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older bartender looked hard as nails and was probably the owner. His smile, when it showed, looked more genuine. It was earned, not given freely. Grant waited for a gap in the serving, then held a hand out to get his attention. The older guy came over. “What can I getcha, fella?”
    â€œPint, please. Nearest thing you’ve got to Tetley’s.”
    â€œYorkshire ale. A bit out of your neighborhood, aren’t you?”
    â€œJust visiting.”
    â€œWell, you’re in luck. We cater for all tastes in here. Can’t get you draught, but we do carry some bottled.”
    â€œTetley’s?”
    â€œThe very same.”
    â€œYou’re a saint.”
    â€œThat’s what I keep telling the boss. He don’t pay me more, though.”
    The bartender selected a bottle of Tetley’s from the display below the mirror and expertly flipped the lid. He poured it at an angle to achieve the perfect head. Grant was impressed.
    â€œFigured you for the owner.”
    â€œDon’t let Mr. Delaney hear you say that. Concrete shoes aren’t out of fashion just yet.”
    Grant laughed. The bartender smiled. A rare honor, Grant reckoned, for a first-time customer. He paid for the beer. “How come it’s called Flanagan’s, then?”
    â€œSame reason McDonald’s is called McDonald’s.”
    â€œYou make burgers?”
    â€œNo, and neither does the fella that owns McDonald’s. I’m the public face.”
    â€œYou Flanagan?”
    â€œAt your service.”
    â€œI’m honored. You don’t exactly welcome the English round here.”
    â€œBeing a cop is more of a problem.”
    â€œYou can tell, huh?”
    â€œComes off you like a bad smell. Don’t try going undercover.”
    â€œNot me. Straight ahead and open is my way. Good job I’m on vacation.”
    Flanagan indicated a large glass jar half filled with banknotes and coins next to the hand pumps. There was a slit cut into the screw lid. A piece of card with black lettering was taped across the front.
    WIDOWS AND ORPHANS OF THE CONFLICT
    â€œAll donations gratefully received. That’d settle folks’ nerves.”
    Grant looked at the jar and then back at Flanagan. It appeared that pissing contests came in all shapes and sizes. He smiled to take the sting out of his words.
    â€œThe famous gun-running jar. I wondered if you people still had those.”
    Flanagan kept a straight face.
    â€œIt’s for the widows and orphans. Says so there, look.”
    He pointed out the words on the jar. Grant didn’t look. He was watching the two big guys in the mirror who’d slipped into the booth behind him. They’d been watching Grant ever since they came in five minutes ago. He looked Flanagan in the eye, gauging how far to push this. “It says beef on McDonald’s burgers. Don’t make it so.”
    There was a moment’s silence when this could have gone either way. The jars had been an open secret for years. Donations for the conflict, even though the official conflict was over. The IRA was history; politics had taken over. It was just the splinter groups that still caused trouble, but Northern Ireland was mainly a peaceful place now. Flanagan broke into a warm smile. Pissing contest over. “And it says Flanagan’s on the wall outside.”
    Grant nodded. “As far as I’m concerned, it says Flanagan’s in here too.”
    â€œEnjoy your drink, and go with God.”
    â€œNot sure God would want me, but I’ll enjoy this for sure.”
    Flanagan moved along the bar to serve a group near the front door. Grant kept an eye on the pair behind him through the mirror. There had been no exchange of glances with the bartender. It didn’t look as if they had anything to do with the bar. That left two possibilities. Either they were scoping out a target for a robbery or they didn’t like the English. Maybe a third option.