Charley's

Charley's Tap was already open, though discretely so, at 6 A.M. Discretely, in that the city clearly didn't want to be known as a place for early-morning drinking, and Donegan the owner didn't want too much attention or extra business. He didn't want any more pressure from City Hall, or have to increase his monthly contribution to the local beat cop. Both factors were already at levels which tried his patience and his finances, and he couldn't afford the escalation of either.

So while Donegan didn't actively promote being open for business at such an early hour, neither would he turn away an interested patron. While the neon and overhead lights blared at full illumination through the tall front windows into the morning darkness outside, the door stood closed but unlocked. There was just enough of an appearance that the bar was only being cleaned up, to divert the attention of authorities. But the local regulars knew otherwise, and could stroll through the unlocked door and be served, at their convenience. As a fallback, Donegan ensured that hardboiled eggs and sour pickles were available at the bar at all times; if there was any trouble over alcohol being served--the authorities could be maddeningly capricious in their moral indignation--he could claim to be serving meals to honest workingmen on their way to their early shifts.

Cars sped past on the street outside, singlemindedly on their way to somewhere else. Donegan's early patrons were strictly locals, walk-ins, men who could plausibly be considered workers on the early shift, but more likely the unemployed looking for a strong one to get them through the emptiness of their morning. The old bartender, Folan, sat nodding behind the bar, idly waiting to serve such a someone in need. Maybe there would be customers, or maybe not. It didn't matter at all to Folan, though it did to Donegan. If men, employed or otherwise, needed alcohol to brace themselves for the day ahead, Donegan considered it his duty to provide.