The Irish Swing
“Now slow down here Johnny, let’s think about this for a bit-”
“Are you screwin’ my wife you bastard?!”
Johnny had pulled out and pointed his colt 1903 with shaking hands. The bartender had stopped cleaning his mugs, rag in hand. The piano player had gone silent. The few other patrons of the speakeasy pointed their concerned attention towards the unfolding scene.
The man with a gun pointed at him glanced around the room and spoke in a stressed but hushed voice. “I ain’t done nothing with Sharla alright.”
“Keep your hands up!” Johnny thrusted his gun forward, halting the man’s attempt to lower his hands. Johnny rapidly looked over both of his shoulders, all eyes were on him. “What was she doin’ at your place all night?” He pushed his gun forward again. “Eh?”
The other man tilted his head downwards. “Look. Sharla was cryin’. She said you had a fight, I got her dinner and gave her the bed while I was on the couch.” He eyed Johnny up and down. “I was just tryin’ to help.”
Johnny’s pits had damp spots showing through his shirt. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face. His mouth attempted and failed to form words several times before spitting out: “Liar!”
“Gentlemen, I’m sure we can solve this in a better way.”
“You shut up!” Johnny changed his gun arm to be pointed at the interrupting bartender before pointing it back at the man in question. “This doesn’t concern you.” Johnny looked over his shoulder and gestured with his gun. “Why don’t you follow me Dan.”
Dan slowly tried lowering his hands again. “Look Johnny, we don’t got to do this.”
“MY WIFE IS MY BUSINESS DAN!” Spit flew from his mouth as he screamed. “YOU’RE COMIN’ WITH ME!”
The door to the speakeasy opened. The noise distracted everyone in the room enough to steal a glance at the door. Johnny whipped around and pointed his gun at the door. “SCRAM!”
He looked down his gun and saw a man in a black suit. The man raised an eyebrow, then he turned to the nearby coat rack, unconcerned, and removed his hat and jacket before turning and catching the bartender’s eye. “Whiskey on the rocks if ya would.” His accent made it obvious that he was not born in New York.
Johnny kept looking back at Dan but pointed his gun at the foreigner. “Who do you think you are?”
The man took a seat by the counter, the gun following his position all the way. He smiled and nodded at the bartender, who looked back at him with apprehension, before saying: “A man lookin’ fer a drink.” The accent was Irish.
Johnny looked at the Irishman, and then pointed his gun back at Dan, stealing glances back at the Irishman. “Let’s go Dan.”
“Where you two goin’?” The Irishman swivelled around in his chair to face them.
“Screw off ya green.” Johnny spat out at him before taking steps forward. Dan stumbled backwards as he backpedaled into a chair, trying to keep some distance between him and the gun.
“Are ya gonna kill him?” The Irishman asked.
Johnny looked back over at the man. “I’ve got half a mind to kill you right now too.”
The Irishman stood up, drawing the gun towards him. “It’s just that, if yer gonna kill a man I feel like we should know why.”
“It’s none of your God. Damn. Buisness.” Johnny thrust the gun towards the Irishman with each of his last three words.
The Irishman lifted an open palm. “A murder can be a lotta people’s business.” He lowered his hand. “I think we should work this out a bit first.”
Johnny’s eyes were sharpened into daggers staring into the Irishman’s. In a jerk motion, Johnny raised his hand to eye level and pulled the trigger. Before he had though, the Irishman had already begun to duck down and to the side. The Irishman was a head below the gun by the time the bullet flew over and into the wall behind him. The Irishman then crossed his torso and sent his right fist flying into Johnny’s jaw. Johnny staggered backwards and nearly fell on the same chair Dan had backed into. The Irishman took a step forward and sent a second punch, sending Johnny onto the floor.
The Irishman shook out his fist and bent over to take the gun from Johnny’s hand. He then walked back over to his stool and placed the gun on the counter. The bartender took it from him “Thanks Killian.” and then gave him his whiskey. Killian nodded to the bartender and then took to his drink.