Green and gold everywhere. That's the aesthetic tonight—some in the full formal of the masquerade event, suits and dress shirts that have loosened through the evening, ties pulled open, collars undone. Others in the casual local interpretation: green jerseys, gold chains, the particular combination of patriotic sentiment and sporting occasion that Oakridge Hollow produces each March like clockwork. Two distinct populations sharing the same bar, the wealthy out-of-towners and the regular locals, coexisting with the specific tension of groups who are both having the same holiday and having it completely differently.
I've been moving since I walked in and I'm going to keep moving until Danny calls it or the clock does.
"Specialty whisky. Neat."
The man at the end of the bar is mid-forties, well-dressed, the particular ease of someone accustomed to ordering in places where the selection is excellent and expecting that standard to be met. He has the scent of a city Beta—clean, neutral, with that indefinable metropolitan quality that comes from living somewhere with enough ambient stimulation that the body stops broadcasting and starts conserving. His eyes track me as I move to the whisky section of the back bar.
"What are you looking for?" I ask. "Peated, unpeated, age?"
"Something with age. Not the commercial stuff."
I look at what Clancy's actually has behind the rail—an exercise that takes a trained eye, because the interesting bottles are always at the back or on the lower shelf where the presentation doesn't prioritize them. I find what I'm looking for third shelf up: a fifteen-year Highland single malt that has no business being at a St. Patrick's Day bar event and is here anyway, possibly forgotten, possibly deliberately stocked by someone who understood what they had.
I take it down.
The pour is a proper one—not a demonstration pour, but the correct volume for a neat whisky, which means room for the nose to open in the glass. I set it on the bar mat without flourish. Let it sit for a moment while I reach for a small water dropper, the kind that serious whisky bars keep for the ask, because if you're going to pour a fifteen-year Highland correctly you offer the water drop alongside.
He watches the whole thing.
"You always work in small towns?" he asks, not unkindly—with genuine curiosity, the tone of someone who is revising an assumption in real time.
"Last couple of years."
"Because from where I'm standing?—"
"She used to work the high-end city circuit."
Elvin.
I do not look at Elvin. I keep my eyes on the bar and let him finish, because looking at him encourages him and not looking at him only slows the process without stopping it.
"Competition winner," Elvin continues, from his position at the service end of the bar where he is supposed to be managing the floor orders and is instead providing an unsolicited biographical overview. "Regional, then citywide. She doesn't like to talk about it but the plaques are literally at Hannigan's on the back wall."
Danny hung those plaques. I didn't ask him to. They've been there for eight months and I've accepted them as a feature of the building now, which is the only dignified option.
The man picks up the glass. Noses it properly—he has a palate, I can tell immediately, the way someone approaches whisky tells you everything about whether they're going to use or enjoy what you've given them. His expression shifts to the particular quality of a drinker who has found something they weren't expecting.
"Last time I had something poured like this," he says slowly, "was in Chicago. There's a reservatory bar there?—"
"On the Riverwalk?" I ask.
His eyebrows go up.
"Rosemarie," I say.
He stares at me. "That was her name. How did you?—"
"She's a friend. She's actually in this town, has been for a while—she's on leave right now with her pack, but she came through the city bar scene the same way I did. Different route, same destination eventually."
He sets the glass down and looks at me with the expression of a man recalibrating a lot of assumptions simultaneously. "They really do hide the genuine talent in small towns."
"It's quiet here," I say. "Quiet has its advantages."
He reaches into his jacket and leaves a tip on the bar mat that makes Elvin emit a small sound from the service end. Generous isn't the word—it's the kind of tip that a person leaves when they've decided you gave them something worth more than a drink.
"St. Patrick's Day being what it is," he adds, settling back on his stool, "I'd usually be in the city for this. But half the good bars are either shuttered or the licensing situation has gotten complicated."
Elvin perks up. He cannot help himself when there's information incoming. "How so?"
