The Pint
A cool breeze drifted through the open windows of McCaffrey’s pub, now and again shifting the sprinkles of saw dust in tight swirls close to the door. A waft of stale beer circulated the bar, mixing with the weak lingering smell of cleaning agents from the morning mop-up. Tully peered longingly at the tall dark beautiful perfection in front of him. A light condensation formed on the glass, and he leaned his large frame forward to sniff its white head. An aroma of barley and all things wholesome made him salivate and he swallowed. He touched the cold glass with his big fingertips, and slowly, he wrapped his hand around the glass and took a delicate, but firm grip. He lifted the pint, and the weight was familiar, the feeling customary, and the smell instinctively drove his tongue between his lips in anticipation of the taste. The morning sunlight caught the base of the pint turning it a dark plum colour, which reassured his expectations, and he gently closed his eyes. The cream brushed his lips followed by the cool dark liquid, gushing forward, hitting his throat, slightly sweet at first, but the bitter after taste encouraged Tully to gulp. He lowered the glass, placed it neatly on the beer mat and only half remained. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the bar. The Harley Davidson on his jacket stretched across his back from wheel to shining wheel and he thanked God for Murphy’s stout.
‘Well, Tully.’
A low voice barely louder than a whisper came from behind and Tully half turned on his bar stool, twisting his large neck to glimpse who it was that interrupted his sublime moment.
A curly head came into view and Tully’s eyelids drooped a little more than usual, disappointed to realise who it was. Tully turned back to his dark beauty. ‘O’ Sullivan, what do you want?’
Jack O’ Sullivan glanced around the lonely bar and took the stool beside Tully. He leaned forward, but unlike the giant beside him, his stretch to place his elbows on the bar was uncomfortable. Tully sighed and placed his huge hand around the pint glass for some comfort.
Jack looked up at Tully. ‘I’ve a package for ye.’
Tully lifted his glass and spoke into it, giving his voice a hollow ring. ‘Do ye?’ He swallowed the remainder of his pint in two gulps, held the glass up by the base, and examined the change. He decided swiftly, the glass on its own wasn’t worth his time and he nodded at Cyril, the barman, to pour another pint of perfection.
Jack sat upright. ‘Yeah. Can I give it to ye here, like?’
Tully belched and nodded. Jack extracted the envelope, placed it on the bar and pushed it in front of Tully.
Tully raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jack. ‘It’s all there?’
Jack swallowed, looked at the mirror behind the bar and nodded. The top of Jack’s head was level with Tully’s sleepy eyes.
Tully sighed, snatched the envelope from the bar and glanced inside. ’It better not be light, lad, or it’ll be added to your bill.’
‘I’m not a thief and look, I’m done with this racket.’ Jack tried to get off his stool when a hefty hand grabbed his arm.
‘Done? Don’t think so.’ The big man lowered his chin and leaned into Jack’s ear. ‘Don’t blame me for this. Your auld lad’s debt’s on you. Old Jackie was full o’ fags and booze, and like, nothin’ wrong with that, but a gambler to the end. He was a right good lad for a party.’ Tully smirked and sat upright. ‘To be fair though, you’ve paid a good chunk, you just need to knuckle down and work off the rest.’
Tully laid the envelope on the counter. He stared at blood stains spattered across the brown surface before he stuffed the envelope inside his jacket. ‘I knew you’d be good at it, like. You know, a good collector.’ Tully patted the envelope in his pocket. ‘I take it that’s not your claret.’
Jack folded his arms. ‘I did what you asked and no more.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I said I’m done with this. You’ll get your money but no more collections.’
Tully chuckled. ‘Jack, Jack, Jack…look boy, I need a debt collector and you owe me money. You’re just gettin’ started.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Me ma’s in hospital and she needs –’
Tully grabbed Jack by the collar, choking him to a sudden stop and pressed Jack’s chest against the counter. Tully’s beady eyes pierced the much smaller man and cursed him for being awkward. ‘I thought we had this…’ Tully’s eyes narrowed. ‘…conversation. First your auld lad and now your mother? Don’t come cryin’ to me. What you need is to do your job and know your place.’ Tully released his grip and fixed Jack’s collar. ‘You’re mine now, lad, and you’ll work for me until I say you’re done, d’ye get me?’
Jack blinked, slipped off the stool and pulled his jacket to his waist.
Tully turned back to face the bar. ‘Now get outa here and wait for my call.’
A half minute passed, and a fresh pint landed in front of Tully. He turned towards it, put his meaty paws on the counter and gave it his full attention. It was tantalisingly close, and Tully enjoyed the chase, teasing himself until he could stand no more. He rubbed his thigh with his sweaty palm and eyed his black beauty. She was full of promise and fleeting satisfaction.
Suddenly Tully sensed Jack beside him again. ‘Are you still here?’ He spoke to a row of spirits on a shelf over the mirror and swallowed when the cold steel of a gun muzzle pressed against his neck. He looked at his dark pint before everything faded to black.
