As the Moon Climbs

“I wish you wouldn’t hang around those places,” Daisy said.

Jim sighed. “It’s not dangerous like the Feds say. We just—”

Daisy held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about speakeasies.”

“Fine. I’ll be home later.”

The early March weather was cool but sunny, unusual for Boston, and he wished not for the first time that the federal dress code wasn’t so strict. Short sleeves would have been nicer than a hat and coat.

He arrived at the grocery store, waving at Earl behind the register. Jim made a show of examining the items on the shelves before ducking through a door in the back.

“Hey, Jimmy!” Al said, slapping his arm. “You ready for the tasting?”

“What’ve we got?” Jim asked.

Al grinned. “In honor of Barry’s new baby, we’re opening the 1918 scotch.”

Jim whistled. “90 years basking in its own glory.”

“And unlike women, it gets better with age.” Al winked and poured them each a shot of the amber liquid. “Cheers.”

The scotch burned through their veins, forbidden as the fire of Prometheus.

“Good morning, Mr. Poole.” Nola Shields stood in the living room of her employer’s downtown penthouse, her black suit neatly pressed, her shoes shined.

“Good morning, Ms. Shields.” Roy Poole examined the clothes she had laid out for him. “Red tie today? Government work?”

“Yes, sir. You have an appointment with the senator for brunch, after a meeting with the board.”

Poole dressed while Ms. Shields apprised him of his schedule for the day, then briefed him on pertinent news and financial indicators. By the time she finished knotting his tie, he was ready to work.

“How are your ribs feeling, by the way?” he asked. “And your eye? I don’t see a bruise.”

“Makeup, Mr. Poole. I’m a little sore but the painkillers manage that.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her muscles stiffen. “You sure you’re in fighting form? If more of Delgado’s thugs come after me—”

“I’ll kill them, too,” she replied coolly. “Sir.”

With a laugh, Poole patted her arm. “You’re a hard woman, Ms. Shields. Keep it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last confession.”

“Only four days, my child?”

“Yes, father.”

“Well, confess your sins to the Lord.”

“I have… lusted, father.”

“That is a cardinal sin, but in the Lord you will find forgiveness.”

“But father, I lusted after a young boy. In this Church.”

“You have not acted on this feeling?”

“I… I have, father. Can I be forgiven?”

“T-tell me what happened.”

“He’s one of the altar boys. He arrived early for mass one day and I cornered him in the dressing room while he was putting on his robes. I made him… do things. I told him if he told anyone, God would punish him.”

“Y-you… who are you? How did you—”

“I’m sorry, father, did that story sound familiar? Perhaps you’re the one who should be confessing.”

“Get out of here before I—”

“Before you what? Call for help? We’re alone. How far do you think you can get before I strike you down where you stand?”

“But I… you…”

“I am the Lord’s messenger, and his message is death.”

“I love St. Patrick’s Day!” the cute, drunk brunette told Dave. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Behind them, the band played a treacly version of Danny Boy, with the crowd in the bar singing along to the few bits that people knew.

“My name’s Tina,” she said, leaning close. “Is that Guinness? I love Guinness!”

“It’s Murphy’s,” he muttered. “Guinness isn’t the only Irish stout, ye know.”

“Oh my gawd!” she squealed. “You’re Irish! Say something in Irish.”

“Sorry, I only speak English. And I’m not—”

Tina turned and shouted, “Hey, Mandy, this guy is Irish!”

Another drunk girl stumbled over. “I love Irish guys!” Her breath was worse than her friend’s, but she was also better looking so it evened out.

“Ah, bollocks,” Dave said, shrugging mentally. He smiled broadly and wrapped an arm around each girl. “Why don’t I buy you ladies a drink and tell you all about Ireland?”

They squealed and snuggled into him happily as he ordered the round. Now, he wasn’t about to tell them that he was really Scottish.