“I think most, if not all of you, in the Shamrock here tonight knew Nathan.” Tom looked around the bar. “And if you didn’t, you should have! He was one of the best, ah hell, let’s face it… he was the best!” Cheers erupted. “Certainly one of a kind! I loved working for him. He treated all of us here right, all of us! He was fair. A genuinely nice guy, and he’ll be missed. So if you’ll join me and raise your glasses, let’s have a toast for a man who was too good for all of us, and who was taken too soon! To Nathan!”
Everyone in the bar, except for Hank, raised their glasses. “To Nathan!”
Tom noticed Hank hadn’t moved—didn’t raise his glass and hadn’t said Nathan’s name.
“Hell, Pete, another round. I think some of us missed the first toast.”
Drinks were doled out, and Tom repeated a short toast. “To Nathan.”
Hank pushed his drink away.
“You don’t wanna drink with us and honor Nathan? Too much trouble to lift your glass and toast him properly?” Tom’s menacing voice came from behind Hank. “He deserves to be honored, and the least you can do is accept a drink in his name, lift your glass, and say his damn name.”
Gritting his teeth, Hank refused to raise his head and acknowledge that Tom was addressing him. Wrapping his hands firmly around his glass, so he wouldn’t be tempted to wrap them around Tom’s neck, he continued to stare at the bottom of his pint glass. The bar became eerily quiet as everyone waited for Hank to raise his glass. Pete intervened.
“Leave it, Tom. We’ve had our toast, Hank and me, and you’ve lost a shift-lead, but he’s just lost his best friend. Everyone in here is honoring Nathan, not just you, and in their own way. Now leave it alone!”
“Are you telling me and everyone else in here, Pete, that it’s okay for that son of a bitch sitting right there to disrespect Nathan by not saying his name during a simple toast? That right?”
“Did you not hear me, Tom? Drop it!” Pete snapped across the bar. “Me and Hank, we’ve had a toast for Nathan earlier, before you got here!”
“He owes Nathan!”
Hank’s eyes—filled with rage—narrowed; he didn’t owe anyone an explanation and neither did Pete, especially in his own bar. He never understood why Nathan kept Tom around anyway; damn worthless troublemaker, arrogant ass at best, difficult, and didn’t get along with anyone except those who were using him. Odd that Nathan kept him around at all, but again, everyone loved that about Nathan. He was kind, tolerant, and fair, even to crap people like Tom O’Halloron. Pete’s eyes flashed toward Hank, and he knew immediately it was time for him to exit; it wasn’t fair for Pete to continue to defend him anyway, and he knew Nathan wouldn’t want trouble over him. Hank threw another twenty-dollar bill on the bar, thanked Pete, and stood up to leave.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Tom. I’m asking you as nicely as possible, for Nathan, leave it alone.” Downing the last of his pint, he added, “Leave me alone.”
Tom slammed another shot, and as the liquid rushed down his throat, the burn seemed to fuel his temper. His face already reddened, he walked toward Hank, ready to grab him, but Pete stepped in front of him.
“Tom, I’m not asking, I’m telling you to leave this pub now. You’re not the only one upset about Nathan, hell we all are, but you’re the only one causing trouble! Damn it, Tom, he was Hank’s best friend, not yours. For the last time, leave it the hell alone!”
Hank stood up to leave, shaking his head as he pulled on his coat. “I’ll leave, Pete, no worries. I don’t want any trouble, not today, and you don’t need any.”
Digging his hands in his pockets, head down, Hank walked past Tom and avoided any kind of eye contact. It wasn’t good enough for Tom, who slipped in front of Pete, grabbed Hank’s arm, and pulled him around to face him, whether he wanted to or not.
“This is all your fault, you piece of shit!”
Hank didn’t respond.
“You killed him. You frigging killed Nathan!”
Hank’s facial expression still didn’t change and his body, despite wanting to kick the shit out of Tom, didn’t budge. His frame, now noticeably ridged, showed incredible self-control as Hank held himself back from throwing a punch.
Tom continued. “He wouldn’t have been there that night, on the docks, if you hadn’t guilted him into it. You bullied him into that impromptu meeting that nobody gave a damn about, except for you!” Tom snickered, but it wasn’t real. The entire exchange was forced and painful to watch. “And you wanna know why?” Searching the bar to make sure Tom had everyone’s attention, which he did, including Hank’s, he went on. “So you, the man in the middle, could be the frigging mediator, peacemaker, and for what? Not a damn thing! It was an impromptu meeting; it never counted because it wasn’t even sanctioned!”
Hank yanked his arm out of Tom’s grasp with such force that Tom fell forward. Gritting his teeth, Hank reached for the door handle before he did something he’d regret. Rage consuming him, about to blow, he had to get out of there! Laying hands on Tom would be easy; walking away from him would not be as satisfying. Hank knew it was time to head home. Tom signaled across the room and before the bar door had swung open a large man jumped up and pushed his body against it, preventing Hank from leaving. Tom’s onslaught of blame continued to infuriate Hank; it worked, his words cut deep. It was as if a knife had pierced him all the way through and actually punctured his soul; though he knew it wasn’t true, Hank couldn’t help but blame himself for some of the things that Tom was spewing. But true or not, the last thing Hank needed was to hear those kinds of statements spilling from Tom’s mouth!
“Everyone knew Nathan was against a strike. He needed to work for Sandy and his kid. Nathan showed up on the docks that night to show his support for you, Hank Gunner! It wasn’t even a sanctioned meeting. You did this. You got him killed. You are responsible for Nathan’s death, but worst of all is that YOU know it!”
Hank pushed past the guy standing against the door, fists clenched in his pocket, Tom’s words ringing in his ears, and stormed outside. The chilly air smacked him in the face just as Tom rushed him from behind, knocking him to the ground. Crowds of people collected around the door to see what all the commotion was about, but as soon as they saw Tom on top of Hank, fists swinging, they made their way outside. Pete pushed his way through the crowd, hollering over them.
“Damn it, Tom, I warned you! I’m calling the cops.” Dialing the phone he called it in, yelling across a now-empty bar. “I warned you, Tom. I frigging warned you! What the fuuu—. Oh, sorry, yes, ma’am. I’d like to report a fight, and it’s happening as we speak.”
Hank’s grief, rage, anger, and hate found relief in each and every punch that landed and made contact with Tom’s body. So angry, Hank never felt the physical pain of Tom’s blows in retaliation. Swing after swing with no idea where the punches were landing, the two found themselves tangled around each other fighting like wild animals, slipping and sliding on the icy road. A crowd gathered around them, egging them on, pushing them back and forth, from side to side from the edges of the circle that they had formed around them. One minute rolling around on the ground, another fighting in the street, and before they even knew it the crowd had moved with Hank and Tom as they made their way toward the footbridge over the river that ran next to the frontage by the pub. Freezing cold water below, snow on both sides, no one seemed to care that both men were dangerously close to the aging, already damaged railing on the far side of the bridge. The crowd, still circling the men, took the liberty of dishing out their own swings, jabs, kicks, and shoves as they continued to push the pair back and forth among themselves as the two fought. Hank, unable to gain his balance on the icy bridge, fell to the ground. Tom never let up. A hand reached down and pulled Hank to his feet, only to shove him back into the direction of a punch landing in his face. Falling backward into a wall of men, the entire group braced themselves against the aging rail. Cracking, the wood splintered, and several pieces of the rail
ing hit the ground or fell over the bridge. Scrambling, the men regained their footing. The violence had escalated to such a degree that the sounds of punches, breaking skin, and the eerie sound of cracking wood falling from the barrier railing over the bridge echoed through the night sky, and no one seemed to care. Tom and Hank landed against the broken railing of the bridge for a second time, along with an entire group of men pressed against them as they fought.
Several of Tom’s friends kicked, shoved, threw punches, and continued to lean on Hank while trying to protect Tom. For a brief moment, Hank and Tom made eye contact. Tom’s eyes dark and hollow, Hank’s filled with fury, gave Hank the second wind he needed. Kneeing Tom in the groin allowed him to punch him under the chin as he doubled over. Hank spun around and broke free of Tom and the tiring crowd. Face to face with Tom, Hank pulled his fist back to deliver his final blow, but just as his fist was about to strike, Tom reached out and grabbed Hank’s arms. Shoved in the back from behind, Hank jolted forward with such a force that he fell into Tom and instinctively grabbed his shirt as the pair slammed into what was left of the railing. To everyone’s horror, the damaged railing gave way, and the pair fell off the bridge.
Scrambling to find their footing, desperately trying not to topple over the edge, the rest of the men on the bridge stopped fighting in their tracks and pulled each other back from the railing. What seemed like an eternity was a mere split-second as Hank and Tom, free falling, plunged into the icy river below. As their bodies hit the freezing water, it was as if concrete hit concrete. It was true what they say: so cold it felt like needles piercing the skin, and too cold to even breathe. Hank thought his heart had stopped. The fighting ceased entirely as everyone panicked, looking for the men in the water below. They knew that Tom and Hank had fallen, but had anyone else?
“I heard one splash!”
“Nah. I heard three.”
“No, man. I heard two. There were two splashes.”
“Two went over.”
“Are you sure? I swear I heard several.”
Waiting to see who surfaced, they followed the fast-moving current downstream. Two bodies for sure were being dragged down the river, both bobbing up and down while being pulled under from time to time by the current. All eyes were glued to the bobbing bodies, and no one could determine if anyone was coming up for air.
The men gathered on the banks to try to help fish out the two men, but only one seemed to be staying afloat. Others gathered coats to keep the two warm until an ambulance arrived once they were pulled out of the frigid water. Laying on the cold riverbank flat on their stomachs and holding onto each other, the men made a human chain as they waded out into the icy water to drag in a body lodged between two rocks that they had sighted from the bank. No one knew if it was Tom or Hank. First responders had been dispatched, and everyone could hear the sirens; they were close. Eventually one body was pulled safely to the bank and taken away in an ambulance, but the man’s identity wasn’t disclosed. The second man hadn’t been located. No one knew if the men were alive or dead.
Rumblings started among the crowd as the police gathered statements. Several versions of the same so-called story were told, but which version was the truth? The search continued for the missing body, and the buzz and speculation spread regarding who had survived and been sent to the hospital.
“Who’d they pull out?”
“I don’t know. Looked like Tom, but hard to tell.”
A police officer interrupted. “No one leaves without talking to us. Is that clear? We need statements from everyone here. Start talking; hell, there’s enough of you. Someone knows something.” He grinned. “The real version, I mean.” He took out his notepad and his phone to record. “No one leaves this spot until I have names and statements from every one of you.”
Tom’s buddy, the big guy who had stood in front of the bar door barring Hank from leaving, stepped up.
“I’ll tell you exactly what happened!”
“All right, then. State your name, why you were here, and your relationship to this Hank Gunner and Tom O’Halloron. We seem to be able to agree, so far anyway, that the initial fight started with those two.”
“Yes, sir. Jerry Jonson is my name. I was in here with my buddy Tom O’Halloron and our work colleague.”
“Okay.”
“We were having a drink.” Jerry took a step forward, but the officer stuck up his hand.
“You’re fine right there, son.”
“A drink to toast our shift lead, Nathan Nichols. He was recently murdered.”
“Sorry to hear that; my condolences.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Yes, sir. Anyway, Hank Gunner, he pushed Tom O’Halloron off this bridge.” Jerry pointed to the footbridge. “And do you know why?”
The officer stared at Jerry, recorder in hand, but never said a word.
“Because he was getting his ass kicked in a fight for being disrespectful during a toast to Nathan Nichols inside the Shamrock!” Jerry shivered in the cold night air, wrapping a blanket he’d been handed tightly around his shoulders. “Oh yeah, while we’re at it.” Jerry, defiant, stared the officer straight in the eye. “Also, because Tom called Gunner out for being responsible for Nathan’s death. That’s right! Gunner got Nathan killed, and Tom called him out, Hank caused all this trouble! Right, boys?!”
Chapter 7
Chaos
“Families stand together; we’ll stand together.
We’ll get through this!”
~ Gloria Gunner ~
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and everything in Hannah’s world had been turned upside down; nothing was the way it used to be since Nathan had died. Hank had been accused of involuntary manslaughter, and Hank and Gloria agreed to keep the explanations to their daughter to a minimum, hoping it would soon all go away. Hannah pushed her Cheerios, one by one, under the milk and waited for them to bob back up to the surface of her bowl. It was a school day, yes, but her momma said she wasn’t going today. Things were getting weirder, and where was her daddy? Pouring another cup of coffee, Gloria tousled Hannah’s hair as she hurried past her and out of the kitchen.
“Where’s my daddy?” Hannah hollered after her.
“He’s at the courthouse, remember?” Gloria stopped in her tracks and turned around. “But if you hurry up, you might—not promising—might be able to visit with him a little bit today before they get started.”
Jumping down from the table, Hannah peeled off her pajamas as she raced toward her room. Gloria followed behind, picking up her trail and tossing them into the hamper.
“Clean your teeth, and there’s underwear, socks, and a dress on your bed. Pick out your shoes, dress or tennis, I don’t care, but we have to get a move on!”
“Why are you making me wear a dress? I hate dresses!” Storming into her bedroom, Hannah stared at the dress in disgust. “I don’t like that one; I’m not wearing it!”
Frustrated, Gloria swung open Hannah’s closet door. “Then pick another one! I don’t care which one, but pick a dress and get ready. You have to wear a dress inside the courthouse; it’s a rule so that everyone looks nice for the judge. We don’t have time for this today, and I’ve already explained the reason you have to wear a dress!”
Folding her skinny arms across her chest, puckering up her lips, Hannah pulled at the dress laid out neatly for her on the bed.
“Why do I have wear that again?”
“Because, sweetheart, it’s important that we look our very best for Daddy today. The trial, remember, because daddy was fighting, is today.”
Scared to death to leave the safety of her home, fearing the unknown, Gloria forced herself toward the front door, wondering how to explain to a five-year-old the rules of no talking while court was in session. Another thought crossed her mind, one that she hadn’t allowed herself to think about until just that second for fear of jinxing Hank. A judgment, the worst-case scenario possible.
Having a judge who didn’t take into consideration that it was Hank’s first offense, and probation was off the table. Hank, worst-case scenario, might actually have to serve some time. Shuddering, she wondered how in the hell she was going to explain to a five-year-old that her daddy wasn’t coming home. Picking up her phone, she reread the text from Sandy.
Sandy: I have an appointment first thing for the baby, but I can cancel if you need me to. Or I can come straight from the doctor’s office and pick Hannah up from the courthouse. Whatever you need; I’ll be there!
Gloria held back her tears and kicked herself for having responded: Pick up Hannah from the courthouse when you’re done with your appointment. What was she thinking? She should have asked Sandy to cancel her appointment. Hannah didn’t need to be there!
The courtroom was bland, browns and tans, and there were strange people everywhere who were whispering as Gloria and Hannah walked by. Police officers were present, and Hannah didn’t know if she should be scared or not, especially since they were holding her daddy somewhere, and adding to that factor, Gloria kept tapping Hannah’s legs every few minutes, telling her not to swing them for fear of her kicking the back of the bench in front of their row. What a rotten day off school this had turned out to be!
“Where’s Daddy?”
Gloria put her finger up against her lips and shushed her daughter. “Sssh, soon.”
Captain Fin Page 5