Free The Scrapper by Brendan O'Carroll Page A

the looks on their faces that they wouldn’t.
    So if the people of Snuggstown West had decided that Fintan was connected with the IRA, and that kept peace in his pub, then so be it.
    Fintan was taking advantage of the fact that it was early evening and the pub only had about five or six customers. He was standing at the end of the bar, musing over a crossword puzzle. About forty years of age, he had silvery blond hair tied in a ponytail. Behind him an open fire blazed away, throwing an orange flicker across one side of his face and body. The heat was gorgeous.
    There was just one barman on duty, PJ Duff, a local lad. PJ couldn’t believe his luck when the pub just around the corner from his home had reopened and he had secured a job as a barman. PJ hadn’t had a steady job for three years. He was thrilled with the position, and enthusiastic too. Even though the bar was not busy, PJ was working his way along the shelves polishing the bottles. He was that kind of man – he couldn’t sit still and would always find something to do. Fintan took another sip from his coffee cup and spoke a crossword clue aloud.
    ‘Backing in to a railway. Mmm.’ He was so engrossed that he barely noticed when the four people entered the lounge. The other customers noticed, however, and all but two of them left abruptly. Simon Williams, his wife Angie and the Morgan boys settled themselves at the bar. PJ wiped his hands and turned to the customers.
    ‘What’ll it be …’ PJ froze in mid-sentence. He glanced over at Fintan. But Fintan didn’t even look up from his newspaper.
    PJ went back to his customers. ‘Hello, Mr Williams, what can I get yeh?’ PJ’s hands were shaking now.
    ‘Em, three pints of Budweiser and a glass of Guinness, son,’ Simon ordered.
    ‘With blackcurrant!’ Angie added.
    ‘Eh, the Guinness with blackcurrant, son,’ Simon confirmed.
    PJ quickly began to get the drinks. The shaking in his hands was still there and he was perspiring with nervousness. Again he glanced at Fintan who seemed to be still engrossed in his crossword.
    Simon, thanks to PJ’s glances, now knew who the bosswas. He looked down the bar at Fintan as he lit a slim cigar. Taking a long, slow draw from the cigar he turned to Bubbles Morgan. ‘Bubbles, go out and tell Sparrow to come in, we could do with a laugh. This place is fuckin’ dead.’ Bubbles nodded and left quickly.
    Now Fintan looked up. His eyes met Simon’s eyes. Both men stared at each other, expressionless. It was Simon who looked away as the barman placed the last of the drinks on the counter.
    ‘That looks like a nice pint, son, well done!’
    Again PJ glanced at Fintan. Fintan had turned and was walking to the CD jukebox. He inserted a coin. He flipped through the albums, mulling over his decision.
    PJ, more nervous than ever now, looked at Simon, his voice trembling. ‘Seven-eighty!’
    ‘Ten, twenty, thirty! How do you play this game?’ Teddy asked sarcastically.
    PJ glanced nervously towards Fintan. Fintan had his back to everyone. ‘The … eh … drink, that’s the price of the drink. Seven pounds and eighty pence.’
    ‘Well, now, that’s nice to know, isn’t it, Mr Williams?’ Teddy said as he lifted his pint and took a swig.
    ‘Absolutely! It’s nice to keep abreast of the cost of living,’ Simon replied, and he handed the glass of Guinness to Angie, who was getting excited, lusting for a fight.
    Fintan now turned around and walked in behind the bar. He went up to the group.
    PJ looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McCullagh, it’s …’
    Fintan put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘That’s fine, son, don’t worry about it! You get yourself a cup of coffee and I’ll look after the bar. Go on now, son, have awee break.’ Fintan straightened up a few bottles and wandered up to Simon’s group.
    ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Falcon Inn –
my
pub!’
    Teddy shifted uncomfortably. Simon, mid-mouthful, stared over