Mr. Gross said helpfully, "We was talking about the neighborhood and the Irish and?"

"Damn the Irish," the man said, draining his glass.

A profound silence fell over the room. Witherwax traded looks with his two companions. Gross studied his beer. Mr. Cohan appeared to have something lodged in his throat. After a moment's strangled silence, that worthy said gently, "Gavagan does not care for me to be chastising a patron. It's bad for the trade. But I'll not be hearing such talk in this establishment."

The stranger pushed his glass away and sighed. "I shouldn't've had that second drink. I apologize… Mr. Cohan, is it? I don't usually speak so intemperately, but I have been having some troubles lately and the people who have been giving them to me are Irish."

"There," said the brass blonde to her friends. "I told you he had troubles."

"Troubles, is it?" Mr. Cohan said. "Well, the Irish are good at giving those out, though we always seem to have enough left over for ourselves. But it will do you to know that we here at Gavagan's have heard people's troubles before, but never once did they damn anyone; not even that Italian joint around the corner, which may even deserve the damning because they pour short measure."

"Didn't that magician fellow damn someone one time?" said Witherwax.

"Theophrastus V. Abaris," said the bartender, drawing the syllables out. "I'd forgotten about him. Sure, he cursed poor Mr. Murdoch, when the young felly was after losing his dragon."

"What sort of troubles?" Mr. Gross asked the stranger.

"Do you remember Madame Lavoisin?" said Mrs. Jonas. "Now she was trouble."

Mr. Witherwax gestured toward the bar, "Does he look like a man who goes to a beauty parlor?"

"I asked…," said Gross.

"These days they have unisex parlors," said Keating.

"And we'll have none of that talk in Gavagan's, either," said Mr. Cohan, who had only heard part of it. "'You need sex parlors. What is the world coming to?"