In Death 06 - Vengeance in Death

brag about. Besides, your fingers wouldn't be so light these days."
    "I'm sure you're right. A man loses his touch with age." Smiling, he held out the badge he'd lifted out of her pocket. "I think this is yours. Lieutenant."
    She snatched it back and struggled to be neither amused nor impressed. "Show-off."
    "I could hardly let you disparage my reputation. And here we are." He stopped again, studying the pub. "The Penny Pig. Hasn't changed much. A bit cleaner maybe."
    "It could be readying for competition for the tidy village award."
    It was unimposing from the outside. The grilled window boasted a painting of a sly-eyed white pig. No flowers bloomed here, but the glass was free of smears, the sidewalk free of litter.
    The minute Roarke opened the door she felt the rush of heat, the jittery flow of voices and music, the cloud of beer fumes and smoke.
    It was one long, narrow room. Men were lined at the old wooden bar. Others, including women and young children, were packed onto chairs around low tables where glasses crowded the space. At the far end at a tiny booth sat two men. One played a fiddle, the other a small box that squeezed out a jumpy tune.
    High on the wall was a mini view screen with the sound turned off. On it a man struggled to ride a bicycle down a pitted lane and continued to take tumbles. No one appeared to be watching the show.
    Behind the bar two men worked, pulling drafts, pouring liquor. Several people glanced over as they entered, but the conversations never lagged.
    Roarke moved to the end of the bar. He recognized the older of the bartenders, a man of his own age who'd once been thin as a rail and filled with wicked humor.
    While he waited for service, he lifted a hand to Eve's shoulder and rubbed absently. He was grateful to have her beside him when he took this short trip into the past.
    "Guinness, a pint and a glass please."
    "On the way."
    "What am I going to be drinking?" Eve demanded.
    "The heart of the realm," Roarke murmured, and watched his old friend build the drinks with an admirable expertise. "It's an acquired taste. If you don't care for it, we'll get you a Harp."
    Eve narrowed her eyes against the smoke. "Don't they know tobacco's been banned in public places?"
    "Not in Ireland it hasn't, not in the pubs."
    The bartender came back with the drinks. Eve lifted hers to sip while Roarke dug more coins from his pocket. Her brows drew together at the first sip, then she shook her head with the second. "Tastes like something I should chew."
    Roarke chuckled and the bartender beamed. "You're a Yank then. Your first Guinness?"
    "Yeah." Eve frowned at the glass, turning it slowly while examining the dark brown liquid with its foamy white head.
    "And your last as well?''
    She sipped again, holding the beer in her mouth for a moment, then swallowing. "No. I think I like it."
    "That's fine then." The bartender grinned widely, and neatly nudged Roarke's coins back. "You'll have the first on me."
    "That's kind of you, Brian." Roarke watched Brian turn from admiring Eve to study him.
    "Do I know you? There's a familiar look about you that I'm not quite placing."
    "It's been fifteen years, more or less, so your memory might be dim even after all the times we had. I recognized you right enough, Brian Kelly, though you've added a stone or two. Perhaps three." Roarke flashed a grin, and it was the grin that did it.
    "Well, bloody hell, lock up your women. It's Roarke himself." Brian's lips stretched in a mile-wide grin as he rammed a fist into Roarke's face.
    "Christ Jesus" was the best Roarke could do as his head snapped back. He kept his balance, shook his head to clear it.
    "Sucker punch," Eve commented, and took another sip of stout. "Nice pals you've got, Roarke."
    "I owed you that." Brian shook a finger. "You never did come back with the hundred pounds that was my fair share of the cargo money."
    Philosophically Roarke swiped the back of his hand over his cut lip to blot the blood. After the briefest of pauses, both the music and the hum of conversation continued. "It would have cost me more than a hundred pounds to come back at that point with the guarda on the prowl." Roarke picked up his pint, sipped to soothe his mouth. "I thought I sent it to you."
    "Hell you did. But what's a hundred pounds between friends." With a roaring laugh, Brian grabbed Roarke's shoulders, yanked him over the bar, and kissed him dead on his bleeding mouth. "Welcome home, you bloody bastard. You there!" He