Read Online Destiny - The Callahans #1 by Gordon Ryan - Free Book Online Page B

back, he thought it ironic that the one thing his
father had taught him was to work hard, and that ability was the
thing that was enabling Tom to survive.
    His visits to the pub, however, were
beginning to sop up an ever-growing portion of his earnings, and
his tendency to brawl after drinking was bringing Tom to resemble
the typical “Paddy” many New Yorkers despised. Feisty, belligerent,
and downright mean-spirited when drinking, Tom was quick to
confront anyone who dared to voice an opinion contrary to his.
Luckily for him, he was handy with his fists and more often than
not came out on top in the fights he provoked or accepted. But the
course he was on was leading him toward exactly what Katrina’s
father had warned her about and—what frightened Tom the most—to
becoming a replica of his own father. Whether he acted out of
depression over the seeming impossibility of ever catching up to
Katrina or in response to his native Irish temperament, the result
was the same. Tom was fast becoming a typical, hard-drinking,
hard-fighting Irishman who bore little resemblance to the man that
Katrina continued to harbor in her dreams.
    Quietly listening to the piano player bang
out the latest hit tune, “ Sweet Rosie O’Grady ,” Tom sat in
the pub one evening, staring morosely into his pint of Guinness,
his mind and spirit back on the Antioch the night Katie sang
to him, when he had felt the confirmation of his love for her. He
didn’t notice the man who approached the table until he spoke.
“Mind if I join ya, lad?”
    Tom looked up from his stein, over which he’d
been brooding, toward the kindly face of an older man. Looking
pointedly around the room, Tom gestured to several empty tables,
and returning his gaze to the man, responded in a surly tone, “I
prefer to drink alone.”
    “Aye,” the visitor responded, “I’ve noticed,
but conversation, now that’s another thing entirely, and I’m in
desperate need of someone for a palaver.” He smiled affably as he
pulled back the empty chair and seated himself. The man’s hair was
sparkling white and thinning, and his face was ruddy, showing a
number of small, broken capillaries around his nose and cheeks. Tom
was in no mood to notice, but the lobes of the man’s large ears
turned up, almost as though they were folding over on themselves,
providing a somewhat comic look. He held Tom’s gaze with a pair of
eyes that were a deep brown color, and continued smiling as he made
himself comfortable.
    Tom returned his gaze to his beer stein.
“Suit yourself, old man.”
    “I notice you’re coming in more often than at
first,” the old man stated, forming a question.
    Tom continued to stare at his drink, unsure
how to handle the intrusion. Most with whom Tom had dealt in the
bar had been young Irishmen, like himself. After an initial
meeting, either a discussion or a confrontation resulted, but the
old man—that was a different story. “What’s it to ya?”
    Signaling to the bartender for a pint of
Guinness, and continuing to smile, the old man just stared at Tom
for several seconds. “Everything, lad,” he said softly. Then
leaning forward and folding his hands in front of him on the table,
he said, “Let me tell you a story.
    “I met a young lad not too long ago. Much
like you, he was. Came in here nearly every night, he did. Sat
mostly by himself but occasionally got involved in a bit of a
donnybrook. One night, three of the lads were waiting for him
outside the pub, and in the fight, he picked up a piece of
cobblestone and bashed in one of their heads.” The old man paused
to take a drink of his beer, before continuing.
    “I sat with him once more after that, not
long ago, upstate, as he waited to meet our Lord. He was more
subdued by then, frightened you might say, as was I. You see, lad,
the jury found him guilty of murder. I sat with him for hours,
heard his confession, and prayed with him. I walked with him down a
long corridor and read to him from the