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cabdrivers I’ve ever encountered anywhere. One might have been partying a little hard before picking me up, if you know what I mean. But we arrived safely at our destination and he was super friendly. Another had fingernails much longer and prettier than mine—and he wasn’t a she. In fact, he had formerly been a truck driver. I had a blast listening to the explanation regarding his manicure (due in part to an industrial accident), but thought when I did my taxi guide, I had to include this story. Be prepared to wait for a taxi in Reno; they don’t just hang around outside of all the casinos and often have to be called. Also, Reno cabs sometimes won’t take more than four passengers in one cab, so if you’re a large party, even if a van approaches, you’ll need more than one cab. It’s at the driver’s discretion, but five is the max.

Here’s a sneak peek…

The Mighty Quinns: Marcus

by Kate Hoffmann

In bookstores October 2006

CHAPTER ONE

“’TIS A FINE THING, Friday nights at Finnerty’s Pub. Cold beer and warm women. What more could we want?” Declan Quinn took a long sip of his Guinness, then set the pint glass down on the table in front of him.

The pub was dark and smoky, and a neon beer light on the wall illuminated the table where the three Quinn brothers sat. Over the bar, a television played a Red Sox game, now well into extra innings. The seven pubs in Bonnet Harbor, Rhode Island, could be divided into two types, those that rooted for the Yankees and those that cheered on the Sox. But Finnerty’s was the only true Irish pub, with corned-beef sandwiches on command, an endless supply of Guinness on tap and a live Irish band on Friday and Saturday nights. It had become the pub of choice for Marcus and his brothers.

The pub drew a working-class crowd from the surrounding areas—fishermen, factory workers, shopkeepers and people that worked for the people who worked in the big houses in nearby Newport. It made for a rowdy mix of longtime residents and newcomers, nearly all of them claiming a drop or two of Irish blood.

Bonnet Harbor lay on the western shore of Narragansett Bay directly across the water from Jamestown and Newport, and was still relatively unspoiled by tourism, although that was slowly changing. New shops and restaurants opened every few months and even now, Marcus could pick out the tourists among those enjoying a drink at the bar.

Though Bonnet Harbor was technically his hometown, Marcus had always felt like an outsider. He’d spent most of his childhood in Ireland, and when he thought of home, he thought of the stone manor house where his maternal grandmother lived and the old stable where he used to play. Bonnet Harbor was where his parents had settled after leaving Boston and this is where the family business, Quinn’s Boat Works, was located. Marcus’s own business, Q Yacht Design, operated from a building tucked in the corner of the boatyard and he lived in a small apartment above his workroom.

“If I recall, Dec, you said that exact same thing last week,” Ian commented. “We were sitting right over there and—” At the loud shout of a drunken darts player, Ian twisted in his chair. He’d changed out of his work attire, shedding the uniform in favor of a faded polo shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans. But he still watched the crowd with a careful eye, ready to step in if a simple argument turned physical.

Ian was police chief of Bonnet Harbor. Declan owned his own security firm headquartered in Providence. And though Dec kept an apartment in the city, he rolled into Bonnet Harbor nearly every weekend, camping out with either Ian or Marcus. They had been close as boys and now, as adults, they were even closer, enjoying a bond that could never be broken.

“It’s true,” Marcus said. “You did. Those very same words.”

Declan frowned. He looked oddly out of place, dressed in a tux and pleated shirt, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck. He’d come from another of his high-society parties. But Dec exuded a steely confidence that silently warned against any comment about his highbrow appearance.