Being the guy in charge came with a lot of perks.

Shamrock glanced out the window into the foggy evening. The bright streetlights outside reflected off all the tendrils of mist, back and forth until they blinded and obscured more than illuminated. But close to the building, that reliable old wooden sign hung, creaking as it swung in the breeze, same as always: “Canterlot Gael.”

Quite an old haunt of his, enough so that he commanded respect here. To be fair, he commanded respect everywhere he went, but everyone needed a home base, where all his closest associates gathered, where he didn’t even have to ask for the bartender to bring him a Scotch or a cigar. Maybe some loose tobacco and rolling paper, maybe some gin, leave the bottle, please.

Down the hall, a commotion sounded from the common room. The lads might have started a drinking song or an argument, perhaps a good old-fashioned donnybrook. Or maybe the hoofball matches were on the radio. He didn’t care much for them, a rather unpopular opinion around here, so he kept that to himself.

Outside, too, in the courtyard, conversations, but at this hour, more likely than not employees of the tavern. Away from all that nonsense, Shamrock had one of the private rooms in the back, where he could invite his own guests and have a quiet drink or conduct… business.

Speaking of which, he’d gotten a little thirsty. “Chainmail!” he shouted in his thick brogue. “Can I trouble ye for a bottle o’ rye?”

The lumbering behemoth appeared after a few seconds. “What ya want, boss?”

“Rye. I said rye.” Why would the owner trust that lummox with the care of this place? He cleaned up after hours, got things ready in the morning, locked up. That big ring with all the various door keys jingled as he ambled back down the hall to fetch a bottle. His namesake armour, too, though why even wear it here? Just another oddity about the daft bloke.

He soon returned with the requested bottle, but no cup. At least on that score, he remembered. Just like with a case of darts, a billiard cue, or any other fine instrument, the true connoisseur had his own. Shamrock slid over his good pewter one. It never carried any of the washing-up liquid taste that glasses could accumulate.

So he poured out a generous helping and gulped half that down immediately. He might fancy a cigar in a bit, but for now, it seemed… it seemed he had something planned. Damn it, that had been happening too often lately! That niggling feeling that he’d scheduled something important for today, but no idea what. He started through his mental list of acquaintances, business partners, lackeys and sycophants. But that hadn’t worked very well lately, either. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember!

Shamrock’s cup thumped against the tabletop again and – when had he finished the bottle? There it sat, empty. How late had it gotten? This bloody room didn’t even have a clock. He’d have to speak to the owner about that. They were quite used to complying with his requests around here.

Then the heavy wooden door down the hall, the one to the office, banged open against the stone wall, more clanking of keys, and Chainmail’s oafish voice bellowing, “Visitor, Mr S!”

At this hour? Well, he didn’t know what hour, but late nonetheless, and shouldn’t closing time have passed already?

Wait, didn’t he have an appointment today? Those things always slipped his mind, but he couldn’t recall anything. Still, that nagging feeling…

His door opened, and in walked… Cornish Copper, his… his wife! Pale blue coat, black mane. Yes, his wife, and in tow, their son, Greenbriar. Briar came right up to him and gave him a big hug, and Shamrock just stood there motionless.

That… that colt, lucky he didn’t have a knife in his ribs! Ponies didn’t just rush up to him – they knew better.

Finally, Shamrock curled a foreleg toward the colt and patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, sit down, sit down, me boy!” he said, gesturing toward one of the vacant chairs across the table from him. “Please.”

Briar did so, but Cornish stayed just inside the door, leaning against the wall. She probably would have preferred to stand in the doorway, but Chainmail knew he wasn’t supposed to leave it open.

“How’re ye getting along in school, lad? Learning all your letters and numbers and such?”

“Batty old git,” Cornish muttered.

“Dad, I’m eight now. We did that years ago.” Briar rolled his eyes the way teenagers do. Good thing Shamrock wasn’t in the mood to correct such behaviour. In his world, one showed respect where it was due. Any lapses of memory brought a quick rebuke. They rarely happened again.

Besides, his son would be the one demanding respect some day. Still, one had to know the business from the bottom and the top. Earning respect required knowing how to give it as well. But they still had time for all that. Plenty of time.

“Right, right. Escaped me for a moment. You’ll have to pardon me, lad – I can’t remember where we left off before. But uh… You’re old enough to do arithmetic, then. How about I shows ye how to keep the books? Not that you’ll have to, mind, but it pays, quite literally, to be able to keep tabs on your accountants,” Shamrock said, rubbing a hoof over the stubble on his chin.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Cornish shouted as she stalked across the floor to him. “I’ll not have him learning that devil’s business from you or any other low-life scoundrel you employ!”

Shamrock slammed a hoof on the table, and she flinched, her breath catching in her throat. “You think you can come in here talking to me like I’m some tosser in the street? Huh?” he roared.

But she soon recovered her nerve and stood tall in his face. “I bloody well will, when I have to bring my son into a place like this to see you! What do you think it says about you that this is where we go? Not at home, not at work, but here! And you, all hunched over your bloody rye. Is that what you want for him?”

“I’ll stay where I like, and such is where stallions in my line of work make their deals. Better to learn now, so it’s all second nature to him when all this becomes his!” Shamrock pounded a hoof on the table again and gave Briar a sharp nod. But the boy only huddled in his chair and stared at the empty bottle.

“Ha!” Cornish shot back with a shake of her head. “All what? Your precious empire? You’ve so rotted your brain with that vile poison that you really do think you still call the shots, don’t you? When’s the last time Quiniela came around to fix another race? When’s the last time Truncheon warned you about the constables raiding the docks in Baltimare? You’ve nothing left!”

Truncheon had just visited today, in fact! Shared that bottle with him, too, and he was still here…

Shamrock looked at the two guest chairs, one with a small colt and the other empty. Where’d he gone? There sat the rye whisky itself, and without Truncheon, he wouldn’t have had it. Nopony asked questions when a police inspector grabbed a bit of booze from evidence. Nopony who wanted a long career, anyway.

She was bluffing. “Nonsense. I’m the stallion at the top, and don’t you forget it! I’m also that boy’s father!”

“You’re no father to him, you – !”

Shamrock gritted his teeth and backhoofed her across the face. She crumpled to the floor, held a hoof to the trickle of blood on the corner of her mouth, and took an unsteady breath.

“Don’t you dare speak down to me! You knew exactly what I was when you married me. You knew the life you’d have to live. And you enjoyed it! You never asked where the money came from when you needed some new piece of jewelry, told the servants to make you a sandwich, relaxed in the penthouse condo. No, you lived like royalty, and now you think you’re above that too, don’t you?”

Briar shook in his seat. But no need to sugar-coat things for him. He was old enough. If he wanted to take over someday, he’d better start getting used to this. “You’re just the worst kind of hypocrite. Turn your nose up at me because you won’t get your hooves dirty, but you live off the spoils just the same.”

On the ground, Cornish let out a low growl. “Just because you’ve peddled your influence enough to have so many owe you favors doesn’t mean you have teeth anymore. You couldn’t back that up if you had to. If not for the charity of those who’ve taken pity on you, you’d rot in here. And you’ve done a pretty good job of that already, scrambling your brains with your precious drink. Tell me, how long did it take you this time to remember who Greenbriar even was, hm?”

No… no, she was trying to confuse him. “I didn’t build all this up so it could just go away. I want better for my son. Last five years, I worked my hooves to the bone so I knew he’d be set up for life.”

“Sent up for life, more likely,” she said under her breath. Shamrock cocked his hoof for another swing, but Briar was watching him. “And he told you – he’s eight.”

Shamrock rubbed a hoof between his eyes and flopped back into his chair. He had an appointment sometime today, but nopony had stopped by. He looked up and blinked at the colt staring back. Handsome lad. Looked rather like him. And a mare stood up from behind the table. How did that bruise get on her cheek? His… his wife, Cornish Copper.

“You mean well. I’ll grant you that,” she said.

Yes. Yes, the boy. They’d been arguing about the boy.

“I want the best for him, too. Maybe I am just as bad as you. It doesn’t matter.” She circled behind Briar and put her hooves on his shoulders. “It’s all about him now, and I won’t let you stand in my way. I only come here anymore because of the court order. But if I didn’t, I doubt you’d even remember. You love him. I know that. But the best parts of you died years ago.”

Shamrock watched his son. His son. My, the lad had gotten big.

Cornish slid Briar’s chair out and pulled him to his hooves, then walked to the door and banged on it. That twit Chainmail soon showed up to escort them out. “You can’t threaten me now,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll be coming here anymore.”

He watched them leave, following the sluggard. Then he glanced at the bottle. When had it gone empty? “Chainmail!” he shouted, thumping the table. “Can I trouble ye for some rye?”

---

Greenbriar trailed along after his mother, through the cold, empty halls and out the front door. The fog instantly swarmed about him in the deserted street as she hustled away, almost at a canter. At least he thought they must be deserted, since he couldn’t hear anypony, but he couldn’t really see, either.

Mum always brought him to visit Dad so late in the evening. She used to say it was because he hadn’t finished with work till then, but not anymore. She didn’t make excuses now. This close to closing time, they couldn’t stay long.

“Mum, are we really not going to visit Dad again?”

“He’s no father,” she mumbled. But she didn’t answer his question. Why’d she have to say stuff like that? He loved his dad. Yeah, he was old enough to pick up things that ponies whispered behind his back. He even agreed with a lot of them. But he loved his dad.

“Broken place for a broken pony. He doesn’t even have a glimmer of where he is,” she said, peering over her shoulder. “They at least ought to fix that bloody sign.”

Just visible in the mist, the chipped and scarred shingle swung in the wind. “Canterlot Gael.” But a storm three years ago had left a gouge across the chiseled-out lettering. She’d even laughed about it at the time.

“Please, Mum? Can we see him again next week?”

She glanced down at him, and then followed his gaze up to the sign. “Thing doesn’t even read right, ever since that bloody storm. Besides, who even spells it ‘gaol’ anymore?”

“Please?”

The night swallowed his question, the building, and his father behind him.