The restaurant hadn't changed at all over the years. Ghosts were everywhere. They were, to Marcus, in those subtle details which tweak old memories. Why does an old light fixture conjure the penetrating gaze of an old man seated in the shadows? A menu with inexplicable entries produced momentary flights of concentration and period. Though mysterious and shaded, somehow positive and reassuring feelings emanated from this place. It felt old, but it felt like home.

"The portions here are so large. Maybe I can get a child's serving," Mina, Mac's wife, was muttering while frowning at the convoluted menu, "Maybe the osso bucco…" to which John, Shannon and Marcus all moaned, "What?"

Marcus had his eyebrows way up, "Child's portion of Osso bucco? What is that, a finger?" John was offering "toe" and going on about the kiddy special of the day, "Kids really dig the marrow!"

"Those were not related thoughts you wise guys. And you, John, getting a Jamison and potato float?"

"They have that? Where?" He feigned a menu search, then shifted, "By the way, Mac, Shannon said you needed funding for some project."

"Which one? We have a never ending stream.."

"I forget, which was it Shannon?" as she just looked blankly with a shrug, "Well, one of our donors gives regularly to orphanages in Ireland.."

"Jeez, John. We have crack babies up to our asses. Most of them are abandoned. I can't imagine any single citizen taking that on. Anyway, babies with checkered backgrounds are impossible to place. There isn't anybody I know who could handle that kind of commitment."

"Just a thought."

"Fillet of sole. No butter, please," Mina gave her choice to the waiter.

"And the mister?"

"Do you have rat knee osso bucco?"

"Oh yes. The children's special. How would you like your vermin, sir?"

Mac was crest fallen at being bettered by an obviously attentive waiter with his own edge. "Uhhhhhh, hold the rat, they're better on ice anyway. The Pepper Creole.., no, wait, uh, give me the Suppa da Pesce."

"With black noodles?"

"Oooo. Mmmm, no, the regular," as John was muttering, "What's a black noodle?" then, "This." John held his menu forward, pointing, unsure how to actually say what was spelled out there.

"Good choice, sir! Good choice."

"It's good?"

"No. Good choice, not trying to pronounce it."

Dinner was the usual swirl of family oriented discussions, old jokes reframed, and political banter. Staring at an empty stool at the far end of the bar, a connection was made as Marcus broke a brief pause, "Hey, John," while waving a squid tentacle dangling from his fork.

"Never touch'em."

"No, not the calamari. That McGuiness character was on the news today."

John startled, "Gaffy? On the news?" His eyes were popped wide open.

"Well, he was not ON, I guess… IN the news. Over the news, under… whatever. They said that he was spotted at that immigration museum Irish statue dedication? You were there?"

It isn't hard to tell when an Irishman gets flustered. Certain tropical fish can change complexion almost as much as John did to this comment. "Oh. You know? Tssuh. That's bull. Every time we do something positive, somebody has to tack on this lurking killer story to distract from what we're doing."

"Well, they made it sound like a horrendously dangerous serial killer was spotted in our neighborhood. Kind of scary. You know this guy. No?"

Maybe it was the aura of the restaurant, but John now became animated with his hands and arms gyrating like a swimmer. "That's such shit. I mean, oh, it's, you know, those, they, if they ever, actually whenever, it's, well they can't resist, they can't .., that same, you know, always, same-ol same-ol. Bullshit. Every time."

"Well, that sure cleared it up for me. How about you Shannon? You get all that?"

Mina broke in politely trying to side track her husband's needling of their dinner partner. "Well, I don't know about the serial killer thing. He sounds more like a vigilante from what I heard at the ladies' club."

John was again startled, this time by Mina's comment, "They discuss Gaffy at the LADIES CLUB?"

"Oh John! He is a dark romantic hero. Think about it. A man who takes on intransigent abusers of power who think they can hurt anybody without regard for consequences? A man who avenges what a Gestapo did to his woman? Week by week, year by year, one by one - whack - with the old axe-aroo."

Shannon flitted her eyelashes, "Would you avenge me, John?"

"Why? When I've got all that insurance?"

"Ohhh, you rat," pouting out her lip, "That's mean!"

Mina was already alternately wagging her index finger then pointing at Marcus with her thumb, "If anybody did that to me, watch out for this guy."

Marcus began a series of growling noises. "Oh yeah. Right," John laughed, "Cuddly pussy cat baby doctor goes on pacifier bludgeon rampage!"

Marcus just growled all the louder, as Mina, kept on. "You've only seen his children's face. He's got a demon living in that body, I'm telling you. That thing he does with his eyes! Scary!" Marcus was now thrashing his head around growling like a pit bull ripping at a leg, crossing his eyes.

"For dessert, sir, could I interest you in some puppy chow?" the waiter interrupted.

Marcus just dropped his head, suddenly stilled, then whispered loudly, "This guy's good, John. Let's kill him."

John laughed, "Do we do it your people's way or mine?"

Mac bit. "What's yours?"

"Waiter!" he offered, "I would like to invite you over to my house for a nice Irish home cooked meal." John was quickly on the floor with Shannon bashing him with her purse.

"Madam. Cook has a rolling pin that is not being used."

That played for a while, with Shannon muttering, "..like I have time to cook." John was dodging pinches until desserts arrived.

Mina resumed the earlier discussion. "John, seriously, you must know that Gaffy fellow. Your magazine publishes him regularly. He must.."

"Mina, some things are safer to not know. If somebody asked you, right now, what you knew of McGuiness, what would you have to say? Zip. Nothing but ladies's club gossip." Then, slipping on an unripened thought, " When the hell do you go to a ladies club? You work."

Her look was a polite male crushing grimace conveying the obvious lapse which that represented. "They all work, John. They all also have workaholic husbands. It's that or fool around."

"Shannon, you're not in the club.. uh, .." then he thought better as the waiter, standing behind his wife, was making bug eyed throat slit signals. John engaged Mina, again, "If I tell you that I know such a person as Gavin McGuiness, then you are compromised. No?" Yet there was something about the cozy dark seclusion of this place, like a womb, that allowed revelation.

"No. I'm a helluva good liar. Ask Marcus. He actually thinks we won that Hawaii trip."

"What??!" Marcus half stood up and nearly spilled the whole table. "What?? Whuh whuh what?"

"See? He's not sure if I'm lying now or that I tricked him into a vacation."

"You have got to be shitting me!" Mac was just wide eyed and grasping at memory fragments, assorted details, that might confirm a hoax as Mina went on. "Well, his mental health is my job. The only way to get him to take a rest is to bamboozle him. Hey. If you gotta play a trick, might as well be a good one."

"But the brochure…"

"Nancy Heath's husband prints travel fliers. Cake," holding up a fork full of angel cake and stuffing it in Marcus's rambling mouth.

Mac sat there muttering. "whhheh wwwoof woo whobba.." with the fork protruding from his mouth.

The waiter dashed in. "Sir. We still have one banana cream pie that you can thrust into your lady's face! Shall I get it?"

"Dwwosit hawooh ahny wwum ihnit?" but then waved him away, woofing something that sounded like tempted. After swallowing his cake of pride and wiping his mouth, his eyes suddenly sparked in a shaking blink then exploded a surprised open eyed gaze at Shannon. "You knew!" as she nearly swallowed her eye brows within a huge face dissolving grin.

John was laughing way too hard to join in up to this point, but then burst out, "Jesus, Mac, EVERYBODY you know knew!"

"The Table?"

Mina clarified, "Nathan Ivory picked the hotel."

As Mac gasped, "Tusk?" she went on about needing suggestions from people who actually did some traveling as he was moaning regrets about his spiel at The Table about his having an uncanny life long lucky streak, "Think about it. Whose rats actually die? How many people win trips to Hawaii?" He continued mumbling on about Tusk and Morgan not spilling..

After the eyes were all wiped and the laughs thinned to brief giggles between sips of coffee, Marcus engaged John. He first asked why the Irish were pissing on each other for the last century and, "Compromise me John. Who I S this McGuiness guy? Why didn't he show at that wedding?"

"Actually, he did."

"Marcus was stunned again."

"See? It's the drink. I didn't want to tell you that. Believe me, Marcus, we were sooo thrilled that you were able to get a world class personality when we thought that we had nobody. Shit, I would have settled for.. for.. mm.. one of those guys out on the street shouting biblical quotations. Damn.

"Blessed be," Mac's hands were pressed on mock prayer, "the ball busters who make overworked physicians sell their souls to get a Pulitzer, .." but Mina thonked his skull with her soup spoon, "Ow!" Thonk! "Ow! Stop that!" Thonk! "Jesus, Mina!" and one more THONK just in case he wasn't convinced of her sincerity.

John was trying not to laugh, but Marcus had this pitiful expression. "Sorry. We just didn't think Gaffy would come. Somehow, it leaked. There were all sorts of questions about his whereabouts. We told the feds that we had hired an actor to recite McGuiness, as we always do. They agreed to not give our theatrical methods away. Jake Green attending the wedding lent great plausibility to that. Jake and Gaffy hit it off rather well, by the way.

"Well, I'm glad I could be of help to your cause." Marcus nodded as Mina was poising her spoon just in case he was setting up for another cheap zinger. He caught her posture. "No, I mean it."

John was a bit quiet and thin faced then slowly let small factoids fall out. He actually didn't like the grandiose Mr. Price who was the party throwing the overly ostentatious wedding celebation for his daughter. Since when do you have entertainment other than music at weddings? Price, as John pulled observations from his poet friend, always has an angle. It seems Gaffy was not his usual all too supportive self, but was very concerned about having any contact with this particular man, claiming every angle has its Price. So why would John pressure a friend having all those reservations to get involved? Connections. Price had legal connections and high level access, which he didn't explain. As the doctor's forward leaning posture sagged slowly back to a near slump, John O'Brien explained, "These ERISA things you keep bellyaching about, maybe somebody with the right strings can pull..."

"I, I, uh.. Oh, gee John, don't get messed up in anything weird for us. We work on one child at a time. We're not .. not.. mmmm.. Mina, what's the name of that social revolutionary?" As she offered Julia Child with shrugs, he stammered on, "John, we really can't be.. taking on.. "

But Shannon broke in grabbing Mina's spoon. Thonk. As he protected himself from that spoon, she blasted him with a tirade about social duty, fixing societal ills on a grander scale, civic obligations, inequities that demand intervention, and the forming of power alliances of the very kind which he had described as Italian.

Interestingly, Mina who had laughingly supplied her spoon, was not jumping in on this. Instead, her attention was fixed on her husband's uncanny eyes which looked stressed even though he was trying to act silly. She knew why. It was about not setting your sails in somebody else's winds. Mina offered only an admiration Shannon's good intentions but avoided encouraging her proposals.

Mina knew that Marcus was not comfortable with third person entanglements. These people. Who were they? Being placed in obligation to him? For what? Recitation at a wedding? How binding could that be? No. He didn't like it. Mina just knew what he was squirming about. She trusted his instincts. If only he could link with them more directly. Better wear flannels tonight. He'll be tossing all over the bed.

A very long, but polite silence followed. Then, Marcus cleared his throat as Mina nearly died with dread that he would go off. Instead, he asked, "So John, who's this killer poet? Hmmm? How's a terrorist going to help us mend our legal system?" The waiter was frozen by this with his eyes going back and forth over his poised coffee pot. Something good was coming.

 John first corrected a fact that nagged at him. It wasn't a century they were talking about. "It's been eight centuries that we - that is - that the Irish have been dominated. It isn't a pleasant story," John was warning looking a bit thick in the collar. He eased the moment by musing about time. Eight hundred years was celestial time, the stuff of acrcheologists. Epochs. That's time enough to breed traits into dogs. "Christ! They're breeding docility and submission into the Celts!" he bolted upright surprising himself with this unexpected blurted analysis.

But Mac just made 'out with it' hand gestures, flinching in case Mina thonked him again. In fact, Mina was making the same gestures. So John went on, "Actually , Gavin's story and the eight hundred years of Ulster English domination and killing are one and the same. And before I get into this, I really have to thank you, before it leaves my mind, for landing Jake Green. He was wonderful. If it wasn't for my eyes, I'd swear the guy was Irish. What a gift. He brings an intense reality to his story tellin, yet takes you away. We have him slated to read at our big famine symposium. He throws a whole new slant... Where was I?"

The waiter quickly pulled up a seat, backward, against the table and sat leaning forward with arms crossed around the back rest, handing a long serving spoon to Mina with a grin. The place was nearly empty except for these chronic late comers. "I guess it boils down to what happens when one group of people, not just government, has unbalanced unanswerable power - any people, any organization - religious, philosophical, ethnic... what else, .. " Marcus threw in corporate, " uh, yeah, corporate especially, hmmm, any group capable of cleaving together. Or the reverse, If any group is singled out for lesser treatment, watch out. Rules which disenfranchise are gunpowder." Marcus' mind flashed to Dr. Farr's concept of devils diminishing other devils, balance of power.

 "No peace without justice," the waiter spoke up. But John refined that to no peace without a mechanism for justice. In his mind, the laws of the select are laws designed to keep themselves select and out of the reach of law. Inequality is not mere unequal treatment within law. Watch for laws of personal exception."

"ERISA," Shannon whispered to herself. Macaluso's narrowed eyes agreed.

"Zambuca. Espresso? Anybody?", the waiter mouthed.

"I'll pass."

"No."

"Pass."

"Law which cuts off redress seeds revolution," John upgraded his prior assertion in a nearly direct quote from Jake Green. "We all need to become who we are. All of us. It is a pressure that, if contained, explodes." Marcus didn't let on that he recognized Jake Green's Steam essay being paraphrased. The waiter, though, leaned to the ladies and whispered, "Green," nodding. John acknowledged, "Yeah. The guy gets to you. It isn't an Irish issue nor a black issue. It is a human issue.

John suddenly stopped and turned straight at Macaluso, " How, exactly, did a great thinker and writer come to befriend a bone doctor?"

"Steamed puke."

"Marcus!", Mina broke in with her spoon wavering in the air.

"Jesus. Watch that thing. Shannon, sometime when John has his meal is safely digested, tell him of my acquaintence with Jake Green." She agreed.

 John went on, "In 1916 when the Easter massacre took place, Gavin's father was just fourteen years old. That's an impressionable and unsettled age for a boy."

"Wait," the waiter fetched the coffee pot, refilling all the cups. "OK, go on," propping himself forward on his backward seat, "Can't get this stuff on TV."

John looked at the waiter. "For the record, everything I am saying is just gossip and hear-say. OK?"

A group nod and affirmative echoes of hear-say, oh yeses, and absolutelys served as introductory music for an unfolding drama, although Macaluso was muttering, "What record? Anybody see a record?" Blowing into the salt shaker, "pfffff fffff, testing. This thing on?" Marcus knew that nobody would dare bug this place. Dare? Or, live long enough. The old man still frequented this place. His place. Mac kept that to himself.