III.

The ambiance of Molly's was one of perpetual dark. Whether it was noon or late, sunny or stormy, inside Molly's there was a consistently comforting gloom. Banker's lamps glowed against the mirror behind the bar. A television hung from the wall at the end of the bar, emitting neither picture nor sound. The bartender was a twenty-something redhead with his shirtsleeves rolled up tight around his biceps.

"Hey, Henry. Good day or bad?"
"Good," I answered and Nick prepared a Guinness from the tap.
"How's Shelley?"
"Have you seen her?"
"Not as of late. Haven't you?" Nick walked away, words trailing off, to tend to a pair of blondes at the end of the bar.
A few minutes later Nick returned. "Menu?...

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