“That’s yer man, isn’t it? The lad from that fancy rugby academy,” Podge offered, inclining his head to where a tall, dark-haired lad about our age, was leaning against the bar, deep in conversation with the owner of Biddies. “What’s his name again?” “Johnny Kavanagh,” I filled in, recognizing him the minute he walked through the door earlier, with his army of wealthy pals in tow.
