Prologue

May 17, 2000

McCarthy’s was just what you’d expect of an Irish pub located just blocks from a police station in New York City.  It was warm and inviting to off-duty officers looking for a place to unwind after a hard shift.  It didn’t draw in crowds with Wednesday night karaoke or weekend garage bands trying to make it to the big time.  It was clean and well kept—“dive” was not a word that would ever be associated with McCarthy’s.

The bar itself was cherry, polished to a shine almost bright enough to compensate for the muted lighting in the establishment.  It spanned the long end of the main room from front to back with an opening on either end for bartenders and wait staff to come and go.  The tables and chairs scattered throughout the pub came in a mishmash of sizes and shapes, chosen for functionality rather than aesthetics.

There was a television situated overhead on one corner of the bar that offered news and sitcom reruns as often as sports, except during baseball season when faithful customers preferred the almost daily “Yankees game or Mets game?” squabbles rather than seeking out a multi-screen sports bar in the neighborhood.  A jukebox in one corner played music from first draft to last call and the bar’s clientele never seemed to argue or complain about the eclectic choices, from traditional Irish folk songs to classic rock to country to jazz.

In addition to the hard liquor for the hard drinkers, several domestic and foreign beers were on tap and neither the Guinness nor the Harp ever ran dry at McCarthy’s.  Though the bar was the primary moneymaker, there was also a limited menu consisting of traditional Irish fare as well as sandwiches, fries, appetizers and other easy-to-make, easy-to-eat meals.  Food was more commonly ordered to go—the tables were primarily for socializing and drinking, the bar strictly so.

The owner, who also ran the bar most nights, was Mick Finnegan, a native-born Irishman who decided, after graduating high school back in the 1960s, to come to New York on a lark.  He never left and neither did his brogue.  Though he blustered and barked about it, he secretly enjoyed it when his customers called him Mickey Finn.  He was nearly as wide as he was tall—which wasn’t very—and liked to claim that he was as stout as his beer.  His florid face, grass green eyes, and firecracker temper hinted he may have once been an Irish redhead but not a hair remained on his shining pate these days.  Horrified by a premature and rapidly receding hairline, he had shaved it all off more than a decade prior.

Tonight he was presiding over a sparsely populated room.  It was the middle of the week, well past dinnertime but too early for the late night regulars.  In one corner of the bar was a small group of off-duty police officers celebrating a birthday.  They were noisy but more or less civilized.

“Mickey Finn!  Gimme ‘nother roun’ fer all ma friends!” shouted the guest of honor in a thickly slurred voice, waving his arm to include the entire bar.

“Lucky for your wallet your birthday wasn’t on a Friday, O’Callaghan!” Mick called back as he did a quick headcount of the small group to determine how many bottles he needed to send over.

“One more for me, too, Mick.  Enrique’s driving tonight.”

The dark-haired, dark-eyed young man approaching the bar could have passed for Aidan O’Callaghan’s brother, though he was taller and leaner than the birthday boy.  He rested his arms heavily on the bar while he waited for Mick to pop the tops.

“You be wantin’ me to give you a job waitin’ tables, Danny Boy?”

Dan Mangan grinned.  “No.  Just thought I’d give Jenna a break from Aidan’s wandering hands.”

“I’m surprised the lad hasn’t gotten a pitcher of beer over his head tonight.”

“I think Jenna’s cutting him a break, seeing as how the poor guy’s in mourning.”

“Mourning?”  Mick glanced over at the boisterous group and raised one pale eyebrow.  “They’re making a good Irish wake look like doomsday.”

Dan affected a doleful expression and an equally pitiful accent.  “Aye, but it’s the lad’s big 2-5.  He’s a quarter of a century old and fearin’ he might have to grow up one o’ these days.  Settle down with a wife and kids.”

Mick crossed his beefy arms and stared disdainfully down at Dan, which wasn’t easily accomplished as he was a good six inches shorter.  “I do believe your brogue’s gettin’ worse every day, Mangan.  When you gonna give it up?”

“When’re you giving yours up?” Dan shot back.  He tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth and grinned wickedly at the bartender.

“Careful there now, Danny.  I wouldn’t want to see your pretty face endin’ up in Hades for blasphemy.”

Dan chuckled as he clumsily picked up half a dozen opened bottles of beer in his hands and turned to go.

Mick had noticed that Dan had been spending a lot more time at McCarthy’s of late.  He wasn’t much of a drinker but he often spent his non-working hours hanging around the bar watching the Mets game, chatting with Mick and the other employees, or having a beer or two with his fellow officers.  And once or twice a week, he’d have a meal there with one or more of his friends from back home.

Dan had celebrated his quarter century birthday last month with far more actual mourning than his friend was currently exhibiting.  He hadn’t been depressed that he was celebrating “the big 2-5” but that he was celebrating it without his wife.

Trixie Mangan, or Special Agent Beatrix Belden Mangan as she was known on the job, was a Secret Service agent in Washington, D.C.  She had been gone since the beginning of the year, taking a high profile position on First Daughter Zoey Bartlet’s protective team while the President’s youngest daughter attended college at Georgetown University.

It was a hard gig but more so for Dan and the rest of Trixie’s family than it was for Trixie herself.  Dan’s birthday wasn’t the only holiday she had missed, and it wasn’t his birthday but hers that had seen him really down in the dumps.

He had been at McCarthy’s Thursday night, April 27th, joyfully toasting his weekend trip to Washington.  And he had been back in McCarthy’s Monday night, May 1st—Trixie’s birthday—drowning his sorrows over a weekend trip cut unexpectedly short.  He and his wife had had a fervent reunion and a romantic moonlit tour of Washington Friday night before she had been unexpectedly called back to duty on Saturday morning.

Mick knew Dan understood the demands of his wife’s job.  The Secret Service had visited the Mangans in a lengthy home interview that had, in part, spelled out in no uncertain terms how difficult the job was emotionally, not only for the agent but for family and friends left behind.  It wasn’t a lifetime assignment—due to the stress of the job it would be a three to five year stint at most.  It was her dream to follow and Dan was fully supportive.  But understanding and accepting were two different things.  Dan Mangan simply missed his wife.

Her days off had been rescheduled—and then ­un-rescheduled—for this past weekend, meaning that Dan had chalked up another missed holiday—Mother’s Day and Trixie’s best friend’s first.  Several summer birthdays were coming up, and their “first second anniversary”, Dan said.  Mick wanted to ask him what that meant but Dan was so gloomy, he had decided to leave the query for another time.

Mick wasn’t sure Dan would have called last night a “breaking point” but it certainly had been tense.  The young officer had come in for a bite to eat before heading off to his graveyard shift.  Trixie had called and while Mick wasn’t actively eavesdropping, he had caught enough bits and pieces of the speakerphone conversation to know it wasn’t a cheerful one.

Trixie had apologized again for missing the weekend in New York.  Dan had accepted her apology then asked when she thought she might be able to make it up.  This weekend?  No, not this weekend.  She said she’d try for Mart’s birthday weekend coming up in June.  She had asked for their anniversary off, right?  Yes, she had.  It was still three months away so he really shouldn’t be stressing about it now.

Trixie and Dan hadn’t argued, not loudly anyway, but the conversational tone wasn’t exactly what Mick would’ve expected from a newlywed couple.

A loud burst of laughter from the table in the corner brought Mick back to attention.  Dan had been drinking tonight, not enough to make him falling down drunk but certainly more than the one or two beers that was his usual limit.  He and Trixie were only four months into this assignment of hers.  Would they make it four more years?

A news bulletin interrupted the Yankees game and Mick scowled at the television for a moment as the reporter came on the screen.  The tag at the bottom left read, “Rosslyn, VA”, and underneath that, “Shots Fired at President Bartlet and Staff”.  Even as Mick stared at the screen in shock, the story tag was updated.  “Shots Fired at President Bartlet and Daughter”.

“Danny!” Mick shouted.  He fumbled for the volume button on the remote.

“…unknown at this time.  President Bartlet has been taken from the scene, as has his youngest daughter, Zoey Bartlet…”

“Danny!  Get over here!” Mick barked.  “Now!”

Dan sensed the urgency and came jogging over, turning his eyes to the screen as Mick pointed the remote that way and turned up the volume a little more.  Any false cheer the alcohol had temporarily provided evaporated as he stared at the chaotic scene in front of Rosslyn’s Newseum and listened to the reporter’s terse commentary.

“...that shots were fired on the crowd gathered here following President Bartlet’s live Town Hall Meeting.  The extent of injuries is unknown at this time and we have no word on the President’s condition or that of Zoey Bartlet, who was in attendance to hear her father speak.  However, paramedics are on the scene and they are reporting casualties here in the crowd, including at least one member of President Bartlet’s staff and one Secret Service agent.”

Mick turned and was astounded to see that the young man he had been talking to just moments earlier had aged ten or twenty years in a matter of seconds.  His normally dark face was ashen.  He gripped the edge of the bar like it was the deck of the Titanic.  Mick had to lean closer to hear what emanated from his pale, dry lips.

“Trixie.”

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Author's Notes

Prologue (1,807 words)

Thanks, as always, to my stalwart editors Heather and Ruth and especially to my dear friend and fellow Wingnut Annette, who found time to gush over my story despite all that real life is hitting her with these days.  This story is dedicated to her and to her brother Darrell.

A quick Google search shows there is, or rather was, a McCarthy’s Bar in New York City.  However, from the description I found in a review for New York Magazine online, I think it’s clear I wasn’t basing my McCarthy’s on the real thing:

“One of the diviest dive bars Manhattan has to offer, McCarthy's is so rickety it seems a small gust of wind could blow the thing down...McCarthy's hosts raucous and crowded New York Dart League competitions on Monday and Tuesday nights, which must keep this bar going when it reverts to a creepy ghost town the other five nights a week.”

My McCarthy’s is very loosely based on a bar of the same name (that does not serve food) here in Lexington.

Guinness and Harp are Irish beers.  I’m sure they’re trademarked.  Not mine, no profit here.  Move along.

The stars and stripes background is from Absolute Background Textures and the header photo is from Stock.xchang. The stars and stripes section divider is from Clip Art Borders. 

Except for my created characters (Mick Finnegan, Aidan O’Callaghan), all characters either belong to Random House (Trixie Belden) or Warner Brothers (The West Wing) and are borrowed lovingly and with much respect.