I walked
into Sean MacFinn’s Pub, the old-fashioned brass bell announcing my presence.
The patrons who recognized me raised their pints as I approached the bar.
“Morning,
Sean.”
“Come to
take coins from me purse again?”
“You set
the rules, Sean.”
“That I
did. Well, now, let’s have it.”
I pulled
out the coin from around my neck and untied it from the leather thong. I gave
the face of Tyche a kiss. The ancient Greek coin looked primitive compared to
those of today. The rough edges and off-center striking made it look
unprofessional, but this was the real deal. I had been told not to polish off
the patina on the coin because it might destroy the value, but I knew the real
score there. In that ancient silver, in the patina, was luck.
I flipped,
letting the coin bounce off the bar to rest heads up.
“One,” Sean
counted.
I flipped
again.
“Two. . . .
Three. . . . Four. . . . You going to break the record tonight?”
I looked at
the number on the chalk board behind the bar: forty-six.
I shrugged.
“Just trying to get a meal, Sean.”
“Seven.
There’s your pint. Eight. . . . Nine. . . .”