“Take that ya’ wanker!” The bottle fragmented over Ned’s head, with a satisfying crash. “Two weeks since you said you’d pay me back. At’ll teach ya’.”

He looked around the bar room. “Who’s next?” No answer. “Fine, I’ll return to me drinkin’ then.”

Desi sat back down just by the door. There’d be a few whores soon, but he needed some cash. That’s when he saw his mark: short and dark, wearing a bowler hat. He looked pretty well off to be in the Rusty Nail.

The man finished off a double whiskey in one long pull, stood and walked out. Desi counted to ten, strode through the crowd, and was soon outside. He just caught the man rounding the corner.

“Oi! Your money or your life, wanker.” Desi produced a straight razor. Before Desi could react, he heard the report of a pistol, felt the icy burn in his chest, and fell to the ground. The man spat on him. “Fuck wi’ me?” he asked through a thick Irish accent.

Desi was fading. Then he saw Father Morris above muttering “In Nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”