9 PM, O'Mallory's Irish Pub, South Bronx.

It was an average day at O'Mallory's Irish Pub. The regulars, mostly drunken loser Mundies or the few Fables that even the Trip Trap was too classy for, were bitching into their drinks and generally feeling shitty. The goons outside the back office were flanking the door on either side, looking as if they chewed on steroid pills with every meal; Which they more or less did. And Mickey Gillespie, owner, operator, and general low-life scum, was talking going over the books. O'Mallory's itself didn't do an impressive amount of business. It didn't need to, it just being a nice little front for the Leprechaun's real business. He dealt with a lot of hot merchandice down in the basement, plus he moved a little bit of product for the Mundy crooks that stopped in now and then. It was enough to keep him occupied in living in relative comfort, but it wasn't anywhere near as good as it had been back in the Homelands.

Those days were long gone, though, and he figured he might as well get used to being a lower-middle level crook in this crappy Mundy city. He pushed his specticales up and nodded as he read over the books again. Not bad, this week. Those rolexes had sold well, not to mention the product he'd gotten from a new source, but that was a secret he was keeping to the grave, especially with those two girls that'd went out cold and hadn't come back. Then he remembered he needed to give Max a call. They did some business together, and he needed nail down some details for the next meeting. He reached for the phone and hit the speed-dial, taking a shot drag on his cigar while he waited for The Boy Who Cried Wolf to pick up.