Sandwiched between a pair of pawn shop, Fritzi O’Doul was the kind of place you would walk by in the daytime and never notice. Fritzi O’Doul’s was the kind of place you would cross the street to avoid at night. But to the regulars it was the third place, a solid no frills bar smelling of cigarettes and spilt beer. The jukebox only played the Rat Pack, the nicotine stained walls were pockmarked by darts, and the tables decorated in water rings and elbow rubbed smooth. At Fritzi O’Doul’s the place where everybody knows your name but never mentioned it because they minded their business.

“What’s his story?” Marco asked.

Dutch looked up from her casino app and shrugged. Dutch was the owner and looked like she had been born behind a bar, which considering her grandfather was the original owner and her parents ran the place after him was close to the truth. Leather-clad, she had cherubic cheeks and faux hawk of Snow White hair. Leaning on a thick tattooed arm, Dutch watched the oranges, lemons, and cherries whirl down her screen. She didn’t think she needed help behind the bar but after her third heart attack the girls had instead. Marco poured a pair of Guinnesses for a pair of pickpockets and refilled the popcorn bowls. He kept glancing at the sad souse slumped in the corner throwing trick dice. Dutch sighed.

“That’s Thirteen. He used to be known as Silverfish Simon because he was a terrific wheelman. Fast, level-headed, and an expert on making hairpin turns,” Dutch said without looking up from her phone. “But not no more.”

Marco nodded. For Dutch that was practically a soliloquy. A classic pretty boy, Marco was muscular but no meathead. Fritzi O’Doul was a true dive, an old school den for grifters and thieves. Thousands of cons and heists, petty larceny and flimflam scams had been hatched over beers and wings under this roofs. If these walls could talk someone would have belted it with a fist full of nickels.

“Hey Dutch, you minding your p’s and q’s. How’s the trouble? Face, I’ll have a sloe gin fizz, a tonic, and a vodka martini with a lemon twist and no belly wash.”

“She’s fine, Roper, and Freida’s a Junior if you can believe it.”

The patron and the old barkeep bantered while Marco made the drinks. With a face carved from granite Roper surveyed the bar.

“Oh and give my pal Simon another round.”

The drunk perked up at the sound of his Christian name. Marco poured Thirteen a neat Scotch.

“Thank you for remembering an old man,” Thirteen said.

Walking away with his drinks, Roper chatted with the older man warmly. Thirteen patted Roper’s shoulder thanking him again. Roper gave Thirteen a grateful grin. Marco froze with confusion.

“Close your pie hole before you draw flies. You know criminals are superstitious especially thieves. Thirteen was good, in demand back in the day. Then one day something happened. Some say he walked backwards under a ladder or jumped over a black cat. Hell maybe a fell into a mound of four leaf clover but after that he was lucky. He overslept and missed the Kohl heist where half the gang got ventilated by the cops. His car conked out and he missed the PNC robbery where the whole crew got arrested. Remember the Bank of Scotland blood bath, Thirteen had the chicken pox!” Dutch said. She wiped down the bar top.

“This can’t be real,” Marco said.

“Soon people caught on. The bosses stopped inviting to him to their reindeer games. But his luck grew. He won on the ponies and the dogs and the fights. No bookies would take his calls. Every day he was golden. Thirteen has won seven lotteries but he can’t do the one thing he loves, steal. When one of the oldtimers stops by and pays their respect to the old thief they believe a little of Thirteen’s luck rubs off. They get luck; he gets a taste of the game.”

“For reals,” Marco said stroking his handsome chin.

Dutch climbed off her stool, shaking her head. “Nah I’m pulling your leg kid.” Clinking the sound of coins played on her phone as she walked to the storeroom.