THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 12:  Pass, Punt, and Kickapoo Juice

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

The high point of Captain Paterson’s day was the break to watch American football.  In fact, he was becoming quite the aficionado with all the closed-mindedness, fan failures, and craziness that goes with it.  Chuck Bednarik, the last of pro football's full-time sixty-minute men and Slingin’ Sammy Baugh were far better (in the Captain’s semi-educated opinion) than any active player today.  As rough as the old pirate thought O’Neil and Calhoun’s game was, seeing Bednarik play sixty minutes without coming off the field, in Pegleg’s mind... no comparison.  And Sammy?  Sammy Baugh was his man!  Four touchdown passes on offense and four interceptions on defense by one man in the same game... that was math the old pirate understood.  The old boy would sit there sipping his whiskey watching games long since ended.  It would have been sad, but as O’Neil put it, the Captain was dead and hadn’t seen the games anyway.  To Pegleg’s credit, he became a consummate Generals fan and went crazy watching games that “his boyos” were playing in, yelling and screaming at plays that made both O’Neil and Beau wince.  The boyos were so proud of how Pegleg had adopted them, O’Neil called a friend  in the Generals’ home office and had her send a General’s Away-Jersey with a big zero for a number and the name B. Paterson on the back.

Pegleg put it on and never again took it off.

Now you would think a man who had spent most of his natural life boarding English merchant vessels, smuggling moonshine to royalty, cutting throats, moonshinning, cussing, et al, would be engulfed by the violence of the linebackers (the better of whom were, at the very least, certifiable), and while he’d freely admit that old “Concrete Charley” Bednarik sent a chill down his spine, it was the forward pass that lit him!  Back in the cave, Pegleg was passing tools, parts, and certain pieces of firewood with a very nice overhand spiral that O’Neil had to admit “wasn’t bad.”  Pegleg was developing a fine “hand off” technique, too!  The boyos were planning to take the old ghost to Scotland to see the Claymores of the European football league and were surprised to learn the league had folded.

There was also another problem that acted as a stopper.  While Pegleg had free reign of Idy’s property, it seems he couldn’t leave the grounds.  The cave where they had opened their pub was on the border of the property.  Old Pegleg almost had his head split open when he chased after a barrel that was rolling away.  He collided with an invisible barrier at full speed.  It was an eye-opener for everybody.  Actually, it was an eye-shutter for Pegleg who, dead or not, went out cold!  Luckily Beau, pouring a mouthful of moonshine in him, brought him right back to the land of the living.

Pegleg “MacPhail” was sharing the work duties at the pub.  While the spook’s whiskey barrels were passed off as the “American” shine and were sold for less than half of the house brand, the hooch from Idy’s still, listed as the “Irish” shine, sold very, very well too.  From behind the bar, Pegleg took in all discussions of which brew the locals preferred.  Whether real or imagined, while the citizens of Brannock-A-Bend drank their purse, their preference was for Idy’s still!  While a blow to the captain’s ego, he accepted it and patted the boys on their back for their scientific contribution to the profession of moonshining.

Another upside was that Brannock-A-Bend was getting to know their “banshee,” even though they didn’t know it.  And they liked him.  Oddly enough, he liked them too.  As a pirate, even one who had worked on the side of Shane O’Neill, he had always been on the outskirts of society.  Being prone to committing adultery, murder, and theft didn’t help him either with the folk of his day.  This was a new experience.  McNally, suspecting that something funny was up and that the Cave Inn might be closing sooner rather than later, told Pegleg that if he ever needed a job tending bar, he should come see him at The Half-Filled Cup.  The three old-timers found Pegleg’s off-colored humor good enough to lift even their spirits.  And the ladies?  The ladies of Brannock-A-Bend may have loved him more now than five hundred years ago!  Fitzy, Father O’Doul, and even the Widder Browne had to admit that Pegleg was a charming old imp... even if he was a little on the scruffy side.

The initial evaluation of what would eventually be known as Mad Dash Irish Whiskey was made off the cash register tape at the end of the first week.  Even though Mad Dash cost nearly twice as much as Paterson’s whiskey, it sold almost as well.  Beau speculated that the much higher proofed Mad Dash got the citizens of Brannock-A-Bend off faster and required less to keep them there!  Pegleg, as the resident expert, concurred.  There was no doubt that the Dash was what was needed to take the prize... maybe.  More data was needed.

Back at the house, a conference was called.  It was decided that the Widder, Fitzy, and Father Sean would make the rounds of the pubs in town and the nearby communities and get samples of the competition’s entries.  Sister Maria offered to help, but Pegleg pointed out that there wasn’t a barkeep for ten miles around that would even think about giving her a taste, what with “her bein’ a known booze hound and all.”  The good Sister didn’t take well to having the resident dead drunk throw her own words back at her.  But facts being facts, she had to agree.

When all the data was gathered, there’d be a general tasting and O’Neil would break down the winners, chemically.  They might even recreate a few brands and see how the residents visiting the Cave Inn reacted.  Of course, they wouldn’t let on what was happening to their customers.  While that bothered the clergy a bit, the idea that he was tied into a nefarious scheme again thrilled the spirit to no end!

There were times in his life when Fitz-Ryan felt as useful to mankind as a pogo stick in quicksand.  Knowing the law and seeing it done weren’t always the same thing.  But with the advent of a dead pirate and the opportunity to upset a centuries-old applecart, the old barrister had a new and powerful lease on life.  The nice part about powerful men—especially crooked ones—is that you could count on them to look down on you.  As long as they thought they had an upper hand, you did!  Fitzy decided that, now that the warning had been given that the Dougals could get shotgunned if they invaded Ida’s property, it would be wisest to keep a more serious eye on Mayor O’Malley.  Working in concert with the Widder Browne and Emmy Kelly, O’Malley secretary, Fitzy found innumerable ways to get the mayor out of the office.

The Widder Browne, who was getting good at sending flowers with the return address marked “address unknown,” would ferret through old books of statutes and laws in the cellar of town hall whenever her buddy, Emmy Kelly, tipped her off that the mayor was out of the office.  The Widder always knew that Kelly hated her boss, but she was impressed as to just how much.  Kelly also showed her the book in which O’Malley had found the “pub” statute—and she also showed her where the “unofficial” books of the O’Malley clan were kept.

The greatest and best kept secret of the O’Malley clan was where their still was located.  It was more than Fitz-Ryan could have hoped for.  All the constant lackeying through the years he had aimed at the Mayor had paid off at last.  Sitting at the bar in one of O’Malley’s pubs, Fitzy warned the mayor of how dangerous the two Americans were becoming to the O’Malley clan.  The mayor hadn’t realized how the Inn was cutting into his money.  In truth, it wasn’t, or at least, not much.  But Fitzy knew if there was anything that would panic the O’Malleys, possible money loss would.

“I seen dere still, mayor.  Ahhh, it be a sweet old ting, crankin’ out good Irish shine.  Dey be ruinin’ h’off a sea a’ shine wid lakes a’ shine ta spare.  And dey givin’ it away by d’ litre.  Dey can give d’whole town, evey man, woman n’ chile a boddle and still have enuff to flood the contest.  You’ll have ta match dat, boyo.”

The mayor just smiled.  “Tat and more, Hubert me boy.”

“Ga’wan wid yerself!  Are ya tellin’ me yer still be tat big?  All dese years, h’an’ no one’s even caught a glimpse of h’an O’Malley still!”

O’Malley studied Fitz-Ryan for a moment.  The Mayor had know Fitzy for forty years, and he’d never once put his hand in the deep O’Malley pockets.  He had always been an inoffensive man and no real threat... and the mayor was in a mood to brag.  “Hubert, me man, come wid me.”

Meanwhile, back in the basement of town hall, the Widder sat on the floor turning a very old, very legal looking document in her fingers.  It was written in Latin, which she didn’t read, but the name “Browne” kept appearing.  She carefully slipped the paper in her pocket and warily slipped out of the building.

“Well, Mrs. Browne, the nice part about Latin is that it’s a dead language.  A letter written five centuries ago is the same Latin as from a letter written by a Bishop yesterday.”  Father Sean held the document towards the cave entrance.  The cave was poorly lit, but the priest was beginning to see what was going on.  “And now we know why O’Malley’s interested in you, Effie.  It’s a Last Will and Testament for one Owen Browne—a laundry list of everything he owned and which child got wat.  It’s quite sizable.”

The ghost, who was working on getting a fire going under the big still, dropped his wood and ran towards the priest.  “Owen, ya say?  Owen Browne?  At the time a me, me...”

“Demise?”  Effie seemed to take great pleasure in saying it.

“Yeh... De-mice!  Young Owen was the richest man in the h’all a Galway Bay.  A better man in all a’ Ireland dere wasn’t, ’ceptin’ maybe Shane O'Neill.  Is tat d’Browne family ya married inta, girlie?”

Fitzy had just come into the cave from the roadside and taken the Will from the priest’s hands.  “It may be a Will, but t’ain’t be put thru probate!  Congratulations, Widder Browne, looks like ya owns from the outer bounds of the Brannock-A-Bend borders right out ta Galway Bay.  All chattel, buildings, fields, animals to hunt, and water rights.  Hell, if ya wanted to, ya could walk outa here with Paterson’s barrels...”

“Tooch me barrels, h’an...”

“I’m not inta touchin’ strange ghost’s barrel, so keep your... whatever... on.”  The Widder turn to Fitz-Ryan.  “Is that there piece a’ paper still valid?”

“Tat rat basturd O’Malley tinks so,” Pegleg spoke up, drawing all eyes.  “Now gets tat pretty roun’ bottom a’ yers back ta where ya stole tat ting from and put it d’hell back!”

The Widder looked rather stunned.  “Back?  Ya’all want me ta put it back?”

Pegleg raised his mug to his face, swallowed a sip or two, and looked at the Widder with a benevolent kind of scowl.  “Y’ain’t never pulled a scam, ’ave ya, girlie?  O’Malley sees tat bit a’ paper gone missin’, and we’re d’wons is done!  Now!  Would’cha cares ta be guessin’ how dat paper got away from young Owen?  A man a’ good health, soun’ mine, and in da good Lord’s favor?”

At the mention of “the Lord” the cave began to glow with a heavenly light... which an agitated Pegleg walked up to and screamed, “Git d’fook outa here, can ya not see we’re busy???”  The light quickly faded.

Pegleg turned back to the Widder.  “Girlie, do you now suspect O’Malley shenanigans wit d’untimely passin’ a’ yer late husban’?”

The Widder leaned against the unlit tank boiler, lookin’ a little hurt and then a whole lot angry, at which Beau muttered, “Uh-oh, here comes d’Okie!”

The lady grabbed Fitz-Ryan by his tie and pulled him close.  “Is dis here piece a’ paper still good?”

Fitzy’s eyes were wide open as the Widder nearly lifted the man off the floor. “Uh, uh... well.  Normally... probably not, which O’Malley don’t know.  But if it was gotten and kept thru d’committin’ of a on-goin’ crim’nal act... uh, especially a cap’tal crime... maybe.”

While the Widder grilled away at the lawyer, Pegleg leaned on Beau’s shoulder watching.  He finally whispered into Beau’s ear, “Be tis wat ya means when you boyos be sayin’ ‘d’South’ll be risin’ a-gin’?”

Pegleg was never big on religion and tended to avoid clergymen, but Father Sean having been an NFL-quality runner changed the pirate’s opinion.  When Fitz-Ryan, the Widder Browne, Sister Maria, and O’Neil climbed into the lawyer’s car to return to the town hall, the good father offered to stay and help getting another barrel of whiskey over to the Cave Inn.  His help wasn’t needed, but Pegleg liked the man and was glad to have him around.

The barrel was well in tow with Beau at the oars, and the captain and the priest followed in the electrified bass boat.  The captain, at the helm—more or less—noticed the priest was not his usual self, but rather turned-down.  He cautiously questioned the cleric.

“Well, in truth, I’m wonderin’ if all this is worth it.  I could be of more use ta God in a small parish instead of trying to keep this elephant of a church going.”

“Now, Foder, ya can’t be tinkin’ like tat.  D’Church a’ da Wader a’ Life be h’an institution h’even in my day.  Ya chased d’divel his self out a’ Ireland at dat church!”

“I’m surprised a man of your.... your...”

“Talents?”

“Talents!  Exactly!  A man of your talents would have the faith to believe that story.”

“Oh, t’ain’t no story, Foder, I was dere meself d’day it happened!”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeh!  I was standin’ in the back, lookin’ t’hoist d’poor box.  Peoples ’ad comes from d’whole a’ Ireland to celebrate de Mass in wad be known as d’holiest church on the isle... so’s de pick-pocketin’ were purty good, too.”

“Pegleg, shame on you.  Pick-pocketin’ in church?”

“Well, Foder Sean, times were hard.  Mos’ folk in dese here parts didn’ ’ave a pot ta piss in or even a wind-er ta toss it out’er.  D’church was packed wall ter wall, and we begins ta be smellin’ a fowl odor... smelled like a chicken coop dat h’ain’t been cleaned out in a month!  An’ h’outa a great spout a’ black smoke, who appears but Satan his own self!  I tink he was tired of h’all d’souls bein’ saved thru d’efforts of priests dere!”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Oh, yeh!  D’church empties out, folkses screamin’, joompin’ thru wind-ers.  Frantic dey wuz.  In a snap, the only souls left in d’church wuz d’priest in his pulpit and ole man O’Malley, kneelin’ at the communion rail ta git away from his wife.  At tat time, O’Malley was a pig farmer, h’en not a very good one.  Satan looks ’round  an’ sez ta da priest, ‘I h’understans why you ain’t a feared a’ me.  You preach agin me ev’ry Sunday.  You’re a finger h’on d’han’ a’ God!’  Ten he turns ta O’Malley and sez, ‘Why aren’t you a-feared, little man?’  O’Malley looks at him square in the face an’ sez, ‘Why d’hell should I be a-feared a’ you?  I been married ta yer fookin’ sister for forty years, ain’t I?’

“I tell ya, Foder Sean, d’divel left d’church in tears, ’e was laughin’ so hard.  Tree days later, O’Malley’s ole wife died, he sells ’is pig farm, marries a rich wider, an’ lives another ferty years.  Nobody knew why, but somes was a-guessin’ ole Beelzebub was tied in ta it!”

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