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Xavier “Xpress” Smith ran over to the couch and felt the wrist and neck of the old woman.
Sasha balled her fists and started hitting Xavier Smith on the back and arms. “D
on’t touch Grammy, you bastard!”
He stood up and nervously aimed the pistol at Sasha.
“Listen, bitch. Don’t you say a word I was here. You hear me?”
She stared at him, a mixture of deep sadness and hatred in her eyes.
He moved quickly toward the front door and said, “Don’t you forget. I can come here anytime I want. Or find you anywhere. Anytime.”
Then Xavier “Xpress” Smith lived up to his nickname and fled into the dark of night.
[THREE]
705 N. Second Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:59 P.M.
Tony’s and Mickey’s cars, Harris’s city-issued battered unmarked gray Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor and O’Hara’s new black BMW M5 sedan, were parked in front of Liberties Bar.
Inside, Matt Payne saw that the place was not as packed as he’d expected. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. A couple were filled, but most looked like they’d recently been vacated. They were still covered with empty and unfinished drinking glasses. Same was true in the middle of the room, where there were more wooden tables and chairs. The busboy was working busily, and would be for some time.
Matt noticed some motion across the room and looked to the century-old, ornately carved oak bar. It ran from the front window almost back to the wooden stairway leading to second-floor seating. The bar was three-quarters full, and at its right end, nearest the front window that looked out onto the street, stood Michael J. “Mickey” O’Hara.
The Irishman exuded an infectious energy, and now used that to enthusiastically wave his right hand high above his very curly red hair.
Standing next to him, wearing his usual well-worn blue blazer and gray slacks, was Tony Harris. He’d noticed Mickey’s manic wave and looked over his shoulder. When Tony saw Matt, he shuffled to the left, making a place for him at the bar. His move gave Matt a clear view of Mickey—more specifically, of what he wore under his tweed jacket: a green T-shirt that had a four-leaf clover and read KISS ME, I’M IRISH.
As Payne approached, O’Hara said, “What the hell took you so long?”
Discretion being the better part of valor, I believe I’ll dodge that one.
“I had to walk her dog,” Matt said.
“Oh?” O’Hara smiled. As he motioned suggestively with his right hand, the middle finger rubbing the top of the index finger, he said, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Harris chuckled.
“Screw you, Mickey,” Payne said, but he smiled. He changed the subject. “Nice shirt. But wrong holiday.”
“It’s the closest to a costume I’ve got,” Mickey said. “But don’t be so damned sure of yourself, Matty.”
“What do you mean?” Payne asked.
Tony Harris had a bottle of Hops Haus lager beer to his lips, about to sip, when he nodded and said, “He’s already gotten six kisses, including two long ones from an incredibly cute, quote, angel, unquote, in all white. She rubbed Mickey’s head and said he was her lucky charm.”
Matt laughed, and the bartender walked up and slid two glasses on the bar before him, one with ice cubes in a clear liquid and one with just a dark liquid, both half-filled.
“First round tonight’s on me,” said the bartender, John Sullivan—a hefty forty-year-old, second-generation Irish-American with an ample belly, friendly bright eyes, and a full white beard. “Happy Halloween, Matt.”
“I guess I should’ve said ‘Trick or treat’ to earn my single-malt, huh?” Payne replied, reaching for the glass that he knew held the ice water. He poured it into the glass that contained the dark brown liquor, mixing it fifty-fifty. “Thanks, John.”
The bartender grinned as Payne held up his drink and said, “Cheers, gents,” clinked the glasses and bottle of John the bartender, Tony, and Mickey, then took a healthy sip.
He turned to looked at Harris. “So tell me what the hell that was all about tonight in Old City.”
Harris glanced at Mickey O’Hara. “You want to start?”
