THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 11:  A Pernt a’ Law, the Widder Browne, h’an a Toouch a’ da Sun

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

Beau had been All-State in High School, All-American in College, All-Pro in the National League, and All-Worn Out by a God Damned fish!  The damage to his psyche was profound.  He'd grown morose, pessimistic and dark, deeply depressed, and seriously considering... The Bullet!  These feelings of hopelessness lasted all the way into shore where Pegleg, possessed of great insight into the human condition, stuck a mug of the latest runoff under Beau's nose the instant his feet were on dry land.

“Wah’s dis?”

“Here ya be, boyo.  D’fruits a’ your ill-gotten labors.  Idy’d be proud as a peacock knowin’ she helped pass dis h’on.  Wad a still!  She’s a beauty, dis won.  She’s pumpin’ like a London ’ore, she is.  ’Ere, lad, pour sum a’ dis down yer pipe.  Tings’ll be better... soon!”

No one ever had to tell Beau Calhoun to take a slug twice.  His face turned red and he lit up like a pinball machine.  He let go a rebel yell that made even Paterson, the Grand Master of yells, back up.  “Good... God... Almighty, Pegleg!  Wad did ya do to this?”

“Me?  Nuttin’.  H’I just brewed it.  It’s h’all ’is fault.”  The ghost pointed at O’Neil.  “Dem ground-up powders ’e puts in the mash changes evy’ting.  I gots ta admits, I tought you two birds was crazy as dey comes... but dis be d’best coop a’ moonshine h’I ever wrapped me lips ’round!”

To hear that from Pegleg brought smiles to the lips and maybe even a little tear to the eyes of the Americans, which helped the fish-tormented lineman’s spirit to no end.  They had always been good at shinning—but this was different!  Beau & O'Neil were now in a league with Pasteur, Lewis & Clark, and maybe even Johnny Cash!  With every pot of shine the still pissed out, they were moving moonshine in a whole new direction, blending age old tradition with modern science.

Oh joy!  Rapture!  Wonder!  There was a God in Heaven and he was evening the score with Beau for his defeat at the fins of the Pike from Hell!  Pegleg had reversed the planet’s spin with a few words and a cup of off-white lightening.  Everything was going right in the direction Beau had planned for him and O’Neil.  There was nothing that could change that.  He slapped O’Neil on the back.  “C’mon, bro, I need a grilled steak!  Dahmn... I’m hongry!”

There was a carnival atmosphere in the cave.  It carried over.  They raced the boats back to the other shore (and delighted the b’jay-sus out of Pegleg as Beau out-rowed O’Neil and that infernal electric motor) and burned two big steaks over charcoal, the living drank cold beer—the dead, out of necessity, stayed with whiskey—and then they all rowed back to the cave for a few hours of final touches to the still.

Pegleg was raising the mug of shine to his smiling lips when he froze.  Straining to listen out the cave opening, he asked, “h’You boyos hear somebody callin’ ‘ahoy’?”

All heads turned.  It never occurred to anyone to walk to the entrance and look.  Eyes and ears were stretched to full-open to see who might be coming.  “Ahoy!” changed to “hullo” as the electric motor drove the boat right up on the rocks.  The skies were darkening as evening was turning to night, and visibility was fading.  Ears strained to the sounds of footsteps coming towards them.  A lot of footsteps!  O’Neil knelt and lit the kerosene lamp.  As he fumbled for a match, old Pegleg started sniffing at the air.

“I be smelling sum-thin familiar coomin’ dis way.  Tasty, too, I thinks.”

O’Neil lit the lamp, and in the faint glow a woman’s shape appeared with a small mob behind her.  She seemed to have strawberry-colored hair and, unlike the natives in their summer dresses, was wearing tight denim blue jeans and a red and white checkered shirt.  She leaned in to O’Neil.

“Y’all always leave dishes sittin’ on the sup-a thable?  Your mommas’ be shamed at both you boys!”

Beau looked up, stunned.  “You be a redneck?”

“All the way from Oklahoma!  D’South’ll rise agin,” she said sweetly.

Father Sean, Sister Maria, Fitz-Ryan, Calhoun and O’Neil choired, “It’s an ’onorary title!”  The captain put on his best lecherous smile and put his thumb behind his trouser button.  The Widder Browne leaned in until her forehead almost rested on Pegleg’s chest.  She slid two fingers behind his thumb, pulled his trousers away from his belly, and peered into the opening.

“Son, ifen I was you?  I find ma’self a new title!  Hell, boy, dey ain’t enough there to...”  She looked up at the clergy members, then back at the ghost.  “Neva mind, ya’all a guest here.  You two...” she looked at the Americans.  “You boys got some real pain comin’ at’cha.  The old basterd O’Malley’s gonna try n’ freeze ya out of the festival!”

At the mentioning of the name O’Malley, Pegleg emitted a low-frequency growl.  At this point O’Neil looked over at Fitz-Ryan and said, “I take it this here’s the Widder Browne?”

“Dahmn, boy.  Ya’ll been here so long I forgot we ain’t met yet!”  She stuck out her hand to O’Neil and shook.  “Howdy!  I’m Effie.  Effingenia Kelly-Browne, former singer with Hank Potts and his Belly-up t’da Bar Alabamy Band.”

“And you gave all that up to move to Ireland and sell groceries?”

“Not exactly, son.  The band’s manager stole what little money we had and stranded us at a bar in Galway Bay.  Two months later, I was married to Henry Browne.  Firs’ time in ma’ life I ever had a day job!  Dahmn.  I liked it.  Loved Henry like anythin’, too.”

“h’An’ a year later, he was dead as Kelsey’s nuts!”

“Yeah!  How’d you know dat, ghost?”

“It’s h’an’ O’Malley ting—murderin’ wat he can’t take.”

“Murder?  Ya outa yer mind?  Not even O’Malley!”

Pegleg looked at the priest.  “Dey tink h’it’s romantic to wait out the honeymoon year an’ ten kill th’ groom.  H’An’ me name be Brian ‘Pegleg’ Paterson.  Captain Bri—”

“Get over it, ghost.”  The Widder snapped at the captain.

“Hmmm...  Girlie, wat’chu gots dat dem O’Malleys want?  You rich?  You gotS you a pot a’ gole?”

“Ya know, I wondered ’bout that.  Hell, I’m barely keepin’ the store floatin’.”  As they talked, Pegleg handed her a mug of the runoff from Idy’s still.  She took a swallow that impressed the shite out of Pegleg.  Her face turned red, her eyes seemed to want to cross, and when it hit bottom the Widder Browne let go a rebel yell that shook the ground, raised eyebrows on clergy, had Fitzy looking for an empty cup for his own use, and doubled her over.

“Whew!  Did you boys make dis here stump blaster?”  The two Americans, with their arms around Pegleg’s shoulders, grinned and O’Neil said, “Yes, ma’am, we did!”

“No wonder dat ole fart wants you gone!  Thas a winner no matter where ya’all come from.  Hell, dat stuff’d rip the ears off a Mississippi mule!  It even tastes good!  You boys sure this be moonshine?  Y’ain’t pullin’ my leg, are ya?”

Pegleg smiled and raised an index finger as if to let the lady know to wait for an answer.  He walked to his tapped barrel, threw his arms back as if he was letting gravity roll back his sleeves to his elbow, and turned the spigot with his finger tips.  He filled a mug and gently offered it to the Widow.

“You be wrappin’ dem beautiful lips aroun’ dis, girlie, h’an you be tellin’ me which is the shine and which the fi’hundred year ole whiskey.”

The Widow gave a hard look at the footballers.  “Girlie?  Lips?  Ya’all ain’t ’splained ‘Women’s Lib’ to dis ole fool, has ya?”

Pegleg looked over at his boyos with a confused look on his face, and O’Neil just motioned to let pass—he’d “ ’splain” it later.

What didn’t take any ’splaining was the whiskey.  All it took was one sip.  “Ga’dahmn, fellas!” the Widder said.  “Wad d’hell is dis?”

Father Sean, who had found mugs for Fitzy and himself and was conducting his own taste test (to the agony of Sister Maria), spoke up.  “That, my dear, is a pirate’s treasure and a’ haf.  Whiskey meant for Elizabeth the First’s court.”

“The Virgin Queen?”

“Ha!  The—hahaha!”  The ghost just shook his head.

“What’s his problem?  Ain’t you ’sposed to disappear into some kind a’ light?”

“Agin wid d’fookin’ light?  Are you people light crazy?”  It seemed to cue a verbal free for all, and it turned into a rising din with everyone fighting for supremacy.  Everyone except Beau.  It had been a bad day turned into a good day, and he was prepped for it to turn bad again.

“YYYYOOOOOOOO!”  Beau shout resonated off the cave walls and echoed right through the valley (and severely confused several banshee hunters from Australia).  It went quiet as a church.  He pushed Pegleg aside and stood facing the Widder Browne.  “Freeze us out? How?”

“Out of dat ole festival.  Dis affer’noon at the civic committee meeting, the ol’ prick brought up a three-hun’red-year-ole statute.  Moonshinin’ It was out of control back in the day.  Every farm or store had a still the English didn’t know ’bout.  The whole town would be drunk for two months tasting all the entries, so they decided to go pros only!  Only a tavern, inn, or pub proprietors could enter their shine.”

“Yer kiddin’ me, right, Okie?”

“Wish I wuz.  Three hun’red years ago, evy’body and his sister was shinnin’.  I guess they couldn’t keep up with evy’thing bein’ entered.  So’s unless you got a bar stashed somewhere...”

“And O’Malley’s enuff of a horse’s arse to see to it nobody bends the rules fer d’two Yanks here,” Fitzy added.  “I read the law.  You could open oop a pub or inn, but it has ta be a full moon, a month, before the festival.  One month starts temarra!”

A look passed between Beau and O’Neil that sent out a message that the game wasn’t over yet.  “Who gives out the licenses?” Beau muttered at the Widow Browne.

“The civic committee. They’d be no problem—O’Malley’s outvoted five to one.  Then there’s the license and bribe fer O’Malley’s brother-in-law.  But the fee—”

“Okie, let me worry ’bout dat.  Football pays better than music.”

O’Neil turned to Pegleg.  “How much of dat lightening a’ yours could we use?”

“If it’s fer destroyin’ O’Malley?  All of it... an’ more!”

With the rising of the sun O’Neil and Fitz-Ryan crammed into the Widow’s car and headed to the town hall to bribe for a license, while Sister Maria (who was still drier than the Betty Ford clinic, but a gamer for the project... nun-the-less) and Father O’Doul headed out in a different direction in O’Neil’s pickup with a fist full of NFL greenbacks to buy sets of glasses, stools, tables, and other bar essentials from a second hand shop run by the church.  Pegleg knew of a cave right at the edge of Idy’s property that was a natural to be turned into bar.  It even had beautiful view of the river and was within easy walking distance to the main road.  He'd used it to hide five barrels of shine or more back in the day.  It was honor amongst moonshiners, so on Pegleg’s say-so it became “O’Neil & Calhoun’s Cave Inn.”

It only took about an hour for Pegleg and Beau to chase the bats away and clean out the bat crap.  Beau set up one of the propane grills (the one with the regulator) and boiled water from the river to wash everything down with a good Irish lye soap from Idy’s cupboard—he used several quarts of shine from Idy’s still to burn out the cave first.  It left the cave with a lovely bouquet of Irish whiskey that led all the first time customers right to it.

On the rowboat ride back to the still cave, Beau kept pressing the ghost for how they were going to get his liquor from one cave to another.  As far as Beau could calculate, at eight feet across and twelve feet long and five feet high, one barrel would last at least two weeks.  He based that on what he’d seen the local citizens put away at the Dougal beat-down party multiplied by the number of times they had to row back to the cave to refill that small cask in one night.  The new cave was big enough to hold two of the big barrels, no problem.  But moving them?  That was a big problem!  Obviously, old Pegleg had moved barrels that size before, but with how many of his crew to help?  But the old pirate just sat there in the front of the rowboat, smiling like a drunken Cheshire cat.

When they reached the cave, Beau was about to press the issue again.  Pegleg’s index finger rose quickly, as did his eyebrows, to quiet Beau.  He walked to the spigot on his tapped barrel, filled a large mug, and handed it to Beau, clinking it with his own.

“ ’Ere’s ta swimmin’ wid bowlegged women!”

“You had that expression back in your day?”

“Hell no.  Nobody I knew would say som’thin’ dat stupid... I heards h’it on yer TV t’other day.  Sum fooked-hup movie about h’a shark!”

Beau was about half-finished with the mug when Pegleg stood up and said, “Pay ’tension, ya great lumberin’ bowsy, yer gettin’ the nex’ one!”  He climbed up on the barrel he wanted to move and sat, back resting on the barrel next to it and feet on his victim.  With a mighty grunt that any pig in Ireland would have been proud to make, Pegleg shoved the barrel away and slid down into the space he’d just made.  Beau was amazed at how easily it rolled for Pegleg.  Then he realized the pirates must have banked the floor of the cave so the barrels would roll freely down the incline.  Old Pegleg rolled the barrel right out the cave entrance onto the road side and, with a good stiff kick, sent it rolling down another incline that rolled around.  To Beau’s surprised, the barrel rolled all the way around the mountain top until it reached the lake side.  It slid down the hill and jumped into the water without a finger being put to it.

“Go gets yer cup an’ a ’nuther barrel!  I’ll be showin’ ya how ta rig’em together to be towed. Yer rowin’ us back to the new site.”

By the time the good Father O’Doul and Sister Maria drove up with their goodies, the barrels were already set in position.  Two small casks were set in place at opposite ends of a long flat board that was set up as a bar.  The clergy, with Beau’s help, set out some tables and chairs.  The good Father had even turned up an antique cash register and, impressing everybody, Beau hoisted it and set it down to anchor the bar top in place.  Pegleg, from God knows where, produced six average-sized barrels and set them along the bar to act as stools.  Around mid-afternoon, O’Neil and his crew drove up with a U-Haul attached to the Widow’s car.  They had a Porta-Potty, a bottled water dispenser, and several bottles of water.  The grand prize was a very old Honda gas-operated generator from which lights and a small refrigeration device were run.

Shamus Finnerty did his part, too.  He blabbed to everyone who walked into the general store that there was a new Inn in town.  Word spread like wild fire.  By dark, they were driving up in droves.  To the surprise of the entire town, old man Murphy and the other two town fathers pulled up a barrel at the bar.  As expected, they criticized the new gin mill to O’Neil who was doing double-duty as a bartender—testing the owner’s waters, as it were.

 “Aye, this is a nice bar, O’Neil, but where I comes from in Dooblin, there's a better one.  At MacDougal's, ya buy a drink... ya buy another drink, and MacDougal himself will buy yer third drink!”  O’Neil nodded to old man Sean Murphy and set three empty shot glasses upside down on the bar, indicating they had a round on the owner coming.

Then the second of the old men, Sian Bailey, started in.  “Tat sounds like a nice bar, brother Murphy, but where I come from outside a’ Galway Bay, there's a better one called Quinsy’s.  At Quinsy’s, ya buy a drink, Quinsy buys ya a drink.  Ya buy another drink, Quinsy buys you another drink.”  So O’Neil added another shot glass.

Then the oldest of the three, Shawn Colins, spoke up.  “You think tat's good?  Where I comes from in d’south, there's this place called Fitzgibbon’s.  At Fitzgibbon’s, they buys ya yer first drink, they buys yer second drink, they buys ya yer third drink, and then, they takes ya in the back and gets ya laid!”

This impressed the other two old-timers.  “Wow!” says the other two.  “That sounds fantastic!  Did that actually happen to ya, Shawn?”

There was a thoughtful reflection from old man Colins.  “No,” says the old-timer, “but it happened to me sister!”

All eyes turned to O’Neil, who kept on wiping the bar.  “Sorry boys, you’re on yer own for dat!  Drink up.”

The Cave Inn was a roaring success.  Especially since O’Neil and Calhoun only charged Fitz-Ryan for one drink (thereby making it a “paying business” that Fitzy could honestly swear to in a court of law) and everything else was on the house.  There was a cave blessing ceremony by Father O’Doul.  Even Pegleg got into the act, grilling twenty pounds of spare ribs and fifty pounds of  hot wings—NFL style; marinated in five hundred year old whiskey, lemon, black pepper, Tabasco sauce, red pepper, onion, canned fruit, brown sugar, and a whole lot of love—it wasn’t Irish, but the crowd loved it.  When they shut down at midnight, almost half a barrel of Pegleg’s whiskey was gone (they toyed with the idea of calling Guinness—it had to be a record!), and Fitz-Ryan pointed out that tomorrow night, they’d better start charging for drinks.  Everybody for three towns around had stopped by for a free one.  It left all the other liquored establishment desolated.  Near as Fitzy could figure, in a week Calhoun and O’Neil could totally destroy the economy of the Brannock-A-Bend liquor business.

It brought a smile to Pegleg’s face when he realized three of the four pubs in Brannock-A-Bend were owned by O’Malley.

The next day the rosy red dawn lit up Lake Ida like a five-hundred-watt light bulb in front of a mirror.  When Beau got up and stepped onto the porch, he could see even through his hangover that this was something rare.  So was the heat that followed it.  By nine o’clock, it was already eighty-eight degrees and climbing; unusual for this part of the world, but it did happen.  He motored (it wasn’t a day for rowing) over to the cave.  Even Pegleg wasn’t in the mood to work in this heat, and Beau found him sitting in the shade trying to figure out some of the plays in an old Generals’ playbook O’Neil had given him.  He almost fell over when Beau refused a mug.  It was just too damn hot for moonshine.  Maybe later.

They walked into the cave.  It was damp, but cool.  So was Pegleg’s whiskey, so Beau changed his mind.  “It be time soon, boyo, ta fire h’oop d’big pot.  Nex’ time you goes inta town, go see yer friend Murphy and find out when we can gets his corn.”  Beau nodded.  He was about half-smashed when he walked over to the sunken tree to throw stones in the water, but the pike was nowhere to be reached with a rock.  So he decided to motor home and go see his mash crop.

When he pulled up in front of old man Murphy’s property, he found old man Murphy sitting on his porch steps as his plough horse ran amuck.  It was running berserk through the fields, kicking the corn down and stomping the small patch of wheat down.  What happened next grew into the legends at McNally’s bar.  “Beau and the Plow Horse” became as well known in the Galway Bay area as “Saint Paddy and the Snakes,” and is best expressed through the words of McNally’s philosopher and historian, old man Murphy:

“Sure, t’was hotter tan a witch’s teat in brass bra.  It’s me h’own fault for makin’ the poor ole animal work under tat ferocious sun!  Da poor beastie lost ’is mind wid the stroke, and went kickin’ an’ snortin’ thru me corn, tearin’ it oop h’an destroyin’ it all.  Oop comes d’Yank, d’big won, to see if I wuz ready t’harvess ’is crop.  ‘My God,’ he sez, ‘What is dat animal doin’?’  H’an I sez, ‘Me ole horse has lost ’is mind in da sun.  Stark ravin’ ’e is fer sure.  I had him pullin’ d’grass cooter all morn, an’ now he’s stark ravin’.  Before ’e drops dead, Yank, ’tis certain the field’s will be gone!’

“No sooner had d’words lef’ me mouth, I sees d’big feller’s face drop, then it turned red.  Truly the man was possessed.  He was raged as dey git—’an h’after me old horse he goes!  It was Herculean.  He chased the horse and h’I’m tinkin’ to meself, ‘Wad d’fook is he goona do if he catches him?  Dat horse was big enuff t’pull a beer wagon by his self!’  Sure I found out!  D’big guy ruins ’em dune, catches him around d’neck, and takes h’off like won a’ dem rodeo boys on American TV, slammin’ ’is heels into d’dirt ta slow d’horse dune.  The horse and d’Yank are lock ta’gither in mortal combat!  The horse be kickin’ an’ snortin’ and the big Yank holdin’ h’on for dear life.  I sees the Yank’s whole body shakes and, with a jerk h’an a snap... ’e breaks d’horse’s neck!  And dune goes d’horse and d’Yank, a’ h’I’m tinkin’ dere booth flippin’ dead.  Boot d’big man gits oop and walks t’me.  E’s standin’ dere, weavin’ in an’ oot, sweatin’ in dat vicious heat like a bull.  ‘Sorry fer d’horse,’ sez he—an’ reaches into ’is pockets an’ hands me enuff cash t’buy a farm!  ‘Can ya be buyin’ a horse for all dis?’ d’big man sez.  ‘No,’ sez I, ‘but a tractor’s a h’real possibility!’  ‘Good,’ sez he, ‘We’ll harvest nex’ week, fer sure!’  And he walks right inta McNally’s, right ta dis very spot, fer a beer!

“An’ dat’s da God’s honest troot!”

Love it?  Hate it?  Comment in the Forum!

show counter