“Try telling him that.”
“I asked Anthony if he knew anyone looking for a bartending job. He said he’d ask around.”
“I think Brendan is asking around, too. He knows a lot of people.” This is good, Quinn thought, the fact they were having a cordial conversation. He’d never been able to be friends with one of his exes before, but maybe this would be the exception.
“I see your boyfriend is nowhere to be found,” Quinn noted dryly.
Natalie rolled her eyes.
“I think he stopped coming in because I left the paper.” Quinn poured himself a whiskey. “He ask you out once he knew we’d split up?” he asked casually.
“That’s none of your business.”
“That means yes. But you’re right, it is none of my business.”
Egotistical ass, Quinn thought. What, Clement thought Quinn’s relationship with Natalie had been so inconsequential that Natalie would start dating again right away? Even though Clement wasn’t there, and even though Quinn was no longer working under him, Quinn still despised him.
He watched his father massage his lower back as he bent to scoop up some ice for a gin and tonic for the Mouth, who was going on to PJ Leary about the likelihood of life on other planets. PJ looked on the verge of sleep. Quinn knew his father would be pissed, but he came around the bar and started helping out with orders.
“No need to do that,” his father said with a scowl.
“My ass,” Quinn replied. “If you don’t find someone by the end of this week, I’m calling Uncle Jimmy and telling him to come in and take over.”
His father muttered a few choice curse words under his breath and walked away. Uncle Jimmy was his father’s younger brother, the only one of his parents’ siblings to also emigrate. Jimmy used to tend bar when his parents first opened the pub, but eventually he left to become a cop. He was retired now, bored and restless. Quinn knew his uncle would jump at the chance to help out. He also knew his father would kill him if he contacted his uncle, since the two had always rubbed each other the wrong way if they spent too much time together. Hopefully, his threat would light a fire under his dad’s butt.
He caught Natalie looking at him with admiration for helping his father out, and his heart swelled against his will. Perhaps she didn’t completely hate him after all. Perhaps she could see that he wasn’t a completely selfish person.
Quinn handed one of the cops who came in a Guinness and turned to her. “So, what happened at Le Bristol, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She hesitated. “I was in over my head,” she confessed. “The chef was a madman. Verbally abusive to the staff—and to the customers! Every day I’d walk in there, and my stomach would be in knots, and every night I’d come home and cry. I decided if that’s what it’s like managing a restaurant, then maybe I’m not cut out for it. I don’t know.” She glanced away.
“It sounds to me like you made the right decision, Nat.”
No response.
“And maybe managing isn’t what you’re meant to do. It’s a far cry from what you did in France, working in the foreign ministry.”
“I only chose that path because I thought it would impress my politician father,” she pointed out sharply. “You know that.”
“I know.” Quinn immediately regretted bringing it up, since it was a painful subject for her. But he was desperate to figure out a way to help.
“Maybe you’re one of those people who take a while to figure out what they’re meant to do,” Quinn continued carefully. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve always known what you wanted to do. So has Vivi. And Anthony. And Michael.”
“Maggie took a while to figure out what she wanted to do. And now look at her: she’s thriving in massage school.”
“True.” Natalie looked down at her feet. “I just—I feel like a failure,” she said, a slight quaver in her voice. She sounded as though she might cry.
“You’re not a failure.” God, he wished he could hold her in his arms and comfort her.
Natalie looked back up, shaking her shoulders as if trying to shrug off her glum mood. “That’s very nice of you to say,” she murmured. She slid a bag of potato chips down the bar to PJ Leary, who was now dominating the conversation with the Mouth with talk of Brian Boru, whose ghost was making an appearance in his never-ending book.
Quinn turned to Natalie. “Just in case you’re curious, Brian Boru is the best-known, ancient high king of Ireland.”
“Ah.” She paused. “Speaking of things Irish, how is your article coming along?” she asked stiffly.
He was surprised she asked, even though he suspected she was only doing so to be polite.
“It should be running next week.”
Natalie picked up a tray of beers and mixed drinks for one of the tables in the dining room.
“I’ll be sure to read it,” she said unemotionally. Then she walked away.
35
“Holy shit, pal. Great story.”
Sitting with his friends at their usual booth in the pub, Quinn basked in Kenny Durham’s praise. After what felt like years of endless interviews, endless research, and endless investigation, the first of Quinn’s five-part exposé on the Irish mob’s being behind the gentrification of Hell’s Kitchen was today’s front cover of the Standard, complete with a picture of Whitey Connors being taken away in handcuffs. Whitey and his crew were charged with multiple counts of assault, arson, and larceny for threatening and intimidating tenants into leaving so buildings could be gutted, renovated, and sold for large profits. The Shields Brothers were booked as well for conspiracy. It was all over the media; Quinn’s phone had been ringing all day with requests for television and magazine interviews. It wasn’t the first cover-page story he’d ever written, but it sure as hell was his most important. Yet the elation he felt was short-lived, and he wasn’t sure why.
He thanked his friend for the compliment and then raised his shot glass in a silent toast to his absent brother. Without Liam’s help, he doubted he would have been able to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. He’d called him earlier to let him know the article was finally running, but his uncle Paul told him Liam was out jogging, which completely mystified the older man (“Now tell me this: Why on earth would you go running about if you didn’t have to?”). Quinn chatted with his uncle for a while, eventually wrapping up the conversation by telling him he’d try to get hold of Liam tomorrow.
“Anyone up for another round?” Quinn asked.
“Only if it’s on you,” said Rogan, who was looking for another newspaper job. He’d expanded his search beyond Manhattan to the west and south, and had an interview the day after tomorrow at a newspaper in South Carolina. It depressed Quinn to think of his friend leaving the city, but facts were facts: the guy had to be able to support himself.
“Of course it’s on me. Isn’t it always?” Quinn needled his friends.
Rodriquez and Durham snorted in response.
Seeing Natalie busy with a dining room full of customers, he went to the bar to fill the order himself. As he’d threatened, he’d brought in his uncle to work with his father. His father paid lip service to resentment, but Quinn noticed that he hadn’t put up much of a fight. Meanwhile, the search for a younger bartender was still on.
“How are you and Dad getting on?” Quinn asked his uncle quietly as he began filling the drink order for his table.
“He’s a gobaloon, and he’s always been a gobaloon,” his uncle grumbled. “But he’s blood. Can’t change that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn saw PJ beckoning him with his index finger.
“What’s up, my man?” Quinn asked.
“I read the first installment of your article. Very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve finished my book,” PJ continued happily. “It’s only seven hundred pages.”
Jesus God, thought Quinn. “You might want to edit it
down before sending it out.”
“Hmm,” PJ said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’ll cut the chapters with the talking eels.”
“I, too, thought your article was very impressive,” the Mouth chimed in. “Reminds me of the good old days of New York journalism: Breslin, Hamill. The days when—”
“Jaysus, would you ever shut your yap,” Quinn’s father begged. He looked at Quinn with tortured eyes. “He’s been going on about it all night. My ears are about to fall off my head.”
Quinn thanked the Mouth anyway.
“Quinn?”
His father’s expression was serious as he gently tugged him away from the lip of the bar.
“Yeah?”
“Your article . . .” His father’s eyes glistened with pride. “Your mother and I are very proud. I think it might be your best, son.”
Quinn coughed uncomfortably, overwhelmed with emotion. He’d been worried that his parents might withhold kudos because of the Liam situation. “Thank you, Dad,” he managed. “It really means a lot to me that you said that.”
“I rang Liam earlier to let him know the piece was on today’s front page.”
“I did, too. He was out.”
“Well, I caught him in. He said your cousin had a computer, and he would try to read it online. I told him how great it is, and he sounded dead pleased.”
“I’m going to try to catch him tomorrow.”
They’d talked twice in the past week. Liam had gotten a bartending job at Ballycraig’s only pub, the Royal Oak. The pub’s owner, Old Jack, was an old friend of their parents, and like their father, he was starting to slow down a bit. He’d jumped at the chance to employ Liam. Liam, in turn, had jumped at the chance to work.
His father patted his shoulder affectionately and moved toward Mrs. Colgan, who was holding her empty glass up in the air, bellowing, “When Rudy was alive I got faster service.”
“Daft cow,” Quinn heard his father say under his breath. He was right: Mrs. Colgan was nuts. All the regulars were nuts, which was part of the reason he loved them. Colorful was better than boring.
Drink orders filled, Quinn was moving out from behind the bar when the Major lightly touched his arm.
“Good job, boyo.”
Quinn squeezed the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“I hear your brother is doing well.”
“Yeah, thanks to you.” Quinn decided to take a risk. “I’d love to talk to you about your history sometime.”
The Major stiffened, and that darkness started to return to his eyes. “I’m sure your parents told you all you need to know. We’ll leave it at that.”
Then with a blink the darkness was gone, and the old man went back to reading his Irish Times. The issue was closed . . . forever.
Natalie couldn’t help but notice how buoyant the mood at Quinn’s table was as they closed out the bar, celebrating the publication of Quinn’s article, the one that had taken precedence over her in his life. When she’d served them their first round, he’d politely asked her if she’d read it yet, but she hadn’t. He seemed disappointed.
She was stacking glasses when she noticed a well-thumbed copy of the Standard on the bar. Quinn’s father had put it there, proudly showing it to everyone who came in. She hesitated a moment, checking to make sure Quinn was still safely ensconced with his now-drunken friends, then picked up the paper and began reading his article, despite the fact it made her feel as though a cold stone had suddenly lodged in the pit of her stomach.
It was apparent right from the beginning of the article that Quinn was an extraordinary reporter. Oddly, she’d never made an effort to read his work before; perhaps deep down, she’d always known on some level that his job would always come first, and she didn’t want to deal with her opponent, even if it was just cheap paper and ink.
She closed the paper. She should have known from how long he’d been working on the article that it would be in-depth and couldn’t be contained in one edition of the paper, and so it was running over the course of days. She stared at his byline beneath the blaring headline: “by Quinn O’Brien.” Quinn O’Brien, the best reporter in New York. She knew it was true, yet the appellation made her resentful. She was still angry with him. Still hurt. Even so, she knew she had to acknowledge the article and congratulate him. Otherwise, it would look as though she were going out of her way to ignore it. She didn’t want to appear petty, even though that was exactly how she was feeling.
Quinn’s uncle and father had gone down to the basement, leaving her to finish cleaning up, which she didn’t mind. She was almost done at the bar when Quinn walked over to her. He looked exhausted, as usual. She had never known a time when he hadn’t.
“Busy tonight,” he noted.
“Very. Your mother should hire another waitress.”
Quinn looked amused. “I dare you to tell her that.”
“No, thank you. I’ve learned my lesson on that front.”
“You’re family now, right? She might listen to you.”
They stood there, awkwardly facing each other. “You and your friends seem to be having a good time celebrating.”
“Yeah . . .” He seemed somewhat unenthusiastic, which baffled her. This was his big day of triumph, was it not?
Time to be gracious. “Your article was very good.”
“Thank you for reading it.” He gazed at her intently. “I put a lot of work into it, as you can see.”
“I hope it was worth losing me over and getting your brother sent off to Ireland,” Natalie blurted. She apologized immediately. “I’m sorry. That was a cruel thing to say.”
“It’s how you feel,” Quinn murmured. “Don’t apologize. I have to confess: I was hoping that if you read it, you’d understand why I couldn’t give you the attention you deserved while I was writing it.”
“Which means what? Now that you’re done with it, you can?” she asked sharply.
“Natalie.” Quinn looked remorseful. “You know I never meant to hurt you.”
“What are you working on now?” she made herself ask.
Quinn smiled sadly. “Do you really care?”
“No. I’m just trying to be polite.” A quiet desperation overtook her as she looked around the bar and realized that she wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear working here. Seeing him all the time was torture. Maybe she’d move back to Brooklyn and go back to work at Vivi’s. So what if there was nothing for her to do in Bensonhurst? Anything was better than the anger and ache roiling inside her when she saw him. Quinn cocked his head toward his friends. “Guess I’ll get back to the guys.”
“Congratulations again,” Natalie forced herself to say. “I hope everything turned out the way you wanted.”
Quinn headed back to his friends, all of whom were feeling no pain.
“Onward and upward,” said Durham, draining the last dregs of his beer. “I vote we hit Ronnie’s Lounge next.”
Ronnie’s was a lounge four blocks away from the Hart, a popular hangout for journalists working for all the papers in New York.
“I don’t know,” Quinn said uncertainly.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Rodriguez. “When have you ever not wanted to celebrate?”
“Yeah,” Rogan chimed in. “This is your night, pal. To savor. To boast. C’mon, don’t be a wet blanket.”
“Okay, okay,” Quinn acquiesced, feeling pressured not to let his friends down. “We’ll go to Ronnie’s.”
The bar was packed as always. When Quinn walked in, there was a slight change in mood. His colleagues at the Standard applauded, while reporters from the other papers glanced at him with a mix of envy and admiration. Still, even those whom he had scooped managed to make their way over to him and congratulate him, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.
One of his new colleagues, Tim Stewart, came over and draped his arm around his neck. “You bastard,” he said affectionately. “You realize you just made life harder for the rest of us, right? You’re the standar
d we’re gonna be measured by.”
“I thought I was the standard everyone was measured by for years.”
“Arrogant SOB. Anyway, all drinks are on us tonight, you got it?”
Quinn smiled weakly. “Got it.”
Jesus Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? He should have been exuberantly shitfaced by now. It was his night, but part of him couldn’t care less.
He accepted the whiskey from his colleague. Seconds later he found himself pinned against the bar being grilled by some cub reporter from the Post. Quinn was only half listening, his eyes drawn to his Sent friends. There was Rogan, divorced for years because his wife couldn’t take the erratic nature of his job. There was Durham, who was now sleeping on Quinn’s couch because his wife had thrown him out and he had nowhere else to go. Quinn’s eyes roved over the rest of the crowd; more than half the people he knew were lone wolves like him: journalists who lived from story to story with nothing else in their lives. Over half of them were guys in their fifties; they were either divorced or incapable of balancing a personal life with the adrenaline rush of their job. Like him, they’d go home alone tonight. They’d lie in their beds with their cell phones on, waiting for a call from an editor or a tip from a source. If nothing were going on, they’d get up the next day and head directly to the newsroom to see if anything juicy might come over the scanners. They’d race to scoop their opponents. And then they’d do it all over again the next day, and the next, and the next.
That’s when he realized that Natalie was right: his life was sad, selfish, and stupid. Even though he had tremendous respect for many of his colleagues, he was forced to ask himself: Is this really how he wanted to end up? Drunk in a bar with his fellow reporters, talking shop because they had nothing else in their lives? The answer hit him like a brick smashing down on his head: no. He’d had it all—the job, a woman who loved him—and he’d blown it, because he was so stupid and myopic he chose to put work first. Because he was so selfish he refused to bend while she gave and gave and gave, far past the point he deserved. His all-important article hadn’t been worth losing her and Liam. God, what a fucking moron he was.
With a Twist Page 29
