Union Jack
A Short Story
I’m sitting at the bar minding my own damn business when a 300-pound leprechaun stumbles over his elf shoes and nearly knocks me off my stool. Green beer sloshes out of my mug and onto the floor. St. Patrick’s Day in an Irish bar comes with hazards, and Lucky here is the least of them. I look at his green elf hat and glass eye with the shamrock for a pupil and remember arresting him about a year ago.
Even calling The Blarney Stone an Irish bar seems a stretch. The décor is more what you would find in a kitschy Italian restaurant, the walls covered with photographs of Italian celebrities ranging from Sinatra to the Pope. The only evidence of an Emerald Isle connection is a large Irish flag above the stage and a sign that reads: “Dogs and Englishmen Not Allowed.”
Ethnicity aside, it’s a typical college hangout with one notable exception: no dance floor. That’s only noticeable because of the number of girls trying to dance beside the tables. Each time a girl’s hips move more than they would when walking, a bouncer rushes over and stops them.
“Well good evening, my boy,” a voice says coldly from the other side of the bar. “Another beer?”
I look over and see James Donovan: bar owner, father of my new girlfriend Julia, mobster.
