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two crimestories
glasses, others beer cans.
I had just gone shopping
yesterday, but clearly I
would have to go back to
the store as soon as they
all left. I cursed my English
courtesy that prevented
me from kicking them all
out.
“Something
stronger
would work,” Sandra said.
“He would have liked that.
He loved his whisky.”
“There was some on the
bookshelf,”
somebody
called from the living
room. “It’s empty now.”
“He would have liked
that,” Sandra repeated.
“What’s a Púca?” I asked.
Just to make sure, she
stuck her head in the
fridge once more before
answering:
“I
don’t
believe in stuff like that.
Nobody does.”
“He did.” I noticed that I
was not pointing toward
his house, but toward the
backyard where we had
always met.
Sandra waved it off.
“Flann, yes. He told me
about him, but I don’t
believe in things like that.
He would even go to the
pub with his invisible
friend. They had a regular
table, the two of them.”
She made a gesture that
indicated she thought the
old man had been crazy.
“The others say he’d been
running around with Flann
for at least a decade.”
A man I’d never seen
before walked into my
tiny kitchen and opened
the fridge. “You’re out of
beer,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I replied.