"So d'ya see de paper dis mornin'?"

"Aye. Great front page, I say. Cheeriest thing I've read in the news all week."

"Yeah? Yeh tink it's great too, den?" Trista questioned Joe McBride as he sat next to her at the bar, careful not to say exactly who he was agreeing with.

"O' course!" Joe exclaimed. "They keep my children safe and make my wife happy ta run on an errand alone late at night. They're true saints, they are."

Trista nodded comprehension, but hoped he took it as agreement. "Any idea why dey do it?"

"The men they kill are evil."

"Oh, I know. I just meant I wonder what got 'em started, what gave 'em d'idea."

"Oh, I don't know really. Doesn't matter to me why they do it as long as they keep doing it. Makes my life a whole hell of a lot easier."

"Mmmmm…" she mumbled and nodded again.

………………………………...

"I heard Corrigan's in de hospital."

"Aye. Bar fight. They're normally harmless, but every once in a while…" Danny McCullough trailed off, shaking his head.

"It's a pity."

"Aye, but it happens rare enough."

"Don't yeh sometimes wish all dat fightin' in general would just stop, dough?"

Danny shrugged his shoulders. "It's normally harmless, like I said."

"If yeh tink harmless is just a few broken ribs ta be patched up."

Danny shrugged again.

"D'ya ever wonder if one day de Saints'll get fed up wiv it all and put an end t'it?" she tried ever so carefully.

Danny just looked at her for a moment, but decided she didn't mean any harm by the question. "The Saints'll never turn on their own, Trista."

"So dey are Irish."

"O'course. I certainly woulda thought you knew that. It's all over the papers even, and the TV."

"I tought it was just speculation," Trista quickly explained.

Danny shrugged and waved his hand as if to dismiss the subject. "But besides all that, Trista, bar fights aren't evil. They're sins, sure, but not evil. Ya go ta confession and you do your penance and go on with yer life. The Saints prefer ta leave minor sins ta priests and the God they serve."

"De Saints or de priests?"

"Well… euh…" Danny furrowed his brow. "… both. O' course."

"O' course," Trista agreed.

………………………………...

"It's gettin' late. I'd better be goin'," Trista put her plan in action.

"It's only ten, Trista." Moreen Woulfe was clearing the last of the dishes off of the table from their dinner hours earlier. "What's the rush? And ya can't tell me yeh've got work tomorrow; it's Saturday."

"No, no work. I just… wan' ta get home," she said, and let Maureen know it was a lie.

"Come on, Trista, enough already. What is it?"

"I don' know…" She made her voice hesitant and unsure. "I just… Back in da Decies, I lived in a tiny little town where everybody knew each oder and each oder's business. I don' know. I guess I'm still just a little… scared… by dis city."

"What is there ta be scared of?"

"I don' know, Maur. I just don' really like walkin' home alone late at night."

"Well, why not, Trista? I mean, this neighborhood is exactly like your hometown. You see a bar fight ahead of you, you just duck into any building. The occupants'll give ya shelter 'til it's passed. Anythin' other than that… the Saints'll take care of."

Trista smiled to herself. She had lain her trap well. "D'ya ever wonder 'bout dat, Maur?"

"What?"

"How much faith everyone around here seems ta put in da fact dat de Saints'll take care of it'."

Maureen shrugged. "Not really. They say it because it's true. The Saints do their job, and they do it well. But I take it you do?"

Now Trista shrugged. "I'm not really sure." She took a cup in her hand and traced around its rim with her finger. "It just seems… I don' know. I mean, o' course, I'm glad dere er fewer mobsters on de street an' all… but d'yeh ever wonder if de Saints'll make a mistake or sometin'?"

"What d'yeh mean? If they'll take the wrong person?" At Trista's nod, Maureen assented. "I suppose it could happen, but it hasn't happened yet. I think they make pretty damn sure they know who they're chasin' before they go in fer the kill. But that's not why you're afraid of walkin' home is it? You don't have to worry about that anyways. The Saints don' take women."

"But what if you got caught up in sometin' accidentally?--"

"I don't think that's going ta happen on your walk between here and yer apartment. They don't work in this neighborhood."

"--And can't women be evil, too? So how does dat work?"

"Look, Trista, I don' know why yer havin' such a hard time wif this, but ya just have ta trust that the Saints are there to keep ya safe."

"We just never had anytin' like dis back home." Again Trista shrugged. "All de killin' we heard about on de behalf of religion was because of a difference of opinion."

"I know. My family's from County Monaghan originally an' we still 'ear about relatives caught up in it all… But enough o' that. Come on, let's go 'ave a drink wif the boys, eh? And if you really don' wan' ta walk home alone, I'll have one of them walk ya later on."

"Oh, yeah. A drunken protector. Dat'll do nicely," Trista joked, but entered the kitchen through the swinging doors after her friend.

………………………………...

Trista sat once again on her rock-hard mattress staring up at her wall of wonders. She had, as always, come home to her notebook and pencil to make changes and add new names. It had been a month since she'd started the assignment, having easily convinced Turnbaum that she was well on her way to a story, and the wall had grown to include neatly typed descriptions of main players, photos of those she had an excuse to photograph, and newspaper clippings of anything that was remotely related to the Saints. She stood slowly and approached the wall ever so cautiously, as though it might be frightened away if she made a quick movement. Carefully, she removed one of the photos on its pushpin and replaced it a little higher and to the left. Then she took hold of the ball of red string sitting on the floor next to her and connected the picture to that of another "major player" on her wall. She had done this to many a photo and now a web was beginning to form itself, a web based on the relationships around which the community ran. She was progressing well, she thought, and reclaimed her place on the bed.

………………………………...

"Hey, Patrick."

"Hey, there, Trista what can I get ya?"

"The black stuff."

"What else?" Patrick was always teasing her about her lack of creativity. It was still early and there were only a few other people in the bar as of yet, so Patrick risked a stab at a controversial topic. "D'ya see what those bastards did now?" And Trista knew he meant the Saints. She only nodded. "Some day, I tell ya, they're gonna get theirs." She only nodded again and stared at her beer. "What's the matter?" She shook her head. "What? You don't think they're…"

"I'm not sure."

"Oh, you're not--"

"Don' worry about it, Pat. I'm not goin' ta say anytin'." The barkeep visibly relaxed. "It's not dat I don't tink…" She sighed. "I'm not sure, Pat. I'm just not sure."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

A/N: The black stuff references Guinness or Murphy's. Other than that… Can you read the accent? Is it good? Are you having a rough time with that? Or… um… well… how about you just tell me what you want. Cool. Off to read Vonnegut. Toodles.