“Sit, lad, and pour us both a drink.”
Jack did as he asked. Danny put the shot to his lips, then tossed it back with the ease of a man who had been doing so for ages. Jack poured him another.
“Do ye know what the secret of running your own bar is, lad?”
“No, sir.”
“Doona drink the profits.” Danny laughed, then lifted the glass to his lips. “Go on then. Bottoms up.”
Danny waited until Jack drank his, then said. “This bar has been my home for over seventy years, Jack. My father owned it before me, and his father before him. She has a history, she does. Housed Union soldiers in the Civil War.” Danny’s eyes scanned the place, and having assured that he was among friends, leaned forward and spoke in hushed, reverent tones. “And was the secret meeting place of the Mollies for years.”
Jack said nothing. He’d heard these stories a hundred times if he’d heard them once. Danny loved telling anyone who would listen (as long as they were local and Irish) that quite a few of his not-so-distant ancestors had been part of the Molly Maguires. The Mollies, as they were known, were a secret society of poor Irish immigrants who slaved in the region’s anthracite mines and rebelled against the rich mine owners and their watchdogs in the latter part of the 19th century. The group went far underground when twenty of them were convicted of murder and other crimes and hung. Though a hundred years had passed, it was still a very sore subject among the locals, and only spoken of in trusted company.
“And before that,” Danny continued, “she was a fine hotel. Ach, I know she’s not much to look at now,” he said, waving his hand vaguely about, “but she was something back in the day.”
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Jack dutifully looked around, past the cheap tables and cracked vinyl, beyond the broken fixtures, and tacky linoleum. Thick hand-hewn beams ran the length of the ceiling and supported the upper floors in square-ish columns. Ornately carved-wood trim, now blackened with age and neglect, outlined the doors and windows. The once-white plastered walls were covered in layers of tar and nicotine residue, except in those places where it had fallen away completely.
“I’ve been a poor steward,” Danny lamented, his eyes suspiciously shiny, “I’ve let her go te pot. Were it not for the likes of them -—” he swept this arthritic fingers toward the bar “ -— and good men like you and your Da, I would have been out of business years ago.”
Again, Jack said nothing. He didn’t think Danny really expected him to.
“But my time here is done. I’ve run out of money and the bastards are going to take her right out from under me if I don’t pay the taxes due.”
“How much?”
Danny told him, and Jack nodded. It was a substantial sum.
“The only way I’ll come into that kind of money is if I manage to die in time and my life insurance pays out. Fat lot of good it will do me then, eh?” he chuckled without mirth. “I’ve got no sons to pass her on to, and I’ll not be handing her over to my no-good sons-in-law.”
The old man scowled as he stared into his drink. It was no secret that Danny didn’t get along well with his daughters; their husbands, even less. Jack stared into his own drink, waiting for the inevitable. In his mind, he began assembling a mental list of the places where he might apply for a job. He didn’t have a college education, but he was a hard worker, and knew enough people to find something. In the meantime, he had his parents’ house and a tidy nest egg he’d managed to build with his service pay.
“I want you to buy her, young Jack.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I want you to buy the bar. You’ve got roots in this town, lad. Good, strong Irish roots. You are about to be married, and need to make your own way. Buy this place for the taxes due, and you’ll have an established business and enough room to breed all the little ones you want.”
Speechless—– for an entirely different reason this time—– Jack poured himself another shot and tossed it back. Working in a bar was one thing, but owning one?
“Just think about it, Jack. ‘Tis all I ask.”
Reeling from the unexpected request, Jack found himself nodding. “I’ll think about it, sir.”
“Aye, that’s a good lad. But don’t take too long. Those damn bankers are all but crawling up my arse, wanting te get their grubby hands on her.”
Hours later, Jack lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was a crazy idea, and yet one he couldn’t stop thinking about. Owning his own place, running his own business was perfect for him. After spending seven years in the service, he was loathe to ever take orders from anyone else again.