Chapter 27
We had spoken enough for one night, and I knew the ride back to Portland would be quiet.
I’d parked on Orient Street. Only as we reached the car did I spot the bar on the opposite side: Long’s Ale House. A neon sign read: HOME OF THE IRISH WELCOME!
“One for the road?” I said to Angel.
“Seriously?”
“A soda. Out of curiosity.”
Inside, Long’s was quiet. I counted four customers, one server, and one bartender who, when last I’d seen him, was wearing the uniform of a prison guard. The bartender glared at us.
“You!” said Joe Long. “Get the fuck out of my bar.”
“You don’t mean that,” I said.
“What about the Irish welcome?” asked Angel.
Long produced a heavy walking stick with a knob on the end and placed it on the bar.
“Here’s your welcome,” he said. “Come get it.”
“I can see why someone shot him,” said Angel, as we climbed in the car, light one anticipated soda each.
“At least he hasn’t changed,” I said. “In a volatile world, that’s kind of reassuring.”