“You’re…going to stay?”
“I said so last night, didn’t I?”
I chuckle. “I think it was this morning.”
“Aye, it was. But I hadn’t slept, so it counts as last night. Text me the address. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“You’re sure?”
“As I can be. See you soon.” Callan hangs up.
I slide my phone into my back pocket and return to the bar.
“Well?” Irene asks.
“He has to collect his tools, but he’s on his way.”
She nods towards the door. “Customers.”
Time to put on my game face. I smile as two men approach the bar. I expect them to order drinks and then find a table or a booth, but they take their coats off and sit on bar stools.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
“A whiskey on the rocks,” the taller man says in a smooth, deep voice. He has short brown hair and a short, neat beard and moustache. His T-shirt pulls tight across his torso, revealing well-defined muscles. His right arm is covered in a full-sleeve tattoo of stylised waves, similar to a Japanese painting I saw once.
“And you?” I ask his companion.
The other man purses his lips as he picks up the cocktail menu. He’s shorter than his friend and not as trim. His hair is almost black, with a slight curl to it, and he has a chest-length beard and a thick moustache. His neck is covered in tattoos, as are both his arms. He has a tattoo on the anti-helix of his right ear and one over his right temple, just visible beneath his hair.
“I’ll have a negroni, please.” He puts the menu down and smiles.
I enjoy making cocktails, so I start with that. Thankfully, there are some clean shakers left. Using a thirty-five-millilitre measure, I put equal parts of gin, vermouth, and Campari into the shaker. I add plenty of crushed ice, screw the lid on, and start to shake. Realising they’re watching me, I start to do some tricks with the shaker. I roll it from one hand, and up my arm, before knocking it into my opposite hand with my shoulder. I throw it behind my back and up and over my head. Then I knock the top off and pour the red mixture into a cocktail glass. I add a slice of blood orange and serve it on a clean paper coaster. The whiskey on the rocks takes seconds to make in comparison. I ring their order up on the till and ask for payment.
“You’re pretty handy with a cocktail shaker,” the shorter man says. “How long have you been bartending?”
“Since I was eighteen. It’s all I’ve ever done.” Aside from woodwork on the side, although I’ve done a lot less of that since I moved to London.
He arches an eyebrow. “I can tell. You must enjoy it.”
“I do. I get to meet lots of interesting people.” I nod to them with a smile.
“You like talking?”
I chuckle. “My housemates would tell you I’m an introvert.”
He scratches his cheek. “An introvert who works in a chatty profession. Interesting.”
“I’m better at listening than talking.” I tend to find that the people who prop up the bar want to offload but don’t necessarily need or want any input from me.
“A useful skill.”
“You have a nice accent,” the taller man says. “Whereabouts in Ireland are you from?”
“Wexford.” I grab a cloth and start to wipe the counter. It’s still quiet, but I like to look busy.
“That’s on the Southwest coast, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Aye.”
