only annoyed Eamonn even more. It made his son seem insecure, weak. Weakness was the thing in life that Eamonn hated most, and
he saw it in abundance in his only offspring.
His son’s greatest weakness had developed slowly over the past few years. Slowly enough that Eamonn had been able to convince himself that it wasn’t really a problem at all. Eamonn
had tried a little cocaine himself in his youth, after all, and it had never taken over his life. It was a mere dalliance that provided an added rush in his adrenaline-fueled life, and he was smart
enough to know that anything more than dabbling would weaken his mind.
Clearly his son didn’t share his strength or intelligence when it came to drugs. According to the rumors, Kevin had started with cocaine, but moved quickly through crack and heroin. Now
the boy was using pretty much anything he could get his hands on. Selling, too. Eamonn had no moral problem with the drug trade, it had supplied him with a steady income stream over the years, but
the notion of selling on the street depressed him. That’s what the hustlers and the skanks and the immigrants were for. No one of stature sold on the street. If he was involved in a deal, it
was at the wholesale level, and the cash on the table reached into seven figures at least. That his son had been picked up on the street selling ten-dollar bags of crack outside a schoolyard made
him want to vomit.
So, notwithstanding his long-standing love of bars, it was with revulsion and near dread that Eamonn opened the door to the HotSpot in Southie, looking for his son.
The HotSpot was new to the neighborhood, and it didn’t blend well. The black lacquer bar, modern abstract black and white photographs on the wall, and zebra-striped velvet curtains hanging
at the back made plain that the bar was catering primarily to the yuppie scum who had invaded the South End in the past decade. For a terrifying moment Eamonn wondered whether it might be a gay
bar, but the presence of numerous long-legged young women in tight cocktail dresses and expensive dye jobs set his mind somewhat at ease.
He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the lighting. Most of the patrons wore either business suits or the black-jeans-and-sweater uniforms of the Eurotrendies. He couldn’t believe the
locals hadn’t burned the place to the ground yet.
Kevin was in the back, in an area of large, circular booths upholstered in the same velvet zebra trash that hung from the curtain rods. He was half reclined with two women and two of his
‘crew’. The two women were attractive, at least, but even that couldn’t temper Eamonn’s annoyance. Kevin was wearing black leather pants and a loose-fitting white sweater
that showed off his muscles. He sat up straight when he saw his father.
‘We need to talk,’ Eamonn said coldly.
Everyone at the table looked uncomfortable. ‘Do you wanna sit?’ Kevin asked.
Eamonn shook his head. ‘I want you to stand.’
Everyone at the table looked at Kevin. He was pinned in at the booth by two people on either side of him. ‘You heard him,’ he barked at the others. ‘Let me out.’ All four
moved instantly, and Kevin had the option of moving in either direction. He chose the route that took him furthest from his father. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said to the others once he
was out, and they all slid back in.
Eamonn took a few steps away from the table, making sure that no one was nearby to eavesdrop. ‘You come here often?’ he asked once his son had joined him. The tone in his voice made
clear his judgment.
‘Sometimes,’ his son admitted. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘There’s fuckin’ zebras on the seats,’ Eamonn said, shaking his head. ‘You gotta ask me what’s wrong with it?’
‘What?’ Kevin asked. ‘The owner says zebra’s the new black.’
Eamonn raised his hand, as if to hit his son, and Kevin flinched. The reaction was enough to make Eamonn feel better for a moment.
he saw it in abundance in his only offspring.
His son’s greatest weakness had developed slowly over the past few years. Slowly enough that Eamonn had been able to convince himself that it wasn’t really a problem at all. Eamonn
had tried a little cocaine himself in his youth, after all, and it had never taken over his life. It was a mere dalliance that provided an added rush in his adrenaline-fueled life, and he was smart
enough to know that anything more than dabbling would weaken his mind.
Clearly his son didn’t share his strength or intelligence when it came to drugs. According to the rumors, Kevin had started with cocaine, but moved quickly through crack and heroin. Now
the boy was using pretty much anything he could get his hands on. Selling, too. Eamonn had no moral problem with the drug trade, it had supplied him with a steady income stream over the years, but
the notion of selling on the street depressed him. That’s what the hustlers and the skanks and the immigrants were for. No one of stature sold on the street. If he was involved in a deal, it
was at the wholesale level, and the cash on the table reached into seven figures at least. That his son had been picked up on the street selling ten-dollar bags of crack outside a schoolyard made
him want to vomit.
So, notwithstanding his long-standing love of bars, it was with revulsion and near dread that Eamonn opened the door to the HotSpot in Southie, looking for his son.
The HotSpot was new to the neighborhood, and it didn’t blend well. The black lacquer bar, modern abstract black and white photographs on the wall, and zebra-striped velvet curtains hanging
at the back made plain that the bar was catering primarily to the yuppie scum who had invaded the South End in the past decade. For a terrifying moment Eamonn wondered whether it might be a gay
bar, but the presence of numerous long-legged young women in tight cocktail dresses and expensive dye jobs set his mind somewhat at ease.
He looked around, his eyes adjusting to the lighting. Most of the patrons wore either business suits or the black-jeans-and-sweater uniforms of the Eurotrendies. He couldn’t believe the
locals hadn’t burned the place to the ground yet.
Kevin was in the back, in an area of large, circular booths upholstered in the same velvet zebra trash that hung from the curtain rods. He was half reclined with two women and two of his
‘crew’. The two women were attractive, at least, but even that couldn’t temper Eamonn’s annoyance. Kevin was wearing black leather pants and a loose-fitting white sweater
that showed off his muscles. He sat up straight when he saw his father.
‘We need to talk,’ Eamonn said coldly.
Everyone at the table looked uncomfortable. ‘Do you wanna sit?’ Kevin asked.
Eamonn shook his head. ‘I want you to stand.’
Everyone at the table looked at Kevin. He was pinned in at the booth by two people on either side of him. ‘You heard him,’ he barked at the others. ‘Let me out.’ All four
moved instantly, and Kevin had the option of moving in either direction. He chose the route that took him furthest from his father. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said to the others once he
was out, and they all slid back in.
Eamonn took a few steps away from the table, making sure that no one was nearby to eavesdrop. ‘You come here often?’ he asked once his son had joined him. The tone in his voice made
clear his judgment.
‘Sometimes,’ his son admitted. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘There’s fuckin’ zebras on the seats,’ Eamonn said, shaking his head. ‘You gotta ask me what’s wrong with it?’
‘What?’ Kevin asked. ‘The owner says zebra’s the new black.’
Eamonn raised his hand, as if to hit his son, and Kevin flinched. The reaction was enough to make Eamonn feel better for a moment.
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