THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 14:  Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes—
There’s Only Enough Shine for One!

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

“Ya know, O’Neil, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear Pegleg was starting to sober up!”

O’Neil dropped the wood he was fitting under the big tank and stood up.  The ten years he’d spent being professionally beaten on was already taking its toll.  “You noticed a change, too?  I thought I was drinking more, never thought it might be Pegleg drinking less.  How long you dink it takes to shuck off a five hun’erd year bender?”  He stopped, adjusted his glasses, and reflected.  “Beau.  We lucked out.  When you think of it, we’ve had a hell of a time.  Now!  Let’s see if ole’ Jack Daniels knows what he’s doin’!”

Calhoun hitched his pants up and nodded in agreement.  He had a quart of a mix of Pegleg’s whiskey and Ida’s shine (which seemed appropriate, as opposed to one or the other) and was swirling it in a bucket.  O’Neil was fitting a small birthday cake candle in the midst of the pile of wood he’d just fitted into place.  He lit the candle and quickly stepped back all the way to the far side of the cave.  Standing ten feet away from the pile, Beau tossed the contents of the bucket right at the candle.  There was a sound like rushing wind through a tunnel and a blinding flash followed by a dull blue flame that ate away at the wood pile until it was engulfed in a red hot glow.  The cave was filling with the sweet scent of good wood and better whiskey burning beautifully together.

Idy’s still was working well and had already filled the mandatory twenty barrels needed for the festival—the judges looked as much at the unused whiskey as the tastings.  If people didn’t want it, ultimately it wasn’t that good!  But Pegleg was right.  They needed to look past winning the contest.  They couldn’t waste their supplies on two or three dead runs of shine in the big still, so the boys just ran boiling water through it and let it dump into the spring so that the boiled water would run out into the lake.  They had spent a great deal of time cleaning and sterilizing all the parts before they’d even gotten them into the cave.  The ghost had pointed out that they really needed to run the unit to start breaking it in while “flooshin’ oot h’all dem damned chem’kals” used in the cleaning.  So that’s what they had done.  Now everything was ready.  And for the first time in a long time, it was quiet and there was nothing to do but let the thing run its course.

“Ya’all dink we kin pull dis off, brother redneck?”

“Ya know, Beau, we just spent ten years playin’ for a team that had one winnin’ season in all those years.  The very last year, we almost pulled off a trip to da supa-bowl.  We never pulled off a real winnin’ season, but sure as shit it was worth the try, no?”

“Yep, it were!”  Beau looked at his watch.  “Time t’git d’spook.  Yesserday I had ta listen to Pegleg clean across da lake, tellin’ me all da dings I done wrong in dat las’ game wid Dallas.”

They watched the fire until it burned out, leaving a beautiful charred bed, then motored across the lake for the post game recap.

“Well, well, me ole frien’ Murphy.  I takes it ya slipped away from d’ Missus ta’nigh?  Wat ya want ta be drinkin’, matey?  D’Irish?”

The old man stepped quickly up to the bar of the Cave Inn.  He looked left and right to make sure he wasn’t being followed, then hopped up on the barrel that served as a stool, leaned across the bar, and pushed his face in towards Paterson’s ear.  “Brian, me boy, agin me better joodgement I taught I’d give ya fair warnins’.  D’Dougals is on d’march and h’are lookin’ ta damage bodily you n’ yer cronies!  I heared they be lookin’ at Foder Sean an’ dat liddle noon, and the Widder Browne, too.”

Pegleg knew not to look up and blow the old boy’s cover, so he put down three shot glasses (one for each of the Murphy brothers) and filled them.  “H’on me, brother Murphy.”

Murphy did his usual three shots, and it loosened his tongue more than Pegleg really needed.  The Dougal Brothers were planning a rampage to destroy the pub, find their still, and perpetrate physical body harm on Beau and O’Neil.  Paterson expected this from the O’Malley camp, but Beau and O’Neil would need a head’s up as well.  Paterson refilled all three of the shot glasses.  “Would ya be tellin’ me d’truth, ole man?”

“Brian MacPhail, h’are ya questioning me mody-vations?”

Paterson shook his head.  “Its gots ta be a h’real danger fer ya, Murphy.  Would ya be likin’ d’Yanks dat mooch?”

The old boy leaned in again and, again looking left and right, flicked his fingers to draw the bartender in closer.  “Dem Yanks h’are good nuff men fer my money, an’ dey make a right proper shine.  It’s those damned O’Malleys I can’t be standin’!”

“Good ’nuff fer me, brother Murphy.”  Paterson stepped out from behind the bar and began shooing the customers home.  “Ga’wan home now, there be a family ’mergency back at Idy’s... here, take one wid ya fer da road, bring da moog back ta’marra an’ I’ll fill it on da house.”  Murphy got up to leave, but Pegleg grabbed him by the collar.  “Not you!  We gots us a midnight ride ta make!”

As they left the cavern and Pegleg was pulling down the makeshift door, Fitz-Ryan drove up for his nightcap.  “Don’t’cha be turnin’ off tat Godawful horseless coach, Hubert Fitz-Ryan!” Patterson said.  “Ya needs ta be gittin’ da priest h’en da noon and da Widder.  Our friend Murphy here has got some information we needs ta be hearin’!”

“It’s an ’onorary title!”  The Widder Browne, Father Sean, Sister Maria, Fitz- Ryan, Calhoun and O’Neil were starting to sound like the choral society of Brannock-A-Bend.  Old man Murphy rolled his eyes from one side of the crowd to the other and stood there silently for a moment, digesting what he’d just been told.

“Ga’wan!  It’s pullin’ an ole man’s leg, is it?”

“Mister Murphy, it’s a priest I am, would I lie?”  The good father could see his words were not having their desired effect.  He shrugged in despair.  Murphy was certain they were having a joke at his expense.  Pegleg, who was resting against the big still, pushed past the crowd and stood in front of old man Murphy.  He stretched out his arms, shook his shoulders, and brought his cup to his lips.  Down it went, the cup drained out.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.  Wup, wup, wup.”

“Y’AR HIM... YER D’BLUEDY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK—”

“H’I’M A FOOKIN’ GHOOST, YA FOOKIN’ OLE FART!  WAD DE BE-JAY-SUS IS WRONG WIT YOU PEOPLE!!!”

“Calm down, boys.  We got other problems.”  The Widder was gently flapping her arms, palm down, for quiet.  “Murphy, what are those Dougal apes up to?  What have ya heard, boy?”

“Well, now, Widder.  I was sittin’ in me spot at McNally’s havin’ me afternoon h’eye h’opener and in comes Danny Dougal, loaded to d’gills.  He be talkin’ ’bout how O’Malley is takin’ steps t’assure he’ll win da festival agin.  Well, sez h’I, wat might dem steps be?  ‘Well...’ sez he, an’ he pulls back his vest to show sticks a’ dynamite, boondled ta’gither.  ‘Daniel Dougal,’ sez h’I, ‘wat in da werld will ya be dune wid dem da’creped man-made beasties?’  ‘Tis sure, old Sean Murphy,’ Danny sez, ‘I’ll be sendin’ dem two dam Yanks—”

“Will ya stops callin’ us ‘Yanks’...”

“ ‘We be blowin’ dem two Yanks all ta hell n’ back!  Gwin ta start by takin’ down dere poob, and den me brudder Darrel be takin’ h’out dem two demslves!  ’Is Eminence da’ grand O’Malley ’as set ’is mind ta defendin’ d’family honor.’  ‘When’, sez h’I, ‘be all dis ’appenin’?’  ‘Soon,’ sez he, ‘soon!’ ”

“Hey, Beau, you understand anything he just said?”

“Not a word, boss...”

Pegleg threw an arm over O’Neil’s shoulder (which wasn’t the happiest thing to happen to him that day) and began to translate in a fatherly voice.  Before he finished the first sentence, the cave was rocked by a tremendous explosion.  At first they thought it was the cave being blown up—then they realized it was their pub.

“Does you know the diff’rence ’tween a lawyer an’ a catfish?”  Calhoun and O’Neil were walking side by side with Fitz-Ryan trapped between them.  He was a full head and a half shorter.

“Well, now, lemme see.  One is a bottom-dwelling, scum-sucking scavenger, and t’other is a fish!  Tat h’about right?  Ahhh, you Yanks!”

“I told ya, don’t call us dat.”

“A catfish an’ a lawyer, is it?  Yer lucky I’m not callin’ ya a lot worse.”

They walked to the front end of the cavern that had been their pub.  While the blast hadn’t done much to the cave itself, it had ripped the steel door Beau had hung against the entrance clear off the property.  There wasn’t an unshattered piece of glass or pewter left standing, nor any of the trappings of the bar, barrel stools, or any solid thing in the place.

The priest blesesd himself, and the Widder and Sister Maria froze in place, uncertain if they should start cleaning out the cavern or just walk away.  Fitzy and old man Murphy stood in the midst of the debris that had been the whiskey barrels and cried like babies.  The blast had been amplified by the whiskey going up, and the odor of the fired away moonshine filled the air.

Pegleg looked at O’Neil with a disgusted expression.  “Dem boys does real nice werk, sez me.  Dey may be two cheeks a’ da same arse, but dey woulda ben great pirates.  Dey blew dis place oop right to code.”

“The pirate’s code?”

“Well, it wasn’t really a code; more like....errrr, guidelines.”

The Widder 'd  had the forethought to photostat the statute that the festival revolved around.  They had been established after two weeks as a working public house, so blowing it up seemed more like a spite thing than a preventative measure.  Pegleg gathered some of the shattered barrel wood and sparked up a fire for some heat and light.  While the Widder drove the clerics and old man Murphy home, the rest sat around the cavern like a tribe of bizarre Indians pow-wowing the situation.

“I can’t unner’stand wat dose two morons could get outa blowin’ us oop,” Fitz-Ryan said.  “I keep readin’ d’statute, h’an dey h’ain’t nuttin’ in it tat might be gained by dis.”

“Hubert, ya was really never cut oot ta be an IRA member.  Ya joost dune unner’stands terrorism.  Wat can you be doin’ to dem, lawyer man?  Takes dem ta court fer blowin’ oop an illegal whiskey outlet?”

“Hey, we paid fer a license!”

“No, brudder O’Neil, ya bribed fer a license.  An’ where be dat license now?  Last I saw, t’was hanging on a ledge behind d’bar... you know!  D’won we be burnin’ as firewood.”  Pegleg sighed.  “Nex’ ting they’ll do is sen’ d’law down and arrest ya fer sellin’ moonshine or some sooch boogered oop charge.”

“Da spook is right,” Fitz-Ryan agreed.  “Y’ain’t gonna find it h’on the Brannock-A-Bend books either, I’ll wager.  H’an I be tellin’ ya.  Paterson, I may not know d’werkins’ a’ your O’Malley five hunert years ago, but dis here one today don’t do nuttin’ wid oot a reason.”

“Hmmm, dat being d’case, we’d better gets dis place oop h’en ruinin’ again,” Pegleg said.  “And you two boyos needs ta be fishin’ in Scotlan’ before we has ta be fittin’ ya fer a pine box... which be more tan ya did fer me!”

“C’mon, Pegleg, we didn’ even know ya’all was in there.  Beau an’ me is promisin’ ya... when dis is ober, we’ll dig ya up n’ do it right.  Headstone, mahogany box...”

“Ahhh, ya be good boyos.  I never hads me a better crew...”

“All d’same,” Fitz-Ryan said, “we needs ta be gittin’ yer crew to a safe place.”

“Yeah, well, we kin take care of ourselves.”

“No, ya can’t, boyo," Pegleg said.  "Yer honest men, givin’ fair fight.  You’ll be dead h’an gone before ya even realize yer be in a fight.  It’s a time tested princey’pal I tested meself several times!”

“Then who’s gonna rebuild dis here place?  Fitzy here’s too old to work an’ you’re allergic to it!”

“The boyos got a point.  Hubert, are dere any stout, ’onest lads aboot we can be trustin’?”

“Well, lemme see,” the lawyer said, thinking.  “Dere’s Brennan an’ Shamus Finnerty... Lannagan, Brannagan, Hannigan, Dannigan, MacGlaughlin, and Malone.  Dere’s Ryan, O’Brien, Cryon and Tryon, and MacNaughton....”

“I get it.  Dere’s a few wat hates O’Malley in dese here parts.”

“Dis h’aint gittin’ to be too much of a secret no more, now tat half d’town knows its h’an ’ornery title!” Fitz-Ryan whispered to Father Sean as the work crew stared down at Paterson’s legs.

“Lord help us,” was all he had to say.  The shout put out by the Father, the Widder Browne, Sister Maria, Fitz-Ryan, Calhoun, O’Neil, and old man Murphy was so loud it shook the work crew.  “Now ya all be knowin’ why we’re doin’ wat we’re doin’.  Git dis all cleaned oot and get da bar in place first, in case Callahan n’ d’law shows.  We need ta be gittin’ dis whole ting back ta’gither by ta’nigh.  NO DRINKIN’.  Sister Maria will have a good jug a’ cold water when ya needs it.  When we’re done, you’ll be tanked all proper like.  You all know wat ta do, so do it.”

It began quickly as debris was cleared out and quietly hauled away.  The Widder went to hook up with her friend Kelly in the mayor’s office to ferret out anything legal that needed to be known, as did Fitz-Ryan, who went to ensure an extended lunch for Mayor O’Malley.  Pegleg returned to his cave to prepare two more barrels, and old man Murphy went with him as official quality taster.

Beau and O’Neil, being members of the offensive team, went looking for the Dougals.

Things went well.  At about noontime, Constable Callahan was seen driving towards the cavern.  In a flash, the bar was turned into an altar, Father Sean threw his vestments over his work clothes, and began pretending to be saying Mass as the workmen piously knelt as if in prayer.

“Father O’Doul, I’ve gotten word illegal whiskey is being sold here,” the constable began.  “The whole place smells of it.”

“Mr. Callahan!  As d’great Saint said the first Mass here about using Uisce Beatha, the water of life, so am I!  Would ya be disterbin’ d’sanctaty of d’Mass, Harold Callahan!”

He left.

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