Shamrock Alley by Ronald Damien Malfi Page A

from her and swallowing his beer. His boyish profile reminded Tressa of pictures of angels she’d seen in books as a child.
    “Suit yourself.” For what seemed like an eternity, she watched the bartender change a keg of beer under the bar.
    “What’s his name?”
    “John.”
    Mickey O’Shay chuckled. “Johnny-John-John.” He spoke it like a new word game. “Where’s this guy come from?”
    “I went to high school with him.”
    “He Irish?”
    “Italian. Don’t hold it against him.”
    “He just pop up outta nowhere like this?”
    “Not really. I see him around from time to time.”
    “Did he shoot that cop?”
    “I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “There was a lot of shooting going on.”
    “I’m sure it wasn’t Frankie-balls,” Mickey said offhandedly. “He got away with you guys?”
    “Away?”
    “Through the tunnels.”
    “Oh, yeah. Kept his head. I got his number, said I’d call him if I talked to you. So now I talked to you. What you want me to tell him?”
    “I don’t like making deals with people, new people.”
    “That’s up to you.”
    “Son of a bitch,” Mickey said and finished his beer. He held the empty glass up to his face and examined the bottom. His lips were moist and reflected the neon lights over the bar. After some deliberation, he turned to face Tressa again. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll meet him. We’ll set it up.” She watched as he ran a hand along the top of the bar and pushed his finger down in the center of a pile of cocktail napkins. He did this absently and seemingly without notice, as if his hand—his entire arm—were in control of itself.
    “Okay,” she said.
    “What are you lookin’ for on this?”
    “I guess the same as you’d give Frankie.”
    “Five percent. And don’t worry—I won’t tell your old man.”
    Mickey stood up, stretched, and pulled some wadded tens from his khakis. He tossed two tens on the bar.
    “When?” she said.
    “When,” he repeated, his eyes seemingly lost in a haze of alcohol and complex thought. For a second, Tressa thought he might just fall forward and put his face through the bar. But then something registered inside him and he suddenly looked very sober, very together and alert. “You just better hope this guy don’t bring us no problems,” he said.
    Yeah
, she thought,
I hope
.

CHAPTER TEN
    T HE B LACK B OX WAS JUST THAT—DARK , square, and confined. It was certainly not a tourist stop, not one of the city’s hidden dens of fornication now several blocks removed from Times Square; rather, this place was crude and unfriendly, like an injured animal curled up inside a hole in the ground, its silver eyes shining through the darkness. The surrounding streets were dark and narrow, burdened with rats. A single streetlight stood outside the club, a fine mist of water and dust swirling in its dull light. Outside stood an enormous bouncer, and when John and Kersh approached, the bouncer had some frightened street thug by the scruff of his neck.
    “You feel like gettin’ handy, pal? You wanna fuckin’ dance with me? Piece of shit,” the bouncer growled. His face looked like the grille of a Mack truck. “Hit the bricks, fool!” And the bouncer delivered a swift kick to the thug’s rear, sending the smaller man staggering down the street, dazed and inebriated.
    The bouncer turned his attention to John and Kersh. “Fifteen apiece.”
    John was about to produce his badge, when Kersh nudged him with his elbow and shot him a wink. “It’s all right,” Kersh said, “I got it.” He pulled out two twenties and handed them to the bouncer, who made change and let them inside.
    Like most strip clubs, the Black Box was dark and noisy and dense with smoke. Long runway stages stood along three of its four walls. Closest to the front doors was a narrow bar behind which a number of young women in flimsy tops served drinks. The top of the bar was all wood and brass, freshly polished with crocus and marred by