The Pub Across the Pond Read Online Free Page B

sober, and deathly silent. Even their cigarettes seemed to hover in midair. As Ronan gripped the keys to the pub, he and his uncle Joe stared steadily at each other from across the table.
    â€œWait,” Anchor said. “Just hold on.” Sweat poured into Anchor’s goatee. He adjusted his baseball cap, then held both hands out. He took his cap off, wiped his brow with his massive, freckled forearm, then put it back on. “Just hang on here,” Anchor said. He paced a stretch of floor. “This is fecking nuts. We have to have some kind of sit-down.”
    â€œWe are sitting down,” Ronan said.
    â€œIt’s not your game, lad,” Joe said.
    â€œHow about a fallback?” Anchor said.
    â€œHow’s that now?” Joe said.
    I have four fucking aces, Ronan tried to convey with his eyes.
    â€œHow about—a hundred thousand euros—within a month—or you get the pub?” Anchor said. “Or shop,” he added with an apologetic glance to Ronan.
    â€œBollix,” Ronan said. “Leave it be.” Anchor put his hand on Ronan’s shoulder and leaned down until his breath wheezed in Ronan’s ear.
    â€œI’m giving you a fucking fallback,” he said. “Take it.” Like Ronan would ever be able to raise a hundred thousand euros. He looked at his uncle. Joe smiled; he was thinking the same thing. Everyone is always underestimating me, he thought. Not this time.
    â€œA hundred thousand euros within the month,” Ronan said.
    â€œOr?” Joe said.
    â€œOr my pub is your tanning bed,” Ronan said. The men laughed. This time, Ronan didn’t. “You want to give me the same deal?”
    â€œNo,” Joe said. “If I lose, you get the shop.”
    â€œFair enough,” Ronan said. This was crazy. His uncle was losing it. Maybe he was getting demented. Maybe Ronan was taking unfair advantage of an old fella. A straight flush was the only hand in the whole world that could beat four aces. Who wouldn’t bet with these odds? If Joe wasn’t bluffing, he probably had a high straight at best. Once again, Ronan almost felt sorry for him. But there was no pity in gambling, and they were all getting tired, and it was time to end this. Ronan laid down his cards in one swift smack to the table.
    â€œFour aces,” he said. “Sorry, Joe.” The lads whooped. Anchor cried out, tried to fist-bump Ronan, but caught him in the jaw. Ronan was too psyched to feel the pain. He’d just won Uncle Joe’s shop. He didn’t even know what he’d do with it, maybe see if his mam or the half dozen wanted to run it. Joe would turn it over all right, just like Ronan would’ve turned over the pub if he lost. An Irishman always honored his bets, even the foolish ones. Anchor put both hands on Ronan’s shoulders and squeezed. It hurt like hell, but Ronan was too happy to yell. But then, something shifted. Uncle Joe fixed Ronan with a look, and instantly Ronan felt as if he’d been hit with a blast of cold air. He even looked down at his shoes, half expecting to see only socks, with holes in the big toe, laughing up at him. Joe smiled. A crafty fecking smile if Ronan ever saw one. Then, one by one, as if serving tea to the queen, Uncle Joe laid his cards on the table. As Ronan said, only one hand in the great game of poker could beat Ronan’s four aces. And when Uncle Joe laid his high straight down on the table, Ronan’s face wasn’t the only thing that was flush.

C HAPTER 3
    O Sacred Heart of Jaysus
    It dawned on Ronan, as he sat in his mother’s house at the kitchen table where he was reared, that given the choice, he would have rather faced a firing squad. Anchor, who had refused to leave his side since the game went down, sat across from him. Apart from occasional lip smacks, and chairs creaking as the lads shifted in their seats, the house was silent. Mary McBride was still asleep. Ronan hoped