Credits

In order of appearance and to the best of my recollection

(with the free flowing moonshine some of the assigned characters were mixed up)

Mickey G "The Scribd": M Todd Gallowglas

Gerri Ferri "The Don Juan of North beach": Jared Friedman
Zelda Fitzgerald: Hannah Ransom
Joey the Fish: Joey Picchi, bartender extraordinaire
Jimmy The Hat: Arram Sabeti
Shoot 'em up Tony: Immad Akhund
Gilda Gray: Fatema Yasmine
Alphonso The Crank: Joshua Reeves
Jonnie Santiago: Josh
Columbus Cirby: David Langer
George Cassiday Man with the green hat: Kevin Tom
Giles Bailey: Sachin Dev Duggal
Isadora Duncan: Sachins guest
Anita Page: Susan Merenda
Thurston Murl: Alex Taussig
Viola Birdie: Julie Haddon
Margaret Birdie: Arianne Hodges-Ransom
Michelle Zesty: Michelle Davenport
Desmond Parker: Mike Harrison
Charles Palatino: Quin Herron
Louise Brooks: Elena Viboch
Wellington Prince: Stephan Hoyer
Alphonso the Crank: Joshua Reeves
Babs St Martin: Susan Hwang
Oakley Garvin: Aston Motes
Josephine Baker: Aushlee Cummins
Amalia Alfreda: Adele Burns
Washington Rayburn: Richard Price

Ernest Hemingway: Trip Adler

Mary Welsh Hemingway: Sierra Law
Roxie St Regis: Jennifer Lin
Jonnie Santiago: Josh
Wilhelmina Pearlie: Amanda Ellen
Bullet Riddled Louie :Jared Kopf

Authors Forward
Two of my favorite sayings about are, Truth is stranger than fiction, and
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story. In writing these stories I have
attempted to fully embrace both of these adages. Allow me to explain and give you
the context behind this volume of flash fiction tales.
On January 11th, I wandered into a quiet yet classy corner bar in San Francisco
called Oddjob with a mission in two parts. Part the first: Play a reporter at a
Speakeasy themed birthday party to help guests get in the spirit of things. Part the
second: write about my experiences in a series of flash fiction pieces. The hostess of
the party gave each of the guests a character to play. Most of these characters are
also historical figures, some very well known, others not so much. I, the writer, had
the daunting task of meshing history, the party, and fiction together in a series of
narratives that will hopefully entertain. (My personal approach to writing is that
above-and-beyond all other things, I seek to entertain.)
With these parameters in mind, I set out to write of the adventures of the
Oddjob Speakeasy Party. First and foremost, I seek to entertain, and in doing so, I
am taking liberties with both history and the events of the party. Ive molded and
warped events and conversations so that random sound bites get added together as
well as stretched out beyond a single evening. In the crafting of these stories, I have
done my utmost to respect my hosts and their guests, while at the same time crafting
stories and an overarching plot that weaves through the whole work. Any and all
artistic liberties I have taken with my interactions and eavesdropping on the party
goers, as well as their historical counterparts, Ive done for the sake of a well-told
tale. I hope you have at least as much fun in reading these stories as I did
experiencing the events that inspired them.
AndHappy birthday Jared.

Illustrations

Absent Friends
Mickey walked into the pub, waving off greetings from the few afternoon
patrons as he made straight for the bar.
Youre in early today, Mr. G, Flynn said as he served the old man a pint. Then
he added, pointing to the envelope in Mickeys hand, Whatcha got there?
Letter from a friend in The States, Mickey replied. And Im going to need a
bit of The Dew.
Ah, Flynn said. I see.
These days Mickey drank Tullamore Dew on only one occasion.
Flynn placed the snifter of whisky next to the pint of beer. Ill leave you to it.
Mickey opened the letter again. He couldnt remember the last time hed thought
about his time in America or the few friends hed made while exploring business
opportunities during the Americans silly Prohibition. In truth, he missed it. The
energy. The excitement. Back then Mickey had been known as Mickey the Fox or
just, The Scribe depending on who was doing the talking. Someone, Mickey
couldnt remember who, had suggested Mickey the Mick but Gerri Don Juan
Ferri had put the kibosh on that one. Redundant names are redundant, Gerri had
said.
While Mickey counted himself blessed hed gotten out while the getting was
good, as the Americans said, he also had his memories of having been a part of
something unlike the world would ever see again. Speakeasies and gangsters had
transcended from news into the stuff of legend. As Mickeys good friend, possibly
his best friend in America, and the man whod sent the letter, had said once, This is
not a subculture. We are the culture. Thats why everyone else wants to be us.
Mickey opened the envelope, took out two crackly news print articles at least a
decade old, and the attached letter. Took a long time to find you Foxy Boy, Jimmy
the Hat wrote. He talked about you even until the end.
Mickey laughed at the first article. It was from a newspaper that produced a
single print run of two copies in its history. He looked at the other article and his

throat went dry. The date of the article proved that Mickeys discretion had been
indeed the better part of valor.
The man who had been both Mickey the Fox and The Scribe raised his snifter of
whisky. He toasted his fallen friends and to the end of the era that spawned them.

Who You Know

Years before that old man toasted to friends who had passed on, a young
Irishman walked into a speakeasy in San Francisco, California. It was 1927, and
prohibition was in full swing in America.
Mickey arrived early, as requested. He marveled at the stark contrast to a pub
back home. The door hid within a maze of alleys and backstreets, and once inside
the dim light forced him to make anything out. It had two bars, one at the front and
one in an even darker corner in the far back. A velvet rope created a barrier between
that alcove and the main part of the speakeasy.
A young lady sidled up to Mickey.
Can I help you? she asked in a tone was bored.
Mickey swallowed, partially because she was quite the looker and partially to keep
up appearances.
He recited the password theyd given him. Im here for the birthday party.
Hopefully he wouldnt have to remember too many passwords and code words.
Back there. She waved to the bar shrouded in darkness, and added with much
more interest in her voice. If I can get you anything, anything at all, let me know.
Mickey swallowed again, this time only to keep up appearances for the role he
was playing. She hadnt been interested in the least until Mickey became associated
with the crowd behind the velvet rope.
I will, he said. Thank you.
When he reached the velvet rope, the girl sitting there already pulled it aside.
You the reporter?
Thats me, Mickey said.
They are waiting for you.
Mickey didnt have to ask which of the three tables. Only one was occupied.
Even if people were drinking at the other tables, Mickey wouldnt have needed to
ask. The man at the center table sat with the presence of a man of power. His
piercing gaze demanded respect even before approaching him. Mickey could carry
off the same look, should the situation demand. Here, it did not, at least not yet. He
had to feel things out first.

Mister Ferri, Im Mickey Galloway.

Gerri the Don Juan of North Beach Ferri nodded. Good to meet you.
Looking forward to seeing what we might do together.
Likewise, Mickey said. Im optimistic.
And youre still set on going with the reporter thing? Ferri asked.
I am that, Mickey replied. Worked like a charm in Chicago and New York.
See no reason to change it.
Alright. People should be arriving soon. Please, have a seat and Ill introduce
you around.
Thank you, but no, Mickey said, giving the mob boss a wicked, Bobs-youruncle grin. Its better if I make the rounds myself. Besides, its better if someone
else makes my introductions.
Who would be better than me? Ferri asked.
The one man, all the world over, who it pays to be on his good side, Mickey
said. Just be sure to come shake my hand and say hello when I rub my right ear.
Alright, Ferri said. This should be interesting.
With that, Mickey tipped his hat and sauntered over to the bar. What do you
have in the way of Irish whiskey?
The bartender turned around with a warm smile. He greeted Mickey like an old
friend he hadnt seen for years, despite this being their first meeting. In that moment,
Mickey knew this man knew his business, and more importantly, he knew people.

Going Fishing
The bartenders name was Joey the Fish. Mickeys first impression of the man
did not disappoint. Joey did know people. He knew the right words and when and
how to use those words, and with the right people to use them with. It didnt
surprise Mickey that in the whiskey business, they knew some of the same people.
Joey also proved he knew a lot about what was going on more by what wasnt said,
than by what was. Within a few minutes of conversation, Mickey had Joey the Fish
ready to build the reporter story, all without revealing a thing, even though both men
knew exactly what Mickey was and what he wasnt.
Joey the Fish waved one of the cocktail girls over to the bar.
Mickey, Joey said. This young lady just started here. She wants a nice
speakeasy name like the other girl, Ginger.
Why do they call her Ginger? Mickey asked, hoping it wasnt for the usual
reason.
Her hair, Joey said.
The usual reason. Clich, but men had come to expect it.
Mickey heres a reporter and a writer, Joey said to the new girl, a brunette.
Thought he could come up with something.
How about Caramel? Mickey said.
Caramels face lit up as she went back to work with a bit more spring in her set.
Mickey went back to work, nursing his whiskey as people trickled in and sidled
up to the bar.
A short while later, Mickey saw Caramel across the room sipping on a drink,
looking at him across the room over the edge of her glass. Perfect. Mickey rubbed
his left ear, and then nudged the man next to him at the bar.
Before the man could say anything, Mickey nodded over toward Caramel.
Nothing quite like a gorgeous woman giving you a look like that? Mickey said.
Got that right, pal, the man said.
Just then, Gerri Ferri came up, shook Mickeys hand, and asked, Enjoying
yourself?
I am, thanks, Mickey replied.

Good, Ferri said, and went back to his table.

Mickey went back to his drink.
About a minute later, someone pushed in next to Mickey at the bar, and a sultry
voice said, Hi.
Mickey turned. An American flapper girl pushed herself against him and
wrapped her scarf around his shoulders. Whats your name? Im Josephine Baker.
Im a jazz singer. Im looking to move my act up in the world. She pulled the scarf
drawing him in a little closer.
Cant help you darling, Mickey said. Im just a reporter.
Her mood shifted from come-hither to get-thee-hence. She whipped the scarf
away from him and vanished into the growing crowd.
Tough break, friend, said the man next to him. You gotta learn to lie to
women.
Ill work on that, Mickey said.
And thats how Mickey met Jimmy the Hat. Through Jimmy, he met everyone
else.

Mums the Word

Mickey the Reporter, said Jimmy the Hat, meet Shoot em up Tony. Tony
solves problems for Mister Ferri. Tony, this here guy is a reporter for some paper
back inwhered you say you were from again?
Ireland, Mickey said. I write for a tiny little Irish rag nobodys ever heard of.
Whats it called? Tony asked.
The Dublin Star, Mickey replied.
Never heard of it, Tony said.
Like I said.
Before Mickey could take the conversation any further, Shoot em up Tony said,
Anyways, I got no comment.
Its alright, Tony, Jimmy said. Mister Ferri says we can talk to this guy.
Tony crossed his arms. No comment.
A few minutes of this went by. Both Jimmy and Mickey tried to get Shoot em up
Tony to talk about anything, even things that had nothing to do with the speakeasy
or bootlegging or how Tony solved problems for Gerri Ferri.
Tony answered each question with, No Comment.
A young woman walked by, slinky dress that fit her in all the right ways in all the
right places.
Are you really a reporter? she asked.
I am that, yes, Mickey said.
You should do a story on me, she said. My names Gilda. Im a shimmy
dancer. I dance for mister Ferri all the time.
Mickeys not from around here, Jimmy said. Why dont you demonstrate your
dancing?
She did. Her dancing lived up to its name. She shimmied all the right things in all
the right ways.
Mickey swallowed, for real. He was pretty sure Jimmy and Tony had to swallow
too. I Id love to do a story about you.
Great, Gilda said. Come by the show and watch me for real.
I will.

After Gilda walked away, Mickey leaned over to Shoot em up Tony. What did
you think of that?
Tony glanced to his right. The woman there glared at him like a Irish wife having
to fetch her man from the pub.
No comment.

And Nowa Tap Dance

Mickey tensed even before he heard someone cough softly behind him. It didnt
matter what side of the Atlantic a man found himself on, that particular cough
transcended nation and language. That particular cough was about trying to get
someones attention while being both discreet and intimidating at the same time.
Still holding his whiskey, Mickey spun around in his chair.
A small crowd of street toughs and wise guys had crowded around him. Jimmy
the Hat, Shoot em up Tony, Alphonso the Crank, Jonnie Santiago, and Columbus
Cirby made up the front row. That was a bit of a mistake on Cirbys part, as Mickey
knew some truths about the supposed poker shark that the supposed poker shark
wouldnt want coming to light. Behind them, Mickey saw higher ranking men in
Ferris organization: The Man with the Green Hat, Wellington Prince, Bullet Riddled
Louie, and Giles Baily. Some of their girls had tagged along this time: Babs St Martin
and Louise Brooks whispered nervously to each other, seemingly trying to fade into
the background.
Evening gents, Mickey said.
Why havent any of us heard about this paper you write for? Shoot em up
Tony asked.
Figures he would be the spokesman.
Because its just a
Tiny little Irish Rag no one has ever heard of, the crowd of men joined in.
We know that, Tony said. Weve all heard the routine.
Look, gents, Mickey said. People in Dublin dont even hardly read it. The
only reason the Dublin Star is still in print is because its the cheapest paper in town
and sells down the street from a couple of really good fish and chip places. People
get the Star to wrap their fish in.
Something about your story smells, Tony said. And it aint the fish.
Relax, Mickey said. Folk back home are fascinated by this speakeasy thing
youve got going. Weve got nuthin like it. They want to hear all about the
adventurous life in America. Most of you guys are heroes back home.
Well, wed all like to read about ourselves in this paper of yours, Tony said.

The rest agreed.

Alright, Mickey said. Time to make a few phone calls and set up a poker game.
Two nights later, Mickey faced Columbus Cirby over a game of poker. After a
few hands testing each other out, theyd gotten the measure of each other. A huge
pile of chips rose in the center of the table.
You dont really know a man, Cirby had said, until you play poker with him.
Call, Mickey said.
They showed their hands. Cirby had a full house. Mickey had nothing but
random trash cards. What he did have, however, was a business card attached to
each of his poker cards. The business cards belonged to Columbus Cirbyfederal
agent, Columbus Cirby.
Youre the bravest man I know, Mickey said. Being who you are, and doing
what youre doing. And I dont care much about who you work for. Neither do the
guys I work for. They do, however, care about money.
Cirby went sheet white.
Mickey smiled. Heres what youre going to do.
A week later, when the wise guys came into the speakeasy Columbus Cirby sat at
the bar reading The Dublin Star newspaper. Gerri Ferri sat at his dark table, reading
the same. Mickey shared the booth with Ferri. Behind them, Oakley Garvin nursed a
bourbon, signature cigarette lighter tucked in his breast pocket. The front page story
was about speakeasy life in San Francisco. Everyone crowded around, looking to see
their names in the paper. Everyone but one person. Wellington Prince slid into the
booth next to Ferri and fixed a cold stare at Mickey.
Arent you worried about this getting out, boss? Prince said.
Being a major supplier of rare ingredients needed for cooking in the
establishment, Prince had more to lose than most of the other men.
No, Ferri said. I fear no one. The cops are in all in my pocket. Same with the
judges. I even got Amalia Alfreda. The feds aint got no one close enough to hurt
me.
If you say so, Prince said.

I do. Ferris tone indicated the conversation was over. He also didnt have too
much to worry about since those two papers were the total circulation of The Dublin
Stars first and only edition.
After seeing the look Prince gave the Don Juan of North Beach, Mickey wasnt
so sure the conversation was over. Still, after everyone read the article, they gave
Mickey the nickname Scribe, and he wasnt just welcome behind the velvet rope,
Mickey got to go upstairs.

Star Stuck
In the time that Mickey had been going to the speakeasy, hed seen people go up
the narrow staircase in the very back corner of the speakeasy. Not all of the gangsters
went up: only Ferri, his inner circle, and a few he wanted to reward. Mickey asked
about it. You dont go upstairs unless invited, was all they would say.
A few nights after the newspaper article made the circulation, Mickey sat at his
normal corner of the bar, chatting whisky with Jimmy the Fish. A woman stepped up
to the bar next to Mickey. She was dressed to the nines, as they said in America, her
face made up like a lady, not overdone like the speakeasy flapper floozies.
I read your news story, she said. I liked it.
Thanks much, Mickey said. Can I get you something?
Oh, no, the lady said. I dont drink down here. I just came to meet you.
Mickey Galloway.
Zelda, she said. Zelda Fitzgerald.
It took Mickey a moment to work his jaw again. Is your husband a writer?
He is, Zelda said.
I love his work, Mickey said, grinning like a loon. What does the F stand
for?
Fitzgerald silly. Zeldas laugh was infection.
No, the other F, Mickey said. The one at the front of his name.
Oh, lets not bother with trifles, Zelda said. Why dont you come upstairs,
and well have a drink?
Uhhh, Mickey said. Upstairs?
Yeah. Zelda snaked her arm into Mickeys and pulled him from the bar stool.
So, whats your husband like? Mickey asked as they climbed the stairs.
Brilliant. But moody. But thats alright. I know where all the best parties are.
When he gets too moody, we go to a party, and hes alright again. She pushed a
door open. Here we are.
If stepping into the speakeasy was like stepping into another
world of
glamor and danger and secrets, then stepping upstairs was like entering into where
the nobility of that other world held court.

Zelda showed Mickey around, introducing stars and starlets, business men and
debutants, writers and artists, dancers and actors and actresses.
He met Anita Page. Hed share her joke, The best part about London is Paris,
for the rest of his life.
He spoke to Louise Brookes about the differences between drinking in America
and Ireland. Mickeys friends would boo and hiss when hes quote her, Only the
right people know where to get the best drinks, those that dont know drink
whiskey.
Well, just more for me, Mickey thought
Over the course of his life back in Ireland, Mickey shared anecdotes of his
conversations with these pillars of American society. All of them except one.
Hemingway. Mickey spoke with the man twice, and he kept those conversations all
to himself.
Odd Man Out
One night in particular, Mickey found himself in a conversation with a pair of
charming young ladies, Viola and Margaret Birdie. The three spent hours talking
about literature and philosophy. He hadnt had this pleasant of a conversation since
coming to America
only
as the conversation continued, Mickey got the tickling feeling on the back of
his neck. That feeling had saved his life more than a few times, so hed learned not to
ignore it. He drained his drink a bit more quickly than he normally would as a
pretense to head to the bar. As he made his way through the crowd, Mickey scanned
for signs of danger. A man in an off-the-rack suit made no attempt to hide as he
blatantly glared at Mickey.
When Mickey got to the bar, he found Jimmy the Hat nursing a drink.
Hey Jimmy, Mickey said, Whats with the two dames and the meathead.
Jimmy looked from Viola and Margaret to the bruiser in the cheap suit not
even Mickey and Jimmy wore off the rack suits and sighed.

Those two, he nodded with his chin to the ladies, are a Senators daughters.
By the look of that thing over there, he indicated the beefcake, hes come to take
them back home. Weve gotta do something about this.
Like what?
Go back and start talking to them again, Jimmy said. I got this covered.
So Mickey went back to the ladies, and the conversation resumed. They spoke
about the paragons of Irish literature. Mickey had seated himself to be able to keep
tabs on big, dumb, and ugly out of the corner of his eye. After a few minutes, Jimmy
the Hat sat down. The Senators daughters pretended not to know him, but Mickey
suspected otherwise.
A few minutes after Jimmy joined them, the meathead started weaving through
the crowd toward their table. Mickey kept his conversation normal, but reached
inside his pocket for his brass knuckles. He wanted his gun, but that would tip his
hand too much to too many people.
Before the overstuffed human gorilla could start any trouble, Jimmy turned to
Mickey and cried out, I stuffed a dog today.
In turning, Jimmy spilled his drink on Mickey, Mickey backed up into a cocktail
server, who sent a tray of drinks flying into the mountain of muscle bearing down on
the table.
Once everything settled down, Viola and Margaret were gone. Jimmy the Hat
grinned like the cat who got the cream.
Mickey never saw the ladies again. He asked Jimmy about them now and then.
Jimmy always got a wistful smile, and said, Keeping one step ahead of Daddy, I
imagine.

Speak the Lingo

Mickey sat at the downstairs bar chatting with Joey the fish about the differences
between Irish and Scotch whiskey when Alphonso the crank stepped up to the bar.
Gimme a cupcake, Alphonso said.
Joey the Fish glanced at Mickey. Mickey shrugged.
I dont have cupcakes, Joey said. Just booze.
Alphonso looked around like someone was breathing down his neck.
Are you nuts? Alphonso said. Havent you heard? Everythings done by code
word now. Even in here.
Joey and Mickey looked at each other. This time they both shrugged.
Whats a cupcake? Joey asked.
Alphonso the Crank pointed at a bottle of Canadian whiskey. Mickey shuddered.
Hed had Canadian once, and only once. The experience would not be repeated.
Once Alphonso had his cupcake, Mickey asked, So hows things?
Alphonso sighed. Things are things. He took a drink. I ever tell you about
what I did before this?
Yes, Mickey said. Plenty of times.
He downed his drink. I was on an honest path in medicine before I had to take
up this life of crime. He held out the glass to Joey the Fish, who refilled it. Now I
wander around, pushing my way into the cupcake trade.
Mickey slid off his barstool and headed toward the stairs before Alphonso really
got going. He flashed Joey a good luck smile. Joey flashed Mickey a sneer that said,
You lucky bastard.
Upstairs, Mickey walked by Zelda Fitzgerald, Anita Page, and Louise Brookes.
All three of them looked less than pleasedand by thatthey looked like queens
waiting for any excuse to execute someone. Always curious, and never being able to
leave well enough alone, Mickey went up to them.
Whats the trouble, ladies, he asked.
All three rolled their eyes at the same time, in the exact same way, almost as if
theyd rehearsed it.
Well, I ordered a scone, but got a cupcake, Zelda said.

I ordered root beer, Anita said, but I got a soda water.

I ordered ginger ale, Louise said, but got some coffee.
I swear, Zelda said. These code words are getting out of hand.
Maybe I can make a code sheet for you ladies, Mickey said.
Louise rolled her eyes again. If you have a sheet, then any old person can be in
the know, and then how much fun would knowing be?
Mickey shrugged and wandered on.
This code word thing had the making of trouble.

20/20 Foresight
Mickey liked to get to the speakeasy early. Hed sit at the bar, chatting drinks
with Joey the Fish, and be seen making notes and scribbling in his note pad. Maybe
someday, when he grew too old for the speakeasy life, hed write some stories about
his experiences, maybe even a whole book. For now, it was just sort of a hobby to
keep up the pretenses of being a reporter. One evening, a woman sat at the bar,
ordered a Martini (of course she used the code word soda water), pulled out her
own note pad, and began writing with reckless abandon, occasionally taking drinks.
At one point, she stopped and looked over at Mickey.
What do you write? she asked.
Im a reporter for the Dublin Star, Mickey said.
What brings you here? she asked.
Over in Ireland, we dont have this speakeasy thing going on. Were fascinated
by it. He offered her his hand. Mickey, by the way. They call me The Scribe.
She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. Michelle Zesty.
Good to meet you, He waved his pen at her note book. What are you
working on?
Oh, I write stories of the future, she said. In this story, people have these
mechanical pads that they can write on with their hands, and send messages to each
other with radio waves. Theyre called MyPads. The main character works for a

company that lets people order food with these radio waves and the company
delivers the food right to their door. The company is called Zesty.
Nice way to work your name in, Mickey said. It would be grand to have your
name in a book.
Im working on another story where libraries can send books by radio waves for
people to read on their MyPad. Ill call it Scribd, after your nickname.
Thats sweet of you, Mickey said. I cant wait to read it.
He thought about these grand predictions that Miss Michelle Zesty was making.
While radio was a wonder, he was pretty certain it couldnt do everything she hoped
it would do. People might come up with some amazing things, but he didnt think
old fashioned letter writing, books, and newspapers would ever get replaced.

While the Gettings Good

Crowds at the speakeasy, both upstairs and downstairs had grown thinner and
thinner over the past few weeks. Mickey sat at his usual place at the bar, pretending
to scribble notes for an article. Gerri Ferri, Giles Baily, and Alphonso the Crank
came in together, went up to the bar, and each of them ordered a cupcake. Joey the
Fish poured their drinks and, in a display quite out of character, he left the mobsters
to their drinks and went over to Mickey.
Hey there Scribe, Joey said. Your glass is looking a little empty. Mickey had
taken two or three sips of his whiskey. Can I top it off for you?
Uuhh, sure. Mickey pushed the nearly full glass toward Joey. Whats going
on?
Joey lowered his voice. Nothing good.
Hey Scribe, Ferri called from across the bar. Can you believe these two
numbskulls?
Be careful, Joey whispered.
Whats that? Mickey said. I was busy writing.
I want them to stop with the code words, Ferri said. None of the other joints
in town use em, and thats why people aint coming here. They cant remember how
to order the drinks they like. Were losing a fortune every night.
But boss, Giles said. The feds are flooding into San Francisco, and the cops
aint stayin bought, particularly that Washington Rayburn.
We cant run our business out of fear, Ferri said. Makes us look weak.
Relax boss, Alphonso said. We just gotta wait it out. Those other joints will
get busted, and well be the only show in town.
Now Mickey had never been to kiss the stone, but his father had, as had his
fathers father, and hed gotten enough of it from them to know blarney when he
heard it.
What do you think, Scribe? Giles asked.
Im just a reporter, Mickey said. Im just here to observe and record, not to
interfere.

None of the three gangsters looked pleased with that response. For a while now,
Mickey harbored suspicions that some of the gangsters were putting pieces together
and that Scribe was not who he claimed to be.
Hey Scribe! Someone called from the door.
Mickey had never been so happy to see Jimmy the Hat. Jimmy made straight for
Mickey, a feat which was only possible due to the dwindling number of patrons. Two
men that Mickey had never seen before followed close behind Jimmy the Hat. They
didnt look like gangsters. They didnt have the swagger. Even in new territory,
gangsters moved about a speakeasy like lions. This was their hunting grounds, and
they were masters of these wild places. The two men with Jimmy seemed more like
they were on a safari, not really afraid, but looking on everything with cautious
wonder.
Whats going on Jimmy? Mickey asked.
Jimmy smiled and waved at the two men. This is Desmond Parker and Charles
Palatino. They have a particular item that they need authenticated, and I thought you
might know someone who could do that.
Mickey noted that Jimmy did not attribute a the fill-in-the-blank to either of
these men, further proof that they were not gangsters.
Whats the item? Mickey asked.
Desmond and Charles glanced at each other and then at Jimmy the Hat.
Its alright, Jimmy said. The Scribe is completely golden. Might be the
smartest guy I know.
Charles set a briefcase down on the bar top and opened it. Inside, Mickey saw an
ancient-looking flute. His breath caught in his throat for fear that he might damage it
beyond repair if he breathed on it too strongly.
What do you need from me?
Well, Desmond said. Weve got a buyer lined up in London, but only if this is
genuine. Were looking for someone to authenticate it. Its worth quite a bit, and
wed offer a percentage for cooperative parties.
And if it so happens that its not authentic, Charles said, wed like to find a
secondary buyer who is not so discerning.
I catch your meaning, gentlemen, Mickey said.

He turned back to his drink and took a swallow. He did this so that he could
look at Gerri Ferri, Giles Bailey, and Alphonso the Crank without looking like he
was looking at them. Ferri was walking away from the other two, heading for the
stairs in the back of the speakeasy. Giles and Alphonso shared a sly smile and nod
with each other. Before Mickey could turn away, Giles glanced in his direction. The
gangsters smile faded. Giles nudged Alphonso, who also looked Mickeys way, and
he stopped smiling too.
Mickey quickly scribbled a note on a blank page in his journal. Had to leave town on
family business. Be back when family troubles settle down. He folded the paper twice and
called Joey over.
Can you give this to Ferri when he comes back down? Mickey asked.
Sure thing, Scribe, Joey said.
It was good to know you, Mickey said, and turned around. He smiled at the
two gentlemen Jimmy the Hat had just introduced him to. Youre in luck boys. One
of my cousins knows professors of antiquities at Oxford and Cambridge. If this
turns out that isnt what you hope it is, I have another cousin who can help find
another buyer. Id be happy to make the introductions personally. When do we
leave?

Epilogue
Flynn had been pouring drinks for the five OMalley cousins when Mickey
Galloway left the pub. If Flynn hadnt been thus occupied, he would have made
certain that Mister G had collected all his things, especially since Flynn couldnt
remember the last time the old guy had drunk that much whiskey. So, no real
surprise that Mister G had left his papers sitting on the bar top.
Now, Flynn OConnor wasnt by nature a nosy person, but so much speculation
and rumor surrounded the man who Mister G was before he settled in the small
town outside of Dublin. He couldnt help himself at the chance to maybe see a bit
into Mister Gs past. The first piece of paper was an article about speakeasy life
(whatever that was) written for the Dublin Star, a newspaper Flynn had never heard
of. The next paper was another newspaper article, this one form the San Francisco
Chronicle. The headline ran Don Juan of North Beach Gunned Down in Bathroom. Flynn
shuddered. What a way to meet the maker. The third paper was a letter.
Flynn decided hed pried more than enough. So rather than read the letter, he
tucked the two articles and the letter back into the envelope. He put them all into his
shirt pocket. After closing up, hed walk the long way home and slip the papers
through Mister Gs mail slot.
Looking about, Flynn saw a stranger at the far end of the bar.
Evening friend, Flynn said. What can I get you?
Ill have a whiskey. The man spoke with an American accent.
Right up, Flynn said. Youre a ways from home. What brings you to Ireland,
Mister?
Call me Alphonso, the man replied. Im looking up an old friend. A writer.