• Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu Jun 02, 2005 1:28 pm

Patrick's stomache turned when Arthur ordered the lads away. In the very core of his being, the Irishman knew he was about to get a bullet in the head. What followed surprised him, but whether it was better or worse than death he didn't know. It seemed he wasn't going to be killed, at least not yet, but Arthur's words disturbed him profoundly.

"Arthur...I...I don't care about making bones, the truth is that I've been making them since before we met. I'll be honest with you, I didn't kill the americans, I did cut a deal with them. The empire's got my father, and the yanks will be on my childhood friend in a matter of time."

The larger man's words were haunting, but not so haunting as the words that Patrick himself had spoken to the americans about his loyalties.

"I told those bastards that I had only two loyalties, the first to God, and the second to my people. I dug myself in this, mate, I didn't have to come locked and loaded the other night, and I didn't have to shoot that yank, or run with you lads, but I did. I made a deal with them so that I could figure out what I was in, not so that I could get out."

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, certain that Arthur's arm would swing upward and release a few grams of lead into his body, but opened them a second later and continued speaking while the cruicifix wrapped about his left wrist seemed to grow heavier as he did.

"I wasn't lying to those yanks when I told them that, and I honestly don't know which side I would have chosen if you hadn't said what you said, but if it's true, Arthur, then there's no choice at all. If you don't put a bullet in my cap right now, I'm with you. If you do...well, I can't say I would do any different..."

Awaiting his doom, Patrick looked Arthur straight in the eyes. If he died tonight, so much the better for his father and Shamus, but while he lived he couldn't let them stay in harm's way. He spoke again, if he wasn't already dead that is.

"I can't leave without making sure my father is all right, and I don't even know where to find my friend Shamus, but maybe one of them can help get us out of here. My pop has been smuggling this and that, including people occasionally, and Shamus has a dad like mine. I know they can't come with us where we're going, but if we could get them out of the country, that would be enough."

Pat couldn't really elaborate further, because he didn't know what would happen next. He knew his father could help, but Stephan was in the hands of the english, and the last he knew Shamus was off to scotland with his mother. There was so much he didn't know, that there wasn't time for Arthur to explain. What the man had offered Patrick, though, felt too good to be true. It didn't even occur to him to ask who, or what, the lads protected eternity from, he just waited.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 06, 2005 7:10 am

Arthur regarded Patrick with his typical expressionless face. Smoking quietly his eyes only suggested he was thinking by darting to the ground. Brisk Dublin air snuck up on them as they stood there in silence and it would last for several seconds before Arthur finished whatever it was he was thinking about.

In an instant hard to anticipate, Arthur had a pistol pointed at Patrick's head.

"The boys won't stand for what you did in there. So I shoot you, here and now. But it ain't over, mate. My bullet will miss your head and you'll run away in the night, aye? Listen, here. You get your father and your friend and find a way out of Dublin. Then you find us. If you can get us out of Dublin everyone will forget what happened here tonight."

He paused only long enough for Patrick to absorb his words and then fired his pistol just to the right of the Irishman. The blast pounded through his ears, but as Arthur promised, he missed.

  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Jun 07, 2005 5:21 am

Patrick's heart raced as he searched for his fate in the eyes of the pack leader. When the words came, they were accompanied by a pistol leveled evenly on Pat's eyes. He thought about reaching for his gun, but it would have been too little too late, and the Irishman almost felt deserving of the bullet. He knew Arthur's story would be hard to buy for the lads, but perhaps they would know what really happened anyway. When the pistol fired, it was close, but not through his head. Patrick was silent for a moment, letting his hearing return before he spoke.

"Hide somewhere good, man, they want your asses. I will be back, and we'll get out of here."

With that he turned and ran at full pace, making zig-zags in the snow, adding depth to the lie. It occured to him that Arthur might not understand, but it didn't matter, he ran as if a bullet might come after him. Once well clear of the area, Patrick had to consider where to run to, and could only think of one place. He had to head back to St. Patrick's for some gear. It would take more than a few pistols to break his father out of a secure holding cell, and the church was the only place he knew to get any real firepower. His lungs burned, but he ran towards the church. He had to get there before they did, but he was pretty sure he would have a decent head start. Besides, if they were dumb enough to get caught by coming back here, good riddance.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Jun 08, 2005 9:10 am

By the time he reached St Patrick's, it was late. Only decorative lights on the historic walls of the cathedral lit the premises and the large doors on the west facade were locked. Those weren't the doors Patrick could enter from anyway. Using the private door Arthur presented to him later gave him access to the sleeping cathedral. Down the discrete hallway and into the basement, the Irishman found it exactly the way they left it. Lights still off, it appeared the gang had yet to arrive or, for their own interests, decided not to come at all.

Just as Patrick was gathering the weapons he needed, the light suddenly turned on. There was a priest with white hair, thick glasses and a near two meter stature standing in the doorway. Still dressed in cassocks, it appeared he'd been waiting their for a while, evident by his dilated pupils flinching against the light.

A hollow voice echoed into the basement as he spoke.

"When did Arthur take on a new apprentice? I surely hope you have been knighted already."

  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 2:23 am

Patrick was grabbing every gun in sight, and searching for a few things. He wanted a belt other than his own, but if necessary he would use the one he wore to bind all the guns from the racks together. Pat also wanted to grab any spare ammo for anything, piling it into anything he could find. Pillow case, maybe? His eyes were scanning the beds as he heard someone come up behind him. Turning, he listened to the priest's words, and wondered if he meant literally knighted, or some figurative term. His brow furrowed, and he gripped his guns tightly as he spoke.

"I am not sure if I am really Arthur's apprentice, though he spared my life. Look, father, there is heat coming down on this place from the colonials, you should try to avoid that...Knighted?, father."

Patrick was admittedly suspicious, but he still had to show respect for the guise of a priest before him. He hoped it was simply the simple father of St. Patrick's, but would not surrender anything to him, and if it came to guns, guns it was. All in all, he hoped to grab both Garands, EM2 Bullpups, and the Enfield AiA, along with his own tommy and pistols and his charmed colt. His first shot had saved his life, and Patrick was fairly confident that he could repeat that feat. He intended to cap a few british arses in pursuit of his fathers' freedom, but first he needed help. Shamus was the only one he could turn to, but he was in Scotland! It would be hard to explain to the Feds a trip to Scotland, but he would hold up his end of the bargain until it was time. Still...what was this knighting all about? His short attention span drifted to the priests, awaiting an answer.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 9:44 am

"This is the soil of the Holy See," the priest said, "the colonials can't come in here, unless they want to declare war on the Pope. However, I'm afraid if you have not been knighted you are not permitted in here."

His features lost their gentle nature and then became rather severe, "I shall need you to stay until Arthur returns."

For a moment he looked less like a priest for more like the commander of a military unit. His Cossacks alone declared his occupation.

  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Jun 14, 2005 4:50 pm

Patrick was clutching his bundle of weapons cautiously, but had one hand free for one of the pistols on his body, if need be. He would give this priest a chance, before threatening, but he was not staying her. Even staying as long as this seemed to shorten his life-span. The yanks were one him, Arthur and his gang were on him too, and soon the brits would be on him, if his plan stayed the way it was now.

"Father, I can't stay here. Arthur gave me very explicit orders to get him out of the country, and to do so, I need these guns. It is urgent, so I'm afraid I have to go. I mean no disrespect."

Patrick wasn't sure if his words would penetrate the stern visage of a priest before him, but it was his only shot. The next step was escape at gunpoint. If it was, it was.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 16, 2005 3:27 pm

The priest's stern face resigned for a moment, allowing gentleness to creep back in. He paused and chewed his lower lip and then said.

"I see. Perhaps I was too rash to close the doors. Is there anything you need help with? A car perhaps?"

As an afterthought he added, "Is Arthur coming back here? I should like to see him before he goes."

  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Jun 20, 2005 5:52 pm

Patrick let his breath out softly as the Priest spoke, letting the tension melt from his lower back. He then nodded and smiled, speaking.

"I thought you might understand. If you can spare a car, Father, it would help me a lot. As for Arthur, well, if it's like you say and they can't be touched here, then they might return, but he didn't tell me either way. All he said was to find them a way off the isle, and quickly. I have only one lead, so I've got to go with it."

With that, Patrick wiped his nose with his loose hand and loosened his grasp only slightly on his guns and ammo. They were his ticket to redemption, at the expense of british lives. Again Arthur's way was actually in line with his best interest, so he would hurry. He waited for the Priest to make one more remark, which he might make a quick reply to before heading back to his old neighborhood. He wondered what time it had been late when he woke, and much had transpired during the course of the night.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 23, 2005 8:07 am

He paused, reflecting on a plan. After an uncomfortable amount of time, he reached into the cossacks and pulled out a small golden crucifix on a chain and handed it to Patrick. A small ivory sheild was set on the back with a blue cross painted on it.

"Don't lose this. It will be a key to the rest of the world, albeit temporary. The persistant will ask for further identification by checking your wrist."

He revealed a blue cross tatooed on his right wrist just under the heel of his palm.

"If the inquiry goes this far, simply tell them you are a postulant and are waiting to receive your rites. That should suffice. Two miles from here there is a pub called the Grin 'n Whistle. The proprietor, Mick, has a car he can lend. They are affiliated, not members, so don't tell them too much.

"God be with you."

  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Jun 25, 2005 1:22 pm

Patrick listened attentively, now that the priest was helping him, and wondered at the deeper meaning of the words he was supposed to say. Secret words and symbols had always existed in the IRA and any war, but there was a veil so tight around the things he was now probing that perhaps the Holy Father himself was involved, as Arthur had said. He slowly took the crucifix from the Priest's hands and spoke.

"Thank you, father, if Arthur returns here, tell him to listen for news of the British, and find me when it's still news."

After a nod of thanks, he slipped the golden crucifix around his neck and tucked it beneath his shirt. Thinking twice about his bundles, he decided to wrap it all up in a sheet, which he tied at both ends. Gripping it under his arm, he checked to make sure his pistols were uncocked and headed out, waving a bit without looking back. He had to make it to the pub, the Grin 'n Whistle, get a car, and make it to Shamus. Armed to the teeth, the pair might stand a chance at snatching his father, the hard part would be convincing Shamus to save the older Owen, without some sort of benefit for himself.

  • Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Thu Jun 02, 2005 8:50 pm

I thought they loved me. I can't believe they named me Shamus. It's offical. My parents are bastards.

Shamus Paul O'Malley, son of Kathrine and Michael O'Malley, the red-haired, green-eyed, freckled child, was given the horribly cliche name of Shamus. Patrick had made sure to laugh at him every chance he got when they were kids. That, in fact, was why Shamus had become competitive with him in the first place. Good-natured ribbing, of course, but competitive all the same. Patrick's and Shamus' fathers were good friends growing up, and because of how close they were, it caused them to grow up close too. He missed him.

Shamus, of course, had just stepped off the bus from port, which he had stepped onto just after stepping off of the ferry trip from Scotland, where he and his mother had been sent. She was still over there, too old and frail to make the trip. His parents were older then Patrick's, but they still became close friends. When Shamus' father got in serious trouble with some dirty deals, he sent Katherine and their young son across the river to Scotland to live. He had asked his mother about it all the time, but she had never given him any answers. In fact, she had pretty much cut them off from all information about Ireland all together, much less his father.

That was part of the reason he was back. The heat that was on the family had cooled some years back, and Shamus was back in town. The twenty-five year old Irishman was here to find out why his father disappeared, and just what he was into. Another part of the reason was to look up his childhood friend and see what he was up to--Patrick Owen. The link they had was that their birthday was the same, though Shamus was only two years older. Despite that, though, Shamus and Patrick were pretty much on the same level, or that had been when he had left ten years before with his mother...he was still pretty close to his roots, and was curious what Patty was up to. He hated that, being called Patty. That was exactly why he called him that to be mean. In public, though, he referred to him as Trick, partly because it still held some respect, and partly because more then once Shamus--when obviously beaten--had said that Patrick had cheated; had used some kind of trick. And thus, the obvious nickname.

That, though, was priority two. The first was finding out about his dad. And so, the horridly named Shamus Paul O'Malley went unto his home nation once more, curious about what changes he'd find.

  • uthor: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 06, 2005 7:09 am

Dublin was an icy terror on the morning of January 2nd. Cutting winds swept through the city from all directions. There was word of another winter storm brewing and with the ground still white from the last storm, it would not do well for the island. Bundled up beside him were the other travelers from the bus. A couple families, some business men, some military men. It was a typical collage of Irish life.

Before Shamus could call for a cab, or indeed call for anyone, a black four-door sedan squealed up to him from the belly of Dublin. The back door swung open and inside an older gentleman wearing a bowler cap and three-piece suit peered out from inside. It took a moment, but he could be recognized. This was Matthew O'Toole, a lifelong friend of his fathers. He was around rather frequently in Shamus's childhood, but had disappeared over the last ten years having gone into politics of some nature.

"Shamus, get in quickly, lad," he said from inside the car.

  • Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Mon Jun 06, 2005 6:13 pm

Shamus shivvered as he felt the icy cold, his breath quivering as he exhaled the soft white cloud.

Shamus blinked as he noticed the car squeal up to him, watching the door swing open. He blinked for a moment, almost disbelieving his eyes.

Well, that was quick... Was his first thought, but his second was of disbelief. How did they know he was here? Didn't matter, not to Shamus.

"Uncle Matty?" He asked, gazing hard at him, Matthew O'Toole's reaction seemed rushed and nervous, so he didn't answer. Perhaps he knew what was going on with his father, more likely then he did, at any rate. It had been several years since he'd been home.

He simply nodded to Matthew, climbing into the car and shutting the door behind him, then turning to him.

"Uncle Matty, what's all this about?" He asked in confusion.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Jun 08, 2005 9:11 am

The sedan squealed away from the depot the moment Shamus closed the door. The gray-haired driver was presumably familiar with Matthew, comfortably taking the car wherever the older man wished.

"Your father is in a bit of a tiff, he is," O'Toole said looking out the windows with raised eyebrows and unblinking eyes.

"Went to get you in Scotland but you were already off. Had to take the aero back to Dublin straight-away. Now why in the name of the Almighty would ye come back to Dublin? Anyway, it doesn't matter. I've got to get you to safety."

Finally looking back from examining the streets around them he gave an obligatory smile, "How are you, lad? You grew a meter, didn't ya?"

  • Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Wed Jun 08, 2005 12:31 pm

Shamus looked to Matthew incredulously. Teasing him with a bit of info like that and then backing off to talk about missed times? Was he off his rocker? He took a moment to sort out the information he just had flying at his head at the speed of said aero.

"Wait, hold up a right second, Uncle Matty. Lemme answer those in sequence. First off... Da's in a 'tiff'? What kind of a 'tiff'? Secondly--" He pushed on to cover all his points so he wouldn't lose them should Matthiew deign to cut him off and respond right then and there, "--yeah, I'm back in Dublin...came here to find out about my Da and about Trick, see how they're holdin' up and what's new with 'em. As fer my growth spurt...yeah, I've been stuck this tall fer some time now, Uncle. It HAS been a few years. Near a decade, as I recall." He trailed off for a moment, his thought process catching up with everything that's happened.

"Yeah, I came here to look into things. I'm not a boy like I used to be, Uncle Matty. I've grown up. I can handle this. Tell me what Da's into. Mum never told me anythin' about Da an' his business. I'm old enough. Start talkin'." He was projecting false bravado, partially because his 'Uncle' Matthew still intimidated the hell out of him, and partially because his mother seemed to deathly afraid of it all...perhaps it was some of that fear that it would be something he couldn't handle, could help out with.

No, his mind resolved, I can't be thinkin' that way. I've got to help my Da.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 7:31 am

"Ye have grown up, haven't ye, lad? Grew a mouth too, you did. Look, lad, this isn't easy, I was the last man yer dad has. The bloody empire took your dad away, put him up with Trick's dad.

"Thought my weight as a bloody MP would get him out, but now they think I've got bloody ties. Attlee's* got a chip on his shoulder, trying to measure up to the likes of Churchill an' wants to clean the bloody island out.

"There were government yanks that found Trick's father out and it was only a matter of time before they found your dad. Turns out the Yanks were just trying to get some leverage on Trick. They turned his dad in to get to him. My guess is Trick is running with a wild bunch, he is.

"To get your dad, we have to get to Trick's dad. To that, we have to get Trick. Now tell me honestly, Shamus, when's the last time you've seen him?"

  • Clement Attlees, England's Prime Minister

  • Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 1:30 pm

He winced as his Uncle Matty commented on his mouth. He hated doing what he did, because he loved his Uncle, but he remembered that more often then not he needed to be set on track with a firm hand. Matthew's mind had a tendancy to drift, it did. Regardless, he listened to what Matthew said, his jaw falling open as he listened.

"Wh...what? Da's...been captured by the Empire?" His mind raced to figure out how to deal with the next step, but Matt pushed forward with yet more startling information about Trick and his father.

"So...lemme try and work this out. My and Trick's Das have been captured by the Empire, because the Yanks were sticking their overswelled heads in where they don't belong and quite possibly because Trick could be in over 'is head."

To get your dad, we have to get to Trick's dad. To that, we have to get Trick. His mind was befuddled for a moment as he worked through it step by step. To save Da they had to get with Trick. Two birds with one stone, so to speak...but was it just a hell of a lot of coincidence, or did Da's and Trick's problems line up too close for comfort?

"...Trick? Oh, C'mon, Uncle. I haven't seen 'im since Mum and I left Ireland, that's why I'm here to find out about him and Da. I thought you'd know that. You know how Mum was--still is. She's gotten to the point where at least every other day she's sayin' that God can just take the island, damned as it is. She pretty much despises Ireland for all the trouble it's caused our family and friends. When we got to Scotland, she cut us off from any information about Ireland at all, much less about Da or Trick." His mind only just caught up to what he figured Matt was saying, and hoping he was wrong.

"...Why? What's Trick been sayin'? Where can we find 'im?"

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 9:44 am

"I was hoping you knew," he said with a resigned sigh.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a flask of his choice dessert whisky and took a swig.

"I got a report from the Ministry of Defence, it wasn't much, but it may be enough to find him. Trick's involved with a presumed group of international assassins. To bait the group, the Yanks captured Patrick's dad and so took your dad as well, because they were in the same racket.

"They say that Trick killed a yank federal agent. Problem is, I don't know where to begin to look for him. If what they're sayin' is true, the only way we can get your dad out of prison is by turning Patrick in."

  • Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 8:48 pm

Shamus gaped at his father's words, almost sputtering. He reached for his own metal flask and upended it...only to find it dry. Right. He had finished that on his way here. With the way things were going, he'd wished he'd saved it for now.

Christ! Patty's in o'er his head! What the hell is he thinkin'? That's Patty for ya, though...when he does something, he does it big, even get in trouble... 's exactly what I was afraid of, though... He forced the mild bemeausement out of his mind and instead tried to focus on the problem. How to find Patty?

"Look, your wantin' to find Trick, right? All I've got t' go on is our old neighborhood over on the east side of town...there was a lil' pub nearby, The Grin n' Whistle. Obviously the high-quality establishment, eh? Look...I need to wet m' throat, and if I'm gonna find Trick, it's likely I can start in our old neighborhood. I'll start there. Drop me off there, an' I'll see what I can find there. I imagine a few o' the old gang 's still around...Jimmy and Shawn, mebbe...anyway, it's a short rope, but it's the best I've got to go on." He thought quietly, almost afraid. Da, Patty's Da, both in trouble thanks to the Empire, Patty in wih international assassins....Patty killing a Yank suit.

What were ya thinkin', Patty? What 'm I gonna have to bail ya out of this time?

"Turnin' him in isn't an option...not yet. Lemme get his side of it first, then we'll see what's going on." He smiled to Matthew, though his eyes were tinged with worry.

I'm in o'er my head, and I don't even have a piece...fat lot of good my training does me without anyting to use...

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Jun 14, 2005 7:07 am

Realizing Shamus's poor state of liquor supply, Matthew generously offered his flask to wet the whistle. Considering his friend's son quietly, he finally nodded.

"You have a better plan then me. You heard the man, Pete."

The driver nodded and took a right turn to head into the old neighborhood. Leaning forward, Matthew reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver then handed it over.

"Yer on yer own on this one, lad. You'll be needing this."

He then handed him a card with a single phone number on it.

"I'll prepare a safe house for ye while yer looking. When you got Trick, call me and I'll send Pete after ya. There's not much time, don't doddle."

The car pulled over at Grin n' Whistle. The lunch crowd had yet to arrive and only the local drunks decorated the inside, along with the resident pubkeep and proprietor, Mick.

"Good luck to ye, Shamus. May the Almight have mercy on the lot of us."

  • Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Tue Jun 14, 2005 4:40 pm

Shamus accepted the flask gratefully, taking a deep pull. Glad to have some liqour in his system, he handed it back, using the back of his hand to wipe away the residue.

He also gratefully accepted the revolver--likely a .38, though he would have preferred a .44 mag--eyeing it for it's caliber. He snapped it open, checking to make sure it was fully loaded with six full-metal jacket bullets. Snapping it shut again, he nodded to Matthew again, grateful as he slid it into the pocket of his trench.

"Thanks kindly, Uncle."

He stepped from the car, gazing at the Grin n' Whistle softly. Ah, yes, things had changed. He wished for his shoulder holster right about now, but the trenchcoat would have to do until he could pick up a new one. In the meantime, he grabbed his straight shaving razor to keep as an extra weapon if needed and tucked it in his pocket so it was close at hand.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at his Uncle Matty and waved, then stepped into the establishment. He wasted no time in moving to the front bar, slumping into a seat. Looking up at Mick, who looked a lot different from the last time he had seen him, he waved him over.

"Pint, quick as possible. I got a draught in my throat." He looked around for anyone he recognized. Not likely he'd find Trick here, but he could hope, couldn't he? Anyway, worse came to worst, he could probably try and pump some of the locals for information. Figuring the direct approach was most likely to get results.

"Hey," he called out to thebar, "A round for the house. As long as we're friends, anyone hear of Patrick Owen?" The question could get him in trouble if Trick really was walking heavy...but at least it would be a result, someone to talk to. Besides, he had a fair hand with the pistol in his pocket, and he was confident in his ability. That was one thing that never wavered.

He just hoped his faith in his ability to get himself out of trouble wasn't misplaced.

  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 16, 2005 5:48 pm

The few patrons inside the bar hooted at Shamus's generosity. Mick's skeletal face creaked into a smile and he poured a line of pints down the bar. Lining up like children at a carnival, local drunks and lunch-eaters picked up their donation and happily clasped a hand on Shamus as they returned to their seats.

"Good to see ya, Shammy and glad t'know the Scots didn't take the green from ye."

The drunks and locals grunted and shrugged at his question, but Mick didn't. Swabbing the bar with a damp rag, Mick leaned forward.

"Looking for yer old mate? Haven't seen him ..." he looked around and lowered his voice, "but he's making waves in the stage, if ye know my meanin'. I hear he is running with a loud lot."

  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Jun 25, 2005 1:43 pm

Patrick stopped outside of the pub, smirking a bit at the secrecy of it all. He had been repeating the little bit about being a postulant awaiting his rites, but it made little sense to the Irishman, though he would now have to act like one on the inside. Hopefully Mick wouldn't put up too much of an arguement to his borrowing a car, but he didn't know how long he would need it. Pat twisted his neck from side to side, cracking it slightly before gripping his sheet-wrapped arsenal by a fold at his left side, and strode into the Grin 'n Whistle.

Once inside, Patrick's hand was ready for a quick-draw shootout like he had heard about in american books of the wild west, but it was not quite necessary. Hoping to act casual, he glanced about the place, marveling at how the old neighborhoods would never change. No sooner had he spotted Mick, obvious due to his position behind the bar, did he see the very one he was borrowing a car to search for. It was strange to see him there, after all those years. Time had changed Shamus as it did all things, but he was clearly recognizable. Patrick had no doubt that Shamus would recognize him, so he simply walked up to the bar, whipping the golden crucifix out of his shirt, and took a seat one chair away from his childhood friend, and smoke to the barkeep.

"A whiskey for me please, and one for the lady as well."

Pat didn't know how or why Shamus was there, but he was grateful, at least for one task accomplished, there was also the job of locating the feds, trying to reason with them to get his father out of jail. He tried to catch Mick's eye without getting too much of Shamus's attention, turning slightly away. Hopefully the bartender would recognize the crucifix and cut right to the chase, it would take all of Patrick's coherence to convince his old friend to go on a dangerous jailbreak attempt.


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