Lucky the Leprechaun: Sins of the Father

August 1948

Liam dodged the punch in the nick of time. It had been thrown with enough force to knock out a much larger man than he, but there was no time to breathe a sigh of relief. He quickly stepped left and struck the man in his exposed ribs–two quick jabs, met with a light groan. He bounced backward as the man caught his balance and reattained his protective stance. By the time he was ready, though, Liam was on him again, pounding away at the bloody mess that used to be his nose.

Around them, a crowd roared beneath the dim lights of the warehouse. It was late enough the sound wouldn't attract attention from the master of the shipyard, not that he and his men hadn't been paid off already. Even if they hadn't been, most had a stake in the fight and stood among the spectators.

The brawl raged on. Liam ducked a nasty right hook and landed three body blows in quick succession. His opponent grunted, instinctively moving to guard his solar plexus. That split second was all Liam needed.

With the motion of an avalanche somehow flowing in reverse, at once he stood straight and delivered an uppercut that connected squarely on the man's chin. Force rippled through not only his skull, but the air around him, as a crack resounded off the aluminum walls. His head bounced back and never returned as dead weight dragged him to the mat.

Nothing seemed to move in the fraction of the second it took for him to fall. The air was still and calm, and Liam felt a peace he could get nowhere else.

As the man crumpled to the mat with a thud, his senses rushed back to him. Deafening cheers resounded off the roof and, almost certainly, out over Dublin bay. The dingy orange light felt like a bright summer day and the sweat on his torso was enveloped with the warmth of his crew rushing him, shouting praises into his ears.

"Ye dropped the boy like a sack of potatoes!" Sean roared. "Defend yer crown? More like make a right mess of the dumb fuck who thought he could take it!"

Sean had been like an older brother to Liam since he'd run away from the orphanage when he was twelve. He'd taught him where to find bread, whose pockets he could pick, and most importantly, how to take a punch. It was thanks to him, in no small part, that Liam was now one of the most dangerous fighters the after hours dockyard bouts had ever seen. The days of bare-knuckle fisticuffs were long dead, but the world of underground boxing was as strong as ever. And Liam reigned as its prince.

He grabbed the champion by his shoulders and held him back to look upon his bruised face. "I'm proud of ye, lad."

Liam raised his arms and howled at the roof. Another night, another conquest. Around him, those foolish enough to wager against him counted out their losses, grumbling. The smart betters crowded the bookmakers hastily, awaiting their payouts. Conor O'Toole, the man he'd knocked out, still lay on the ground, motionless, surrounded by a crew of rough men shooting dirty looks toward the victors' corner. Liam removed his gloves to accept a pint of ale handed to him by his cut man, and continued to howl between swigs.

Hours later, the calamity had died down. The onlookers had gone home, most with pockets considerably lighter, and sunlight was beginning to shine through the filthy windows near the ceiling. Liam and his crew remained in the corner, still drinking.

"Ye hear that poor sap's head hit the mat?" Sean asked to a roar of laughter, attempting a crude impression of O'Toole's reaction to the finishing blow. He began to blubber, which made the rest of them laugh even harder.

Liam, sitting on a high crate, smacked his knee. "I thought the lot of em were going to cry when he wouldn't wake up!"

O'Toole had been carried out on a plank when he couldn't be revived. One of the spectators, an unscrupulous doctor who tended to show up at fights for occasions just like this, had declared something got knocked loose in his head and he'd need to be taken to the hospital if he was to live through the night.

Angus, the cut man, held up a tooth he'd found on the mat once the crowd had dispersed. "Sir!" he cried out. "I'd like to put a wager on the challenger! Please sir, this is me life savings!" And the group descended into hysterics again.

The laughing stopped abruptly, however, when a figure entered the doorway, casting a shadow over them all. A tall, sinewy man wearing a newsboy cap stood looking on, his face a mask of disgust. It was Evan McEwan, the organizer of this fight, and all the others at the docks.

He stepped in and removed his hat. "Thought you fellas oughta know," he began. "Conor's passed on just now." The air became heavy and no one dared flinch.

"Doctors said his jaw cracked like a spiderweb starting out from his chin. Was blood on the brain that did him in, though."

The men gazed at him fearfully. O'Toole had been a young boy, tough but not a true warrior. McEwan, on the other hand, was a dangerous man, feared across Ireland for what he'd done in the ring, let alone what he'd done outside it. Rumor had it McEwan learned his viciousness from his father, a high ranking member of the IRA during the Easter Rebellion. Everyone in the neighborhood had heard stories. Once, it was said that McEwan shoved a corkscrew into bartender's ear, making him deaf, for not serving him quickly enough. Whispers around town told of another time when he drowned a man in the bay for trying to fix a fight. He was a cruel man with blue eyes cold enough to put out a candle. When he entered a room, so did fear itself.

He stepped toward Liam, who stood up from his crate. Sean and Angus got to their feet as well, but he held up a hand, directing them to stand down.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Liam said carefully. "But we all step in there knowing full well what might happen."

McEwan smiled just a hair. A terrifying expression, given who he was. "That we do, that we do," he said. "But tell me... did Conor know about this?" From behind his back, he produced a boxing glove, and Liam's face went ghost white in an instant.

Nobody moved as McEwan reached into the glove. He pulled out a small lead weight and dropped it onto the floor, where it rang with the force of a million churchbells in the silent warehouse.

"Evan, I–" Angus began, but never finished.

From inside his coat, McEwan drew a long-barrelled pistol and fired it into his chest.

"Sit! The feck! Down!" He now pointed it at Liam, who had gasped and lunged toward Angus, who wasn't moving. Liam knew better than to disobey, and leaned back, taking a seat on the cold stone floor.

"I set these fights. I know the winners, and I know the losers. The only reason," his voice shook with rage, "you make money punching the shit out of these sods is because I allow it!"

Liam sat forward on his knees, hands raised in surrender. "McEwan, I never–"

"Shut the feck up!" McEwan screamed, firing off a round into the roof.

Sean began sobbing, real tears this time, staring on at Angus and the growing pool of blood around him. He closed his eyes, covering them in shame with both hands.

McEwan emitted a low, cruel laugh. "I've been running fights at these docks for near on a decade now, and I don't take to cheats and cowards." He held his aim on Liam. "Stand up and face me, ye feckin lowlife."

Liam, who had just hours before soared with pride and savage victory, was now reduced to a frantic mess. "Please–"

"Get on your fecking feet," McEwan growled. Liam did as he was told. "I dunno who the fuck ye think ye are, that weighting yer gloves seemed like a good idea. But I won't have my boys cheated, and I damn sure won't see em dead." He cocked back the hammer.

Liam began weeping. "Please, I never meant it! Colleen's got a baby on the way, don't make me boy grow up like I did, please! Don't kill me, I'll do whatever ye ask! Don't let me boy come up without a father! Please!"

McEwan grinned coldly. "I'm not gonna kill ye," he said, and turned to Sean, still a sobbing pile on the floor. He fired a shot into Sean's head as Liam wailed, screams incomprehensible, resounding from a deep animal part of him.

"But ye will do whatever I ask," McEwan whispered wryly, turning away and walking toward the door. Liam collapsed onto Sean's body, shuddering with agony. The man had been a brother to him, and now he was nothing but a pile of meat and bone, bleeding on the floor, pieces of his head sprayed across the shipping container behind him. Liam clutched his body, screaming at the top of his lungs, primal noises that humans weren't meant to make. And as he cradled his dead friend, he didn't even notice the two men step into the warehouse, clutching heavy lead pipes wrapped in tape.

Twenty one years later

The man behind the bar held a rag in one hand, a glass in the other, as he began to clean. It was a slow day by all accounts, although some of it could be chalked up to the tempest outside. The rain had fallen steadily for going on a week now, but today was especially severe.

"That's how ye know the weather's bad," he joked, sweeping an open hand at the empty bar. "It'd have to be to keep Irishmen from drinking."

The only patron in the tavern smiled slightly and raised his pint. He was a man in his late sixties, the bartender would have guessed, although he'd have been off by more than twenty years. One couldn't have blamed him though, not even the old man. His arms and legs moved as if they'd been shattered years ago and never quite healed. He slouched over like a hunchback, even sitting. One eye was missing, a cloth wrapping his head to cover the place it used to be, and his hair grew pale nearly all the way through.

"Aye," he said, taking a hearty swig. "Or maybe it's just the smart ones stay home with their families, while the dumb old fucks like me don't mind it."

The bartender laughed hesitantly. He didn't know this man, and hoped that self deprecation was just his sense of humor, not bait to reel him into a fight. No matter if it was though, he supposed. The man was thoroughly crippled, he kept a stout club under the bar, and although the police never showed much in this neighborhood, he knew friends nearby who'd show up in a moment if they heard trouble.

"Maybe," he hazarded, "but it's the dumb old fucks who keep the lights on in here."

The old man fell silent and shot a glare in his direction. The bartender gulped. Perhaps he'd misjudged the grizzled stranger.

Then suddenly he let out a roar of laugher, almost howlish in nature. "That we do, my friend," and the bartender chuckled along with him, relieved.

Just then, the door swung open, sounds of waterfalls rushing into the otherwise quiet room. A tall man wearing a newsboy cap stepped in, thoroughly soaked, and pulled up a stool next to the old man.

"Pint here as well, when you've got a moment," he said to the bartender, depositing a heavy pile of coins onto the counter.

"Coming up," the bartender replied, failing to notice the old man's recoil at the sound of the dropping metal.

"Liam," said the tall man, removing his hat. "Appreciate ye making the trip out to meet."

"Right, as though I had a choice," Liam replied with disgust, although he knew in his heart what would happen if he hadn't.

"It's time to settle up," McEwan began, accepting his pint and sliding two coins from the pile forward toward the bartender. "Ye knew this day would come, and now it has. I've got a job, and if ye see that it gets done, we'll call the whole thing square."

For years, the dread of this moment had weighed on Liam's conscience. After McEwan's men beat him to within an inch of death in the warehouse that night, he'd received a letter outlining the terms of his life being spared. Someday, McEwan would call upon him to perform some task. He couldn't say what and he couldn't say when, but Liam would have to fulfill it. If he didn't? Colleen and his newborn son would burn alive in their home, and Liam knew that McEwan had the pull to make sure their deaths would be ruled accidental. He dared not show an ounce of reluctance.

His son was grown now, of course. A strong lad, scrappy, but sharp in the mind. Extremely short, but built like a bull. By day, he worked on the same docks where his father used to fight. By night, he kept peace at a couple of local bars, kicking out those who got too drunk and using whatever means necessary to settle scores that couldn't be let go with a round on the house.

Liam hated to see him on this path, but Lord knows they needed the money. He'd been unable to work a respectable man's job since the beating. Sean's brother let him help out around his shop now and then, but he mostly paid him out of pity. Liam suspected that deep down, he always held a grudge for Sean's death, but some sense of honor made him take Liam in. And for that he was grateful.

His son might have been a strong young man, but there wasn't a man in the county strong enough to escape McEwan when he put out the word that your time had come. Liam knew this, and even in McEwan's old age, his heart still trembled with fear at the knowledge of his dark deeds.

"So what is it you need me to do?" Liam asked. "I can't see what it is a man in my state can do to help ye."

McEwan smiled. "Man I know needs protecting. Important man, into some very serious business," he said cryptically. Liam only stared.

"The man's leading a parade up in the Bogside, just an old historical thing, commemorating the Siege of Derry and that. Don't expect trouble, but the Catholics are making a racket about it and we need good men to make sure nobody comes to harm."

Liam continued to stare. "No trouble? Evan, not a month ago they was rioting in Derry. A man was killed! And you're gonna sit here and tell me ye don't expect trouble?"

McEwan smiled slyly. "We don't expect none. But if some finds us...well, that's why I need a strong lad who can handle himself."

The pieces snapped together in Liam's mind.

"Feck off," he said. "My son ain't going near that powder keg up north. Absolutely not."

McEwan's smile remained constant, and he produced a book of matches from his overcoat. He took one, striking it against the box, and held it inches in front of Liam's face.

"Ye don't have a choice," he whispered, blowing it out, acrid smoke curling up Liam's nose just enough to make him cough. "Think about it."

And with that, he took his hat and exited back into the storm.

Three days later

"What the hell do they need people for in Northern Ireland? Ain't there a war about to start up there, and they're throwing parades?"

Liam and his son walked briskly, or as briskly as Liam could manage, through the streets on their way back to the bar.

"I wouldn't ask this of you if I had another choice," Liam said. "But McEwan's a man of his word, and this is a debt I must settle," the last bit was twinged with unease as he remembered the matchstick burning in front of his face just days prior.

"Well who knows, maybe there'll be a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow," his son joked. Liam pretended not to hear him as they arrived.

Inside the dimly lit tavern, McEwan sat at the bar. Again, they were the only patrons. McEwan stood to greet them, utter smugness coating his expression. "Ah, so this is the boy I've heard so much about."

He extended his hand. "Name's Lucky. Pleased to meet ye," the young man said.

McEwan beamed. "Ye weren't kidding, Liam, lad's an absolute unit. He'll do just fine. Just fine indeed."

Lucky tilted his head as the two men exchanged intense stares. "Pardon, Mr. McEwan, but what's all this business about an important man? What would ye have me do exactly to pay off this..."

"Old debt," McEwan finished. "And it's very important business indeed. Friend of mine is leading a parade up at Bogside, bringing an ancient treasure through the city. Y'ever heard of the Siege of Derry? Couple hundred years ago the boys held their city in rebellion against the exiled King, and we're throwing a parade in remembrance that they held strong until supply made it through the royal lines.

"The Catholics are still sore about it, naturally. Us bringing the spoils of a war they lost ain't ever gonna sit well." McEwan smirked, "But fuck em."

Lucky looked puzzled. "What's the treasure? There gold in this for me?"

McEwan simply laughed as Liam hung his head. "There might be," he replied. "And as for the treasure, don't ye worry about that. Just know that it must be protected at all cost, from anyone who'd take it."

Though Lucky began the day in hesitation, his curiosity was now piqued. As for Liam, this reaction was exactly what he'd dreaded. All those years in the fighting pits flooded his memory. It's not that he hated fighting–quite the contrary. But he'd done it to secure a future for his family, and it had all come down to this. He could still feel the metal pipes raining down against his bones on that hot summer night, wondering if he'd survive to see his son grow old. Now that son was here with him, and he was sending him off to provoke war.

McEwan had Lucky firmly in his grasp, and knew it. "See to it that this man's treasure remains safe and ye might just find more protection work. The type of work that'll make ye a rich man indeed," he added with a wink.

Everything in Liam's being told him to scream and run, to remove his family from this cursed city and risk the consequences. The night two decades prior played a thousand times in his mind, and he'd have given anything to take it all back. The fight. The weights in his glove. The killings.

Liam shuddered, sick with himself. He knew he couldn't take it back, and seeing his son standing with the man who'd caused so much pain, he knew nothing good could come from this. And he knew that McEwan would find him no matter where he went. He could not refuse.

Lucky, on the other hand, beamed with excitement. This all sounded like a grand adventure to him, and Liam could tell the hooks were embedded deep. He only prayed that he'd see his son return alive.

"Just one more thing," Lucky said. "Who's this man we're going to meet?"

McEwan grew serious at once. "I'll tell ye who he is, but ye must never utter his name outside of the territories he controls. The man has spies everywhere and he don't take to strangers talking about him."

Lucky looked anxious as McEwan leaned close and whispered, "The man is General Mills."

Liam and his son exchanged a nervous glance, as McEwan stepped back solemnly. "Come on now, we must be off." He turned back to Liam. "When yer boy returns home, ye won't hear from me again."

And they left the bar together, as Liam hobbled over to grab a seat and order what would be the first drink of many.