If Jerome’s uncle Tom Kerrigan had stayed out of it, that might’ve been better. But there came old fiery Tommy Kerrigan back into the public eye campaigning—again—and winning—again. You’d wanted to think that the wily old bastard had retired from politics but no, he’d been vehement and energized, winning the Republican primary on a campaign of law and order, fair treatment for all races—meaning that “whites” were being mistreated in South Niagara as elsewhere in the U.S., his own nephews were “victims” of black racism: persecuted because they were white. Such bitterness Tommy Kerrigan stirred up, virtually all of South Niagara was divided: pro-Kerrigan, anti-Kerrigan. He’d singled out no one by name because that wasn’t Tommy Kerrigan’s style but it was implicit that certain black leaders, black ministers, liberal white politicians, were responsible for the gross “miscarriage of justice” that had sent his nephews to prison.

Years later now. Things had quieted down in South Niagara. Tom Kerrigan had retired from politics at last, permanently. Had to be over eighty. He lived in Naples, Florida, with his (much younger) wife, said to be incapacitated by a series of strokes. But one of his Republican protégés was a U.S. congressman and another was preparing to run for state senator. Jerome Kerrigan could not escape the ignominy of his name.

God-damned unfair, he’d always had black friends. Veterans like himself. Race issues hadn’t entered into any of their exchanges for twenty years or more and then suddenly, they stopped seeing one another.

Why his God-damned blood pressure was high. Just thinking about it like poking a sore tooth. Plus money. Always money.

At work that day feeling dazed from the early-morning until late. Head tight. Pounding pulses. Probably not a good idea to stop for a drink but badly needed a drink. Also, the Shamrock was a place where Jerome Kerrigan was known. For himself, not his name or his damned uncle. At the bar, the familiar soothing incantation of complaint. The speech of his friends as it had once been the speech of his elders. A kind of harmony, in complaint. Corrupt politicians, union officials. Whoever happened to be mayor, governor of the state. President of the U.S. Jerome could count on it, he’d know virtually all of the men in the Shamrock beyond a certain age. Young guys he wouldn’t know but older guys, he would. He’d gone to school with some of them. He’d gone out with their sisters, their wives—long ago. His kids knew their kids, or had once. He’d had disagreements with all of them but could not have said what the disagreements were, for the most part. A fixed number of people you know, you can’t feud with all of them but must relent, forgive. Certainly, forget.