‘…so this poor son of a bitch, the victim, Leon, he’s trying to get some hubcaps back on this car in the middle of the day. It’s his car. Red, you know, an old Ford. So the perp, Germaine, sees him, comes out and asks what he thinks he’s doing messing with his, Germaine’s, car, which in truth is parked around the corner. Looks a lot like Leon’s car, I guess. Same model, red and all. But Germaine is so loaded he can’t see that well, and Leon says fuck off, it’s my car, which it is. So Germaine goes inside and comes out with a gun, and Leon says, “What you gonna do, shoot me?” and Germaine says, “Yeah,” and pumps four shots into him.’

Pullios howls. ‘Get out of here!’

‘Swear to God, I mean, there’s ten witnesses hanging around the curb and this guy just blows Leon away, walks back inside and takes a nap, which is what he’s doing when we get there.’

Both Arnie and Elizabeth laughing, laughing, laughing.

But it beat bartending.

Not that there was anything wrong with bartending. Working behind the rail was an uncomplicated and stress-free life. He’d taken pride in the way he mixed drinks, getting along with everybody, sleepwalking.

Then suddenly it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough. After he’d broken his routine, once trying to help the Cochrans, once trying to save his own life, he realized that he’d changed. Survival wasn’t enough. He’d fallen in love. His new wife now had a baby that he’d treat as his own even if it wasn’t.

There was a future again, not a succession of days in half a Guinness haze. It surprised him how good it felt.

The time behind the bar had begun to weigh heavily. The regulars, the pickups at the bar, the stupid Irish fights over darts or whether Jameson, was better than that Protestant piss Bushmills. It was all the same ol‘ same ol’, the alcohol discussions laden with a profundity that never stood the scrutiny of the next sunrise.