Clancy sang out in a weary voice.The Pabst Blue Ribbon clock hanging over the backbar, a relic from whoever owned the bar before World War II, read a quarter to one. Weekdays were generally slow after midnight; only half a dozen stragglers, hard-core regulars from the neighborhood, were still hanging on. They ordered up with languid “yos” and fined taps on their glasses.This bar, Finnegan's, on the near North Side, was Clancy's second business, the one that paid the bills. From six in the morning until five in the afternoon he was absorbed in his sports-kinesiology practice, his real vocation. That business had grown so quickly that four months ago he had formed a partnership with a couple of other physical therapists and opened a bigger place, the Evanston Sports Rehabilitation Center, a large, airy facility just over the city line. The partners had taken out a sizable loan with the bank—the equipment required to set up a facility like that ran well into six figures—but they were breaking even financially, with the prospect of making seriously good money not too long down the road, and most important, he was doing work that he loved.He drew the last beers of the night, poured the final round of drinks.
