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place. They’d been lucky to get in.
    “So what did you think of ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” Vic was asking.
    Had she heard him correctly? She didn’t want a repeat of the widget/midget fiasco. “The what?”
    “The Millennium Spire,” he said, then, when that didn’t seem to register, “The monument we passed on the way over? The tall, stainless steel needle in the middle of the road?” he said, clarifying further. “The one that replaced the statue of Admiral Nelson erected by the British and blown up by the IRA. It’s pretty hard to miss. You missed it,” he said.
    “I guess I was pretty focused on finding this place.”
    “You seem to have a habit of doing that. Focusing on finding things,” he said by way of explanation, although there’d been no need. Marcy understood he was referring to the events of earlier in the day.
    “You called it ‘the Stiletto in the Ghetto’?” she asked, returning to safer ground.
    “Also known simply as ‘the Spike.’ The Irish seem to get a kick out of giving rather colorful nicknames to their public monuments. You remember Molly Malone?”
    “The one who wheeled her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow?”
    “That’s the one. Apparently the statue of her on the corner of Grafton and Nassau is rather well endowed, and so the natives have taken to calling her ‘the Tart with the Cart.’ ”
    “Cute.” For sure she should have done up her top button, Marcy was thinking.
    “There was also ‘the Floozy in the Jacuzzi’ right on this very street, across from the post office, but apparently she was extremely ugly, aesthetically speaking, and everybody hated her, so she got torn down.”
    “The Irish like their tarts but they’re not big on floozies.”
    Vic laughed. “And then there’s my favorite, the statue of one of Ireland’s greatest patriots, Wolfe Tone.”
    Marcy’s eyes narrowed. She’d never even heard of Wolfe Tone. So much she didn’t know, she thought.
    “Have you been to St. Stephen’s Green yet?” Vic was asking.
    Marcy shook her head, downing the remaining contents of her glass in one extended gulp. Truthfully, she didn’t know whether or not she’d been to St. Stephen’s Green. Since arriving in Dublin five days ago, she’d done little but walk around the city in a daze. Today had been her first real outing.
    “Well, on the park’s north side,” Vic said, “you’ll find a semicircle of very rough-looking columns in Tone’s honor. The locals call it ‘Tonehenge.’ ”
    It was Marcy’s turn to laugh.
    “I’d be happy to show it to you. If you’re free tomorrow …”
    “I’m not.”
    A flash of disappointment registered in his eyes, although his quick smile disguised it. “You’ve booked another tour?”
    “No. I think that’s it for me and tour groups.”
    “I’m with you. Or not, as it turns out.”
    “It’s just that I’ve already made other plans for tomorrow.” Marcy felt the need to explain.
    “Well, if you should find yourself with some extra time on your hands, feel free to give me a call.” Vic reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it across the small wood table. “Sold the business, kept the cell phone number.”
    Marcy slipped the card into her purse without looking at it. “Actually I’m leaving Dublin tomorrow.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Where are you off to?”
    “I’m meeting my sister in Paris for a few days,” she lied. Hell, it was just easier that way.
    “Paris is a beautiful city.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I started my trip there a few weeks ago. Paris, then London,” he said without prompting. “Then Scotland. Now here. Next stop, Italy.”
    “That’s quite the trip.”
    “Well, I want to see the village where my great-grandfather was born, and I figured if I wait too long, I might not make it.” He paused, as if waiting for her to ask the logical follow-up, then continued when she didn’t. “My father died of a heart