Leaving the Kiselov-owned dry-cleaners by Union Square—which used to run drugs but was now in competition with French Laundry—I let myself wander. It was after eight, since I’d stayed late to research more, and I was hungry. An Irish pub caught my attention, and I took a seat at the bar. They had copper fittings and dark wood tones, reminding me of Kot Felix’s house.
A thought had been niggling at the back of my head for days:what would Felix say when I killed Greco?
Would he be proud or angry? I didn’t know, though I hoped for the former. Ivanna said the Italians killed one of our own, so wouldn’t he be glad to hear I took out their boss? I’d heard whisperings of them meeting the year before, and ‘the Italian Boss’ not being happy. Felix had to be wanting Greco dead, too. I was doing him a favor, really.
“What will it be?” A tall man with a trimmed black beard, pageboy cap and Irish brogue interrupted my musings.
“You don’t have to fake the accent,” I told him in my strongest Russian inflection before dropping it. “I’ll take a pint of Guinness and a menu, please.”
“Accent’s all mine, mate. ID please?” He rapped the counter while reaching underneath the counter for a one page glass-covered page. I showed my ID, which was still sideways from when I was under twenty-one and couldn’t drink legally in America. I looked young, but I was legal. “Nice to meet you, Vasily. Conor’s my name, and I’ll have that right up for ye.”
Perusing the list of traditional food, while he poured the drink with the perfect amount of head, I caught sight of his thickly muscled arms. Straining the tight black T-shirt, I licked my lips and forced my eyes back to the menu.
“Find anything ye like?” A glass slid into view and I hoped my cheeks weren’t red.
Pointing at random, I read the description. “Shepherd’s pie sounds good.”
“Coming right up,” Conor rapped his knuckles on the bar again, jarring my frazzled nerves.
Taking a hardy gulp, I willed my heart rate to slow. The thick beer wasn’t my first choice, but a whiskey wasn’t the best idea on an empty stomach. The food was delicious, and Conor ended up being easy to talk to. It was a Thursday night, and the place only had a few patrons I assumed were tourists. One trio looked to be out for a birthday bar crawl and ordered the wildest drinks off the big chalk menu over the bar.
“Chocolate mint beer?” I asked Conor, trying to suppress my grin.
“People with money will try anything,” he shrugged and took my empty plate. “Need a refill or something stronger?”
After expressing my frustration that my employer didn’t see my potential and stuck me on easy jobs, he seemed to sense I needed it. “Yeah, I’ve got money. I want to try a whiskey I’ve never heard of.”
Conor got a twinkle in his eye and held up one finger before going down the bar to a ladder that slid across the whiteboard so he could reach the top shelf. He grabbed a bottle and brought it down. “Teeling, single malt, 32 years. You have to buy the whole bottle because it comes with a certificate of authenticity. Want to know the price?”
“Naw, I’ll put it on the company card. Keep it here for me and I’ll come by after work for a glass or two until it’s done.” If anyone in the family asked, I’d say it was for a month of dinners. I did the accounts, anyway. “Pour me a finger and one for you as well.”
“Thank ye,” Conor grinned with appreciation and retrieved two highball glasses. He poured carefully and hovered a hand over the ice. “It’s best to bring out the flavors with water, but I can do it on the rocks.”
“The pained way you said that tells me otherwise,” I chuckled. “I’ll take a dash, no ice.”
“Perfect,” Conor squeezed the water nozzle over both drinks briefly, barely touching the dark color. He held up his glass and I took mine before he clinked them together, “Sláinte.”
“Za oospeh,” I replied, wishing for my own success as well as Conor’s.
First I smelled the dark amber liquid, its sweet and malty scent was strong. It was a drink to be savored. We spent the next twenty minutes sipping and discussing the hidden notes of vanilla and ripe red fruits.
“I have to admit,” Conor said, whipping down the bar after the girls with adventurous tastes had left, “When ye walked in asking for a Guinness, I thought it was the only Irish drink ye knew. Ye surprised me.”
“I plan to surprise everyone,” I quirked a grin and handed over the card Gregor had given me for business expenses. I didn’t pay for rent or food, but I knew it would be a big bill. Conor didn’t even question putting all on one card, and I signed for a hundred dollar tip. Better to ask for forgiveness, I always said. “It was great to meet you, Conor. I’ll be back soon.”
People rarely took to me like Conor had, and I would be back for the conversation as much as the drink. He came around the bar to hug me with a hearty back pat, and I guessed the drink made him extra friendly. I’d been drinking vodka and whiskey straight since I was a child, and a beer and one finger of single malt wasn’t enough to get me drunk. Waving as I went out the door, I did have a warm buzz.
The July night was cool, but still nice to walk in. I could catch a ride back to Gregor’s place, but a walk wasn’t so bad if I cut through the Tenderloin. He had told me he’d be out late, but that wasn’t a surprise. He’d been going out a lot and checking when I'd be home. It felt more like he wanted to bring hookups over than him looking out for me, but that suited me fine.
Noise canceling headphones were in order every time I was in my room, and I didn’t feel in any rush to go back. I didn’t need to hear women moaning his name, since the sound echoed through the minimalistic place a little too well.
As much as my goal was to go higher in the organization, I didn’t hate San Francisco. Americans were weird about wanting things compartmentalized or assimilated, and San Francisco did that to an extent. Sure, there were more people on the streets than when I was a kid, but we still had Golden Gate Park, the beach, and every culture and food your heart desired. The Tenderloin was rougher, always had been, but I liked the grittier energy of it over the touristy side of town that was cleaned once or twice a day to keep an image.
Despite it never fully feeling like home, I loved the Bay Area, flaws and all. Thumping music caught my attention, and I looked up to see a neon glow. A karaoke and hookah bar wasn’t my vibe, but the big blue X next to it intrigued me. Not enough to cross the street–until a man approached, and I froze.
In a nice suit with broad shoulders, the gray-haired man stood out under the contrasting neon. First he glowed white, then he stepped under the blue X. With only an afternoon shadow of a beard, I could see his face clearly while he waited for a door guard to check ID. He was clearly over twenty-one, but the ID check wasn’t what drew me in.
Giorgio Greco had crossed my path. Older than the one picture I found, but undeniably him. His salt and pepper hair, tan skin, strong jawline, and sharp eyes couldn’t be anyone else. Before I could make a move for the gun at my back, Greco disappeared behind a large, red door.
