No.

Seemed to emphasize the aura of darkness around him-or maybe I just needed a frigging pint.

He was finishing their famous handmade soup, dabbing at the corners of his mouth like a petulant nun. A lone pint of Guinness, forlorn in its solitariness, opposite him, like a sin he’d refused to absolve. I indicated the chair across from him and he waved me to it. The waitress, a rarity-she was Irish-approached, greeted,

“Hiya Jack.”

He gave me the look, like, how often are you in here?

I gave her my best smile and meant it. She turned to Gabe, asked,

“Father, have you decided on your main course?”

He had.

Demanded, not asked,

“The Dover sole, lightly grilled. Are the vegetables fresh?”

“Yes, Father, we had a fresh delivery just this morning.”

He never looked at her. This guy was accustomed to hired help. He said,

“I’ll have the brussels sprouts, a side salad of coleslaw, red onions, and, of course, in olive oil dressing.”

She risked a glance at me, her eyes saying,

“Bollix.”

She asked,

“Usual Jack?”

“That would be great and thanks.”

He looked up, queried,

“You eat here regularly?”

“Drink, I drink here… regularly.”

Like this was news to him. He reached down, fetched a beautiful brown leather briefcase with a symbol on it:

T. B. E.

I thought I knew it but couldn’t bring it to mind then.

I would later, ruefully… as I learnt it meant The Brethren, Eternally.

I said,

“You didn’t have that in the hospital.”

He was mildly impressed, said,

“A keen observer, that’s good, very good. My driver brought it over.”