A Turn for the Bad (12 page)

Why did time keep dragging so? Maybe it was the mood of the shifting group of patrons, quiet and subdued, at least compared to what she'd seen in recent weeks or months. Toss in some anxiety, which was also dragging people down. The weather hadn't helped or hurt: there were occasional showers, more often mixed clouds, and the odd flash of sunshine. Normal weather, and getting cooler. The fireplace was a plus, both providing warmth and creating a sense of cozy cheer. Which reminded her about her own heating problem.

“Mick, what about my heat? You were going to find me a list of providers.”

“I'm handling it,” he said noncommittally.

“Which means what? You forgot? You're negotiating? You've cut a deal under the table?”

“It means I'll get it done before you freeze your arse off,” he said in a surprisingly sharp tone.

“If you want me to handle it, just say so,” she spat back at him. “I'm capable of figuring a few things out for myself.”

“Never said you weren't. I'm doin' yeh a favor, in case yeh hadn't noticed.”

“Damn, this is a stupid argument. Yeah, I asked for your help and I didn't exactly put a deadline on it. But I'm cold at home. Even Gillian noticed.”

“Yer ancestors fared far worse.”

“So I'm some fragile wimp for complaining?”

“Did I say that?”

Jimmy interrupted them as he leaned across the bar. “You sound like an auld married pair—yer bickerin's upsetting the lads.”

Maura took a deep, steadying breath, trying to regain some control. “I apologize,” she said carefully. “We're all kind of on edge, and that's not your fault. Okay?”

“Sorry,” Mick muttered to no one in particular, and disappeared into the back room.

Midafternoon there was a lull, so Maura wandered over to where Old Billy was dozing by the fire and dropped into a chair next to him. He opened one eye and peered at her. “I'm not asleep, if that's yer worry. Just restin'. And listenin'.”

“What've you heard, Billy?”

“A lot of men talking about John Tully.”

No surprise there. “Do you know him?”

“I told you, I knew his grandfather, years ago, and his uncle after that. But I've never been one fer the boats, save for a skiff on Ballinlough when the fish were bitin'. Gillian's stayin' at yer place?”

It took Maura a moment to follow the line from John Tully to Ballinlough to Gillian. “For the moment. I don't think she's figured out anything beyond tomorrow.”

“She'll have to decide, won't she, when there's a child to consider.”

What?
Maura stared at Billy. “How do you know these things, Billy? Did Gillian say anything?”

“No, but I've been on this earth more'n eighty years, and seen my share of women, though I never managed to marry one of 'em. Tell her not to worry—I won't blab.”

“Well, since you know so much, do you think she should tell Harry?”

Billy sat back in his well-worn chair and stared off in the distance. “That's hard to say. Not that Harry's a bad 'un, and he's good to Eveline, but it's hard to picture him tied down.”

“I know what you mean,” Maura said. “Yeah, he seems like a good enough guy, but it sounds like he's having too much fun playing the field in Dublin to settle down. Yet. I can't say I know him very well. But what's Gillian supposed to do?”

“That I can't tell you, but she's a sharp woman and knows her own mind. She wouldn't thank me fer givin' her advice. Has she talked to you?”

“Not much, but then, I can't help much either, except to give her a bed for now. I don't know how things work here, like day care and schools and all of that. And I don't know how people look on unmarried mothers either. But for now, having her stay with me works out fine, because we see each other about two hours a day. I'm out to midnight most nights, so when I get home, she's asleep. She's been getting up and making breakfast for us, and then I head back here again.”

“It won't hurt yeh to bend yer schedule a bit. Mick and Jimmy can handle things here. And Rose can smile at the men.”

“So what's my job?” she demanded.

“You'd be the mother hen, keepin' watch on 'em.”

Maura looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Well, I've got to say nobody's ever called me that before! And I really doubt anybody sees Sullivan's as a chicken coop!”

“You'd be right there.”

“Do you know Brendan Quinn?”

“The man who sells the liquor? Sure, and Mick did before yeh.”

“Is he honest?”

Billy cocked his head at her curiously. “Are yeh asking if he'll give yeh a fair price, or whether he has what you might call other interests on the side?”

Maura took a moment to work out that Billy must be referring to selling illegal alcohol. “Do you have answers to both questions?” she finally said. Was there never a simple answer around here?

“I might. As fer the first, he's been comin' here fer years. Old Mick always threw his business to Brendan, but Mick bought no more than he needed, and that wasn't much. He knew his customers, and he didn't care fer the fancy stuff. Or the expensive bottles. Brendan may try to sweet-talk you into a few of those, but he won't be offended if you tell him no. He's got to try.”

“I know that much of the game, Billy. And the other?”

“I've heard nothing that links his name to anything you shouldn't know about.”

Why did people keep sheltering her? “What is it with you guys around here? It's like you're all trying to keep me packed away from any nasty realities. I think I'm old enough to handle at least some of the truth.” Although, she noted,
she was probably younger than anyone in the room except Rose, and that was pretty much the usual case in the pub.

“Might be yer safer not knowin', what with seein' Sean and all.”

There it was again: her relationship or whatever with Sean. “Why does everybody assume we're a couple?” she said indignantly.

“Because he's droppin' in here more than he ever did before—and it's not because of the high crime on yer premises. The death of that musician aside, of course.”

And everybody in the place was watching them when Sean was around. Maura sighed: it was like living in a fishbowl. Did Sean know that? He must—he was a garda, and he was supposed to be observant. Was this his roundabout way of courting her, by simply showing up and letting everyone else in the room jump to conclusions? Not for the first time she wished there were a rule book for dealing with Irish people in Ireland, because every time she turned around she found another surprise. And she felt like an idiot turning to Rose, who was all of seventeen, for advice about things like dating and clothes. At least it made more sense to ask Billy about what and how to drink in Ireland.

She looked around the room: not too many people. It would get busier later, and certainly tomorrow when the weekend started. “Billy, what do I need to know about Irish whiskey, before this salesman starts trying to confuse me?”

“Ah, me dear, you've come to the right man. Fer a start, there's . . .” And Billy launched into a detailed discussion about peat filtering and pot stills and the history of poitín and hops and malts and lions and tigers and bears, as far as Maura could tell. What seemed to be coming through most clearly
was that there were only a few actual makers of the “real” stuff in Ireland, but they had multiple brands each, and multiple grades or qualities within brands, and the older the drink was, the more they charged for it. That last part she knew from bartending back in Boston. Was she ever going to need this information at Sullivan's? As she kept telling anyone who would listen, she rarely drank, and when she did, it wasn't any form of whiskey. As far as she could tell, based on all of seven months' experience in Ireland, most of her customers, including the tourists passing through, went straight for the stout. A lot of those tourists didn't like it much, but they thought it was part of the Irish experience. And she'd done just fine without any fancy labels, so far.

The day wore on, with no Tully news. Maura contemplated putting up a makeshift sign, maybe something she could flip, saying
NEWS/NO NEWS
, so there wouldn't have to be an explanation each time someone walked through the door. After a while she realized that wasn't necessary, as the communication of that information—or lack of it—had quickly developed its own shorthand. A person would walk in, check the crowd for someone he knew, and when he found one he'd raise one eyebrow. The other person would give a very brief negative shake of his head, and the newcomer would head for the bar or join a group of buddies. Maura watched it happen over and over again, and nobody failed to understand that there was still no word about the missing man. And here she'd thought the Irish loved to talk. Apparently bad news did not come under that heading.

The evening ended earlier than usual, and most regulars were gone well before eleven. Brendan came in closer to the hour. “Are we still on?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” Maura said with little enthusiasm.

“I'm overwhelmed by the warmth of your response,” Brendan said with a twinkle in his eye.

Mick came out from the basement, where he'd been clanging barrels around, and joined them. “Quinn,” he said in greeting. “We're doin' this?”

“Up to the lady here.” Quinn dipped his head at Maura.

“Yeah, sure, fine,” Maura said. “Let's do this so you can stop bugging me. How do we start?”

Without delay, Brendan stooped down and pulled up a sturdy and well-worn leather satchel, which he perched on a bar stool. He opened it ceremonially and began extracting small bottles of what Maura assumed was Irish whiskey—they bore no labels, save for a small sticky note on each. Brendan arrayed them along the bar in an order known only to him. Jimmy came over from clearing glasses in the corner and sat himself on a stool on the other side, watching with interest. Maura glanced at Mick. “You in?”

He shook his head. “I told yeh, I'm yer designated driver—isn't that what you call the one who stays sober in the States? Jimmy here can have my share.”

“Kind of you, mate,” Jimmy said. “I'm happy to pull my weight here, and I can walk home.”

“Friends, the goal here is to taste and observe, not to get fluthered,” Brendan reminded them.

“Huh?” Maura said.

“Drunk, my dear. I've brought you some fine whiskey, and you're not supposed to swallow it in a gulp, but to savor its subtleties. Let us start with . . .”

Mick wordlessly reached up and fetched three short glasses and set them on the bar.

“A pitcher of water, if you will, sir,” Brendan said.

Mick filled a small glass pitcher from the tap and set it beside the glasses, then leaned back and crossed his arms, watching.

“Now, before we begin,” Brendan said solemnly, “one important thing to remember is that you don't want to drink the whiskey neat, or straight up, or whatever you call it in America. Then all you'll taste is the alcohol.”

“What about on the rocks?” Maura asked, amused at his serious approach.

“On ice? Please, no. You should add just a bit of water, not enough to dilute the drink, but enough to take the edge of it off. Here, we'll start with the blended ones and work our way up from there.” Brendan took two glasses and tipped less than a half inch of brown liquid into each. Then he picked up the pitcher and added just a splash of water to one of the glasses. “Now, Miss Donovan, taste the undiluted one first, please.”

Maura looked at him to make sure he wasn't making fun of her. Jimmy, behind Brendan's back, was grinning as if this was all a big joke. Mick nodded once, so Maura figured this must be on the level. She picked up the first glass and sipped—and almost coughed. The alcohol burned inside her mouth and the fumes wafted up to her sinuses. “Strong,” she managed to say hoarsely.

“It is that,” Brendan agreed. “Now, try the one with the water.”

Maura sipped, more cautiously this time, but it turned out that was unnecessary. Somehow that dash of water had smoothed off the rough edges of the whiskey, rounding it out—and now she could actually taste the flavor. A bit sweet,
with a hint of spice, and much smoother. “Wow. That really does make a difference.”

“It does. Would I steer you wrong? Now, let us try a series—all the different ages from one distiller, young to old.”

“I'll have a bit of that,” Jimmy said eagerly.

“Of course.” Brendan resumed laying out glasses and filling them with small amounts of unidentified whiskey. As he worked he said, “By the end of this tasting, Maura, I'll wager you'll be able to tell how long any of these has been in the barrel.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, unconvinced.

Half an hour later, Maura had to admit that Brendan knew what he was doing. It was clear to her now that the whiskey she had known in Boston had been low end, or if the bottle said otherwise, somebody had been playing games. Sure, the cheaper stuff was still kind of rough, but the longer-aged whiskeys were so much less harsh, somehow velvety. It was almost possible to forget that she was drinking an alcoholic beverage—a rather strong one, she reminded herself, since she was having trouble feeling her toes, and her eyes had a tendency to refuse to act together.

“Is there one you like better than the others?” Brendan asked. Maura looked at the many glasses lined up across the bar in front of her, glad to see she hadn't emptied all of them. “How many have we tried now?”

“Fifteen. Don't worry—I'm asking what's your preference, and there's not one right answer.”

Maura debated a moment, then laid a finger on one of the glasses—an empty one. “That one.”

“Can you tell me why?” Brendan asked, keeping his expression neutral.

“Almost creamy, nice flavor of cloves, with a hint of peat. All too easy to drink.”

“Bravo, my dear—you're a good student. That's the Midleton Reserve that I usually dole out with a teaspoon. I doubt you'll have much call for it here, but you can say you've tried it. And it's a good choice—it's made in Midleton, to the east of Cork city, but still within the county. The same folk make quite a few of the other brands as well, but this is their best.” He started gathering up his little bottles, and Mick collected the glasses and began to rinse them. Maura didn't move, perched on her stool: she felt warm and relaxed and didn't want to go anywhere or do anything. Was she drunk? Hard to say, since she had little experience with that state. The feeling didn't match what she'd seen in plenty of bars, where men got increasingly loud and angry the more they drank and usually ended up hitting someone or getting thrown out of the bar. She would have to think about this, but not now. Now she just wanted to float along, feeling happy.