"Keep in mind this was 1925. Booze was illegal, right? Prohibition," Kelly Sheehan explained as he carefully pulled the last glass of Harp lager away from the tap. He turned and set it carefully on the tray held out by the petite blonde waitress-slash-barback, Marybeth. Giving her a nod, he watched as she opened the door to the basement and carefully carried the beers downstairs. The first round was always free for the poker players downstairs. Sheehan figured they had earned it with their $100 buy in. Sure, it was illegal, but some people needed a thrill they couldn't get at the riverboats or on Indian land across the border in Kansas. Sheehan knew that from experience. And Fiddler's Green, where fishermen go if they don't go to hell, was there to cater to them.

Satisfied that the young woman had safely navigated the steps, Kelly Sheehan nodded to himself and turned back to the cluster of regulars listening to his story. "So imagine how it looks for old Tom Pendergast when the Missouri State Police bust down the door and come in with shotguns and billy clubs." Sheehan cupped his hands around his mouth, deepened his voice in imitation of shouted commands. "'This is a raid! This club is serving illegal liquor!' And so on, and so on. Remember how I said it was the State Police? It had to be them, not the Kansas City PD. Why's that, Kelly, you may be asking yourselves?" Sheehan paused for a second, straightened his narrow necktie, then laughed. "Because Tom Pendergast fucking owned the KCPD! They called it Tom's Town for a reason! Oh, it gets better!" He pulled out a few shot glasses, unasked, and poured out several measures of Jameson's. "Pendergast was in there playing a hand of poker- gambling was illegal too, you know- and he doesn't get up at all when the pigs yell for everybody to put their hands up. Just keeps sitting there. The sergeant or whoever in charge of the raid doesn't like this one bit, right? So he marches over and shoves his .38 into Pendergast's face and growls for him to stand up like everyone else." Sheehan laughed in anticipation of the punchline and started handing the shots of whiskey to his favorite regulars, keeping one for himself. 

"And you know what Tom Pendergast does? He just looks up at this cop who's sticking a gun in his face, great big young fit guy with a gun. Pendergast is fat and in his fifties by now. He's been caught dead to rights, glass of bootleg Canadian rye in one hand and deck of cards in the other. But he just looks up at him, and all he needs to say is 'Do you know who I am?'"

"The cop goes pale, and holsters his gun, and even tips his hat like they used to do, and mumbles, 'Yes sir. Sorry, sir.'"

"And Tom Pendergast, showing a true greatness of spirit, just nods and says, 'That's alright, son, get your wife something nice," and slides a C-note across the table to him. A hundred bucks! That's like a thousand today." Kelly Sheehan barked a laugh, then smoothed down his wool cardigan. He dressed like a stereotypical hipster, sure, but he didn't speak like you might expect one to. Still laughing, Sheehan raised his shot glass in salute, motioning for his audience to do the same. "Here's to Big Tom Pendergast! A son of County Tipperary, and a boss if ever there was one! City Hall is made out of his concrete, and as if that wasn't enough he ran the place longer than any mayor. The biggest, baddest Irishman to ever run Kansas City!" Kelly knocked back the whiskey, set down the glass with a click. "Man, guys, those were the glory days for the Kansas City Irish," he said, a note of nostalgia for a time he never saw creeping into his voice. "That's what we need, you know? A bona fide Irish Mob, like back in the day. Boston and New York and Cleveland have 'em, why doesn't this town?" He sighed wistfully. Dropkick Murphys came over the speakers, their song "Rebels of the Sacred Heart". Sheehan nodded. He liked this one.

Sheehan stepped away from the regulars for a moment, looked the bar over. Decent crowd for a Thursday night. A lot of the usual folks, true, but a few new faces. Those were the ones to watch. Given what was going on down in the basement, it'd be inopportune to have a few cops wander in for a drink. 

In particular, he focused on one guy in one of the booths, then sighed and rolled his eyes. He knew that from college. Amateur hour, apparently. He had to suppress a chuckle as he walked back over to the cluster of regulars, who were definitely not on the straight and narrow, and leaned over the bar to whisper to them.

"Alright, guys, check out this idiot against the wall there. In the mirror, don't look right at him," Sheehan said. As he looked, the young man in the leather jacket looked around furtively as he set a couple plastic baggies on the table, and accepted a roll of cash from the woman seated across from him. It was too far away to see the contents of the baggies, but it was pretty clear. "Jesus, this is bush league," Sheehan snorted. "They're not even trying to hide their drug deal. What do you reckon? X, Mary Jane?" He chuckled again, then turned serious. "I can't have this obvious shit going on in my bar. Cops catch wind of deals going on here, they're gonna find out about the poker game. Maybe we should eighty-six this kid." Sheehan took another look at the amateurish drug deal going on and shook his head. "I dunno, I almost feel sorry for him. Maybe he just needs a lesson on how to do it right. His boss, too."

 He shrugged. "What do you guys reckon?" he asked.