Mickey jumped up out of his chair, yelling, “Coming. Sorry. Just a second.” He came around the desk, grabbed the receiver, and, breathing heavily, managed to say he was sorry again before he realized where he was and said, “Hunt Club. Mickey speaking.”

A man’s voice. “Everything all right there?”

“Yeah. I just knocked the phone onto the floor. How can I help you?”

“You’re Mickey, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, hold on a minute. I’ve got somebody who wants to talk to you.”

Mickey waited, then heard his grandfather’s voice. “Hey, Mick, is that you?”

“Jim?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“What’s up? How you doin’?”

“Well… a little fucked up.”

“Where are you?”

“The Shamrock.”

“Are you okay?”

“Good. I’m good. But I’m going to need a lift home here pretty soon.”

Mickey looked at his watch and let out a sigh. “Jim, it’s only four o’clock. I’m at work at least another hour.”

“I don’t think Mose would let me drink for another hour.”

“Who’s Mose?”

“Bartender here. S’good guy.” Slurring.

“How about you just have water or something? Would he serve you water?”

“I don’t drink water. The things fish do in water. You don’t want to know. Maybe he’d give me one more drink?” Sounding like he was making the suggestion to someone in front of him. “Maybe not, though. No.” Back to Mickey. “He’s shaking his head. Hold on just a second. Here he is again. Tell him I’ll drink slow.”

But the first man’s voice came back on. “This is Moses McGuire. You know where the Shamrock is? Maybe you want to get down here and pick up your old man. I don’t know if I want to let him out of here by himself in the condition he’s in.”

“He’s my grandfather,” Mickey said.

“Whatever.” McGuire lowered his voice. “Look, if he wouldn’t have remembered your number just now, I would have had to call a cab, but he said he didn’t want to take a cab, so I asked him how’d he feel about the cops, and I sure as hell don’t want to do that. Meanwhile, I got a business to run. He’s eighty-sixed here and you need to come down and get him right now. How old is he?”