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“What about their names?”
“Nah, not sure I ever knew the names of those guys.”
“Who would?”
“That’s a good question. Let me think. You going to drink or just ask questions?”
“Bourbon.”
“I’ve got Michter’s, Colonel Taylor, and a little bit of Blanton’s left.”
“Blanton’s, neat.”
“That’s good, because I’m still waiting on my ice.”
Tommy used the hand towel to polish a rock glass and then poured a generous shot of Blanton’s. He put the glass down in front of Bosch. It looked like there was enough left in the round bottle for one more shot.
“Slainte,” he said.
“Cheers,” Bosch said.
A man entered the bar, carrying a large stainless-steel bucket full of ice. He hoisted it over the bar and Tommy took it and poured it into a bin. He handed the bucket back.
“Thanks, Rico.”
Tommy looked at Bosch and pointed to the ice bin.
“I’m good,” Bosch said.
Tommy held up a finger like he wanted to pause everything while he considered a new idea.
“I think I know somebody,” he said. “You’re going to take care of me for this, right?”
“I am,” Bosch said.
He watched as Tommy pulled a corded phone out from under the counter, dialed a number, and waited. Bosch then heard Tommy’s side of a brief conversation.
“Hey, remember the Irish Galleon? What happened with those two guys?”
Bosch wanted to take the phone and ask the questions, but he knew that was probably a quick way to end the call and Tommy’s cooperation.
“Oh, right, yeah, I think I heard something about that,” Tommy said. “What were their names?”
Bosch nodded. It was turning out he didn’t need to coach Tommy.
“And where did Davy go?” Tommy asked.
The call ended a few seconds later, and Tommy looked at Bosch but didn’t report what he had just heard. Bosch got the message and reached into his pocket. He had hit an ATM for four hundred dollars at the airport before takeoff the day before. The money had come in denominations of fifties and twenties. He now peeled four fifties off the fold of cash and put them down on the bar.
“The original owner was Dan Cassidy,” Tommy said. “But he left the island after they closed the bar down.”
“Where did he go?” Bosch asked.
“My guy didn’t know. His friend from Ireland that he took on as a partner was Davy Byrne, but everybody thought that was bullshit.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was an alias, clear as day. Davy Byrne’s was the name ofa pub inUlysses,the Joyce novel about Dublin. Supposedly it’s a real place over there, still in business after a hundred years. So people around here thought he was like an IRA guy or something who came here and changed his name because he was too hot to handle back there.”
