When summer broke in Manhattan, the sun burned hotter, the days turned muggy, men demanded their beer ice cold, and women expected the martinis chilled. The sun was setting on one such blistering Thursday evening when the middle aged female approached the long mahogany bar, a blush on her cheeks and her mouth creased in an apologetic smile.
Gabriel Cormac Silas O'Sullivan, owner, bartender and general patsy of a brother, felt a familiar sense of inescapable doom.
"I think there's a problem with the ladies'room," the woman began. "For the last ten minutes the door's been locked, and there's…moaning coming from inside. Sometimes female, sometimes male. I think there's something lewd going on in there."
Tessa Hart, an employee whom Gabe had previously considered loyal, turned to him, trying not to laugh. "He's your brother."
Ah, yes, his brother. More like the worm in his tequila, the backwash in his beer, the sediment in his wine. And that was being kind. " ...
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