out.

I pushed on the door and entered O’malley’s. It proclaimed itself to be an Irish Bar of Great Tradition. After taking a good look around, I decided that ‘Great Tradition’ equated with drunk by five thirty- and it was five forty-one.

I took a seat at the bar on a stool slightly too tall to be comfortable and munched on a few peanuts.

“Hey there Martin, still causing trouble?” Mick asked. Mick was the bartender and owner. He was the only authentic Irish thing in the whole bar.

“‘Course, it’s what I do.” I replied.

“You’ll wind up a bad end.” He grinned.

“God send it be soon. Gimme a pint.”

He pulled a tall glass of amber beer and set it in front of me.

“Seriously, people are asking about you. Two men were in here earlier today. I can’t afford to have my bar busted again.” His voice took on a pleading tone.

Just then two men entered the bar.

“No promises.” I said.

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