Credits  In order of appearance and to the best of my recollection  

(with the free flowing moonshine some of the assigned characters were mixed up)    

Mickey G "The Scribd": M Todd Gallowglas  Gerri Ferri "The Don Juan of North beach": Jared Friedman  

Zelda Fitzgerald: Hannah Ransom  Joey the Fish: Joey Picchi, bartender extraordinaire  

Jimmy The Hat: Arram Sabeti  Shoot 'em up Tony: Immad Akhund  

Gilda Gray: Fatema Yasmine  Alphonso The Crank: Joshua Reeves  

Jonnie Santiago: Josh  Columbus Cirby: David Langer  

George Cassiday “Man with the green hat”: Kevin Tom  Giles Bailey: Sachin Dev Duggal Isadora Duncan: Sachin’s guest  

Anita Page: Susan Merenda Thurston Murl: Alex Taussig Viola Birdie: Julie Haddon  

Margaret Birdie: Arianne Hodges-Ransom  Michelle Zesty: Michelle Davenport  

Desmond Parker: Mike Harrison  Charles Palatino: Quin Herron Louise Brooks: Elena Viboch

Wellington Prince: Stephan Hoyer Alphonso the Crank: Joshua Reeves

Babs St Martin: Susan Hwang Oakley Garvin: Aston Motes

Josephine Baker: Aushlee Cummins Amalia Alfreda: Adele Burns

Washington Rayburn: Richard Price

Ernest Hemingway: Trip Adler Mary Welsh Hemingway: Sierra Law

Roxie St Regis: Jennifer Lin Jonnie Santiago: Josh

Wilhelmina Pearlie: Amanda Ellen Bullet Riddled Louie :Jared Kopf

Author’s Forward Two of my favorite sayings about are, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” and

“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” In writing these stories I have attempted to fully embrace both of these adages. Allow me to explain and give you the context behind this volume of flash fiction tales.

On January 11th, I wandered into a quiet yet classy corner bar in San Francisco called “Oddjob” with a mission in two parts. Part the first: Play a reporter at a Speakeasy themed birthday party to help guests get in the spirit of things. Part the second: write about my experiences in a series of flash fiction pieces. The hostess of the party gave each of the guests a character to play. Most of these characters are also historical figures, some very well known, others not so much. I, the writer, had the daunting task of meshing history, the party, and fiction together in a series of narratives that will hopefully entertain. (My personal approach to writing is that above-and-beyond all other things, I seek to entertain.)

With these parameters in mind, I set out to write of the adventures of the Oddjob Speakeasy Party. First and foremost, I seek to entertain, and in doing so, I am taking liberties with both history and the events of the party. I’ve molded and warped events and conversations so that random sound bites get added together as well as stretched out beyond a single evening. In the crafting of these stories, I have done my utmost to respect my hosts and their guests, while at the same time crafting stories and an overarching plot that weaves through the whole work. Any and all artistic liberties I have taken with my interactions and eavesdropping on the party goers, as well as their historical counterparts, I’ve done for the sake of a well-told tale. I hope you have at least as much fun in reading these stories as I did experiencing the events that inspired them.

And…Happy birthday Jared.

Illustrations  

Absent Friends

Mickey walked into the pub, waving off greetings from the few afternoon

patrons as he made straight for the bar. “You’re in early today, Mr. G,” Flynn said as he served the old man a pint. Then

he added, pointing to the envelope in Mickey’s hand, “Whatcha got there?” “Letter from a friend in The States,” Mickey replied. “And I’m going to need a

bit of The Dew.” “Ah,” Flynn said. “I see.” These days Mickey drank Tullamore Dew on only one occasion. Flynn placed the snifter of whisky next to the pint of beer. “I’ll leave you to it.” Mickey opened the letter again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought

about his time in America or the few friends he’d made while exploring business opportunities during the American’s silly Prohibition. In truth, he missed it. The energy. The excitement. Back then Mickey had been known as Mickey the Fox or just, “The Scribe” depending on who was doing the talking. Someone, Mickey couldn’t remember who, had suggested “Mickey the Mick” but Gerri “Don Juan” Ferri had put the kibosh on that one. “Redundant names are redundant,” Gerri had said.

While Mickey counted himself blessed he’d gotten out while the getting was good, as the Americans said, he also had his memories of having been a part of something unlike the world would ever see again. Speakeasies and gangsters had transcended from news into the stuff of legend. As Mickey’s good friend, possibly his best friend in America, and the man who’d sent the letter, had said once, “This is not a subculture. We are the culture. That’s why everyone else wants to be us.”

Mickey opened the envelope, took out two crackly news print articles at least a decade old, and the attached letter. “Took a long time to find you Foxy Boy,” Jimmy the Hat wrote. “He talked about you even until the end.”

Mickey laughed at the first article. It was from a newspaper that produced a single print run of two copies in its history. He looked at the other article and his

throat went dry. The date of the article proved that Mickey’s discretion had been indeed the better part of valor.

The man who had been both Mickey the Fox and The Scribe raised his snifter of whisky. He toasted his fallen friends and to the end of the era that spawned them.

Who You Know Years before that old man toasted to friends who had passed on, a young

Irishman walked into a speakeasy in San Francisco, California. It was 1927, and prohibition was in full swing in America.

Mickey arrived early, as requested. He marveled at the stark contrast to a pub back home. The door hid within a maze of alleys and backstreets, and once inside the dim light forced him to make anything out. It had two bars, one at the front and one in an even darker corner in the far back. A velvet rope created a barrier between that alcove and the main part of the speakeasy.

A young lady sidled up to Mickey. “Can I help you?” she asked in a tone was bored. Mickey swallowed, partially because she was quite the looker and partially to keep

up appearances. He recited the password they’d given him. “I’m here for the birthday party.” Hopefully he wouldn’t have to remember too many passwords and code words. “Back there.” She waved to the bar shrouded in darkness, and added with much

more interest in her voice. “If I can get you anything, anything at all, let me know.” Mickey swallowed again, this time only to keep up appearances for the role he

was playing. She hadn’t been interested in the least until Mickey became associated with the crowd behind the velvet rope.

“I will,” he said. “Thank you.” When he reached the velvet rope, the girl sitting there already pulled it aside.

“You the reporter?” “That’s me,” Mickey said. “They are waiting for you.” Mickey didn’t have to ask which of the three tables. Only one was occupied.

Even if people were drinking at the other tables, Mickey wouldn’t have needed to ask. The man at the center table sat with the presence of a man of power. His piercing gaze demanded respect even before approaching him. Mickey could carry off the same look, should the situation demand. Here, it did not, at least not yet. He had to feel things out first.

“Mister Ferri, I’m Mickey Galloway.” Gerri “the Don Juan of North Beach” Ferri nodded. “Good to meet you.

Looking forward to seeing what we might do together.” “Likewise,” Mickey said. “I’m optimistic.” “And you’re still set on going with the reporter thing?” Ferri asked. “I am that,” Mickey replied. “Worked like a charm in Chicago and New York.

See no reason to change it.” “Alright. People should be arriving soon. Please, have a seat and I’ll introduce

you around.” “Thank you, but no,” Mickey said, giving the mob boss a wicked, Bob’s-your-

uncle grin. “It’s better if I make the rounds myself. Besides, it’s better if someone else makes my introductions.”

“Who would be better than me?” Ferri asked. “The one man, all the world over, who it pays to be on his good side,” Mickey

said. “Just be sure to come shake my hand and say hello when I rub my right ear.” “Alright,” Ferri said. “This should be interesting.” With that, Mickey tipped his hat and sauntered over to the bar. “What do you

have in the way of Irish whiskey?” The bartender turned around with a warm smile. He greeted Mickey like an old

friend he hadn’t seen for years, despite this being their first meeting. In that moment, Mickey knew this man knew his business, and more importantly, he knew people.

Going Fishing

The bartender’s name was Joey the Fish. Mickey’s first impression of the man did not disappoint. Joey did know people. He knew the right words and when and how to use those words, and with the right people to use them with. It didn’t surprise Mickey that in the whiskey business, they knew some of the same people. Joey also proved he knew a lot about what was going on more by what wasn’t said, than by what was. Within a few minutes of conversation, Mickey had Joey the Fish ready to build the reporter story, all without revealing a thing, even though both men knew exactly what Mickey was and what he wasn’t.

Joey the Fish waved one of the cocktail girls over to the bar. “Mickey,” Joey said. “This young lady just started here. She wants a nice

speakeasy name like the other girl, Ginger.” “Why do they call her Ginger?” Mickey asked, hoping it wasn’t for the usual

reason. “Her hair,” Joey said. The usual reason. Cliché, but men had come to expect it. “Mickey here’s a reporter and a writer,” Joey said to the new girl, a brunette.

“Thought he could come up with something.” “How about Caramel?” Mickey said. Caramel’s face lit up as she went back to work with a bit more spring in her set. Mickey went back to work, nursing his whiskey as people trickled in and sidled

up to the bar. A short while later, Mickey saw Caramel across the room sipping on a drink,

looking at him across the room over the edge of her glass. Perfect. Mickey rubbed his left ear, and then nudged the man next to him at the bar.

Before the man could say anything, Mickey nodded over toward Caramel. “Nothing quite like a gorgeous woman giving you a look like that?” Mickey said. “Got that right, pal,” the man said. Just then, Gerri Ferri came up, shook Mickey’s hand, and asked, “Enjoying

yourself?” “I am, thanks,” Mickey replied.

“Good,” Ferri said, and went back to his table. Mickey went back to his drink. About a minute later, someone pushed in next to Mickey at the bar, and a sultry

voice said, “Hi.” Mickey turned. An American flapper girl pushed herself against him and

wrapped her scarf around his shoulders. “What’s your name? I’m Josephine Baker. I’m a jazz singer. I’m looking to move my act up in the world.” She pulled the scarf drawing him in a little closer.

“Can’t help you darling,” Mickey said. “I’m just a reporter.” Her mood shifted from come-hither to get-thee-hence. She whipped the scarf

away from him and vanished into the growing crowd. “Tough break, friend,” said the man next to him. “You gotta learn to lie to

women.” “I’ll work on that,” Mickey said. And that’s how Mickey met Jimmy the Hat. Through Jimmy, he met everyone

else.

Mum’s the Word “Mickey the Reporter,” said Jimmy the Hat, “meet Shoot em up Tony. Tony

solves problems for Mister Ferri. Tony, this here guy is a reporter for some paper back in…where’d you say you were from again?”

“Ireland,” Mickey said. “I write for a tiny little Irish rag nobody’s ever heard of.” “What’s it called?” Tony asked. “The Dublin Star,” Mickey replied. “Never heard of it,” Tony said. “Like I said.” Before Mickey could take the conversation any further, Shoot em up Tony said,

“Anyways, I got no comment.” “It’s alright, Tony,” Jimmy said. “Mister Ferri says we can talk to this guy.” Tony crossed his arms. “No comment.” A few minutes of this went by. Both Jimmy and Mickey tried to get Shoot em up

Tony to talk about anything, even things that had nothing to do with the speakeasy or bootlegging or how Tony solved problems for Gerri Ferri.

Tony answered each question with, “No Comment.” A young woman walked by, slinky dress that fit her in all the right ways in all the

right places. “Are you really a reporter?” she asked. “I am that, yes,” Mickey said. “You should do a story on me,” she said. “My name’s Gilda. I’m a shimmy

dancer. I dance for mister Ferri all the time.” “Mickey’s not from around here,” Jimmy said. “Why don’t you demonstrate your

dancing?” She did. Her dancing lived up to its name. She shimmied all the right things in all

the right ways. Mickey swallowed, for real. He was pretty sure Jimmy and Tony had to swallow

too. I “I’d love to do a story about you.” “Great,” Gilda said. “Come by the show and watch me for real.” “I will.”

After Gilda walked away, Mickey leaned over to Shoot em up Tony. “What did you think of that?”

Tony glanced to his right. The woman there glared at him like a Irish wife having to fetch her man from the pub.

“No comment.”

And Now…a Tap Dance

Mickey tensed even before he heard someone cough softly behind him. It didn’t matter what side of the Atlantic a man found himself on, that particular cough transcended nation and language. That particular cough was about trying to get someone’s attention while being both discreet and intimidating at the same time.

Still holding his whiskey, Mickey spun around in his chair. A small crowd of street toughs and wise guys had crowded around him. Jimmy

the Hat, Shoot em up Tony, Alphonso the Crank, Jonnie Santiago, and Columbus Cirby made up the front row. That was a bit of a mistake on Cirby’s part, as Mickey knew some truths about the supposed poker shark that the supposed poker shark wouldn’t want coming to light. Behind them, Mickey saw higher ranking men in Ferri’s organization: The Man with the Green Hat, Wellington Prince, Bullet Riddled Louie, and Giles Baily. Some of their girls had tagged along this time: Babs St Martin and Louise Brooks whispered nervously to each other, seemingly trying to fade into the background.

“Evening gents,” Mickey said. “Why haven’t any of us heard about this paper you write for?” Shoot em up

Tony asked. Figures he would be the spokesman. “Because it’s just a…” “Tiny little Irish Rag no one has ever heard of,” the crowd of men joined in. “We know that,” Tony said. “We’ve all heard the routine.” “Look, gents,” Mickey said. “People in Dublin don’t even hardly read it. The

only reason the Dublin Star is still in print is because it’s the cheapest paper in town and sells down the street from a couple of really good fish and chip places. People get the Star to wrap their fish in.”

“Something about your story smells,” Tony said. “And it ain’t the fish.” “Relax,” Mickey said. “Folk back home are fascinated by this speakeasy thing

you’ve got going. We’ve got nuthin like it. They want to hear all about the adventurous life in America. Most of you guys are heroes back home.”

“Well, we’d all like to read about ourselves in this paper of yours,” Tony said.

The rest agreed. “Alright,” Mickey said. Time to make a few phone calls and set up a poker game. Two nights later, Mickey faced Columbus Cirby over a game of poker. After a

few hands testing each other out, they’d gotten the measure of each other. A huge pile of chips rose in the center of the table.

“You don’t really know a man,” Cirby had said, “until you play poker with him.” “Call,” Mickey said. They showed their hands. Cirby had a full house. Mickey had nothing but

random trash cards. What he did have, however, was a business card attached to each of his poker cards. The business cards belonged to Columbus Cirby…federal agent, Columbus Cirby.

“You’re the bravest man I know,” Mickey said. “Being who you are, and doing what you’re doing. And I don’t care much about who you work for. Neither do the guys I work for. They do, however, care about money.”

Cirby went sheet white. Mickey smiled. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” A week later, when the wise guys came into the speakeasy Columbus Cirby sat at

the bar reading The Dublin Star newspaper. Gerri Ferri sat at his dark table, reading the same. Mickey shared the booth with Ferri. Behind them, Oakley Garvin nursed a bourbon, signature cigarette lighter tucked in his breast pocket. The front page story was about speakeasy life in San Francisco. Everyone crowded around, looking to see their names in the paper. Everyone but one person. Wellington Prince slid into the booth next to Ferri and fixed a cold stare at Mickey.

“Aren’t you worried about this getting out, boss?” Prince said. Being a major supplier of “rare ingredients” needed for “cooking” in the

“establishment,” Prince had more to lose than most of the other men. “No,” Ferri said. “I fear no one. The cops are in all in my pocket. Same with the

judges. I even got Amalia Alfreda. The feds ain’t got no one close enough to hurt me.”

“If you say so,” Prince said.

“I do.” Ferri’s tone indicated the conversation was over. He also didn’t have too much to worry about since those two papers were the total circulation of The Dublin Star’s first and only edition.

After seeing the look Prince gave the Don Juan of North Beach, Mickey wasn’t so sure the conversation was over. Still, after everyone read the article, they gave Mickey the nickname “Scribe,” and he wasn’t just welcome behind the velvet rope, Mickey got to go upstairs.

Star Stuck

In the time that Mickey had been going to the speakeasy, he’d seen people go up the narrow staircase in the very back corner of the speakeasy. Not all of the gangsters went up: only Ferri, his inner circle, and a few he wanted to reward. Mickey asked about it. “You don’t go upstairs unless invited,” was all they would say.

A few nights after the newspaper article made the circulation, Mickey sat at his normal corner of the bar, chatting whisky with Jimmy the Fish. A woman stepped up to the bar next to Mickey. She was dressed to the nines, as they said in America, her face made up like a lady, not overdone like the speakeasy flapper floozies.

“I read your news story,” she said. “I liked it.” “Thanks much,” Mickey said. “Can I get you something?” “Oh, no,” the lady said. “I don’t drink down here. I just came to meet you.” “Mickey Galloway.” “Zelda,” she said. “Zelda Fitzgerald.” It took Mickey a moment to work his jaw again. “Is your husband a writer?” “He is,” Zelda said. “I love his work,” Mickey said, grinning like a loon. “What does the ‘F’ stand

for?” “Fitzgerald silly.” Zelda’s laugh was infection. “No, the other F,” Mickey said. “The one at the front of his name.” “Oh, let’s not bother with trifles,” Zelda said. “Why don’t you come upstairs,

and we’ll have a drink?” “Uhhh,” Mickey said. “Upstairs?” “Yeah.” Zelda snaked her arm into Mickey’s and pulled him from the bar stool. “So, what’s your husband like?” Mickey asked as they climbed the stairs. “Brilliant. But moody. But that’s alright. I know where all the best parties are.

When he gets too moody, we go to a party, and he’s alright again.” She pushed a door open. “Here we are.”

If stepping into the speakeasy was like stepping into another world of glamor and danger and secrets, then stepping upstairs was like entering into where the nobility of that other world held court.

Zelda showed Mickey around, introducing stars and starlets, business men and debutants, writers and artists, dancers and actors and actresses.

He met Anita Page. He’d share her joke, “The best part about London is Paris,” for the rest of his life.

He spoke to Louise Brookes about the differences between drinking in America and Ireland. Mickey’s friends would boo and hiss when he’s quote her, “Only the right people know where to get the best drinks, those that don’t know drink whiskey.”

Well, just more for me, Mickey thought Over the course of his life back in Ireland, Mickey shared anecdotes of his

conversations with these pillars of American society. All of them except one. Hemingway. Mickey spoke with the man twice, and he kept those conversations all to himself.

Odd Man Out

One night in particular, Mickey found himself in a conversation with a pair of charming young ladies, Viola and Margaret Birdie. The three spent hours talking about literature and philosophy. He hadn’t had this pleasant of a conversation since coming to America…

…only… …as the conversation continued, Mickey got the tickling feeling on the back of

his neck. That feeling had saved his life more than a few times, so he’d learned not to ignore it. He drained his drink a bit more quickly than he normally would as a pretense to head to the bar. As he made his way through the crowd, Mickey scanned for signs of danger. A man in an off-the-rack suit made no attempt to hide as he blatantly glared at Mickey.

When Mickey got to the bar, he found Jimmy the Hat nursing a drink. “Hey Jimmy,” Mickey said, “What’s with the two dames and the meathead.” Jimmy looked from Viola and Margaret to the bruiser in the cheap suit – not

even Mickey and Jimmy wore off the rack suits – and sighed.

“Those two,” he nodded with his chin to the ladies, “are a Senator’s daughters. By the look of that thing over there,” he indicated the beefcake, “he’s come to take them back home. We’ve gotta do something about this.”

“Like what?” “Go back and start talking to them again,” Jimmy said. “I got this covered.” So Mickey went back to the ladies, and the conversation resumed. They spoke

about the paragons of Irish literature. Mickey had seated himself to be able to keep tabs on big, dumb, and ugly out of the corner of his eye. After a few minutes, Jimmy the Hat sat down. The Senator’s daughters pretended not to know him, but Mickey suspected otherwise.

A few minutes after Jimmy joined them, the meathead started weaving through the crowd toward their table. Mickey kept his conversation normal, but reached inside his pocket for his brass knuckles. He wanted his gun, but that would tip his hand too much to too many people.

Before the overstuffed human gorilla could start any trouble, Jimmy turned to Mickey and cried out, “I stuffed a dog today.”

In turning, Jimmy spilled his drink on Mickey, Mickey backed up into a cocktail server, who sent a tray of drinks flying into the mountain of muscle bearing down on the table.

Once everything settled down, Viola and Margaret were gone. Jimmy the Hat grinned like the cat who got the cream.

Mickey never saw the ladies again. He asked Jimmy about them now and then. Jimmy always got a wistful smile, and said, “Keeping one step ahead of Daddy, I imagine.”

Speak the Lingo

Mickey sat at the downstairs bar chatting with Joey the fish about the differences between Irish and Scotch whiskey when Alphonso the crank stepped up to the bar.

“Gimme a cupcake,” Alphonso said. Joey the Fish glanced at Mickey. Mickey shrugged. “I don’t have cupcakes,” Joey said. “Just booze.” Alphonso looked around like someone was breathing down his neck. “Are you nuts?” Alphonso said. “Haven’t you heard? Everything’s done by code

word now. Even in here.” Joey and Mickey looked at each other. This time they both shrugged. “What’s a cupcake?” Joey asked. Alphonso the Crank pointed at a bottle of Canadian whiskey. Mickey shuddered.

He’d had Canadian once, and only once. The experience would not be repeated. Once Alphonso had his cupcake, Mickey asked, “So how’s things?” Alphonso sighed. “Things are things.” He took a drink. “I ever tell you about

what I did before this?” “Yes,” Mickey said. “Plenty of times.” He downed his drink. “I was on an honest path in medicine before I had to take

up this life of crime.” He held out the glass to Joey the Fish, who refilled it. “Now I wander around, pushing my way into the cupcake trade.”

Mickey slid off his barstool and headed toward the stairs before Alphonso really got going. He flashed Joey a “good luck” smile. Joey flashed Mickey a sneer that said, “You lucky bastard.”

Upstairs, Mickey walked by Zelda Fitzgerald, Anita Page, and Louise Brookes. All three of them looked less than pleased…and by that…they looked like queens waiting for any excuse to execute someone. Always curious, and never being able to leave well enough alone, Mickey went up to them.

“What’s the trouble, ladies,” he asked. All three rolled their eyes at the same time, in the exact same way, almost as if

they’d rehearsed it. “Well, I ordered a scone, but got a cupcake,” Zelda said.

“I ordered root beer,” Anita said, “but I got a soda water.” “I ordered ginger ale,” Louise said, “but got some coffee.” “I swear,” Zelda said. “These code words are getting out of hand.” “Maybe I can make a code sheet for you ladies,” Mickey said. Louise rolled her eyes again. “If you have a sheet, then any old person can be in

the know, and then how much fun would knowing be?” Mickey shrugged and wandered on. This code word thing had the making of trouble.

20/20 Foresight

Mickey liked to get to the speakeasy early. He’d sit at the bar, chatting drinks with Joey the Fish, and be seen making notes and scribbling in his note pad. Maybe someday, when he grew too old for the speakeasy life, he’d write some stories about his experiences, maybe even a whole book. For now, it was just sort of a hobby to keep up the pretenses of being a reporter. One evening, a woman sat at the bar, ordered a Martini (of course she used the code word “soda water”), pulled out her own note pad, and began writing with reckless abandon, occasionally taking drinks.

At one point, she stopped and looked over at Mickey. “What do you write?” she asked. “I’m a reporter for the Dublin Star,” Mickey said. “What brings you here?” she asked. “Over in Ireland, we don’t have this speakeasy thing going on. We’re fascinated

by it.” He offered her his hand. “Mickey, by the way. They call me ‘The Scribe.’” She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Michelle Zesty.” “Good to meet you,” He waved his pen at her note book. “What are you

working on?” “Oh, I write stories of the future,” she said. “In this story, people have these

mechanical pads that they can write on with their hands, and send messages to each other with radio waves. They’re called MyPads. The main character works for a

company that lets people order food with these radio waves and the company delivers the food right to their door. The company is called Zesty.”

“Nice way to work your name in,” Mickey said. “It would be grand to have your name in a book.”

“I’m working on another story where libraries can send books by radio waves for people to read on their MyPad. I’ll call it Scribd, after your nickname.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Mickey said. “I can’t wait to read it.” He thought about these grand predictions that Miss Michelle Zesty was making.

While radio was a wonder, he was pretty certain it couldn’t do everything she hoped it would do. People might come up with some amazing things, but he didn’t think old fashioned letter writing, books, and newspapers would ever get replaced.

While the Getting’s Good

Crowds at the speakeasy, both upstairs and downstairs had grown thinner and thinner over the past few weeks. Mickey sat at his usual place at the bar, pretending to scribble notes for an article. Gerri Ferri, Giles Baily, and Alphonso the Crank came in together, went up to the bar, and each of them ordered a cupcake. Joey the Fish poured their drinks and, in a display quite out of character, he left the mobsters to their drinks and went over to Mickey.

“Hey there Scribe,” Joey said. “Your glass is looking a little empty.” Mickey had taken two or three sips of his whiskey. “Can I top it off for you?”

“Uuhh, sure.” Mickey pushed the nearly full glass toward Joey. “What’s going on?”

Joey lowered his voice. “Nothing good.” “Hey Scribe,” Ferri called from across the bar. “Can you believe these two

numbskulls?” “Be careful,” Joey whispered. “What’s that?” Mickey said. “I was busy writing.” “I want them to stop with the code words,” Ferri said. “None of the other joints

in town use em, and that’s why people ain’t coming here. They can’t remember how to order the drinks they like. We’re losing a fortune every night.”

“But boss,” Giles said. “The feds are flooding into San Francisco, and the cops ain’t stayin’ bought, particularly that Washington Rayburn.”

“We can’t run our business out of fear,” Ferri said. “Makes us look weak.” “Relax boss,” Alphonso said. “We just gotta wait it out. Those other joints will

get busted, and we’ll be the only show in town.” Now Mickey had never been to kiss the stone, but his father had, as had his

father’s father, and he’d gotten enough of it from them to know blarney when he heard it.

“What do you think, Scribe?” Giles asked. “I’m just a reporter,” Mickey said. “I’m just here to observe and record, not to

interfere.”

None of the three gangsters looked pleased with that response. For a while now, Mickey harbored suspicions that some of the gangsters were putting pieces together and that Scribe was not who he claimed to be.

“Hey Scribe!” Someone called from the door. Mickey had never been so happy to see Jimmy the Hat. Jimmy made straight for

Mickey, a feat which was only possible due to the dwindling number of patrons. Two men that Mickey had never seen before followed close behind Jimmy the Hat. They didn’t look like gangsters. They didn’t have the swagger. Even in new territory, gangsters moved about a speakeasy like lions. This was their hunting grounds, and they were masters of these wild places. The two men with Jimmy seemed more like they were on a safari, not really afraid, but looking on everything with cautious wonder.

“What’s going on Jimmy?” Mickey asked. Jimmy smiled and waved at the two men. “This is Desmond Parker and Charles

Palatino. They have a particular item that they need authenticated, and I thought you might know someone who could do that.”

Mickey noted that Jimmy did not attribute a “the fill-in-the-blank” to either of these men, further proof that they were not gangsters.

“What’s the item?” Mickey asked. Desmond and Charles glanced at each other and then at Jimmy the Hat. “It’s alright,” Jimmy said. “The Scribe is completely golden. Might be the

smartest guy I know.” Charles set a briefcase down on the bar top and opened it. Inside, Mickey saw an

ancient-looking flute. His breath caught in his throat for fear that he might damage it beyond repair if he breathed on it too strongly.

“What do you need from me?” “Well,” Desmond said. “We’ve got a buyer lined up in London, but only if this is

genuine. We’re looking for someone to authenticate it. It’s worth quite a bit, and we’d offer a percentage for cooperative parties.”

“And if it so happens that it’s not authentic,” Charles said, “we’d like to find a secondary buyer who is not so discerning.”

“I catch your meaning, gentlemen,” Mickey said.

He turned back to his drink and took a swallow. He did this so that he could look at Gerri Ferri, Giles Bailey, and Alphonso the Crank without looking like he was looking at them. Ferri was walking away from the other two, heading for the stairs in the back of the speakeasy. Giles and Alphonso shared a sly smile and nod with each other. Before Mickey could turn away, Giles glanced in his direction. The gangster’s smile faded. Giles nudged Alphonso, who also looked Mickey’s way, and he stopped smiling too.

Mickey quickly scribbled a note on a blank page in his journal. Had to leave town on family business. Be back when family troubles settle down. He folded the paper twice and called Joey over.

“Can you give this to Ferri when he comes back down?” Mickey asked. “Sure thing, Scribe,” Joey said. “It was good to know you,” Mickey said, and turned around. He smiled at the

two gentlemen Jimmy the Hat had just introduced him to. “You’re in luck boys. One of my cousins knows professors of antiquities at Oxford and Cambridge. If this turns out that isn’t what you hope it is, I have another cousin who can help find another buyer. I’d be happy to make the introductions personally. When do we leave?”

Epilogue

Flynn had been pouring drinks for the five O’Malley cousins when Mickey Galloway left the pub. If Flynn hadn’t been thus occupied, he would have made certain that Mister G had collected all his things, especially since Flynn couldn’t remember the last time the old guy had drunk that much whiskey. So, no real surprise that Mister G had left his papers sitting on the bar top.

Now, Flynn O’Connor wasn’t by nature a nosy person, but so much speculation and rumor surrounded the man who Mister G was before he settled in the small town outside of Dublin. He couldn’t help himself at the chance to maybe see a bit into Mister G’s past. The first piece of paper was an article about speakeasy life (whatever that was) written for the Dublin Star, a newspaper Flynn had never heard of. The next paper was another newspaper article, this one form the San Francisco Chronicle. The headline ran Don Juan of North Beach Gunned Down in Bathroom. Flynn shuddered. What a way to meet the maker. The third paper was a letter.

Flynn decided he’d pried more than enough. So rather than read the letter, he tucked the two articles and the letter back into the envelope. He put them all into his shirt pocket. After closing up, he’d walk the long way home and slip the papers through Mister G’s mail slot.

Looking about, Flynn saw a stranger at the far end of the bar. “Evening friend,” Flynn said. “What can I get you?” “I’ll have a whiskey.” The man spoke with an American accent. “Right up,” Flynn said. “You’re a ways from home. What brings you to Ireland,

Mister…?” “Call me Alphonso,” the man replied. “I’m looking up an old friend. A writer.”