Desert Star (Renée Ballard, #5; Harry Bosch Universe, #36) (91)

Bosch studied his eyes to see if there was any flare of recognition. There was.

“The Irish Galleon,” Tommy said.

“What’s that?” Bosch asked.

“That’s the bar. Two Irish guys opened it about eight years ago. Well, one guy did and then the other guy came over and they were partners. Like we needed another Irish pub in Key West. Fixed it up outside so it looked like a Spanish galleon, you know? The place lasted a couple years and then it got shuttered. They lost their asses, left a shitload of creditors that never got paid.”

Bosch knew there would be records of ownership with state and local agencies monitoring alcohol licensing, maybe a bankruptcy filing as well. Getting the name of the bar was a good lead.

“Did you know them—the partners?” he asked.

“No, they were outsiders, not locals,” Tommy said.

“What about their names?”

“Nah, not sure I ever knew the names of those guys.”

“Who would?”

“That’s a good question. Let me think. You going to drink or just ask questions?”

“Bourbon.”

“I’ve got Michter’s, Colonel Taylor, and a little bit of Blanton’s left.”

“Blanton’s, neat.”

“That’s good, because I’m still waiting on my ice.”

Tommy used the hand towel to polish a rock glass and then poured a generous shot of Blanton’s. He put the glass down in front of Bosch. It looked like there was enough left in the round bottle for one more shot.

“Slainte,” he said.

“Cheers,” Bosch said.

A man entered the bar, carrying a large stainless-steel bucket full of ice. He hoisted it over the bar and Tommy took it and poured it into a bin. He handed the bucket back.

“Thanks, Rico.”

Tommy looked at Bosch and pointed to the ice bin.

“I’m good,” Bosch said.

Tommy held up a finger like he wanted to pause everything while he considered a new idea.

“I think I know somebody,” he said. “You’re going to take care of me for this, right?”

“I am,” Bosch said.

He watched as Tommy pulled a corded phone out from under the counter, dialed a number, and waited. Bosch then heard Tommy’s side of a brief conversation.

“Hey, remember the Irish Galleon? What happened with those two guys?”

Bosch wanted to take the phone and ask the questions, but he knew that was probably a quick way to end the call and Tommy’s cooperation.

“Oh, right, yeah, I think I heard something about that,” Tommy said. “What were their names?”

Bosch nodded. It was turning out he didn’t need to coach Tommy.

“And where did Davy go?” Tommy asked.

The call ended a few seconds later, and Tommy looked at Bosch but didn’t report what he had just heard. Bosch got the message and reached into his pocket. He had hit an ATM for four hundred dollars at the airport before takeoff the day before. The money had come in denominations of fifties and twenties. He now peeled four fifties off the fold of cash and put them down on the bar.

“The original owner was Dan Cassidy,” Tommy said. “But he left the island after they closed the bar down.”

“Where did he go?” Bosch asked.

“My guy didn’t know. His friend from Ireland that he took on as a partner was Davy Byrne, but everybody thought that was bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was an alias, clear as day. Davy Byrne’s was the name of a pub in Ulysses, the Joyce novel about Dublin. Supposedly it’s a real place over there, still in business after a hundred years. So people around here thought he was like an IRA guy or something who came here and changed his name because he was too hot to handle back there.”

Bosch didn’t say that the Troubles were largely in Northern Ireland, not Dublin.

“Did your guy say whether he ever met him?” he asked instead. “Think he could pick him out in a photo?”

“He didn’t say but I doubt he ever did meet him,” Tommy said. “He’s got the Bud distributorship for all of Monroe County. So he knows what’s going on in every bar in the Keys, but he hasn’t driven a delivery route himself in years. He did say these guys stiffed him for a couple grand’s worth of beer when they shut it down.”

“You have a cell phone?”

“Sure.”

“Can you take a photo of this and shoot it to your friend anyway? You never know.”

Bosch unfolded the BOLO flyer on the bar top. Tommy looked at it for a long moment. Then he slid it down the bar until it was directly under one of the pendant lights, took a cell phone out of a pocket, and took a photo of the flyer. He handed the flyer back to Bosch.

“Los Angeles Police Department,” he said. “I thought you weren’t a cop anymore.”

“I’m not,” Bosch said. “That’s old. From a case I had when I was still carrying the badge.”

“He’s like the one that got away or something? The white whale, ‘Call me Ishmael,’ and all of that?”

“Moby-Dick, right?”

“Yep. First line of the book.”

Bosch nodded. He had never read the book but he knew who wrote it and that Moby Dick was the original white whale. Between the references to Joyce and Melville, he got the idea that he might be talking to the most well-read bartender in Key West. Tommy seemed to know that was what he was thinking.