Free Shamrock Alley by Ronald Damien Malfi

been interested in visiting Charlie Lowenstein. Aside from his wife, Ruby, no one had. In a last-ditch effort to catch a break, Kersh had pulled the telephone logs from the Lowenstein residence, on the off chance Ruby Lowenstein had been passing information between her husband and any known criminals. Yet none of the names on the toll reports matched any known street guys. Lowenstein was a dead end.
    Kersh stood and popped the tendons in his back. He thought of sleep—thought of his single bed in the remoteness of his apartment, cloaked in darkness, the shade of the tiny window across from his bed drawn against the harsh glare of too many streetlights. Moving across the floor, the carpet crackling with static, he could hear someone running a vacuum down the hallway.
    Earlier in the day, a C-note came in with some handwriting scrawled along one side, too small and cramped to read. It was a long shot—what passer would be so careless?—but Kersh brought the note down to the Forensic Services Division nonetheless. The FSD examiners ran the handwriting sample through FISH, the Forensic Information System for Handwriting, to see if they could come up with a match, but it was a futile attempt.
    “Just some arbitrary scribble. You were expecting to hit the jackpot?” one of the technicians had asked Kersh nonchalantly.
    Kersh only shook his head and scratched at his unshaven throat. He was grasping at straws and suddenly felt very aloof, like a small child abandoned in the middle of a desert wasteland. “You guys have any fresh coffee down here?” was his response.
    Now, looking at the money spread out across his desk, he continued to wonder how Francis Deveneau managed to stumble across it. His mind ran over scenarios, too esoteric and bumbling to be spoken aloud.
    He shuffled through the description sheets sent in along with the counterfeit money from various banks in the past week: a fake hundred from some expensive downtown boutique; two more from a department store; another hundred from an upscale restaurant. Green and black ink printed on crinkled paper—some folded lengthwise, some dog-eared and damaged, some smeared with grease or frayed at the corners. So many bills … so many people to handle it all. There could be hundreds of fingerprints. Pieces of paper. That was all—just
paper
. Paper that ran the world.
    What was the solution to the equation? He couldn’t see it.
    As if startled by some unseen force, Bill Kersh suddenly looked at his watch, grabbed his coat, and shuffled out of the office.

    Sloopy Black was the living embodiment of the Paradise Lounge. Like the club, Sloopy was a narrow structure with nondescript features, and his skin was the color of smoke-stained cinderblocks. His eyes were so close together they nearly shared an eye socket, and his teeth—or what remained of them—were encased in so much gold that if a smile was executed, neon lights from the Paradise Lounge flecked off them like stars in some distant galaxy. Around him, like a mist of invisible insects, hung an odor three parts alcohol, one part something frighteningly similar to putrefaction. When he talked, Sloopy was inclined to run his tongue between his thick, livery lips with such feverish rapidity that it wouldn’t have surprised Kersh if, on any particular occasion, the man’s tongue simply fell out of his face.
    Kersh was late meeting Sloopy, and when he first stepped into the Paradise Lounge, he thought perhaps the sleazy creature either had already split or hadn’t shown up at all. Then he caught Sloopy’s fervent wave from across the club and headed in the man’s direction. Of course Sloopy wouldn’t skip the meeting; none of Bill Kersh’s informants ever skipped their meetings. Meetings made them feel important. Besides, Kersh bought them drinks.
    “Hello, Sloopy. Sorry I’m late.”
    “Awright, Mr. Bill. It’s mighty cold outside tonight anyhow.” Wasting no time, the incredible flitting tongue made its