The front door of Gildea's Bar creaked open, snapping Gerry Gildea to attention. He stared at the light streaming into the open doorway, his flared, gray eyebrows knit together. Before he could even see who it was, he could hear the cane tapping.

"Oh, good Jesus, 'tis only the Bat O'Neill," Gerry leaned over and whispered to the two middle-aged men sitting on bar stools across the counter from him. "For a half a second there, I thought it might be you know who--come back to his senses, back for his 14 pound. Ha-ha, we're all right, 'tis only a cranky ould bastard, not a dangerous one."

The white cane tapped lightly upon the vinyl tiles and the bottom of the doorframe. Behind the cane an elderly man in a dirty trench coat, wearing a gray waterproof cap and with a green satchel over his shoulder, filled the doorway. His cap and coat and bag all dripped with the rain that fell outside.

"God bless all here. Though I'd have me doubts that even he would do that," the man said, his voice trailing off into a growl. He started forward, swinging his cane in low, wide sweeps until it clanged against the metal legs of the barstools. Then reaching out a massive hand, he grabbed a stool, stepped forward, and forced it in under the flaps of his trench coat. He straightened out his coat, and eased down on the stool. Once settled, he slid the cane's strap down over his wrist, gripped the counter with both hands, and pulled the stool up to the bar--grating the legs loudly on the floor. He removed the wet cap from his head, and stuffed it into the satchel. He set his elbows down on the counter, landing them in the middle of an array of torn, wet paper money spread out across the counter.

"Oh, for Jesus' sake Tom, you couldn't have picked a worse spot if you tried," Gerry said, rubbing his hands up and down on his gut.

"You're right," O'Neill answered. "But sure it'll have to do. On a dirty day like this, I can't be bothered going all the way up to the only decent public house in the town. Now less of your ould guff, and put the kettle on for a hot whiskey, will you?"

Gerry curled his bottom lip in between his teeth and stared at O'Neill's coat sleeves lying in the middle of the fragments of torn paper money.

"I don't hear the soft rumble of the kettle warming the water, Mr. Gildea," O'Neill said softly, his blank eyes looking straight ahead, and then raising his voice, he continued. "Is there a strike on here?"

"No, no, no. Will you have a bit of patience for God's sake--does nobody have any patience left in this world. You see, you're after putting your arms down right in the middle of a little, eh, a little, a little experiment that I was doing here this morning."

"Experiment? What experiment?"

O'Neill unfolded his arms. His huge hands padded around on the counter. Pieces of the torn money stuck to his hands. He scrapped one off and rolled it between his fingers.

"What's this? Money?" he asked.

"Ah, money, money, money," Gerry said raising his voice. "That's all anyone talks about nowadays. Here, give me them scraps of paper, will ya. A hot whiskey you'll have, is it?"

He stepped over to where O'Neill sat, and spread both his hands out flat, covering as many of the money fragments as he could. He drew the pieces down the counter. O'Neill meanwhile had started frantically to fish for more pieces with his hands and place them in a small pile in front of him.

"What is it, Gildea, did you plant a money tree?" O'Neill asked, laughing. His hands swatting the counter now. "Was it not easy enough for you to milk it out of us in here, you had to go and plant a tree for the money to fall off for you? Ha-ha. Who else is here?"

They raced against each other gathering up the torn money.

"Ah, just the usual crowd, Francie McDermott and Martin Hayes," Gerry answered, dragging two flat handsful of the money down the counter out of O'Neill's reach. "There you go now, Mr. O'Neill, I'll take that pile. That's the property of Gildea's Public House."

"My arse it is," O'Neill scoffed. He could locate no more of the torn money on the counter, so he worked at scraping the fragments off his coat sleeves. "If this was your property, Gerry Gildea, it'd be banked by now--wet or dry, torn or not." He scooped his pile of torn paper up into the palm of his right hand and stuffed it down into his green satchel.

"Excuse me, sir," Gerry stood erect, and glared into O'Neill's blank face. "That money was left here in payment for a disservice done to me and my premises, and you need to hand it over right now."

He slid the remaining few fragments down the counter to his pile.

"'Tis hardly possible to do you a disservice, Mr. Gildea. You are a disservice to yourself and to this town," O'Neill said, smiling and turning left and right. "Am I right Mr. McDermott, Mr. Hayes. Do you concur with my learned opinion?"

McDermott looked down into his drink, while Hayes fidgeted with his old tweed cap.

O'Neill waited a moment, still looking left and right.

"Aha, ye must be in on the scheme gentlemen," O'Neill raised his voice. "A conspiracy perhaps? Heh? There's nothing I like more than a conspiracy."

"No, Tom," McDermott answered, gripping his pint glass, and turning to look up in O'Neill's direction. "There was a bit of a scuffle here earlier this morning, a few young fellas took off in a hurry, and they left that money behind them. Of course, one of them man-aged to get in a last bit of destruction by tearing the money up before he left, and firing it in on top of all the broken glass and the drink they had spilled."

"Aha, they've broken their silence, and Mr. Hayes, have you any testimony to offer?" O'Neill asked, turning his large body fully toward them, and waving his white cane slowly in the air in front of them.

"Just what Francie said, that's all. Three right prigs they were, too," Hayes answered without looking at O'Neill.

"Hmmm," O'Neill hummed for a moment. He let the tip of the cane drop slowly. "The court would really like to reserve judgement until the other party can give testimony."

"Come on," Gerry's hand shot out. "Hand it over, the joke's over. The other 'party' is halfway to England by now, and I'm stuck here cleaning up the mess after them. Come on, hand it over."

"Not so fast," O'Neill replied, straightening himself back on his stool. "Not so fast. Who might the other party be?"

"Oh, them McCarthy thugs from up Pearse Road."

"Tommy McCarthy's young fellas?"

"The very ones."

"Oh, I'm sorry I missed them," O'Neill's face broke into a grin. "I would loved to have renewed my acquaintance with them. We shared some precious moments a few years back, when them little bastards of twins broke into my house."

"The twins it was that started all this. Oh, sure, we have all suffered at their hands--none more than me. Now come on and hand that money back over. Sure they had this place in pieces this morning. I'm only just through cleaning up the broken glass, and all the spilt drink, and even some blood. That little weasel faced twin bled in here out of pure spite. Just pure spite!"

"What happened?"

"Oh, just as you might imagine. In comes the three of them in their fancy English suits and shiny shoes, thinking they can rule the roost here like they probably do over yonder. Trying to treat us like a pack of eejits. Well, I wasn't long laying down the law, and let me tell you, they didn't like it one bit."

"No, I mean what really happened. Francie, Martin were ye here?"

"Oh, it's not unlike what Gerry says," Hayes answered, looking over at the publican. "Well, we got here just before the trouble started, but anyone could see that them skinny little twins were hell bent on destruction. Sure as Gerry says himself, it's in them, it's in the blood."

"And it's well you'd know it, Mr. Gildea," O'Neill spat out the words. "Where's my whiskey?"

"There'll be no whiskey until my property is returned to me."

"Your property? They're gone back to England, right? So," O'Neill brought his thick right forefinger up to the tip of his nose. "So, it would be reasonable to assume that they will not be returning to this jurisdiction for some time. Agreed?"

He turned toward Hayes and McDermott. They sat silently staring back at O'Neill.

"I take it you assent," he continued after a moment's silence. "Therefore the court rules that the money left behind by the aforementioned bastards is the sum total of their reparations to this town for their previous dastardly deeds. And." He drew in a deep breath, smiling into the space in front of him. "And as I too have 'suffered at their hands,' as Mr. Gildea put it, so eloquently and so originally, I feel it only just that I too should be compensated. In short, this money's mine to keep, Gerry."

"You can forget all your fancy talk now, and fork over what's rightfully mine, now, come on, right now, give it up." Gerry stubbed his finger on the counter, raising his voice. "Come on."

"Oh, my goodness, I've gotten between the cow and her calf," O'Neill laughed, turning his head toward McDermott and Hayes. "Maybe you would like to trade. How about this, I'll give you my share of the 'reparations,' and you give me a hot whiskey on the house."

"You're going to give it back then?"

"I'll swap it for a hot whiskey. I know I'm wasting my fortune, but what of it, I'm a fool, a terrible fool."

"You're going to give me back my property. And then I'm going to have to boil my kettle filled with my water, with electricity that I'm paying for, and use my sugar and lemon, and my whiskey and cloves to give you a free hot whiskey. All right. But it's me that's the fool, not you. Come on, fork it over. Anything for an easy life."

"There'll be a fair exchange when the whiskey is ready. My pile of torn, wet money for a nice hot whiskey--Bushmills, mind you. I'll not part with my fortune for anything less."

"You'll get what everybody gets in this house: Paddy. Bushmills! It's far from Protestant whiskey you were raised. Put the money back up on the counter where I can see it, and I'll start the kettle."

O'Neill reached into his satchel, drew out the glob of torn money, set it on the counter between his arms, and crossed his hands in front of the pile. Gerry watched until the money was back on the counter, then he turned and plugged in the kettle.

They all waited in silence. McDermott and Hayes looked down into their pints. Gerry stood with his back to the kettle, watching O'Neill cradling the money between his arms. The water in the kettle began to rumble.

Gerry took up a glass, dropped in a half a spoonful of sugar, leaving the spoon in the glass. He shook a pinch of cloves onto his palm, and slid two of them into the glass onto the sugar, returning the rest to the jar. Then, he sliced the lemon, and tossed the first crusty slice on top of everything else in the glass. The kettle had started into its low moan. His eyes fell back on the money between O'Neill's arms.

Gerry waited until the steam began to force its way out of the kettle's spout, then he unplugged it, and filled the glass with hot water. He eyed O'Neill and the pile of paper between his arms.

"All right, are you ready then," Gerry said, raising his voice. He remained next to the kettle. The steam wafted from the spout and disappeared into the air. "Are you ready for the swap."

"Ready? Isn't it me that's waiting over here for you. I thought you were distilling the whiskey it's taking so shagging long," O'Neill answered, grinning and turning his face to McDermott and Hayes.

Gerry turned with the glass of steaming water in his hand, and looked up at the whiskey bottle. He stared at the golden yellow whiskey in the bottle for a moment, and then turned back and set the glass down on the counter.

"Come on," he said sliding the glass around in a circle on the counter and winking over to McDermott and Hayes. "Hand it over--a fair exchange, as the fella says, is a fair exchange."

O'Neill opened his right hand to receive the glass, while his left he kept over the pile of money. Gerry slid the glass across the counter into the waiting hand. O'Neill tightened his fingers around the warm glass and released the money. Gerry snatched the money and immediately took two steps away. Reaching over, he plucked his own pile of money off the counter. He stared at the wet and withered currency cradled in his palms. He closed his hands and rolled both piles into a tight ball, tossed it six inches into the air, and caught it. He winked again at McDermott and Hayes, and then jammed the money ball down into his trousers pocket.

O'Neill warmed his hands around the glass, before he raised it to his mouth. He held it there for a moment, sniffing the steam.

"Well, I hope you're enjoying your drink there, Mr. O'Neill," Gerry laughed, stepping forward and bringing his fist down hard on the counter. He turned to McDermott and Hayes, his body shaking with the laughter.

"Oh, I should've known. Shame on me, Mr. Gildea, shame on me," O'Neill said quietly, returning the glass to the counter. "I knew my adversary well, perhaps too well, and yet still I let him cheat me."

"Cheat you? You've a funny shagging way of looking at it. Me cheat you?"

"I wasn't cautious enough, that's all, Mr. Gildea. My weakness, my Achilles' heel, God wrote right across my face, and still I forget about it. Shame on me, double shame. How and ever, it was worth a try."

"What in the name of the good Lord are you blabbing about now." Gildea stared at O'Neill, and then turned and looked over at McDermott and Hayes. "Here, give me that." He said, snatching the glass off the counter and jamming it up under the whiskey dispenser. A shot of golden yellow whiskey streamed into the glass. Gerry set the hot whiskey back down on the counter, and took O'Neill's fingers and wrapped them around the warm glass.

"Thanks, Gerry, I know you didn't have to do that. Thanks."

"Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Gildea said, reaching for the money ball in his pocket, and firing it into a slot in the open register drawer. "But it's a hard life a fella has to lead nowadays."

"'Tis only as hard as we make it for each other, Gerry. That's all it is, we're only the most of the hardness that's in life."

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