Under the Billionaire's Shelter - Jamie Knight Page 0,19

you wish.”

Despite the name, neon shamrock and sign declaring it an “authentic Irish pub,” McGinty’s was founded by a Russian immigrant by the name of Morolov. However, given the anti-Russian sentiment after the war and New York’s very large and rather old Irish population, Sergei decided to hedge his bets and deceptively bill it as 100% authentic Irish.

If you ask me, it turned out to be a good decision. Most people who weren’t local couldn’t tell the difference, and those of us who were local didn’t care.

It was surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening. All but five of the freshly painted spots in the parking lot were utterly vacant. Pulling up near the door, I slung myself down out of the truck cab, landing like a cat, owing to years of practice.

I could hear it before I got there. The European soccer playing on the wall-mounted TV, the only pub I had seen who did such a thing, accompanied by the raging fiddle music from the P.A. system. The only way Dimity, Sergei’s oldest son, could try any harder was if he made ‘top o’ the mornin’’ the official greeting and dressed the staff like leprechauns.

“You sent for me, mistress?”

“Not so loud,” Mercy chided.

“What?” I asked, in purest innocence.

“Hey, no judgement on anyone. I’m into a bit of bondage and spank from time to time, but I am firmly with the menfolk.”

“Oh,” I said, the quarter finally dropping.

“Relax, I’m just messing with ya,” Mercy said, nudging me playfully.

The origin of her name had become something of a family legend, with the usual amount of embellishment, contradictions and exaggeration. The brass tacks of it were that Mercy’s mom, a lifelong atheist, had gone into labor unexpectedly and with more than a few complications. Exactly what these were, was a matter of some conjecture. The long and the short of it was that Mercy’s mom was rushed to the local Sisters of Mercy, who saved not only her, but Mercy, too.

In gratitude, she named her first-born daughter after the hospital, forever after saddling her beloved daughter with the name Mercy McGee. The tradition among friends and co-workers alike was to refer to her either by her first or last name, depending on one’s level of familiarity. Anyone who called her both was treated with a death stare that could drop a rhino.

“What can I get ya?” Lara inquired.

“Guinness,” I said, sticking to the theme.

“Vodka on ice,” Mercy said, with a wink.

“Right,” Lara said, with the most subtle and friendly roll of her pretty blue eyes.

“Bitch,” I teased, when Lara was out of earshot.

“And you love it,” Mercy retorted.

“Touché.”

Both drinks came, free of spite spit, and Mercy paid with a fresh twenty from a thick wad, not actually believing in wallets. She knew they existed. Mercy wasn’t that kind of crazy. Although she did question their efficacy, especially when coupled with a purse, which she saw as just more for someone to steal. Her way, someone would have to get their hand inside her jacket. Something that lead to an elbow in the throat when done without permission.

“Pay day?” I asked her.

“Damn right. I fucking hate my job, but it does have its advantages.”

“Like a living wage?”

“Among others. You should ditch the goon squad and come work with me. With your sweet tones, you’d get lots of work,” she advised me.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling the warmth as crimson touched my cheeks.

“It’s not that bad. Just a bit of banter. Beats the hell out of stripping, I can tell you that much.”

“Yeah, but aren’t the guys, you know, creepy?” I inquired.

“Some. Mostly they’re just lonely and a bit pathetic. If I had normal, human emotions, I might feel sorry for them.”

“That’s not fair,” I objected.

“I know, but it feels like it sometimes.”

“You’ve always been a sweetheart to me,” I said, it being mostly true.

“That reminds me,” Mercy said, getting a wicked grin.

The last time I saw her grin like that, we both ended up on a bus in Hoboken wearing nothing but our unmentionables.

“Uh oh,” I muttered.

“Have you heard of Second Chance Bachelorette?”

“The online avatar game that was crazy popular for five minutes until people started mistaking it for real life?” I asked, mentally running through my memory file once again.

“No, that was Second Life; I mean the new online reality show.”

“I can’t say I’m familiar,” I confessed.

I was a traditionalist, using my computer mostly for music and videogames.

“It’s an interesting idea, really. They choose one lucky old hag, give her a