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With His Dying Breath chapter 3: page 2 of 3

     A sudden commotion erupted near the bar. Heads jerked around toward the sharp sound of a shriek, followed by the crash of glass. A thunderous voice rose up over the general din.

"Out! The both o’ ye!"

Sweeney leaped up nervously at the first crash, then eased back down as the huge gray-haired barman, Joe Gilmore, parted the crowd like the Red Sea and grabbed the two previously leering drunks. He hoisted them up by their collars and propelled them flailing out the front door, their feet barely touching the floor. One of them howled with pain all the way to the street.

Back where the commotion had started, the blush on the sexy young dancer’s face was visible to the far corners of the bar. She hastily adjusted her leotard while an older gentleman stooped to pick up shards of broken glasses and two other young women chattered to her, gesturing extravagantly.

The barmaid teetered over with a tray and maneuvered between Roxanne and Rod. Sweeney snagged one pint of Guinness before she could set the other four on the already drink-littered table.

"Can you believe that?" the barmaid shook her head, retrieving the empties.

"Mm," nodded Sweeney. "Justice is swift in the Bag of Nails." He took a long, thirsty pull on his pint. Roxanne reached a tie-dyed sleeve out over her accordion and mirrored his move. Sweeney could see tiny beads of sweat glinting above her eyebrows.

As he wiped the foam off his mustache, he remembered that somebody had said they wanted one of his CDs. He pulled a couple of copies out of his fiddle case and arranged them casually on the table. Yes, he was proud of "Among the Nightingales," his self-produced, mostly-solo album of beloved jigs and reels, though he’d never had much luck getting it into the stores. At the rate he sold them to the bar flies, he mused, he’d have it paid off and be ready for his second album by the time he was sixty.

Sweeney felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Y’all sound great tonight," said a slightly breathless voice above his head.

He looked up into a flushed face fringed with sweaty pink-streaked hair. He scrolled through his brain, trying to remember the dancer’s name. Angie, that was it.

"Hey, Angie," he nodded in greeting. "Yeah. Good crowd for a Wednesday night. So what was all that bullshit at the bar about? You okay?"

Angie looked disgusted. "Unbelieveable! You’d think we were in Morocco or something. Just wish I could’ve got the other one in the nuts, too."

Sweeney squirmed slightly and raised his glass in silent salute.

"Thought I’d thank you guys for the music anyway," said Angie. "Doin’ a great job."

"Do me a favor, will ya?" said Sweeney, grimacing. "Don’t mention the word ‘job’ tonight, would ya?"

Angie looked quizzical.

"Nah, only kidding," mumbled Sweeney, downing another swallow. "It’s just that I’m trying to ignore a nasty deadline tonight."

"Deadline? You’re a writer, too?"

Sweeney gave a snort.

"Not a chance! One in the family is plenty. No, just your basic computer hacker. Started working recently for an overextended, understaffed Internet health supplement warehouse that..." He stopped abruptly and shook his head, smiling.

"There I go. What could be more boring? It’s just that some companies don’t think freelancers deserve a life. Or sleep, for that matter." He smiled back at Angie, certain that she hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about.

"Don’t stop dancing, though," he added. "It helps keep it all moving."

"No prob. S’fun. Actually, a couple of friends just came in... just when Ren and Stimpy there tried to grope me. Do you think the owner’d let us do a three-hand reel if I asked?"

Sweeney ran his fingers through his thatch of blond hair. Joe Gilmore, thought Sweeney, may be a gruff and saturnine barman to the average customer but he’d be unlikely to deny Angie anything.

"I don’t know where you’re gonna find the room, but go for it," he said with a shrug. "Looks like we’re taking a break anyway. And watch yourself."

Marjorie and Rod got up and headed out toward the front door to smoke their hand-rolled cigarettes. Roxanne was deep in conversation with another flambouyantly dressed woman. The noise of the crowd bubbled up to fill the void the music left behind, becoming a soothing, half-intelligible blur. Angie flounced back toward the bar as if nothing had happened.