Mahoney sat at the bar, staring at the screen of the laptop. On it was a story about the Kildare that Hartman had arranged through one of his media contacts.
Battling Barkeeps Open Watering Hole
They’ve battled each other for almost a decade, one a gruff big-time newspaper columnist, the other a PR whiz for one of the most controversial mayors New York had ever known. But now, Phil Mahoney and Jerry Mills have put old grudges aside to go into business together.
“In preparation for your first counseling session,” Mahoney’s wife said, “Cheryl and I did an evaluation of your careers. It took all of ninety-seconds. And what was our conclusion, Cheryl?”
“They’re over,” Mills’ wife said, looking at him.
“You’ve topped out, both of you,” Jen Mahoney said.
Mills glanced across the table and saw Mahoney sputtering to speak. “Topped out? I don’t think I’ve top–”
The intervention was staged a week after the barroom brawl. It took place in a private dining room at Wilson’s Chop House, a few blocks from Penn Station. In the days since the fight, both men had refused to return texts and calls from each other. And both had refused to speak with, or communicate with, Reuben Hartman. It was left it to their wives to try and salvage the Kildare Tavern.
A wave of regret washed over Mills as he stood in the middle of the Kildare Tavern. The place was dark, dank and smelled of stale beer and other odors he didn’t want to try and identify.
“You were right,” he said to Mahoney. “It is a dump.”
Mahoney climbed onto the bar and started feeling around by the old TV that sat on a shelf high above the room.
Hartman had a soft spot for Mahoney. He had known the loud-mouthed columnist for more than three decades, and yes, the man had a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. But Hartman knew behind the temper, and stubbornness, Mahoney was a decent, hard-working guy. Although the whole water-tossing incident was disturbing.
Mills on the other hand, lacked charisma, but he was smart and hard working. He had a decent career in public relations, but for whatever reason, Mills had never distinguished himself enough to reach the highest levels of the profession.
“You’re on the way out,” Mahoney said. “Look around, you got no pictures on the wall. And there’s a bunch of framed things all stacked up on the floor. And that box behind you, it has the pictures of your kids.”
Mills stepped to his left to block Mahoney’s view of the cabinet behind him.
“And down there,” Mahoney said, pointing at another box on the floor in the corner, “those are all the awards and stuff.”