The side door of The Tipperary was open, propped that way by a case of empty bottles that predated the deposit law.
Coop didn’t even know why someone kept them, but the old, sturdy case had made a loyal doorstop.
The 1pm sun was bright, more than Coop would have liked. Noon was Coop’s sunrise, and he closed his Uncle Terry’s tavern at least four nights a week.
The new beer delivery guy was padlocking the back of his truck before every delivery of a five case handcart through the door of the bar.
The third time Coop said “I’m standing right here, kid. Nobody’s gonna do nothing. My family has owned this bar since your grandaddy was spitting up strained peaches.”
The delivery guy said, “Boss said to be extra careful in Lower Abbott.”
“Tell him Coop said…”
The gravel and dirt of the bar parking lot crunched.
Petey Breath was walking toward Coop.
The delivery driver took a look at Petey and looked at Coop as if to say “told ya so.”
Coop spit through his teeth.
“Petey, awfully early. You coming from the dentist?”
Petey shook his head.
He looked sad to Coop. Coop hadn’t seen it before. He looked sober too, and for sure Coop hadn’t seen that very often.
The delivery driver emerged with an empty hand cart.
“The instructions said to put the seven cases of McHugh’s Stout by the service bar, but I could only bring you two.”
Coop cracked his knuckles.
“It’s Saint Paddy’s Day tomorrow, you know that, right?”
Coop started to say more, but knew it wasn’t the kid’s fault. He texted Clayton, the sales rep.
“Hey Coop, I wanted to…ummm… I need…”
Coop looked up at Petey
“You need a loan Petey?”
The big man shook his head no, emphatically no.
It made Coop feel bad for joking about it.
“I’m not gonna come in no more. I can’t,” Petey Breath said. “I mean I could…”
Coop could smell the infamous bad breath that got Petey the nickname.
His height and girth were casting a welcome shadow on Coop, but the melancholy was dripping off him in waves.
“I can’t…can’t drink no more, Coop. I been known that for a while, really. But I just found out I got a five year old son. I gotta–”
“Congratulations Pete!” Coop said.
Petey nodded his thanks, but his face was still a lugubrious mass of mottled flesh with a small shamrock tattooed on his cheek.
“I guess the kid…my son, I guess…no, I mean my son, really, has some issues. Like neuro something or other, they called it. I dunno. He doesn’t talk much.But anyway, he’s mine, and his mom…needs help…”
Coop thought the big guy was gonna start straight up bawling.
Coop grabbed Pete’s upper arm. His fingers didn’t come close to reaching around the bicep and tricep. It almost looked like he was swatting a bug on Petey’s arm rather than grabbing.
“You’re gonna be a good dad, Petey. You’re making the right choice, I wish I had a-”
A clean blue compact pulled into the lot, bottoming out the front undercarriage with an ugly scrape.
A magnet on the side read Cambert Distributors.
Petey turned back to Coop.
“Tell everyone not to serve me, Coop. I ain’t coming in no more, but in case I fuck up and do come in…I just…I gotta quit. I can’t be in the pub no more. I gotta try to be…something…better.”
Coop hugged Petey, who seemed shocked by it, but then returned it.
“I’m proud of you Petey. Really. Truly. Go be a good dad. I know you will be.”
Clayton rushed up to Coop with a fancy tablet in his hand and a clear bag full of green buttons.
Coop called “This rickety old joint is gonna miss you, Petey.”
Petey turned and smiled, then walked down Trotter Street, disappearing in front of The Tipperary.
“You’re gonna miss that guy? Clayton said, with a strange sneer. “Isn’t he the guy that fought all the time? I swear Evan said-”
Coop laughed, the kind of short, choking laugh that darts out in front of anger.
Coop leaned in to the sales rep.
“Listen,” Coop said, looking with one eye at the delivery driver padlocking the back of his truck for the fourth time and the other eye on the rep with the pressed oxford shirt, “Anybody who thinks Petey is a bad guy needs to pull their head out of their undershorts. He fought a hundred times so nobody else had to. I got three dozen guys and a handful of girls who would have fought when there was trouble, but if they’d have gone home with a black eye, a busted nose, they either would have never come back, or called a lawyer.Petey always answered the bell. This is Lower Abbott. If I hire an official bouncer, he’s gotta carry, otherwise he’s a target. For every fight Petey had, there were fifty more that didn’t happen because he was here. Guys like that are priceless to old bars in rusty-ass little neighborhoods like this one. I can replace you. I can’t replace him.”
Coop took the bag of buttons out of Clayton’s hand.”What the hell is this? I don’t need glow in the dark buttons with leprechauns promoting beer, I need beer.”
The sales rep shuffled his feet.
“I’m sorry, Coop. Megawings ordered like thirty cases of McHugh’s and-”
Coop lifted the rep off his feet by his clean white oxford, the embroidered Cambert Distributing logo crumpling in Coop’s fist.
“Find me more McHugh’s. Take it back from that damn wing chain, or swim to Ireland for all I care.”
Clayton looked shocked. He squirmed in Coop’s grip, and Coop, for the first time,wished that he had Petey’s breath.
***
Damn straight. Happy Saint Paddy's day.
Coop knows business and means business.