1
Ellie
Nailing the little gilt shamrocks between the trim strips and the door frame seemed like a good idea at the time.But the sixth one down was crooked, canting at an eight-degree angle—not a perfect fifteen, which made it stand out.Everyone touched it on the way in.Their dirty fingertips turned the gold leaf black.
Lucky, they called it.
A visual pox, it was, even though that’s likely a bit overdramatic.Then again, no one ever accused me of subtlety.
I set my carry-on down to unlock the front door of the tavern I owned.
The building was still standing.That was because I hired only the best help, and with the exception of Casey Kelly, each one of them could run the bar with their eyes shut.
Sgt.Casey, on the other hand, had run the bar into the ground with both eyes open almost ruining a neighborhood institution.But everyone loved him anyway.That’s why he still had a key and was listed as co-owner despite not having a say in the business anymore.
Didn’t stop him, though.
With a little jiggle and a hard shove to combat the stickiness of the swollen wood, I pried the door open.Dragging my bag behind me so no neighborhood kid would snatch it as a prank, I tapped my code into the alarm and blinked off jet lag for a minute, maybe longer.
Then I shivered because the damp March chill had seeped into my bones and was currently wreaking havoc on the pristinely refinished hardwood I’d paid for.
I shoved the door shut and examined the frame for issues.It had been a reclaim from a salvage done on a bar in Milwaukee.I went up with Kat, my bestie, to check out fixtures and came home with a hundred and some year-old slab of oak that didn’t fit inside the tiny U-Haul we’d rented.But I knew it was perfect for the place.
The Blarney Zone melded old with new.State of the art big screens, five cable sports subscriptions, one fully-balanced surround sound system, and old-world Irish Pub aesthetics, sandwiched together with a touch of class, a little brass, and a lot of sass.It was home.
More of one than my condo, which was seven blocks south and a world away.I’d hit O’Hare at an ungodly early hour, still lit up from an international flight I didn’t sleep on and heartbreak.I sent my luggage with the driver who had strict instructions to, and I quote, “Just dump the bags inside the main door.If you can’t do that, leave ’em in a fucking snowbank.I could give a shit.”
Yes, world traveling was not my forte.Neither was censoring my mouth.
But running a bar filled with a mix of the eclectic neighborhood misfits, more than one gangster, and a trauma-whipped, retired police sergeant?Hell, yeah.That was my jam.
And I’d made it home from Europe with just over a week to spare before the momentous St.Patrick’s Day weekend.That was barely enough time to prepare.
One thing that made the Blarney Zone a gem was the annual Chicago St.Patrick’s Day celebrations.While the dyed-green river pulls a guaranteed fifty thousand visitors braving the precarious lure of spring haunted by the very real winter zephyrs that tore down the concrete canyons of downtown, the neighborhood parades attracted a lot more.Having a reputation to uphold kept this neighborhood intact.
We could boast two hundred K on a sunny day.
And the Blarney Zone was the smack dab center of the parade route.
Mental note: I needed to buy more sawdust for the vomit-fest.Somewhere I heard peanut shells helped oil the wood floor below.But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where to find over a bucketful of those, let alone the cubic yards I’d need to cover three thousand square feet of oak.
That’s if I didn’t open the basement bar.Which I’d have to do.But that would be “locals only.”There was a back-alley entrance everyone knew about, but only used for Sunday pot lucks and the occasional Christmas party.However, this year it would be the perfect spot for my regulars to hide from the crowds.
The door squeaked against the jam as Kat shoved it open.
“Oh, you’re home?”she asked.
If I’d had more coffee, I’d come up with something better than… “No, I’m a fucking ghost.Boo.”
“You’re white enough,” she fired back.
Only Kat could get away with that.At just under six-foot, with lower west side Chicago street smarts, Rhianna-esque sleepy eyeliner, Beyonce snap, and a ton of pre-PhD cred in Business Management, she was formidable.And the very best of best friends I could ever hope for.
“Did you know Italy shuts down their beaches in winter?”
“You’re the one who wanted to get married in February.”She clasped her hands together and switched on her falsetto.“It will besoromantic!”Her face skewered into a grimace.“How’s Pornstach anyways?”
The question hit my gut like a punch.Not only had my bestie picked up my twin sister’s nickname for Johnny, but she nailed a sore spot… one of many.
