The Pub Across the Pond Read Online Free Page A

it that he was the one still alive?
    Joe took out a set of keys. He was going home. This would all be over. He could probably sense Ronan’s unbelievable luck. Four aces. Maybe Ronan had signaled his hand, shaking his damn leg. Well, it was all he could do to contain himself. He was too wrecked to keep up his poker face. He smiled and reached for the pot. Joe’s hand slapped over his with surprising force. “Settle,” Joe said. It was the same tone he’d used with Ronan when he was a child. “Settle.” Ronan snatched his hand back and tucked it under his armpit. Joe dangled the keys over the center of the table. They swirled clockwise over the pot like a dousing rod sensing water. The men watching moved in, mesmerized. Once, around, twice around, three times around before they dropped with a clink.
    Ronan stared at the keys. He looked at Uncle Joe. Ronan could hear his best friend, Anchor, standing behind him, smacking his lips. Anchor always smacked his lips when he was excited, which is why he was out of the game after the first round.
    â€œWhat’s that now?” Ronan said, pointing to the keys. “Your truck?” Joe’s truck was a rusty old thing, not worth piss, even with the sunbed thrown in.
    â€œKeys to the shop,” Joe said.
    â€œKeys to the shop,” Ronan repeated.
    â€œNow you put in the keys to the pub,” Joe said. The lads reacted behind him. They said, “oh man,” and “oh fuck,” and “no fucking way,” and he couldn’t tell who was saying what because the loudest voice was inside his head, and it belonged to his father.
    Joe’s crafty. Did I tell ye about the time he tricked me outta me own shoes? You did, Da. Many times. They were new shoes too. I’d only worn ’em one hour. Was sent home from school for walking around in me socks. Quiet, Da. I have to focus.
    Four aces. He had four aces. He had to have him beat. Joe was bluffing, or Joe thought he was bluffing. Joe never took Ronan seriously, always thought he was a fuckup, probably couldn’t imagine him with pocket aces and two more sweet babies on the draw. You did not fold with four aces. With four aces you owned the table.
    Ronan studied his uncle’s face. Round, drawn, and lined like a basket. With his stick-thin body and round head, he looked like an aging lollipop. His hair was surprisingly still hanging on, soft curls that had long since turned gray and were in desperate need of a snip. Bushy eyebrows, thin lips, watchful brown eyes underneath heavy spectacles. He always looked slightly drunk—ironic wasn’t it, for a teetotaler? He looked relaxed. Too relaxed?
    Ronan glanced behind the bar to see if Declan was watching. He was wiping down the bar, as if paying no attention whatsoever.
    â€œDeclan?” Ronan called.
    â€œYes, lad?” Declan didn’t look up, but he visibly flushed.
    â€œToss me the keys, will ye?” Anchor, so named because he had the strength to hold most anything down, clamped his hand down on Ronan’s shoulder.
    â€œRoe,” he said. “Don’t.” Despite his heft, Anchor was a softy, always looking out for the lads. He worked hard, he played hard, and he’d be the first to arrive and last to leave if you ever needed anything from him. But in this case, Ronan knew he was looking out for his own self. Anchor would go mental if his local pub suddenly morphed into Tan Land. Even if the place was filled with half-naked women. As the old joke went, a gay Irishman was an Irishman who would pick pussy over a pint.
    â€œThrow ’em,” Ronan said. Declan lifted the set of keys from the hook on the back wall and tossed them into the air. Ronan caught them in his left hand without even looking up. Had it not been such a tense moment, that kind of catch would have been cause for a celebration, and a round of shots would’ve been bought and downed. As it stood they were suddenly