If later on you find yourself wondering, tres leches is a great dessert that everyone from Mexico to Puerto Rico claims as their own. It is so good; I have a pair of pants rendered useless by its rich, gooey goodness. Mmmm.

A Pub for Old Friends or a Place to Meet New Ones - 3:00 P.M.

Dean Brody poked his head inside O'Leary's Pub and smiled. It'd been a while since the recording of a pump action Remington chambering a shell had replaced the more traditional ding-dong of bells announcing incoming customers in other establishments but it never failed to bring a smile to his face. The dark, cozy interior of 2913 Merrick Road was quiet in the afternoon slump evidenced in a bored busboy mopping the floor and the bartender adding lunch receipts at the far end of the counter. The latter looked up from the account book and gave him an easy smile.

"Seen any brooding Italians here today?"

"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns." She nodded toward the pool tables in the back. The thwack of a cue striking politically incorrect, ivory balls just out of view served as corroboration. Dean looked at his wristwatch.

"Pam, babe, is the kitchen closed?"

"You know the answer to that, babe." Her fingers flying over the calculator keys never slowed down. Dean bent in a mock beggar's crouch.

"Pamela Louise O'Leary, I am a hopeless bonehead. I will never again refer to you in terms of endearment shared by any talking pigs fictional or otherwise. Now, may I please get some cheese fries?"

"I'll see what I can do for you." She gave him a playful smile and stashed the account books out of sight. Dean looked at the menu on a chalkboard above the bar.

"Let me get a beef burrito and um Belgian waffles, extra whipped cream. Brisket on sourdough, the large. And a couple of beers. Oh yeah and fix up a couple patty melts for my man. Apple pie if you have any, two or three slices should do."

"I have some plates you can eat too."

"You are a doll Pam." He rapped a drum-roll on the bar and blew her a kiss.

Dean navigated between empty tables as Pamela disappeared behind swinging doors into the kitchen. O'Leary's was older than time, operated by the same family since way back when prices were reasonable, politicians were honest and Bellmore looked down its nose at yuppies priced out of downtown Manhattan; so old in fact that the back room now filled with dart boards, a jukebox and three pool tables had once been a sitting area for women to enjoy their lager when coed drinking turned heads in New York.

"You still can't play pool to save your life," he said stopping a billiard ball's progress on the felt tabletop.

"Fuck off Dean."

"I'm hungry so I'll make this short." Silas tore his eyes from the chalk holder in his hand. "I met this girl at the veteran's center in Brooklyn. You look like you could use her card." In tried and true male fashion, the conversation was directed at the billiard balls. Silas' answer was wordless but nonetheless expressive.

"Dude, it's three o'clock and you are alone, playing pool in a bar. You are bad country song." Point made. "She knows this great Puerto Rican bodega, best tres leches in the state. R train gets you there."

Silas played mediocre pool for twenty minutes. For someone with his superb depth perception, he really was bad at it but then fear of bundling a shot never kept him from the game; everyone had to suck at something. Pamela emerged from the kitchen in a cloud of appetizing food smells. She unloaded the food in front of Dean, put the bill by his fork and went back to the books.

"Was she always like that?" Chris sat down in front of his patty melt. He picked up the burger. Patty was a misnomer. It made a half pound of beef sound dainty.

"Who? Vivian?"

"Yup," he replied through a mouthful of cheesy meat.

"Yeah, she's an eejit."

"Only thirty years to notice."

"There's a lot I'd forgive a woman with a rack like that," Dean said chasing the mixture of beef burrito and brisket in his mouth with a swallow of beer, endearing even to women despite his daunting lack of tact. They ate quietly letting all the artery clogging trans fats in their fries go to work coating healthy arteries, bringing about doom. Dean soaked up Worcester sauce with a waffle crust and the world at large cringed in disgust.

"Are you gonna go see him?" Him needed no further identifiers in not so casual dialogue. Him was Christopher Silas Senior and subtleties of inflection were enough to surmise that. Chris shrugged and shook his head at the same time, a greater feat of coordination than many would have guessed.

"No point. He doesn't know who I am anymore; it just makes him angry at the nurses." The real unsung heroes he thought. The latest had lasted eight years when most never made it a week. His fork hovered above flaky pie crust. "Did she really divorce Jimmy because of something I said?" He stabbed the center of the slice making apple compote ooze from the sides.

"Don't flatter yourself dude." Dean snorted annoyed. "Are you just gonna play with that? I could eat it." Silas pushed the plate across the table and dunked the fork in his empty beer mug. "Jimmy's gay. Came out on Valentine's day."

"Jesus."

"You are not like him you know."

"I still would've snapped her neck." Chris said without missing a beat.

"You wouldn't and you didn't. You took a walk. When did your father ever do that?"

"I know exactly how hard I'd have to hit her head against the wall." Teeth were visible but not as anything that could be called a smile.

"Oh God, what is it you Catholics and guilt? I'm fucking Irish and you still fucking win. Pam, honey, can I get some more of that pie?"

"Nope." She didn't look up from the tally sheets.

"Awww come on love I'm eating for two here." He pointed at Silas. Pamela's look wasn't a nice one but then Dean never failed to finish enough food for a small army and fit into a 30 inch waist pair of jeans that looked painted on. She fetched the leftover pie from the kitchen and watched him take the whole tray back to the table.

"Look, Vivian's bitter because her life hasn't worked out." Dean snapped his fingers like he was calling a dog, trying to remember a specific fact. "Projecting, that's what it's called. She would have tried to fight Gandhi's diaper so if you are going to pay attention to her shit, you are fucked."

"Are you watching Oprah or something? I sure as hell don't remember you this damn Dear Abby." Silas scratched his head. Dean answered between mouthfuls of apple pie.

"Nothing burns in this damn place. Best educated emergency response personnel in three boroughs." While not exactly true, Dean preferred that response to a confession that he found Psychology Today a real page turner. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. Angela Cruz, job title, alphabet soup of credentials, address in the Bronx, contact number. "I gotta split, pick up Niecy from swim class. You mind walking home?"

"No prob."

"You'll talk to someone before you run off with Vivian 'cause you feel guilty right?" If looks could kill. "Give her a call." Dean patted the business card. "Great tres leches."

Hi Pam! Monkey see, monkey do.This little monkey is a lil' latejumping on the shout out bus though.