It was a bad death. It bothers me to this day I was a part of it. I got to tell somebody, while I still got the breath in me.
This is what happened:
It was raining like hell, and after midnight. My bar was nearly empty. That winter was colder than a witch's tit. Now, this was in the mid-1960s, so a lot of the regulars had crowded in to catch the Bears and the Packers play a grudge match. I had maybe two hundred and change in the till, not bad for back then, and I was feeling pretty good. The only one left by closing time was Tom O'Malley. He was dancing alone in the hallway, humming 'Galway Bay.' I knew Tom would try to slip out the door and stiff me for the tab, the prick. But then he'd be back tomorrow night with most of the cash and an apology. That was the way things worked back then.
Sean Moloney came blowing through the door like he was riding an evil wind. He was twenty-three, maybe twenty-four that winter. I'd known him since he was a lad. He was a good boy, Sean, that red-haired, freckle-faced kind of Irish. Sean was quick with a grin and loved to gamble, but no one would ever have taken him for a hard case.
"Patrick, I'm freezing my balls off," he said. He was watching Tom dance.
"I'm not surprised," said I. "You're out on a night fit for idiots."
"Tullamore Dew straight up."
"Already pouring, son. Already pouring."
Sean sat himself on the barstool, downed the shot glass of whiskey and rubbed his hands together. Tom O'Malley reached the high notes and left through the front door, still dancing all by his lonesome. Now we were alone.
Sean leaned forward suddenly. For the first time I noticed how pale he was, and sweating despite the chill. He seemed scared.
"You've got to help me, Patrick," he said. "I'm in deep shit."
)
