For those of you who are wondering, this is not part of the book that my agent will be taking to BEA next month, but rather a project I've been kicking around but haven't really spent a lot of time on. Thanks for reading...
One
Mave McKinnon was a know-it-all.
Literally. They’d tested her in the sixth grade, thought maybe she was some
sort of Einstein. Turned out she wasn’t a genius.
She was a savant.
She remembered everything. If she read
it, saw it or heard it, then she knew it. And not only did she know it—she
understood it. Forever. There was no formal name for what she was. No
explanation for why she could do the things she could do and that was just fine
by her. Truth be told, she didn’t really care, didn’t need to understand. All
she needed to understand was it made her money.
It was a favorite pastime at The Black
Irish Pub—Stump Mave. Impossible, at least for the beer-swilling gits that
crowded around her bar. Not once in her six years of building yards of Guinness
and pouring shots of Jameson did one of them ever ask her a question she
couldn’t answer.
It was a point of pride for most of her
regulars. For years now, they’d been pushing through the door, the first words
out of their mouths—“Alright Mave
McKinnon, prepare to be bested.” For the tourists, she was akin to the
bearded lady or that guy with a third leg sticking out of his ass. She was a
sideshow. A freak. With the regulars it was all for fun. With the tourists it
was straight-up business.
Three questions. If they stumped her on even
one, she paid their bar tab. If she got all three they paid double. Those were the stakes. Usually.
Mave eyed the guy across the bar while mixing
a whisky sour. This one was different. This one had trust-fund baby written all
over him. They’d been at it for nearly an hour now. Him looking up ridiculous
questions on his iphone. Her answering them faster than he could spit them out.
He kept losing and every time he’d pull out another stack of bills and say, “Double
or nothing.” Yeah, this one was different, alright. This one didn’t want his
tab cleared.
He wanted a kiss.
“Mavie, love—have a heart.” Her
Uncle Dan leaned against the bar. She looked at him, at his weathered face and
twinkly blue eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. He was the best man she’d ever
known and she felt herself bend a bit. “The boy’s completely bolloxed,” he said
under his breath while he pulled a Guinness. “Give him a peck on the cheek and
call him a cab.”
The guy was completely hammered and
he was young, though not much younger than her. The kind of asshole that wore
pink polo shirts and Puka shells and had the balls to order a Corona in an Irish
pub. The way he watched her, she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple
peck on the cheek.
“Mave…”
The thick stack of Jacksons on the
bar told her two things. That Pink Polo didn’t know when to quit and that she was about three seconds away from
being able to pay her electric bill on time for once. She looked up at her
uncle which was a mistake, because she went from bending to caving in the blink
of one twinkly blue eye. Who needed light to see by, anyway? “Okay, okay—”
“Hey, Sweet-tits—you gonna answer
the question or stand there and jaw with Pops all night,” Pink Polo sneered at
her and threw a drunken high-five at his friend.
She felt her uncle stiffen, watched
his hand squeeze the yard glass he held, hard enough to crack it. She laid a
hand on his arm and smiled up at him. “Can I kick his ass now?”
He dropped a kiss on top of her head
and took the whiskey sour out of her hand. “Hurt him, Mavie. Hurt him real
good.”
That was all the encouragement she
needed.