Here it is... the boy from last night who sat down with Ghost... The boy walked to the chair next to the bar an asked for a drink... As he was enjoying the ambient, the smile on his face showed that he was a bit sad... In the mean time he saw Tammy and said:"Hello Miss Tammy... A pleasure to see you as always."

Wiping down the tables after another night of revelling, Tammy had a large smile on her face, a smile she usually had reserved for being cocky or sarcastic. At this moment though, she was happy. She recounted the events of her life leading up to this moment and the smile was still not discouraged. Things may actually work for her here in Detroit. 

She straightened out the last of the chairs and tossed the cloth over her shoulder, just as someone entered. 

"Ah mista Morello, 'tis a pleasure talking see ye again. what can I get for ye?"

Andrei sliped the glass until empty and said :"Ah... nothing... I just came over here because this place reminds me of my childhood... You've managed that I tell you."

Grinning, Tammy nods and looks around her premises. The gloomy dark wood gave it a warm and comforting feel and gave more attention to the candelabras which flickered excitedly. She tossed the dirty cloth into a laundry bin on the other side of the counter while walking around herself.

"'Tis a grand place, growin' up me 'mam used ta take me round places like 'dis on business. 'Tis all I've known."

Deciding to return to the place he spent the night before, Ghost wandered over towards the same building with the sign 'Brennan's Cellers' over it. Thinking, 'This time, I'll get that drink.'

Entering the place he saw a few people around, this time however he was feeling in a chatty mood, so he went straight to the bar, and sat. Now he awaited the bartender's attention.

Thomas finally decided to make his way into the pub that Tammy had fronted. Walking through the door, he looked about; instruments on the wall, a few tables, Ghost sitting at the bar. He wandered in a little further, plucking the strings of the fiddle and guitar. "Hm... In tune." He smiled. Memory served him a sweet revelry; he and his brother along with their platoon back in Ireland. Sharing pints and playing music were some of the best memories he could muster of those days.

He plucked one of the guitars from the shelving and sat off in the corner, plucking around quietly to himself. He began to lightly hum a tune before singing softly.

((Click here for song...))

I was born on a Dublin street where the royal drums did beat,
And those loving English feet they tramped all over us,
And each and every night when me father came home tight
He'd invite the neighbors outside with this chorus:

Come out ye Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man,
Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders,
Tell them how the IRA made you run like hell away
From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra.

Come tell us how you slew them poor Arabs two by two,
Like the Zulus they had spears and bows and arrows,
How you bravely faced each one with your 16-pounder gun,
And you frightened them poor natives to their marrow.

Come out ye Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man,
Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders,
Tell them how the IRA made you run like hell away
From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra...

He continued to sing the next few versus near silently before he put the guitar away and walked to the bar. "I need a fockin' stout pint." He pulled up next to Ghost and nodded. "Greetin's Mr. Ghost."

After seeing Mr O'Shannon enter, Tammy stopped what she was doing to listen to the young mans song. She smiled at the tune and the traditional articulation of the events from the history of Ireland. She found herself tapping her heels and swaying, before leading the sparse applause from those that were present. As he approached the counter, another man arrived. Tammy resumed her work.

"Evening mista, one whiskey comin' up."

She began the list of drinks, placing a tankard under the stout pump for Thomas. 

"So what brings you here, mista...?"

Amidst hearing of a truck depot filled crates of cigarettes, Mavis was informed the mechanics would be going in to work on the trucks within the next 2 hours. In a rush for two more capable people to help with the job, Mavis remembered Tammy had informed him of a new venture she had not too far away. Certain it would be filled with capable men, Mavis rushed over hoping to find people willing to make a quick buck.

Entering the establishment, Mavis quickly scanned the room for TammyDeLuca and made his way towards her.

"Tammy, I hate to just burst in here like this, but I need 2 more for a job, and not a whole lot of time. Can you help me out?" 

That name, that inspiring, heart wrenching, soul striking name. Jack looked away and pushed at the doors. Nailed shut. Figures. He had found no result in Vegas, though the original blueprints for the tavern were found stuffed in a side drawer. It quoted that name again, and a location. Downtown, Detroit. 2450-2462 Park Ave, Detroit, MI 48201, USA. To be exact. 

With a little firm encouragement, the doors gave way. Jack stumbled to a halt and looked into the dusty husk of the old tavern. Disturbed particles began to settle around him while stringy, grasping cobwebs reached out for purchase as they floated toward the wooden floor. Jack found himself frozen. His initial hopes of activity had been dashed on arriving, and the sudden desire to refurbish and reopen the old place had suddenly began draining away. 

He looked to the portraits on the wall. Faces he never knew, however knew they were of significance to these walls. 

The last of the dust settled. Jack stood.

Chelsea's fingers ached. Here she was again, grave robbing like a peasant once more. After going at it for two hours, she'd barely scored enough cash to catch a cab and a flight back to Chicago. As she stood at the curb waiting, she noticed one of the old, closed-up joints across the street with the door open, a young man silhouetted in the frame.

He looked familiar. Chelsea stepped across the street to get a closer look, the need for a cab forgotten. As she approached, she saw that it was indeed young Jack Mezzo, the talented kid who'd busted her out of jail once. He didn't seem to be hiding his presence, so surely he'd not been burgling the place, or what remained of it? A glance upwards at the sign told her this had once been a bar. Grinning now, she called out.

"Mr. Mezzo. Looking to invest in some real estate?"

Somny entered the place hoping for a cold beer, and he quickly realised he had found the rigth place. He found a place to sit and waved for a brew.

Turning with slight urgency, Jack soon recognised the tell tale voice of ChelseaUccello and relaxed again. He smiled at the comment and continued to survey the interior, hands dug deep in his pockets. It was dimly lit and the fantastic colours which once brought life to the walls now dulled the interior. Years of neglect were evident. 

"This place? Not likely Miss Crossfire..."

He turned to face her, remembering his manners in appropriate time. Something caught his eye as he turned, brilliant against the stale greys of the tavern and shimmering in the sun. He raised a brow and indicated to her left hand. 

"Ah, excuse me, Mrs. Uccello."

He beamed for the pair, stepping back and offering her entrance. The shelves across the back bar were bare and the stools stacked hastily across the counter. 

"Care to toast the occasion? I know where we may find something worth drinking."

"That would be lovely, Jack," she replied, unsure if he meant at another establishment, or if he knew of a stash right here in the building, which had remained untouched for many years, by the looks of it. Did he know the former owner? Was he related to them? 

There were pictures on the walls, a layer of thick dust resting upon the glass in the frames, but the faces were clear. Chelsea took a step closer to the nearest one, peering at the happy looking people captured forever there. No familiarity to her.

No readily apparent resemblance to Jack, either, she noticed as she turned back to look at him.

"This place something to you, Jack? It sure looks as though it was to these people," she remarked, taking a step further down the wall and studying the next photograph. She couldn't help but smile; the faces in it looked like they just enjoyed and appreciated life and whatever it held for them. No plotting. No scheming. None of the things she herself had come to expect from the lifestyle she'd chosen. These people had been real family to each other.

What a concept! She really could use that drink right now.

Jack concealed his drifting mind well, however also avoided the question. Instead he took several paces around the counter, passing ChelseaUccello, while speaking with enthusiasm as he moved.

"Well before this place was Brennan's, it was owned by a man named Rossi Romano. Fierce and proper gentleman. Didn't have time for much other than what he knew, but he knew a lot."

A smokescreen of dust cascaded across the counter as he lifted the hatch, moving behind the bar without concern to the rising cloud.

"At least that's what I know about him. Anyway, he and my grandfather used to import whiskey from overseas and would share a drink here on a regular basis. So Romano eventually moved out west, set up in LA with his own operation and left this place to my grandfather."

He ducks behind the counter, still reciting off his story while numerous rattles and clunks came from under the surface top. A slight cough could be heard as he dislodged something, before standing once more, somewhat disheveled yet pleased with himself. He spoke slower now, safe in the knowledge his endeavor had not been a bust.

"They still kept up their tradition. Every month or so my pappy would head out west and take this with him."

A blackened briefcase was placed on the counter top, the years of dust almost permanently trapped between the imperfections in the leather. Jack laid it flat and flipped the catches, opening it so they could both see. The insides were a red fabric, untouched by the dilapidation which had befallen the rest of the building. Secured within it was a shimmering bottle of single malt whiskey. Jack continued, looking into what little light the liquor could reflect.

"When Romano died, pappy would still go out there and use the peace and quiet to get his paperwork done. He bought his own little place, I forget the name. Anyway, he kept this tucked away. Meant a lot to him."

He looked around, sudden realization passing across his face.

"...Ah, er, glasses..."

Had there been any glasses, they'd have surely held an inch of dust inside them. Chelsea stood for a moment, hands in her pockets, thinking. 

"There's a...I'll be right back," she said, then retreated through the still-open doorway.

Moments later, she was back, having purchased two empty soda cups from the food vendor half a block down.

"Here you go," she said, placing them on the bar. As Jack poured, she examined the case more closely, and then Jack himself. 

"I suppose that would be worth a trip from Philadelphia," she said, touching a fingertip to the worn leather. She left a fingerprint as she pulled it away. 

"Or did you have other business in Detroit? If you don't mind my asking. Lots of things springing up around here now, what with the new crews moving in," she said, her eyes falling on the pictures hung on the wall once more. Were those taken before, or after the rumor of a cursed Detroit started circulating around the country? Would she herself be on a wall somewhere one day, covered in dust and remembered by none?

The golden liquid spiraled contently in the soda cup, though more suited to a short, fine crystal tumbler, beggars couldn't be choosers. He watched it intently, the original purpose of his journey creeping back again. The cup was placed back on the counter, offsetting some of the dust again and revealing a polished skid mark of the dark wood underneath. Replacing his hands to his pockets, Jack paced over to the wall of portraits. Some featured proud, dignified faces which had obviously been set up with professional preparation, while others offered a candid snapshot into their more merriment times.

He offered each photo a moments gaze while passing. Mavis, Bishop, Mercedes, Lucy, then paused at one. Staring back out from it, stood side by side to an older gentleman, was a young woman. White shirted, open at the neck, holding an identical glass of liquor in a short glass. From within the grays and creams of the photograph, blue-grey eyes and blond hair can be pulled from it. The man stands tall, smiling and proud. Their stance suggested they were caught mid conversation, something private which proposed they had a close professional relationship yet were comfortable in each others company. 

"I'm looking for her." He indicated subtly towards the picture, slightly tilted in its frame.

"These are all people my family worked with, some my grandfather, some my mother. I remember this lady from growing up. Her name is Kate Logan. The man with her is Christian Gato, my grandfather."

He took a further three steps to another picture, no larger or grander than the rest, though it was placed centrally and immediately drew focus when noticed. It featured the same man from the previous frame, though this time he was older, sat with another young woman who rested on the arm of his chair. Her pale face peered out from behind black, tightly curled hair which extended outwards onto her shoulders. Her vivid eyes shot a piercing stare from the wall, alert and engaged, yet a soft and caring smile expressed love and affection. Like a daughter would have for her father.

Jack opened his mouth, however took a little longer to find his words. He looked back into her eyes.

"I've been looking for her for some time, she was nice. To my mother, and then myself. But my mother is dead now, and I have a horrible feeling Kate is, too."

He turned, a slight wobble in his step and involuntary inhale. A forced smile and rosy cheeks

"I don't suppose you knew her, did you? She used to work in Detroit."

Chelsea bit her lip. She wished she could say yes. A step closer to Jack and the portrait had her studying it closer, but she knew it would be fruitless. She'd just moved here and didn't really know anyone. 

"I just got here myself, but I could ask around," she said, her eyes never moving from the face of the woman in the portrait. Maybe some familiarity there...but she could just as well be projecting. She would like to help, though. It seemed important to the young man. Chelsea studiously worked at burying her past; it was so foreign to her, watching someone else actively seek theirs out. 

She was still holding the paper cup in her hand, momentarily forgotten. 

"I wouldn't give up too quickly, Jack. The world's a nutty place, and stranger things have happened. You might find her," she said, a light shrug lifting her shoulders as she lifted the cup and tried on a smile. She hoped it was reassuring. 

"To finding...what's the lady's name?"

He smiled a knowing smile, of course the first person he asks wouldn't know. It would never be that easy. He took up the cup from the counter and raised it with Chelsea, tapping it against hers.

"I appreciate you listening, Mrs Uccello. To Kate Logan, wherever she is."

They shared a smile, a gesture he was grateful of, and took a swing. The liquor hit this throat, it was sharp, the sensation spread around his mouth and Mezzo soon found himself sucking at his teeth.

"I don't know how they drink this stuff, but I could learn to like it."

The warmth spread down his throat and followed with an almost instant hit of dizziness. Liquid confidence. It was time to move on, but not give up. Detroit still had locations to visit though, maybe he'd take a stroll up Park Ave. 

"Thank you for joining me, Chelsea, I think it's time I left this place to rest."

"Anytime, Jack. I hope you find whatever, whoever you're looking for," she said, downing the shot. It burned, and she nearly choked.

"Sorry. More of a green smoker than amber drinker," she gasped as she took one last look at the row of pictures on the wall. She had a few more errands to run, but first on the list was to grab a bite at the cart she'd bought the cups from. She didn't know what flatbread was, but it looked and smelled divine.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Take care of yourself, and good luck. You find yourself in need, give a shout. Fio and I are usually around," she said, dropping a wink and heading back out the door into the brilliant sunshine of Detroit summer.