Pool_2

things from the third decimal place on. Price left his shaken, message on Shannon's voice mail, "I'm done," certain that the Irish Passion league, an arm of vengeance in the Irish community, who McGuiness supported, had marked him. In fact, he called every Irish person he knew to tell them he was done, to their confusion. He tried every angle to pass that message to McGuiness, who lent no sign of affirmation, quipping, "It wasn't my message. Even if it were, God has taught me silence well. My answer is a sip of brandy. I suspect His is ambrosia." It was about a week later, at the old restaurant, in a back room used only by special patrons, when Gavin McGuiness connected with John O'Brien who had been brought there to reunite with his wife. The intimate space still had its old cozy and comfortable style with masculine leather seats recently pulled into a lazy circle about a coffee table. Adjacent each seat, a handy side table was set out for brandy and sweets. A vintage deep red Persian rug graced the well cared for old hand hewn pegged wooden floors. Lighting was old style, floor lamps dated easily to the twenties. A gold colored braided rope with a conspicuous red trimmed tassel hung over the coffee table. It was used to beckon a server. It was intimate and inviting. Yet, occupants were generally left unattended, secured in their privacy by two rather heavy four-panel wooden doors, kept closed. The top panels of each door were half the size of the lower. The panels were all darker in tone than the adjoining wood framing which created separators which made each of these portals look like large free standing crucifix. Settled back comfortably, Gaffy looked at John O'Brien, and sighed, "John, their marriage was a garden of weeds, best tilled." A nod and grunt was agreement. McGuiness continued on, rolling a brandy snifter curiously in his fingers, observing the patterns in the bandy flowing on the sides of the glass rolling glass, "A big screw has