Author: Greg Clarkin

The intervention was staged a week after the barroom brawl. It took place in a private dining room at Wilson’s Chop House, a few blocks from Penn Station. In the days since the fight, both men had refused to return texts and calls from each other. And both had refused to speak with, or communicate with, Reuben Hartman. It was left it to their wives to try and salvage the Kildare Tavern.

Mills was the first to arrive at the restaurant. He and his wife, Cheryl, sat at a circular table in a small private room. He took another gulp of the vodka tonic he had ordered, catching his wife’s attention.

A wave of regret washed over Mills as he stood in the middle of the Kildare Tavern. The place was dark, dank and smelled of stale beer and other odors he didn’t want to try and identify.

“You were right,” he said to Mahoney. “It is a dump.”

Mahoney climbed onto the bar and started feeling around by the old TV that sat on a shelf high above the room.

Hartman had a soft spot for Mahoney. He had known the loud-mouthed columnist for more than three decades, and yes, the man had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. But Hartman knew behind the temper, and stubbornness, Mahoney was a decent, hard-working guy. Although the whole water-tossing incident was disturbing.

Mills on the other hand, lacked charisma, but he was smart and hard working. He had a decent career in public relations, but for whatever reason, Mills had never distinguished himself enough to reach the highest levels of the profession.

“You’re on the way out,” Mahoney said. “Look around, you got no pictures on the wall. And there’s a bunch of framed things all stacked up on the floor. And that box behind you, it has the pictures of your kids.”

Mills stepped to his left to block Mahoney’s view of the cabinet behind him.

“And down there,” Mahoney said, pointing at another box on the floor in the corner, “those are all the awards and stuff.”

“I’m at your security gate,” Mahoney said.

“Good, then I can tell the police where to find you,” Mills said. “Now go away.”

“No, I need to talk to you.”

“I’m not authorizing them to let you in,” Mills said. “And if you don’t leave, I’ll have them arrest you.”

Mahoney was on his phone and behind the wheel of the family’s Honda Pilot, parked at the security booth of National Innovative Technologies, high on a hill in Westchester County, just north of the city.

“You did what?” Jen asked him.

“I threw water on him. And some ice cubes,” Mahoney said.

“That was mature.”

“He’s a jerk, Jen. And sometimes jerks get wet.”

Mahoney watched his wife get up from the edge of the bed and walked across the master bedroom. She looked like she was on her way out of the room; then she stopped. Her shoulders heaved and she turned around, shaking her head as she spoke.