Chapter 8
Dan knew it couldn't be good news. Shamrock had asked to meet that afternoon at The Crooked Shillelagh, an Irish bar/restaurant situated at the south end of the beach not far from Dan's cottage. The location wasn't a surprise. Shamrock could usually be found at the Shillelagh when he wasn't at the High Tide. What was a surprise was the nervousness Dan detected in Shamrock's voice and that he'd called at all–he never had before.
So that was why Dan found himself on the sidewalk in front of the building, mulling over the possibilities in his head. Suspended over the front door of the one-story wood structure was a large wooden shillelagh. And yes, it was crooked. Plastered along the length of the restaurant's windows were posters depicting kelly green shamrocks and glasses of dark Guinness beer, each with a perfect foamy head.
Dan took a deep breath, entered, and immediately saw Shamrock in his kitchen whites sitting alone at a corner table. Planted on the table in front of him was, naturally, a glass of Guinness beer just like the ones in the windows. Probably not the first of the day. Or the last.
Shamrock looked up as Dan reached the table. "Danny, may I buy you a Heineken?"
Dan shook his head. "No thanks, Shamrock. Too early. Ginger'll do."
Shamrock shrugged, brought the beer up to his lips, and took a healthy pull. He set the glass down with an audible sigh, a creamy white mustache lingering on his upper lip.
A young waitress approached the table. She definitely fit the motif with her braided red hair and her black apron with the green Crooked Shillelagh logo stitched across the front.
"What can I be getting you, sir?" Her brogue made Shamrock sound as if he'd been born stateside.
Dan grinned. "Just a ginger ale, please."
She looked at Dan quizzically, like she'd never heard that request. Finally she said, "Some food you'll be having then?"
"No thanks."
She glanced at Shamrock staring into his glass like it would disappear if he didn't keep his eye on it, then turned and walked away.
Shamrock, for a change, didn't seem in any hurry to speak. Dan glanced around, noticing that there was only one other occupied table and maybe a half-dozen customers at the bar. Early. Quiet. Soon enough the place would be packed with a rowdy crowd listening to "Seven Drunken Nights" played over and over by the house band. He'd listened to it himself many times through the years.
Dan turned his gaze back to Shamrock. The man was still staring into his beer, only this time the expression on his face seemed to say that beer wasn't doing its job anymore. "What's the matter, Shamrock? Something wrong?"
Shamrock finally raised his beery eyes. "Danny, I, I, ahh . . ." His shoulders slumped and he let out another sigh.
"How about I start?" Dan leaned back in his chair. "Two state cops came in the Tide. They were asking questions about you."
Shamrock's eyes widened. "About me?"
Dan took a quick look around, lowered his voice. "You and cocaine."
Shamrock quickly brought the Guinness up to his lips. Dan could hear the glass bang against the man's teeth as Shamrock drained the contents in one long pull. He put the glass down. Stared morosely at the foamy sides. "I . . ."
Dan held up his hand, interrupting Shamrock before he could go any further.
The red-haired waitress deposited a ginger ale in front of Dan and an unasked-for Guinness in front of Shamrock. "Anything else, gents?"
Shamrock waved her off, and before she could even turn to go, had the beer tipped greedily to his lips.
When he'd placed the half-empty glass down, he said, "God have mercy on me, Danny. I think I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble."
Dan took a sip of his ginger, wished it could have been something stronger. "I figured you might be after talking to those two cops."
"That's all I need, Danny. Cops on me back. And that ain't the worst of it. I think there's some bad people wanting to talk to me. And I'm afraid they might be wanting to do a lot more than just trade jokes with me. I think I did it this time, Danny. I'm scared. I don't think kissing the Blarney Stone is going to help me now." He swiped up the beer, took another pull, then set it down.
There was one thing Dan had to know before he got any deeper into this. "Shamrock, I have to ask you–did you have anything to do with those murders?"
Shamrock shook his head like he was trying to twist it off. "Murders! No, no, Danny. I swear to baby Jesus." He quickly crossed his heart. "I had nothin' at all to do with that. We . . . ah . . . I just saw where they put the stuff."
"We?"
"A slip of the tongue." Shamrock grabbed both sides of the table, his knuckles white. "It was me, Danny boy. Just me."
"All right, Shamrock, I believe you." Dan kept his voice calm. "You didn't kill anyone. But you did take the cocaine."
"Yes, Danny, yes. That's it. I'm in awful trouble." Shamrock raised his face to the ceiling. "Oh, Heavenly Father. I wish I'd never even seen the stuff. I don't know what I was thinking."
Dan reached across the table and grabbed Shamrock's arm. "Get hold of yourself, Shamrock. We'll think of something."
Shamrock stared at him, eyes desperate. "You'll help me then, Danny? I got no one else. No one."
Dan looked back at Shamrock. He slowly released his grip on the man's arm, pulled his hand back. He didn't want to get involved. In fact, he shouldn't get mixed up in anything involving drugs–especially this. It could blow back on him in a hundred ways. But this was Shamrock, after all. And he liked the man. Besides, Dan didn't have many friends left; he couldn't afford to lose any.
Besides, it hadn't been that long ago when he'd been as bad off as Shamrock and had needed help. People had been there for him (at least what'd been left of him). And that was the only reason he was still here today–sitting with Shamrock, both of them having no family–because someone took a big risk for him. So what could he do? Say no and walk out the door onto Ocean Boulevard, with the sun in his eyes and the sea air in his nostrils, whistling a happy tune? Not likely. He had to shave every morning, didn't he?
"All right, my friend. All right."
The Irishman gave a weak smile. "Ah, Danny. You'll help me then? You promise? You promise you'll help me with this?"
"Yes, Shamrock, I promise. We'll figure this out somehow." Dan slowly stirred his drink with the straw. "So you have it? The cocaine?"
"Yes, Danny. I have the god-awful stuff. But I don't want it. Maybe I'll just throw it in the goddamn ocean." Shamrock raised the beer, polished it off, slammed the glass down on the table.
Dan sat back, alarmed. "You don't want to do that. No one would ever believe you. They'd treat you just like you still had the stuff stashed somewhere. And that wouldn't be good."
Shamrock shook his head. "All right, Danny. I wasn't really serious. It's just that I'm at my wit's end. Maybe if I tell you everything, we'll think of something else to do? Right?"
"We'll figure it out somehow." Dan looked at his wristwatch. "When are you working?"
Shamrock glanced up at the big Boston Bruins clock on the wall. "Sweet Jesus, I'm late. I'm never late. I got to go. Can we talk again tomorrow, Danny?"
"Sure, Shamrock. We'll talk tomorrow."
Shamrock slid his chair back and stood up. "You're a saint, Danny."
"My wife doesn't think so. But we'll figure something out. And try not to worry."
Shamrock turned and hurried out the front door.
Dan lifted his soft drink, studied it, set it down. This whole setup wasn't good. He knew it. He felt it. He didn't have a clue how he was going to get Shamrock out of this mess and not have the whole thing blow up in his face. Too bad he couldn't follow the advice he'd given to Shamrock–about trying not to worry. Because right now he was plenty worried. Worried enough for both of them.
~*~*~