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.
“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. . . .”