Out and about, Sean.
Some of the things Sean helped himself to were easy enough to dispose of. Cash for instance - he needed to eat as well. Little bits and pieces could be given to friends as gifts or swapped for a toke or even a baggie. "Uncle" was usually happy to accept bags and coats as long as nobody was about to see Sean hand them over. But credit cards, passports and other high value items were a bit more chancy for Sean to deal with himself.
Luckily he had a 'friend' and knew where to find him.
Sean could remember a time when O'Malley's had been one of the nicer bars in town. Which meant that he and his friends had avoided it. No chance of scoring under the eagle eye of the owner and he had made sure his staff were equally unsympathetic. but then things had changed. Old Gus still served behind the bar but his wife no longer presided over the kitchen and the only women who drank there tended to be working girls between jobs. Sean slipped into the crowd, a minnow amongst barracuda, and looked around until he found Dwyer.
"Hi, kid," Dwyer said with a grin, "whacha got in the bag. Laundry?"
"Bit," Sean said, take the seat in the booth that Dwyer pointed him to. "padding it up a bit. I got a painting. Took it off of some guy at the airport. it was all wrapped up, import licence and ev'rything. Guess that wouldn't be necessary if it wasn't worth something."
Dwyer grunted and took the bag from him under the table. He dug down for the package, lifted it part way out and nodded. There was a customs label on the package with a value clearly written in ink. He didn't suppose for a moment that Sean had failed to notice it but maybe it was worth a try.
"Give you fifty for it," he offered and grinned as Sean snorted. They haggled for a while, and Sean produced his other wares while Dwyer 'thought about it' then they haggled some more and parted both very pleased with the arrangement they had come to.
Dwyer watched him go then got up and went through to the back which had once been a pool room but was now his boss's office.
"Street punk brought this in," he said, laying it on the table. "I gave him three hundred and told him to keep his gob shut."
Allan Kinyon, once of Dublin 'til he shot the wrong journalist, looked at the label and chuckled. "We can't handle that - but I know a couple of men who can. I'll give' em a call and set up a meeting." He sorted through the sets of ID that Dwyer handed him and nodded approvingly. "Thanks," he said. "Can ya tell Gus i need another bottle?"
"Sure," Dwyer said and ambled away. Looked like the boss was going to get drunk again and he wondered who'd be bleeding before the night was over.