by Nate Mancuso
“I know y’aint local, so where is it you’re from, dathúil?”
Bobby glances over from the TV, where the game has now reached a fever pitch with the score tied 20-20 at the end of the third quarter. Molly sets a fresh pint of Guinness on his coaster and asks again, “So where ya from?”
“Armagh,” Bobby says. “Family moved up north when I was a wee bit of a lad.”
“Aye,” Molly says, studying him carefully. “And what brings y’over to the lovely Bronx?”
“Just dropped my daughter off at Fordham,” Bobby says. “She’s startin’ her first year, wanted to come to the States for university. Me and her mum wanted her to go to Trinity back in Dublin – a couple hours from home but still far enough to be on her own – but no, she was hell-bent on comin’ to New York. She’s got a good head about her so I’m not worried.” He smiles softly.
Molly nods while she wipes down the bar.
“An’ how ’bout yourself?” Bobby asks. “From whereabouts does Miss Molly hail?”
“Kilkenny, born and raised. Moved to the States about twenty years ago. Lots of us over here as I’m sure you can see. Sometimes it feels like I never left home.”
“I can see that.” Bobby raises his fresh pint to Molly. “Cheers to ya, m’good lady.”
Molly smiles at him, then looks up at the TV. “Looks like a nail-biter. So long as you’re rootin’ for the Giants, just gimme a holler when ya need another.” With that, Molly walks away to fill more empty glasses.
Kilkenny my ass, Bobby smirks. The lyin’ bitch had never been south a’ the Lower Falls Road before they dashed her off to Belfast International in the middle a’ the night an’ put her on a plane to JFK.
Bobby reaches down to make sure his .38 snub-nose is secure in its ankle holster.
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