THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 13:  God v. Rockne v. Brannock-A-Bend

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

Father Sean O’Doul was a very likeable man, and it made him a good Catholic Priest.  He worked well with Protestants and Jews; even the small Moslem community near Galway Bay knew of and liked him.  His parishioners always found a kind word even after their worst confessions.  As much as his white elephant of a church needed money, he always found a euro or two in his pocket for the poor.  If the wealthy (except O’Malley) saw him coming, they didn’t turn and run.  O’Doul was a man who was raised not to feel privilege or entitlement and did not lean on their purses, but they gave willingly nonetheless because they knew O’Doul used their money well—and he always gave receipts for tax purposes, something he learned from American Republicans.

But all that would have gone by the boards with Pegleg if the little Irishman Sean hadn’t been selected All-American at the University of Notre Dame.  The Father’s father had been a diplomatic aide at the Irish Embassy in New York, and the kindly young New Yorkers in his neighborhood had taught the Irish kid the fine art of American football on pain of death.  Not wishing to be ground into powder, Sean learned how to avoid being crushed by oncoming linemen like younger versions of Beau Calhoun (only without Beau’s sense of humor and humanitarian concerns).

O’Doul learned the trade so well, by the time he was a high school sophomore he was the starting halfback for Saint Michael’s High.  He impressed his coach so much that he called a contact at his Alma Mater, Notre Dame.  ND was impressed enough to offer Sean a full scholarship (it had helped that the “The Fighting Irish” were getting an actual fighting Irishman, and this particular young Irishman was set on the priesthood).  Sean actually would have preferred to play European football (what the Yanks called “soccer”), but there were two problems with that: he sucked at it, and playing soccer wouldn’t give him a full boat to Notre Dame.  The footnote to all this is that it would have meant disappointing his parents, and O’Doul was a man who lived not to disappoint.

For some strange reason, O’Doul liked old Pegleg.  The old sinner who lived to disdain authority actually respected the priest.  Not for religious beliefs or Christian acts, but because O’Doul was a back for a great football powerhouse school.  Pegleg admired Father Sean not only for possessing what he saw as skills worthy of a first-rate pirate, but for another reason: the good Father never judged him—and that was a first amongst every cleric he’d ever known!  And Lord knows, at Bannock-A-Bend in the 1500s, there had been a hostile tribe of them, all condemning him as a scalawag and pirate.  So this was a new and mind-boggling experience for Pegleg.  The Father was willing to try, if nothing else, to understand the captain’s point of view and his motivations.  Pegleg had seen this in O’Neil and Calhoun too, and attributed it to going to the New World.  But in fair exchange, Pegleg was willing to accept the priest for his choices... although he thought O’Doul was a bit crazy for passing up a shot at the NFL for the priesthood.  It did, however, give the holy man a certain amount of situational control.  He managed to get Pegleg to stop reaching for his dagger every time the name O’Malley was mentioned.

The old pirate realized that while the good Father could handle his liquor, he had never made a batch of moonshine.  Well!  Pegleg was to moonshine as O’Doul was to football.  So it became a mutual exchange, which really helped to ease the priest’s mind concerning what he was doing.  Pegleg spelled it out to him.

“Ya be savin’ d’Lord’s house, ya be bringin’ the Lord and law’s justice to an evil house, and you’ve tasted me boyos brew!  D’good Lord must ’a ben standin’ on their shoulder when dey cooked up the recipe.”

The good Father thought about it and could find no fault with it.  He threw himself into the making of the water of life as the old Irish Monks had, preparing his concoction for the better health of the community... well, the better mental health, anyway.  It wasn’t long before the captain was leaving O’Doul alone with the still.  It freed Pegleg up to help with the post production chores while Beau and O’Neil saw to the pub.

As the summer was winding down, the pub was earning a reputation as the home of the best moonshine in the Galway Bay.  It didn’t matter whether it was the American or the Irish; you got the best moonshine you ever had... best to the point of sending O’Malley into a financial frenzy!  He cut his prices in half; no one came.  He had Ladies Night; no one came.  McNally felt a bit of a pinch, too, but not too bad.  Beau and O’Neil would stop in a lot around lunch time, and when word got out McNally’s joint would fill up.  If they walked in a little later than usual, they were greeted with cheers.

“Wad d’hell is dis ting?”  Fitz-Ryan was now a complete double agent.  He knew what it was—O’Malley’s still—but where it was surprised him.  It was perfect for moonshinning!  The smell was masked, with mass deliveries of grain trucks moving in and out without suspicion.  Perfect!  It stood there in the middle of everything, the thump keg pounding away.

“I got ta hand it to ya, mayor, I’ve live in Brannock-A-Bend nearly sixty years, h’I never would have taught ta look fer a still here!”

When Fitz-Ryan graduated law school, in an attempt to gather the young barrister up and put him in his pocket, the mayor’s father, old man O’Malley senior, paid Fitzy a big chunk of change to handle all the legalities of bringing the town into the twentieth century.  Nearly seven centuries of Irish history was bought out and bulldozed by the flying O’Malleys.  It was the first time the young lawyer took money from a client he really didn’t care for.  Didn’t care for?  If an O’Malley were to burst into flame, and the only way Fitzy could save his life was to pull out his pecker and piss on the flames, they’d burn to death!  But Fitzy always had a smile, and always played dumb to questionable legal dealings.  He could live with it, and it paid well.  Now it was paying off in very big ways.

There was an ancient building that the O’Malley’s didn’t plow under and converted to a bakery.  It wasn’t for the town’s benefit, though; those duties were handled by Missy Mullins and her “Hottest Buns in Ireland” bake shop.  The ancient house was a bakery for bread and such, and all products were supposedly shipped to Dublin and then to the mainland.  It was handled by the O’Malley family with only the help of the Dougals.  It was hard to imagine them making money out of that old building, but the townsfolk assumed they did—they always did!  But Fitzy could never figure out why they had left it standing.

Now he knew, and it really pissed him off—but the relaxed smile never left his lips.

The Widder Browne had picked Fitzy up walking toward his office like there was a barking dog there he needed to kick.  Fitz-Ryan hadn’t even waited for her car to stop moving.  He jumped in and, sputtering like a tea kettle, barely managed to spit out, “Idy’s place!” and just pointed.  When he got there, the place was deserted.  He fairly pushed the Widder back into her car and they drove to the road entrance.

Inside the cave, Idy’s still was cranking out hooch like never before.  Barrels were getting filled, and a cache of 16^th century glass bottles had been produced and awaited only a good washing (and an O’Neil-mandated sterilizing) to be reactivated into community service.

“Good God, man.  What be yer problem?  Yar be scarin’ d’noon!”  Pegleg looked at the Wider.  “ ’Ow long ’e ben like tat?”

The Widder looked at him with a wide-eyed innocent expression.  “He been like dat since I picked ’im up.  He h’aint said a word, just sputterin’.  I h’aint never seen him like dis before!”  What happened next was really off the cave wall.  Fitz-Ryan blew up like Mount Vesuvius.

“DATDIRTYMUTHERFOOKER!!!!LOWLIFE, SCOOMBAG, WEASLELYLIDDLE ARSEHOLE!!!!”  As if touched by the hand of God, Fitzy began jumping like a kangaroo, stomping the ground and kicking at the barrels.  Pegleg leaned in towards him as if trying to get a better look.  Then the pirate turned, walked to his tapped barrel, and while he was filling the largest mug in the cave he said, “Okay, boyos.  Hold ’im dune!  I got the cure fer Saint Vitas dance right here, but I’ll be needin’ some help.”

Beau and O’Neil, with great difficulty, managed to trap the wildly gesticulating barrister against one of the large whiskey barrels, bending him backwards a bit.  Fitzy was still cussing a blue streak when old Pegleg pinched his nose shut, forcing him to breathe through his mouth.  Then he began pouring the mug of whiskey down Fitzy's throat.  As he did so, the whiskey in his mug (which he held with the same hand) began to spill into Fitzy’s face.  It was indeed calming the barrister down.  Then again, he took enough whiskey to calm a charging buffalo.

“Wonner’ful as a tonic!”  Paterson mumbled to no one in particular.  “Now, Fitz-Ryan, wat d’fook h’are ya talkin’ ’bout?”

“D’weasel is ruinin’ a super boozetorium h’under d’ole bakery at de far en’ a’ town!”

“ ’A course dey h’are!  D’ O’Malleys’ ben runnin’ hooch from there since I was a boy!  Dey weren’t no good at it, boot dey did it!”

“Times ’ere a-changin’, pirate.  T’ain’t a livin’ soul in dese here parts knew what O’Malley’s ben h’oop to.  Do ya know how many families here abouts live on the money dey earns bottlin’ illegal shine!  ’E’s got dose fookin’ Dougals n’ half his whole clan bottlin’, an’ ’e’s keepin’ all the money!  It’s breakin’ d’rules a’ da contest!”

“So?”  Pegleg just smiled.  “One werd, m’boy, an’ you’ll be dead as Paddy’s pig at a Chris’mas dinner!  Lawyer!  Keep yer mouth shut and yer eyes h’open.  I ’spects ole man O’Malley be changin’ d’rules soon to oop d’odds in ’is favor.  It’ll be ’is turn fer pain soon.  Firs’ we knocks ’im down, ten we kicks ’im!”

There was an uneasy silence for a moment.  “Y’all dink he’d actually murder someone?” Beau blurted out.

“Ask Widder Browne, boyo.”

“I’d say it’s a purty good bet.  Now how do we prove it?”

“Firs’ tings firs’, girlie,” Pegleg said.  “If I knows me scoundrels—h’an I be sort of an h’expert on da subject—if we beats his moonshine an’ takes ’is money, he’ll unravel—and then we gets ’im!”

“Sure as there’s salt in the sea, t’was Rockne, who was still an undergrad at Notre Dame, showed d’passin’ game to be a real weapon.  H’an’ it t’wernt a ball like tat ting!  It looked more like them wadermelons Beau and da Widder is so fond a’.”

Pegleg looked at the ball that Beau had gotten for him.  He spun it in his hands.  “It t’wernt, were it?”  He faded a few steps back and, with cup still in his free hand, signaled to the priest to go long.  Pegleg was surprised how fast the good Father was.  He was twenty yards away when the ghost let go the ball.

It wasn’t bad for a first try, but it wasn’t good either.  He’d forgotten his basic seamanship, and hadn't allowed for the wind and its direction, so the ball sailed high.  As fast as Father Sean was running, he seemed to accelerate to hyper-drive.  As the ball seemed to be preparing to sail into the lake, the priest jumped.  Pegleg couldn’t believe how far off the ground the priest got.  His fingers just touched the underside of the football, and it broke the ball’s flight path.

He was in the air, flying with the football as it bounced from one hand to the other like a man might toss a hot potato back and forth.  He and the ball both fell back to earth, took three more bounding leaps, and as he fell backwards O’Doul made one last stab at the ball.  It was a spectacular one-handed catch, but the price was a good dunking.  Father Sean and the ball went into three feet of water.  Pegleg moved faster than he had in five centuries to get to the priest, who was lifting the ball over his head to show to the imaginary crowd.  He was soaked, but there was an eye-to-eye smile.

“Err, Foder!  H’are ya okay, lad!”

“I still got it, Pegleg!  Ole Sean O’Doul is still Notre Dame’s Gallopin’ Holy Ghoost!”

“There weren’t no need fer tat, Foder.  H’are ya daft, man?”

The priest stopped moving and put his face right into the ghost’s.  He shoved the football right into Pegleg's gut and pointed an angry index finger in his chest.  “Brian Paterson, ya play tat game one hun’erd per cent.  An’ when a play call fer more, ya gives it!  Do ya understands, rookie?”

The ghost nodded and the priest nodded back.  They turned and walked slowly back toward the cave.  “Foder,” said the pirate, “if I’d known you back in d’day, I might not have taken the life a’ crime.”

The priest stopped walking and looked at his still-impressed friend.  “Brian Pegleg Paterson!  It weren’t a priest ya needed.  It was Rockne an’ his forward pass!”

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