estimation,” she added.
“Did you just work that out in your head? Jeez, remind me again why you’re not pulling down big bucks in some corporation somewhere?”
“You have to follow rules in corporations, big brother,” she said with a smile.
“And you never were much on those.”
“No,” she agreed. “Anyway, I’ll run some numbers on it and we can talk about it in more detail. And by the way, business is picking up.”
“Oh, yeah? Is it something you’re doing or is word just getting around?”
“Oh, a little of both.” The corners of her mouth tugged up in a smile. “I just sat down and thought about why people go to bars.”
“For deep philosophical conversation?”
Mallory laughed. “Nope. Drinks, music and sex,” she said matter-of-factly. “We supply the big three and we’ve got a full house every night. Obviously we’ve got the alcohol. We’re licensed for live music, so I’m going to start auditioning bands for Saturday nights. We can pay for it out of the cover charge.”
There was a short silence. “And the sex part?” Dev asked suspiciously.
Mallory grinned. “What did you say? I’m in a dead spot right here.”
“Your reception sounds fine to me. You said business is up and you’re doing something to make it happen. What?”
“I’m losing you,” she lied, smothering a laugh.
“Don’t you try to duck me, Mal,” Dev insisted, his voice rising. “I know you better than that. What are you up to? You’re not going to get us shut down, are you? Mal?”
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying, Dev. I’m hanging up.” Mallory clicked the key to terminate the call and laughed to herself. What she was doing wasn’t going to get her shut down.
She didn’t think.
“THE USUAL, THEN, DERMOTT?” Shay O’Connor looked at the compact, bright-eyed old man who leaned his elbows on the polished walnut bar, tapping his finger to the lilting strains of a pennywhistle and fiddle playing quietly over the sound system.
“Same as your grandfather served me, young Shay,” Dermott returned jauntily, smoothing back what little remained of his white hair. “O’Connor’s is still the only place in town that knows how to pull a pint.”
Shay tilted a glass under the tap and sent Guinness streaming into it. “The only little piece of Ireland in town, Dermott me lad,” he returned in an exaggerated brogue.
“Damned if you can’t sound like you came from County Kerry herself,” Dermott said, turning to survey the cozy pub. Warm wood glowed on every surface, from the wide-planked floor to the coffered ceiling. Lace curtains softened wide windows that looked out on the gathering twilight. Dark wood panels topped by colored glass divided the combination restaurant and pub into intimate seating areas, forming the backs of long padded benches where regulars relaxed, resting their pints on the trestle tables. Shelves ran around the ceiling holding old books, antique toys and bottles, and a sense of time gone by.
A willowy young redhead with eyes almost too large for her narrow face walked up to set her tray on the bar. “Two Bass, a Guinness, and a Murphy’s then, Shay,” she said briskly, the brogue of the West Counties running through her words.
“Quick as you please, Fiona.”
“Quick as I please would have me taking drinks back to me customers right now,” she said with a wink.
Shay eyed Dermott as he let the pint of Guinness settle and started another. “Are all women this impatient in Ireland?”
Dermott nodded vigorously. “Aye, and a good bit worse,” he said. “’Tis what drove me here.”
“I thought you came to seek your fortune, Dermott,” Fiona said with a raised brow.
“That, too,” he blustered.
Shay turned his attention to the other drinks. Painted words flowed across the wood above his head: There are no strangers, only friends that haven’t met. Looking out at the pub, he felt the comfort of tradition filling him like a cup of hot coffee on a cold morning. He put a head on the Guinness and slid it across the bar to Dermott.
A lanky young man with a disordered mop of black hair breezed into the pub. Fiona glanced at him, her eyes lingering just a beat too long. Then she turned, elaborately casual, to check her tray. “Nice to see you’ve decided to join us, Colin O’Connor, a rock star like yourself,” she said, her voice lightly mocking.
Colin gave her an amused glance as he crossed behind the bar. “If I’d known you’d be here, Fiona my love, I’d have left practice early,” he said, mocking her accent.
“Sure, and the pope eats steak on Friday,” she retorted as she took up her full tray and walked off.
Shay eyed his little brother. “You’re late.” Both of them shared the dark hair and vivid blue eyes of their Black Irish blood, though Shay kept his medium length for convenience. There, the resemblance ended. Colin had an open face and a boyish grin full of laughter. Shay’s deep-set eyes and hollowed cheeks promised something altogether darker and more tempting, like deep, rich caramel compared to white sugar.
Colin tied on an apron. “Sorry. Practice ran over. We were in the groove.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “I tried to hurry but I got pulled over.”
The last bits of late summer twilight streamed in through the wide windows. “So anyone know what they’re up to at that new bar on Washington Square?” Shay asked casually, his mind wondering about the SOS phone call he’d received from a friend earlier that afternoon.
Dermott waved a hand and scowled. “A lot of ruckus is what they’re up to if you ask me. I walked past last night on me way home. Half-naked women dancing on the bar, and all the crowd on the street making a right mess of things.” He slurped his Guinness and thumped the glass back down on the bar. “Should shut them down, they should. ’Tisn’t decent.”
Colin looked at Shay and raised an eyebrow. “Half-naked women dancing on the bar, eh? Maybe I should go check it out.” He made a move to untie his apron.
Fiona set her tray down on the bar. “What’s all this about half-naked women?”
“The new bar on Washington Square.”
“Oh, the Bad Girls.”
“What do you know about it?” Shay asked curiously.
She shrugged as she rattled off her order to Colin, then turned to Shay. “Not much. They only started a few weeks ago.”
“Indecent,” Dermott muttered again.
“’Tisn’t,” Fiona countered, leaning an elbow on the bar. “It’s just the bartenders doing a bit of dancing when they feel like it, clothes on. There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.” She flicked a glance at Colin, who was pouring a whiskey. “I thought it looked
