O’Grady’s

The ice in Frankie O’Grady’s glass had long surrendered to the lukewarm amber liquid, the remnants of its former self clinking softly as he shifted the glass on the sticky countertop. The hour was late, the usual boisterous energy of O’Grady’s fading into a hushed stillness punctuated only by the low murmur of a few remaining souls. Two construction men, their faces etched with the weariness of a day’s toil and their large hands still bearing the smudges of the docks, sat hunched over their beers, the silence between them thick with unspoken exhaustion. In the dimly lit corner booth, a cabbie, his cap askew, had succumbed to the lull, his head resting on the cradle of his folded arms, a soft snore escaping his lips. The flickering neon sign outside, a testament to a long-broken promise of Schlitz, cast an erratic glow on the scene, catching the plume of smoke as a drag queen with artfully applied but now slightly smeared lipstick exhaled slowly, the tendrils of gray dissipating in the stale air.

 

Frankie, a man resembling a timeworn oak with a slight paunch and the deep lines of countless late nights etched into his face, moved with a seasoned fatigue. He wiped down the already spotless section of the bar with a damp cloth, the circular motion a routine ingrained over the years. His hands, large and rough from years of pouring drinks and occasionally breaking up rowdy customers, worked with an almost indifferent precision. In the corner, the jukebox, a memento from brighter days, played “Summer Rain,” its lively tune a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere thick with the lingering smell of stale beer and cigarettes. By 1985, O’Grady’s had already become an artifact in the gritty Hell’s Kitchen scene.

 

Then, the silence was broken by a voice that cut through the quiet from the shadowed doorway leading to the back office—low, edged with impatience, a sound that brooked no argument.

 

“Frankie. He’s here.”

 

Frankie’s hand stilled on the damp rag. He didn’t turn, didn’t offer a verbal acknowledgment. He simply placed the rag on the polished wood and began the slow, deliberate walk towards the back.

 

The small office was dimly lit by a single desk lamp, casting harsh shadows on the cluttered surfaces. Captain Ray Malloy sat behind the worn wooden desk, his considerable gut straining against the loosened buckle of his belt. His face, fleshy and jowly, held the familiar expression of a man who had made a career out of applying just enough pressure to extract what he wanted without provoking outright rebellion. He lifted a silver flask to his lips, the metal catching the weak lamplight as he took a slow, deliberate sip.

 

“Another violation, Frankie,” Malloy said, his voice a low rumble. “Cockroach behind the sink. Funny how they always seem to turn up just before your license renewal.”

 

Frankie kept his gaze fixed on his own worn shoes—scuffed brown leather, a dark, unidentifiable stain marring the toe of one, a relic of some long-forgotten barroom fracas. “I sprayed last week, Captain. Twice.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

 

Malloy’s lips stretched into a slow, knowing smile that didn’t reach his cold eyes. “Then you must be attracting them with something sweet, Frankie.”

 

Frankie remained silent, his jaw tight. This ritual was as familiar as the nightly closing routine, a dance of veiled threats and unspoken obligations.

 

Two weeks later, the flickering television screen mounted above the bar buzzed with the insistent drone of the ten o’clock news. Frankie, his hand steady as he poured a shot of amber whiskey for a lone customer, glanced up as the image on the screen flashed to a familiar face—Ray Malloy, his expression contorted in a mask of impotent fury, his hands cuffed behind his back as two stern-faced federal agents flanked him, leading him out of what Frankie recognized as the precinct house.

 

“Captain Raymond Malloy arrested in corruption probe,” the news anchor’s voice intoned, the words hanging in the suddenly charged air of the bar. “Allegations include bribery, extortion, and improper relationships with local business owners.”

 

Frankie’s hand froze, the whiskey bottle still tilted above the glass. He slowly set it down, his fingers tingling with a strange mix of relief and a burgeoning unease.

 

At the far end of the bar, the drag queen, who had been silently observing the broadcast, deliberately crushed the glowing ember of her cigarette into a glass ashtray, the small sound sharp in the quiet. “Some rats can’t swim when the ship goes down,” she murmured, her voice low and husky.

 

Frankie didn’t respond. He stared out the rain-streaked window at the dark street, his chest feeling strangely tight, a knot of apprehension forming in his gut. Malloy was gone. The constant pressure, the subtle extortion, the veiled threats—all of it presumably over. But now, a different kind of fear began to take root, a chilling uncertainty about what the future held.

 

Who else knew what Frankie had done? What secrets had been traded in the dimly lit corners of Malloy’s office?

 

The letter arrived mid-week, a crisp, white envelope amidst the usual junk mail that cluttered his doorstep. It looked official, important, starkly out of place against the peeling paint of his porch railing. The return address was stark: District Attorney’s Office. They wanted to talk.

 

His lawyer, Evelyn Reed, a small woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and an air of no-nonsense efficiency, met him outside the imposing stone courthouse. Her handshake was firm, her demeanor professional. “Just answer what they ask, Frankie,” she advised, her voice low and direct. “Nothing more. Don’t volunteer anything.”

 

Inside the sterile hearing room, the fluorescent lights hummed with a relentless energy, casting a harsh glare on the polished table. The two investigators seated across from him were polite, their manner carefully neutral, but Frankie could detect the underlying sharpness in their questions, the subtle probing beneath the surface.

 

“How long have you known Captain Malloy, Mr. O’Grady?”

 

“What would you describe as the nature of your relationship with Captain Malloy?”

 

Frankie kept his voice steady, his answers concise, but he couldn’t miss the way their eyes seemed to linger on certain words, the almost imperceptible glances they exchanged when he paused, choosing his words carefully.

 

Then, a cold realization washed over him, a dawning understanding that went beyond the immediate charges against Malloy. This wasn’t just about bribes and extortion. This was something deeper, something that could potentially drag him down as well.

 

That night, the silence of his small apartment above the bar felt heavier than usual. Frankie poured himself a generous measure of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass, and tried to banish the rising tide of anxiety. But the thoughts, dark and persistent, crept in anyway.

 

Malloy had been a bastard, a bully who had exploited his small business for years. But he had also been a constant, a fixture in his life for so long that his absence now created a void, a sense of precariousness. Malloy had known things, seen things. He had been a silent witness to parts of Frankie’s life that he had long tried to bury.

 

And now?

 

Now the DA wasn’t just sifting through Malloy’s dirty dealings. They were potentially unearthing Frankie’s past as well, dredging up secrets he had hoped were long forgotten.

The memory washed over him like a dark tide, pulling him back into the stifling, grimy back room of O’Grady’s. The scent of sweat and fear had been a living thing, choking and dense, clinging to Frankie like a second skin. The single, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling had cast a harsh, unforgiving light on Malloy, who stood with his belt unbuckled, his trousers and underwear pooled around his ankles. The captain’s eyes, cold and unyielding as a winter storm, bore into Frankie, his stare demanding and brutal. His voice, a low growl that rumbled like distant thunder, cut through the silence, “I don’t have all night, Frankie boy. Take that shirt off. Can’t have you ruining it with your clumsiness.”

Frankie remembered his hands, calloused and trembling like autumn leaves in a gale, grasping the fabric of his shirt, pulling it over his head to reveal his hairy, barrel chest, shiny with a thin sheen of nervous sweat. He had lowered himself onto the cold, unyielding floor, the hard concrete sending shivers up his spine like icy tendrils. Malloy’s penis, already engorged and pulsating, stood stark and obscene against the soft, vulnerably rounded contours of Frankie’s chest. “You know the drill, now get to it,” Malloy had commanded, his voice a toxic blend of contempt and entitlement, as cold and unyielding as an iron shackle.

The oppressive heat of the back room weighed heavily on Frankie, with the smell of whiskey strong on Malloy’s breath and its sour taste lingering in his own mouth. He leaned in, heart pounding, and took the man in his mouth.

Frankie knew exactly how Malloy liked it. Start slow, tongue flat against the underside, one hand gripping the base firmly. Never too wet, never using teeth except for that slight, barely-there scrape that made the captain's thighs tense. Frankie would hollow his cheeks, creating a vacuum-tight seal, working his way down until his nose pressed against the wiry gray hair at Malloy's groin. The captain preferred a steady rhythm with occasional pauses where Frankie would pull back to the tip, swirl his tongue around the sensitive ridge, then take him deep again in one practiced motion.

"That's it," Malloy grumbled. Frankie sensed Malloy's grip on his hair tighten as the alcohol-fueled release filled his mouth. A bit of it dripped down his chin onto his chest, grateful he had removed his shirt beforehand. He swallowed with difficulty, battling his own self-disgust.

When he looked up, he noticed a cold, empty hunger in Malloy’s eyes—an unfillable void that had haunted Frankie in his solitary nights. This was the cost of keeping his bar afloat, a secret he never understood why Malloy wanted from him, given the younger, more conventionally attractive men at Malloy’s disposal. Now, with investigators probing him, eyes sharp and searching, Frankie wondered if this dark secret would be exposed for all to see.

 

He glanced at the faded photograph on his nightstand—Bridget, his wife, her smile forever frozen in time. The quiet that had settled between them in those last years, a silence born of unspoken regrets and a growing distance, had been its own peculiar form of loneliness.

 

He drank again, the whiskey burning a temporary path down his throat. It offered a fleeting numbness, but it didn’t dispel the gnawing fear.

 

The next evening, seeking a brief respite from the suffocating confines of his apartment, Frankie stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the bar. The night air was cool against his skin. Across the quiet street, he noticed a man leaning against a lamppost, his silhouette lean and his age roughly comparable to Frankie’s. The man was watching him, his expression unreadable, something that wasn’t quite a smile but held no discernible threat either.

 

Frankie’s muscles tensed instinctively. Was this one of Malloy’s associates? Someone sent to deliver a veiled warning, a reminder of past complicity?

 

But then the man spoke, his voice low and even, cutting through the quiet hum of the city. “Long night?”

 

Frankie grunted a noncommittal reply. “They’re all long.”

 

The man pushed himself off the lamppost and stepped closer, crossing the empty street. “Name’s Arthur. I’ve seen you around.”

 

Frankie studied him more closely now—the network of fine lines around his eyes, the quiet steadiness in his gaze, the way he held himself with a certain unassuming dignity. Not a cop. Not a thug. Just a man, it seemed.

 

“Frankie,” he offered, the name feeling strangely unfamiliar on his tongue after the days of guarded silence.

 

"Nice to meet you, Frankie," Arthur said, his gaze lingering a moment longer than felt strictly platonic. "Long night?"

 

"Every night's a long night," Frankie mumbled, the weariness of his years settling back upon him.

 

"I know the feeling," Arthur said softly. "Maybe... maybe we could both use a little less of it. You heading back in?" He gestured towards O'Grady's with a tilt of his head.

 

Frankie hesitated. The thought of the empty apartment upstairs was suddenly more oppressive than the uncertain company of this stranger. There was a vulnerability in Arthur's eyes, a loneliness that mirrored his own.

 

"Yeah," Frankie said, his voice a little less guarded. "Going back up."

 

Arthur's smile widened, a genuine, warm expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Mind if I walk you?"

 

Frankie considered it for a fleeting moment, the ingrained caution warring with a sudden, unexpected yearning for connection. "It's just upstairs," he said, but the words lacked their usual dismissiveness.

 

"Just to the door then," Arthur replied easily.

 

They walked in silence, the only sound the distant hum of city traffic. At the foot of the stairs leading to Frankie’s apartment, Arthur stopped.

 

"Well," he said, his gaze direct, "it was nice meeting you, Frankie."

 

The air between them thickened. There was an unspoken invitation hanging there, a silent question in Arthur’s eyes. Frankie felt a nervous flutter in his stomach, a sensation he hadn't felt since he was a much younger man, courting Bridget. But this was different. This was unexpected. And it stirred something deep within him, something he hadn't allowed himself to feel, perhaps hadn't even recognized, until now.

 

He looked at Arthur, really looked at him. The lines on his face spoke of a life lived, a life that perhaps held its own share of loneliness. And in that moment, Frankie made a decision, a small act of rebellion against the years of solitude and the confusing turmoil of his feelings for Malloy.

 

"You... you want to come up for a drink?" Frankie asked, the words a little rough, a little hesitant.

 

Arthur’s smile returned, this time with a hint of something more than just kindness. "I'd like that very much, Frankie."

The living room barely registered beyond the muted blue glow of the TV—nobody watching. Frankie sat on the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, eyes cast downward. Near the window, Arthur leaned one shoulder against the frame, hands buried in his pockets. They lapsed into silence.

Arthur cleared his throat. “I work at a law office. Clerical stuff—intake forms, transferring files. Not exactly glamorous.”

Frankie gave a small nod—listening, not encouraging more words.

“I keep my head down,” Arthur continued. “Can’t afford to slip up. Doesn’t really matter how cautious you are. If they decide you belong to that group…” His voice trailed off as the distant hum of traffic filled the pause.

“I get tested every six months,” he picked up. “Always negative. Doesn’t stop me from wondering what would happen if someone found out.”

Frankie’s fingers tapped once against his knee. “You live alone?”

“Yeah. Uptown. Rent’s outrageous, and nobody says hello. But it’s mine.”

Another moment of silence. Frankie shifted his gaze to Arthur. “You really do that every day? Go in, do the job, hold it together?”

A gentle smile touched Arthur’s lips. “Every day. It’s nothing flashy, but it’s stable. I’ve tried lots of jobs over the years. I’ve got routines now—same bodega, same coffee shop. The barista knows my order by heart. Calls me professor for some reason.”

A soft snort escaped Frankie. Both glanced at each other, surprised.

Arthur stepped closer. “It’s tough,” he admitted. “But it’s not without joy. There’s space for things, even in a world like this.”

Frankie’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. He sank further back, as if discovering more room.

Arthur sat beside him—deliberate, measured. Not so close as to invade, but close enough to share warmth.

Frankie looked across at him. “Ever think about just… giving up? Walking away from all of it?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. I’ve done the hiding. Now I’m just smarter about it. I hold on to the parts of myself that matter.”

Frankie turned fully toward him. Arthur met his gaze, unwavering. Gently, he laid the back of his hand atop Frankie’s resting on the cushion—a feather-light

Frankie trembled but didn’t pull away. His fingers curled under Arthur’s until their palms met.

Arthur leaned in, his breath warm and surprisingly gentle against Frankie’s cheek. The bar owner felt a tremor run through him, a mix of anticipation and fear. Arthur’s lips met his, tentative at first, as if asking permission, then with increasing confidence as Frankie didn’t pull away. The kiss grew deeper, more insistent, a silent promise of something more than the cold, transactional intimacy he’d endured with Malloy. Arthur’s hand slid under his shirt, the touch a stark contrast to the rough grip he was accustomed to, instead a soft exploration of the uncharted terrain of Frankie’s skin. His palm was smooth and dry, his fingertips tracing the contours of Frankie’s chest with a tenderness that was as foreign as it was arousing. Frankie’s hand responded instinctively, reaching up to cup Arthur’s neck, drawing him closer. They kissed with a desperation that spoke of years of hidden longing and stolen moments, their bodies pressed together, seeking solace in the warmth of shared secrets.

With trembling hands, Arthur began to unbutton Frankie’s shirt, revealing the salt and pepper chest hairs that led down to his slightly protruding belly. The sight of his own nakedness sent a shiver through Frankie, the stark contrast between this gentle exploration and the brutal exposure of his past with Malloy unmistakable. Each button released was like a link in a chain breaking free, setting him adrift in a sea of new sensations. As the shirt fell away, Arthur’s gaze traveled over him, not with the hunger of a predator, but with the appreciation of a man discovering something precious and rare. They continued to undress in the soft light of the apartment, their eyes locked, a silent communication passing between them that spoke of vulnerability and desire.

When they were both naked, they took a moment to truly look at one another, their eyes lingering over the curves and dips of their bodies, the map of scars and imperfections that told the story of their lives. Frankie’s eyes widened slightly as he took in Arthur’s relaxed frame, the contours of his chest and arms a testament to a life lived. Arthur’s gaze was no less appreciative, his eyes caressing the barrel chest and thick thighs that Malloy had so often used to assert his dominance.

The memory of a naked Malloy bending over Frankie to have his way made him almost recoil. But Arthur’s hand, now resting gently on his bare shoulder, grounded him in the present. The drag queen from the bar had told him that some rats couldn’t swim when the ship went down, but as he looked into Arthur’s eyes, he realized that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t one of them..

They moved closer, their bodies touching in a way that was unfamiliar but somehow right, the warmth of Arthur’s skin against his own a stark contrast to the coldness he’d come to expect. Frankie felt his breath catch in his throat as Arthur’s hand slid down to his waist, his touch light and reassuring.

Frankie felt Arthur's erection pressing against his thigh, a stark reminder of the intimate act he'd performed countless times before, but this was different. This time, it was a hunger he shared, a need that didn't stem from fear or obligation. He slid off the couch and onto his knees, his movements driven by a desire that was both alien and exhilarating. His eyes never left Arthur's, and the gaze grew heated as he watched Frankie's mouth open to accept him. Years of backroom activity had honed his technique, but now, with Arthur, it was a skill offered freely, eagerly, and it brought a new kind of power with it. The gentle touch of Arthur's hand on the back of his head, the quiet gasps of pleasure he emitted as Frankie worked, filled him with a sense of purpose and connection that was intoxicating. He took Arthur deep, feeling the pulse against his tongue, his cheeks hollowing as he created a rhythm that was a new way of looking at himself. Arthur's breathing grew ragged, his body tense,

"Frankie, can I fuck you?" Arthur's question hung in the air, a raw, intimate invitation. Frankie nodded, his throat tight. His memory was of his whole bar hearing him scream in pain as Molloy entered him with only spit as lubricant. He trusted Arthur would be different.

Arthur's hand slid down, fumbling in his pocket to produce a small square packet and a condom. His hands were steady as he rolled the latex over his erection, squeezing a dollop of lube onto his fingers. Frankie braced himself, his eyes drifting closed, but instead of pain, he felt Arthur's slick digits gently probing, preparing him. The tenderness was a revelation, and when Arthur finally positioned himself at his entrance, the initial pressure gave way to a building pleasure that took him by surprise. As Arthur pushed in, slow and sure, Frankie's yelps grew louder, a mix of shock and relief. This was what it felt like to be touched with care, to be taken not as a possession but as a partner. His body, so long a battleground of fear, responded with an enthusiasm he hadn't known it possessed. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, a gentle counterpoint to the harsher noises of their panting as Arthur increased his thrusts.

With a groan, Arthur pulled out, his hand moving to his own erection as slid off condom. The sight of Arthur's urgent need was intoxicating to Frankie, and he mirrored the action, wrapping his own hand around his cock. The two men watched each other, their movements becoming more frantic, the air thick with desire. Arthur’s hand sped up, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Frankie’s eyes widened, his breathing ragged, as he felt the climax approaching. The moment Arthur’s semen splattered across Frankie's face, Frankie’s body tightened, and he erupted in a powerful orgasm, his seed spurting forth in thick ropes to paint Arthur’s chest. They sat there, panting, their bodies still joined by their hands, the sticky warmth of their releases a tangible bond between them. The stark reality of what had just transpired filled the room.

Afterward, they lay intertwined on the threadbare sofa, limbs damp with sweat and sticky with cum. The room felt warm and close, the old radiator hissing softly in the corner. Arthur slouched against the armrest; Frankie lay half atop him, one hand draped across Arthur’s stomach as if he weren’t sure he had the right to hold on.

Arthur’s fingers traced through Frankie’s damp hair. He said nothing—the quiet between them was patient, full of unspoken understanding.

Frankie shifted, eyes on the ceiling, jaw working. Without looking at Arthur, he whispered, “I used to think if Malloy ever kicked it, I’d feel free. Like the chains would snap.”

Arthur stayed silent, letting him speak.

“But now… now I’m just waiting for someone else to pick up those chains,” Frankie murmured. “The DA’s office—hell, they say they got files, rumors, receipts. If they decide to come for me, they won’t have to dig.”

He swallowed, voice dropping lower. “If they find out about us… about any of this… they could bury me, Arthur. Not just me—the bar, my name, everything I’ve built.”

Arthur’s hand stilled in his hair. “Then you don’t give them the chance.”

Frankie let out a soft, rueful laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

At last Arthur spoke, calm but firm. “It means you walk away before they can touch you. Before they decide your worth. You build something that’s truly yours.”

Frankie propped himself on one elbow and met Arthur’s gaze, eyes red-rimmed but steady. “Where?”

Arthur hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “Fort Lauderdale.”

“Florida?” Frankie echoed.

Arthur nodded. “It’s not just retirees and palm trees. There’s a real scene growing—guys looking for somewhere to belong. A few small clubs, some beachfront storefronts opening up. You’d fit right in. You could build something clean, something safe.”

He held Frankie’s eyes evenly. “You could run the place you’ve always wanted. No ghosts. No favors owed.”

They lay in silence while a distant car alarm wailed, filling the space where his answer should have been. Finally, Frankie’s voice was soft. “You really think I could do it? Walk away from all this?”

Arthur pressed a kiss to his hairline. “I think you’re just tired of pretending you’re not ready.”

The following week, Arthur walked into the gleaming, sterile offices of the District Attorney, his steps echoing in the hallway. He sat in the witness chair, his heart hammering in his chest, and recounted the sordid details of his encounters with Malloy, his voice strong and steady. The room was a tableau of stern faces and furious scribbling pens, but he didn’t falter, not once. For every lie Malloy had whispered, every degradation he had endured, Arthur now spoke the truth. And in doing so, he felt a weight lifting from him, a burden shed like an old, soiled skin. The press picked up the story, eager for the salacious details of a corrupt captain’s downfall, and soon, Malloy’s crimes were splashed across the front pages, the whispers of his misdeeds given a megaphone. Frankie watched from a distance, his heart in his throat, as the man who had held his life in his grasp was brought to justice.

And then, as suddenly as the storm had come, it was over. The charges against Malloy grew, his crimes unraveling like a cheap sweater in the rain, and the NYPD, eager for this case to go away, offered Frankie a settlement that would give him the means to start anew. Wilton Manors beckoned, a shimmering promise of palm trees and open skies, a place where he could breathe without the stench of fear clinging to him like a second skin.

O'Grady's, now under new management, continued to serve the same stale beer and whiskey to the same tired souls, but Frankie was no longer one of them. He bought a small place on the cusp of Wilton Manors he called it The Rainbow’s End, a nod to the rainbow flags that fluttered proudly along the streets and to the rain-soaked streets of his past.

And Arthur, ever the silent guardian, visited often,and soon made the move permanent. They became partners in more than just the bar, . As Wilton Manors grew around them, they became community fixtures with few knowing what it took for them to get there

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