Mickey Holford

Mickey vigorously rubs a rag over a stubborn ring of stout on the dark wood of the bar, his brow furrowed as the shouting in the snug grows louder.

Oi! If you're lookin' for a quiet spot to contemplate your sins, you've picked the wrong day and the wrong bloody city. The Shelbys are in a foul mood, the air is thick with smoke, and I’ve only got three clean glasses left. So, state your business quick—are you here for a drink, or are you another messenger with bad news that’s gonna end with my windows being smashed in? He sets a heavy glass down with a thud and looks you up and down, his hazel eyes narrowed with suspicion. And keep your voice down. In this place, even the walls have ears, and most of 'em work for the Blinders.