Page 22 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

“I can manage withoutserviceof all kinds.” I grinned. “I mean, you promised to put chocolate on my pillow every night, and you haven’t, not even once, and see how well I’m doing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mickey Byrne runs the place you need.”

I waited for her to explain who the hell this Mickey was.

She smirked, crossing her arms. “He’s a retired boxer. Went pro in his day but came back to Ballybeg years ago. Like I said, the gym’s not much—some old weights, a few punching bags, a makeshift ring. He trains some of the local kids there. Keeps them out of trouble.”

A boxer in Ballybeg? I couldn’t help but be intrigued. “He fought professionally?”

“He most certainly did,” she said with pride, and it was obvious this Mickey person was highly regarded by Dee. “He fought all over the world. Had a mean left hook. But Ballybeg’s his home. He set up that gym to give back. It’s become a bit of a sanctuary for the kids who need it.”

“He’ll let me use his place?”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed?

It was a rare pleasure to be in a place like Ballybeg, where everything was out in the open, and the people were unapologetically themselves. This was a community that wouldn’t pour a pint for a man with a heart condition, but they’d happily nick a biscuit for a toddler and turn a blind eye when a dying old man pinched the pub owner’s arse—just for the fun of it.

“Where can I find this…ah…gym?”

“You know where Paddy’s garage is?” When I nodded, she continued, “It’s right by there. Paddy and Mickey are old friends.”

* * *

As I walked the ten minutes to Paddy’s garage, the thought hit me—I didn’t want to leave Ballybeg on Tuesday when the Porsche was fixed. I wanted to stay a little longer. To actually be on…vacation. I was enjoying myself, and while I knew I’d eventually get bored, I wasn’t there yet.

I pushed open Paddy’s garage's metal door and stepped into the cavernous space. The scent of oil and metal hit me immediately.

Paddy was under the hood of an ancient truck, muttering to himself. He straightened up when he saw me, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Aye, how’s my favorite Yank doing?”

“I’m good, Paddy.” I shook hands with him. “I hear you got my parts.”

“Connor Kelly came by The Banshee’s Rest,” Paddy deduced.

“He certainly did.”

“Dee kick him out for wanting beer first thing in the morning?”

I laughed. “Yeah, she did.”

“You want some tea?” Paddy asked, walking to the counter where he had a stove and a sink.

“Sure.”

We sat down at the small table with tea andbiscuits. There was something almost Southern about the Irish hospitality. You were offered a drink and a snack—just as you would if you walked into any home in Charleston.

“Your car will be ready in a couple of days.” Paddy picked up a biscuit.

I took a deep breath. “I need a favor.”

Paddy nodded and bit into the biscuit, waiting for me to spill my guts.

“I need you to lie for me.”

“Boyo, I’m happy to lie for a good cause. So, what kind of lie are we talking about?”

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