The dark interior of this bar felt about as authentically Irish as The Harp and Thorn screamed tourist attraction. Gone were the sparkly mirrors and the white painted walls, the big screen TV's and the tall ceilings. Instead, this place felt like traveling to the Emerald Isle as I'd had the good fortune to do, though frankly I would have preferred to not feel like I'd fallen into the dark and much worn den of the Irish mob here in Reading, Vermont.
Because that's exactly what I'd done, from the handsome, if older, man in the black t-shirt and jeans, his lean body tight with muscle, gray hair left long and wavy around his square-jawed face. Traces of old, faded freckles and green eyes that matched mine watched me with careful caution as I was seated by a pair of bullies-the hands on my shoulders bigger than the parts of me they grasped-with gentle if insistent pressure.