What was your last post of employment?

I was the bodyguard of the Emir Alhaji Mohammadu, Kudo of Kano, Nigeria. Which was a polite way of putting it. He and two other whites, one an Italian, one a Greek, were the hatchetmen of the Emir, used on delicate occasions when the three hundred and some odd pound Emir did not wish to commit his fellow countrymen, though the Emir was far from a delicate man when it came to—ah—subversion.

And what was your position before that? Sean had to think twice. Yes, probably that romp in—what did they call the country now?—he forgot. Borneo, in the old days. It had been a bloody mess. Not exactly a job to reveal to a prospective employer in Dublin.

He had held off the moment long enough. He reached for his wallet and examined its contents. There were no contents, insofar as paper money was concerned. He fished into his trouser pockets and came forth with several coins, a few shillings, a few pence. Less than a pound in all. So he had suspected. He couldn’t have gotten as blotto as he had obviously been without blowing all on hand. It came back to him now. He had started buying himself Jameson’s, the best of the Irish whiskeys, so far as he was concerned, instead of sticking to the more plebian Guiness stout. He could afford whiskey about as much as he could champagne.

Sean Ryan had luck in the dining room. He was the last of the hotel’s guests to appear on the scene and Molly, the sole waitress, who also doubled as a chambermaid, was in the process of cleaning up. But for some reason, Molly had a soft spot for Sean Ryan. She brought him his breakfast.

Only the fact that he was still hungry from the day before made it possible for him to get it all down, over the rebellion of his hangover. But get it down he did, to the last crust of the heavy Irish bread.