by L E Franks
I cut her off before she could take the cheese out of the cheesy and smooth it out with a little heavy lifting or furniture moving in her dorm.
“Oh look Corwyn’s in.” I waved at the field where Corwyn was probably still playing, and took a step closer to the action. FatBoy really had no choice but to follow along.
Good-bye, little girl, go play with your dolls and leave the grownups alone.
It wasn’t a total win—there would be no more accidental shoulder bumps as we watched the game—the extra foot of air he left between us saw to that.
I leaned over, exaggerating only a little. “So remind me, how many women did Cam say you’ve slept with?”
All I got was a grunt in return.
* * * * *
The All-Ireland Senior Exhibition Team trotted over to greet us after their win, which none of the Wolfhounds seemed to mind too much, most of them already fan-boys after a week of scrimmages and clinics together.
“Well, was it worth losing sleep over?” Corwyn asked when he reached us. He had a strip of mud painting his left side from the shoulder down.
I didn’t dare look over at FatBoy.
“Great game! Yeah, thanks for inviting me,” The less said about that right now the better.
“Thanks for coming out—” He turned to FatBoy, who began choking on his coffee. Corwyn slapped him on the back. “Seriously, ya made the lads’ day.” He started jogging back to the team before calling back to us, “See ya at the bar!”
We didn’t linger after that, I was already late for being early. My unpleasantly long checklist would still be on my desk whenever I got there, so there was no point in putting it off.
FatBoy opened his passenger door for me, and after getting in I leaned over to return the favor, waiting for him to settle in the cab before I started laughing. “That game is so fucked-up. No wonder they drink so much.”
“No wonder they’re so fit,” FatBoy agreed, sliding his key into the ignition. “It was exhausting to watch.”
“You noticed that, did you?”
“Oh, yeah.” His grin flashed like a shark slicing through water, seeking prey. “Corwyn’s pretty damn fine…”
“Ass.”
I settled back, content to be alone with him for the five minutes of privacy we had. Despite the weird body language he’d exhibited in front of the co-eds, I’d enjoyed the time hanging out.
“So when are you going to take me to a Vol’s game?” It popped out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“Are you asking me out on a date, Nicky?” He gave me a crooked smile.
“Technically, I’m asking you to ask me out.”
“Hmm… You think you’ll still be in the mood by the time football season rolls around?” He pulled into traffic, conveniently keeping his eyes on the road.
That was the question, wasn’t it?
“Can’t see why not…” Reaching over, I curled my fingers through his where they rested on his leg.
He gave them a gentle squeeze. “Okay, cher—it’s a date.”
* * * * *
I walked through the doors of Frisson where Natalie was busy putting finishing touches on her latest holiday travesty, hanging garlands of shamrocks around the front window. It looked like someone had exploded a vat of lime Jell-O, coating everything in green.
It barely made an impression—one look at her had me seeing red.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Nat?” First words out of my mouth when I saw Natalie included a curse, so of course she’d fixate on that rather than the pissed-off face I presented stalking through the doors of Frisson.
“You owe me a dollar,” she demanded, moving behind the hostess station.
“And you owe me an apology,” I countered, getting into her face. “Christ, Nat! Tell me you don’t make a habit of sending bar patrons to my home. I thought it was one of you and I answered the door in my underwear!”
“Really? One of us who?” she asked, distracted from her defensiveness, curiosity giving her features a feline cast.
“So not the point, Nat. You get that this is way, way, waaaaaay over the line—even for you.”
Obviously, she didn’t.
“Like I give out your personal information to just anyone…” She sniffed, giving me her shoulder and began to rearrange a vase full of green roses next to a bowl of buttons that read ‘Irish For a Day’.
I wasn’t in the mood to play.
Not that Corwyn was a problem, but I was getting tired of her running roughshod over my life. God help me if she got it in her mind to team up with Blake and Emerald to fix my ‘love life’. She needed boundaries.
I hauled her back around to face me, to see how serious I was this time.
“That’s exactly what you did! I mean, what did you believe was happening between us during the three days I was pouring him beer?”
I left her without her dollar and with a mouth hanging open wide enough to catch flies.
Just as long as she caught some sense at the same time.
As soon as her brain engaged, she’d apologize and feel terrible and try to make it up to me. Which was perfect. Having Natalie owe me was like finding my own pot of gold. Not that I’d tell her. I could probably milk this for the next six months.
I whistled all the way back to my locker.
* * * * *
“Nick!” Juan whipped around the corner of the locker room.
“What’s up?” I glanced over, tucking my green silk shirt into the waistband of my black jeans—I’d been checking out my ass in the full-length mirror when he arrived. Barely paying attention, I tugged at my collar, trying to pull it into place without much success.
“God, you’re so vain…” Juan breathed, catching my eyes and taking over the task like he had a million times before. “I think you need to see what’s going on outside—your ‘little friend’ is back.”
“But you’re my 'little friend’,” I protested.
He smoothed the silk at my throat and smiled. “Whatever, but you’ll be sorry you missed it.”
He smacked my rear, the universal sign of ‘you’re an idiot, but I still love you’ and disappeared.
“Thanks,” I muttered to myself, following along behind. I wasn’t in a rush. I didn’t have to be behind the bar until five, but I was ready to jump in, in case Ian needed me.
There’d been a steady stream of customers since opening for lunch at eleven thirty, due largely to our local sports fanatics: Memphis was in the final of the Conference USA basketball tournament playing against Southern Miss. We were doing a booming business in the two Bs—Burgers and Bud.
Juan held the front door open for me as I passed by Natalie. She had her lips pressed tight, the effort involved in holding her tongue must’ve been killing her. She’d never had to edit her commentary around me before—it felt like a new day dawning for Nicholas Valentine.
I smirked at her and joined him.
“Watcha got?”
“That.” He pointed over to the street where a white shuttle bus was parked, curbside. At first glance, it appeared that a group of school children were gathering together for a field trip. However, on closer inspection, the only clipboard around wasn’t wielded by an iron-fisted nun or harried coach with no better excuse to avoid chaperone duty, but by a tyke wearing a gray pinstripe suit and sporting a fedora.
Darrell.
“What’s he doing?” I asked Juan.
“No idea. But when I arrived, they were unloading those.” Juan motioned to a stack of picket signs blocking the sidewalk.
“Curious?” I asked with a grin.
Juan smiled, dropping into an easy trot, matching my stride as we crossed the Frisson parking lot already half-filled with cars.
“Hey, Darrell!” I called out, making him jump. He spun on his heel to face me.
Darrell’s lips were drawn up at the corners, giving him a slightly feral appearance. “Well, if it ain’t my favorite apron.”
“Apron?
” I could guess where this was going.
“You know, barkeep, barker, bartender?” He drew his brows together and gave a fairly good impression of a thunderhead, except for one tiny detail.
“Mixologist, actually… So is that your happy face?” The iconic yellow button stuck to the grosgrain trim ribbon on his hat seemed out of place on him.
It took him a second to figure out if I was being ironic or not, so I pointed to his head.
Snatching off his hat to inspect it, Darrell roared at seeing the happy face.
“Goddamn, Frank!” Flipping off one of the little people helping with the signs started a chain reaction of hilarity among his posse that only grew as Darrell fumbled madly with the pin, mangling his fedora in the process.
Juan gently tugged the hat away from Darrell. He worked the button free before treating the rest like an injured bird, carefully smoothing the rumpled felt and straightening the brim. Darrell was considerably calmer by the time Juan repinched the crown and handed it back.
“Thanks.” Darrell was almost gracious to Juan, though the look he leveled at me was all glare.
“Kill the messenger, why don’t you?” I crossed my arms, bending at the waist to look him in the eyes. “But before you do—wanna tell me what’s up?”
“Why should I? You’re the man. You’re part of the machine out to repress the rights of Little People everywhere!”
I turned to Juan. “You heard him. I’m the maaaan!” I went for a high-five, which they both ignored, though I suppose Darrell found it insulting as well.
Juan just shook his head. “He also said you’re part of the machine. I’m guessing one of those parts that don’t work until you kick it. Hard.”
I gave Juan my brightest smile, because he was just the best and went back in like a dog after a bone.
“No, seriously. See—” I pointed to my now unsmiling mouth. “—this is my 'tell me what’s going on’ face so I can pretend I never saw this and go back to work in peace. I’m just curious. If it’s going to be something fun like a circus—” I waggled my eyebrows, and Darrell growled at me. “—then I’m getting popcorn and breaking out the beach chairs. If it’s going to be boring and political, which in some people’s books could be considered a hybrid of the two—a boring circus—then I’m outta here.”
Darrell stomped away to the back of the shuttle and conferred with his band of merry men. A quick head count and we were looking at nine or ten more men and women accompanying him on whatever quixotic quest they had going. His buddy Dave started handing out bright purple T-shirts, which the group donned.
One of the women strolled by and I got a good look at it. The front was sporting the logo from Darrell’s business card—The Fraternal Order of Little People, which made me wonder if the women were allowed to join or if these were spouses. I was going to ask her when she turned away.
Blazoned across the back of her T-shirt, it read:
DOWN WITH LEPRECHAUNS!
“Juan, quick! Go see if they have any extra shirts.”
The woman heard me and came over. “I think we have a kid’s 18-20 left.”
She eyed me up and down and winked. “I’m not sure it’s going to fit you, honey, but I’d sure love to see you try.”
I winked back.
“It looks like you’re missing a word,” Juan pointed out, helpful as ever.
She laughed again, her voice pitched high, but not unpleasantly so—she sounded a little like Lucille Ball after the helium had mostly worn off.
“I know! George said the printer couldn’t fit it all on the smaller shirts and keep the same font size, so he told the guy to just drop the “THE”. Darrell hasn’t noticed yet, but we’re guessing that’s the real reason George didn’t come. Darrell is so intense sometimes.”
She handed Juan and me both flyers from a stack in her hand, then left.
I glanced at the paper and then back to Juan.
The treatise was titled: The Leprechauns - Setting Little Persons’ Rights Back 100 Years.
In general, Darrell made a very good case against the undermining of minority acceptance in the era of social media where the most offensive material seemed to spin in endless perpetuity.
Where he went off the rails somewhat was in his vendetta against the Leprechauns in general for their band name, and Lorcan Boyle in particular, as evidenced by the photoshopped image of Lorcan onstage sprouting horns and a tail. There was a list of crimes accusing them of mocking little people in their songs, then using those videos and music clips to promote their band and line their pockets with pots of music gold (quoting from the Leprechaun’s website).
Angry rants aside, Darrell took it one step further. The flyer was a call to action to rid the world of bad taste and bad music wherever it was found, starting with the Chicago-based folk rock band the Leprechauns, and calling for a boycott of any business, music venue, or distributor of music that showcased them.
Citing among their recent successes was closure of the Fifth Street Bar and Grill of Chicago, after a lengthy campaign of picketing the bar and restaurant, driving away their customers, and finally forcing the music club into Chapter 11.
Blake is going to love this.
As we walked back, I leaned over and whispered, “I still want that T-shirt.”
Juan snorted.
“I’ll see what I can do… Mr. Man.”
* * * * *
St. Patrick’s Saturday was proving busier than expected, and I hated to admit that everyone looked sharp in Nat’s silk ties, but took comfort, at least, in the fact that I’d saved them from looking ridiculous in green bowlers like the one that Natalie wore.
In fact, the bar was filled to overflowing.
No one appeared to be leaving. The tournament folks lingered to celebrate the Memphis victory and stayed once both hurling teams arrived in full force. The Wolfhounds, who had been avoiding us during the week, were now hanging on every word the Irish uttered. The All-Ireland Seniors recounted their game, play by play for the bar, and told stories about the best injuries they’d ever given and received—all the while giving demonstrations in the fine art of drinking Irish whiskey with a Guinness chaser.
I made an executive decision to skip the happy hour specials for the holiday—no one needed any more encouragement to drink—and I started passing out the 'free cab’ cards to my staff, hours ahead of time.
With the crush, I couldn’t leave my station behind the bar—Christine, Ian, and the alternate lunch bartender were stepping all over each other trying to keep up with the orders and we battled to stay on top of demand. Even Simone looked frazzled as she herded the teams on the floor.
By eight, the itch at the back of my skull was almost unbearable, the urge to prowl the territory of my bar almost overwhelming. I didn’t have my usual handle on the crowd without walking among them, soaking in the mood, lancing the festering spots before trouble erupted. It was making me skittish.
I set Juan up, filling pitcher after pitcher for the tables, and ignored Natalie’s bait about adding green food coloring to the Bud—not that anyone would be able to taste it—and sent anyone who wanted bar food back to her for seating in the restaurant, which was now handling our overflow.
A familiar pair of blue eyes slid into a space that opened up at the bar. “Hey, Corwyn—Guinness?”
Like I had to ask.
“Oh sure.” He looked a little distracted, which suited me just fine. “Did ya know there’s a bunch of guys outside with protest signs? Seems a bit harsh, trying to ban the wee sprites like that. They just like a bit of mischief.”
I slid over a pint glass full of ebony brew. “Leprechauns?”
I hadn’t seen that one coming.
Corwyn smiled mysteriously and buried his mouth in foam.
It was the first time I’d seen him all night so I leaned in to check how drunk he was, not that I could really tell with him.
He licked the foam from one rosy upper lip and sucked the lower into his mou
th with an audible pop, making me pinch myself through my jeans to stay focused on the task at hand.
“They’re real?” I asked, mentally kicking myself.
“We have them back home. My gran said they had a terrible time with a sprite when she was a wee girl. Turned the cow’s milk blue.”
I stared at him, unable to process… and he laughed.
Ass.
He went back to drinking, and I moved down my section, clearing glasses as I went to avoid checking out how the heather blue Henley he wore brought out his eyes.
I waved Ian to take over.
FatBoy had his entire staff of bouncers working, but he hadn’t made a personal appearance, sticking with the band, which was fine by me. We hadn’t discussed Corwyn’s impromptu appearance at my door, and I planned on letting Natalie have the pleasure of hashing out that little factoid with him.
Until then, I preferred he didn’t find Corwyn mooning over me at the bar.
I’d texted him about Darrell, and he’d called me back.
“What the hell, Nick? These guys are hiding from dwarves?”
“Little People—shit. Don’t let Darrell hear you use that word. He’ll have your nuts… and rightly so.”
“Pshhh. You’d miss my nuts.”
“More than likely, so shut the fuck up about the D-W-A-R-V-E-S. Show respect. Seriously, they’ve got signs and everything—they’re really committed.”
“You are such an idiot. They can spell.”
“Probably doesn’t matter. You’ve been leaving me hanging for so long that it’s likely not worth waiting to sample your nuts.”
“Is that Marco?” Ian came upon me suddenly, eager to please. “Tell him I’m all out of nuts, too. They’re really popular with the team.”
I tried not to snicker, but FatBoy heard us and he was laughing his ass off over the phone. All I could do was bite my lip and nod to Ian.
“You know, if you give Ian any of your nuts, we’re through, right?”
I hung up on him and went back to work.
* * * * *
Mickey and Liam pushed in on either side of Corwyn, Liam waving me over for a refill, and Mickey appeared in a state of agitation. “Cor—you seen Rory any wheres? It’s a right mess, and I’ve lost him.”