Page 41 of Dublin Debacle

Jack emerged from the hallway, and a man wearing a gold and green jersey staggered into him, knocking him into the wall.

As he pushed the man off him and moved into the barroom, pandemonium stood in his way.

Men traded punches. A hulk of a man lifted a smaller one into the air and threw him onto a table. The wooden legs cracked and broke, sending the table and man crashing to the floor.

Jack scanned what he could see of the people seated at the bar, in booths or at tables. With so many joining the melee, no one stayed in any one position for long. None of the people he could see had a computer or were texting.

Emily shoved glasses and liquor bottles out of the way of flying elbows, men being thrown over the top of the bar and empty beer bottles being slung. As she neared Jack, she called out, “What’s wrong?”

Jack didn’t take his eyes off the room. “He was here. He could still be here.”

“Who?” she yelled over the noise.

“The flamethrower,” Jack shouted back.

Emily’s eyes widened. Her gaze shot to the melee unfolding around them. Then she climbed onto the bar and stood. “Hey!” She yelled, her voice swallowed by the roar of shouts. Emily tried again. “Hey!” she yelled even louder.

The people continued fighting.

Jack touched the tip of his thumb to the tip of his middle finger, placed those digits between his lips and blew a long, ear-splitting whistle.

When the shouts died down enough, Emily called out, “Garda is on the way here.”

For a long moment, the opposing sides stared at each other, weighing their options.

The wail of a siren sent them scrambling for the door.

Jack couldn’t get through the rush to monitor everyone exiting the pub to see if someone carried a laptop or looked like a person who could be sending hate messages via cellphones onto social media. Everyone carried a cell phone these days. How would he distinguish a normal customer from one who had sat in the shadows, filling social media with words and images designed to incite hatred?

Within a few short minutes, the pub had emptied, leaving behind broken chairs and tables, spilled beer on the floors and walls and a couple of men lying in that beer, unable to get themselves out the door.

Jack reached up, grabbed Emily around the waist and swung her to the ground. They hurried to the two men lying on the floor, unconscious.

Emily checked for a pulse on one while Jack checked the other.

“Still alive,” Emily called out.

Jack felt the thump of a pulse at the base of his guy’s throat. “Same.”

A uniformed member of the Garda stormed through the door, followed by three more.

“Had a report about a fight,” the lead man said, his gaze sweeping the pub.

Emily pushed to her feet. “The report was right. You’re just a little late to the party.” She glanced down at the men lying on the floor. One moved, groaning. “But maybe you could help clean up these two.”

The lead guy called for ambulances to carry the two men. He took out a notebook and a pen. “Are you the owner?” he asked Jack.

Jack shook his head. “Not me,” he said and turned toward Emily. “Ms. O’Brien is the owner.”

Twenty minutes later, the two men left behind on the floor were transferred into ambulances and carried away. The members of the Garda followed.

Emily stared around the pub, her lips twisting. “Must have been a good game.”

Jack stared at her. “Are all game nights this violent?”

She smiled. “This one was nothing. I’m just sad we couldn’t find our... What did you call him?”

“Flamethrower,” Jack said.

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