Free Death at Christy Burke's by Anne Emery

—”
    “Fuck!” Finn muttered, and thumped the TV off with a punch of his fist.
    The regulars raised eyebrows and exchanged glances but made no comment.
    Immigration might be a topic to avoid with Finn, Brennan reflected. But there was no lack of other subjects of conversation in the pub. Somebody piped up from a table in the rear, and described his luck the day before at the Leopardstown races. His horse was seconds from the finish line, promising big returns, when he, the horse, fell and broke his leg and had to be put down. Things had gone better at Croke Park, someone else noted; Dublin had trounced Kildare in hurling. This set off a round of sports talk, and Frank Fanning sought Finn’s views on the hurling season so far. But Finn had the appearance of a troubled man as he stood behind his bar with the TV battered into silence at his side.

Chapter 3
    Brennan
    Brennan Burke enjoyed a drink, to be sure, but it wasn’t every day you would find him in a guzzling den ten minutes after opening time. On Wednesday morning, though, after early Mass at the John’s Lane church, he had headed out for a stroll and then decided to visit Christy’s to have a look around the place, the scene of the crime, without people eyeing his every move. When he got to the pub, he took a walk around outside the building, calling to mind Kevin McDonough’s description of the scene the morning after the latest incident of vandalism: the unfinished message, dripping paint, whiskey glass propped against the wall, clumps of turf disturbed by the tires of a vehicle.
    When Brennan entered the pub, there was just one lonely soul drinking at a back table. The man looked up, kept Brennan in his gaze for a few seconds, then returned to his pint. Brennan stood at the bar and peered into the shadows. Yes, Finn was back there, cutting up some boxes and doing other chores. It wasn’t long before he sensed his nephew’s presence and emerged to greet him.
    “Morning, Brennan. You’re here to add an element of respectability to the place, are you?” He gestured to the Roman collar.
    “Things are going to change around here, Mr. Burke. You’re looking at the reincarnation of Father Mathew.”
    “God help us and save us.”
    They shared a laugh at the idea of Ireland’s early “Apostle of Temperance” coming to life again in the unlikely form of Brennan Burke.
    “Actually, I was out for a walk and decided to survey the crime scene. But I didn’t learn much, I have to say.”
    “I hear you. But sit down and rest from your labours. What will you have?”
    “I feel Father Mathew asking for a ginger ale.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I am. It will do me for now.”
    Finn poured him the drink and waved away his currency. “Help yourself to the papers.”
    Brennan saw the Irish Independent and the Irish Times folded on the bar, so he thanked Finn and took them to a table by the window. He sat, had a sip of his drink, and spread the Times out before him. He looked over at the bar and saw Finn’s face, partly obscured as always by the dark glasses, turned in the direction of the man at the back of the pub. The man paid no attention. Brennan directed his attention to his papers. There was a short piece on the Reverend Merle Odom, still missing a week after vanishing from the streets of Belfast; Brennan would have to make sure Michael O’Flaherty didn’t try to involve himself in whatever was going on there. God love Michael for his tender heart and the loving eyes through which he regarded the land of his forebears. Michael would walk through a bombed-out store front in Derry and see a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow made by the sun blazing through the shards of glass. But he’d be all right as long as he didn’t meddle in the Belfast crisis; there was no pot of gold waiting at the end of that.
    Brennan was jolted by a sudden loud bang as the front door flew open and several men burst into the pub. Before he could take in what was happening,