THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 15:  Mantle, Mouse, & Finn

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

Word was flying through the county that the two Americans were gunning for the Dougals.  The townsfolk were expecting a traditional comeuppance for the local thugs; a good spanking given to free them from the clutches of these two apes was the anticipation.  Even Fitzy and Father Sean were stepping more lightly believing Beau and O’Neil were going to beat the Dougals to dirt.  The only soul in Brannock-A-Bend who wasn’t calling for a boxing ring to be set up and bets be taken was Pegleg.  He doubted a punch would be thrown, mainly on moral grounds.  “A rogue knows a rogue, an’ dese boyos h’ain’t no rogues!”

The Dougals let it be known that they were ready, willing, and able to deal with the two American footballers and were in fact looking forward to settling up with them.  It should be noted, however, that all this publicity did not negate the possibility of the Dougals jumping out of a dark doorway with crowbars and shillelaghs.  The warnings to the Americans were plentiful and often from the citizens.  But with all that, neither Beau nor O’Neil was showing any signs of panic or worry.  After ten years in the NFL, getting beaten up didn’t really upset them that much.  They’d been there, done that, and still come out winners.  Pegleg was right.  Steps were being taken to put an end to O’Malley’s marauders without physical confrontations.  It wasn’t the “redneck” way to win, but a win was a win.  And if it meant saving your face from being turned into chopped meat, all the better!

Meanwhile, back at the Cave Inn, the Galloping Holy Ghost and his selected work crew had fended off the police, cleared out the rubble, rebuilt the entire bar with borrowed furniture, and heard three confessions in less than seven hours.  It was a good thing, too.  The Widder Brown and Kelly had found an obscure law from the 1750s that required a roadhouse to be in operation a constant day for a period of not less than thirty-one days to “officially” be a legal dispenser of alcohols manufactured on grounds—so for the Cave Inn to be used in the festival, they had to avoid being shut down.  American-made shine was illegal in Brannock-A-Bend, but Irish was not.  Or, as Fitz-Ryan translated, to make moonshine legal it had to be manufactured on the owners’ property for the premises’ betterment.  It was a damned good thing Father O’Doul drove off the fuzz.  For the remainder of the month, the house only carried the “Irish.”  Idy’s still went into overdrive and the old girl ran non-stop right up to the festival.

With the present turn of events, it was decided that Beau and O’Neil would be better off not working at their pub.  This presented a bit of a labor problem.  However, after giving Father Sean her assurances that she was past the Devil’s clutches and could resist Demon Alcohol, Sister Maria assumed the role of bartender.  She even dressed in her full black robes, complete with headdress, to steady her course and stop the flood of offers to buy her a drink—there wasn’t an Irishman in or out of his right mind that would offer to buy a nun a drink.  There wasn’t much to the bartending job—grab the jug, lift the jug, pour the jug, and collect money for ever third drink.  The only other duty, besides tidying up, was keeping order.  Thanks to the quality of the white lightning, there was very little disorderly conduct.  However...

Collin Quinn and Hacky Dunne had been in serious competition for the title of “Town Drunk” for more than a decade.  They took it seriously and worked hard at it, so much so that the Brannock-A-Bend fire squad started a pool for whose liver would give out first, Collin’s or Hacky’s.  A pub that only charged money for every third round initiated an Olympian drinking match to determine once and for all who was the town’s gold medal drunk.  It ended in a tie when the boys got just a little too rowdy for Sister Maria’s taste.  The fact that she was more than a little tense from being around all that hooch and not being able to beat up a jug herself did not help the boys cause either.

Utilizing her skills as a sixth grade teacher, Sister Maria stepped out from behind the bar, grabbed a collar in each hand, and walked them out of the cave despite their protests.  As soon as she released her grip on their shirts, Collin at his inebriated best threw a roundhouse at the nun.  It was a severe error in judgment—especially since he missed!  Sister Maria, sister to many older brothers, hopped twice and began defending herself.  After one or twelve good shots to his face, Collin collapsed in a heap, out cold.  Sister Maria was snorting like a champion bull, and it scared the hell out of Hacky.  He put his hands over head like he was surrendering.  He was still standing like that when Shamus Finnerty came up on them on his way into the cave for a drink.

“Ain’t ya goon ta help yer friend?” he said, looking at Collin, still beaten to a heap on the ground and out like a light.  Hacky, looking around to be certain the hurricane that flattened Collin was gone, finally lowered his hands.

“Fook him!  Tat’s wad he gits fer pickin’ a fight with ta Batman!”

Along with Pegleg's regular job—staying drunk and letting go a yell once in a while—he was put pretty much in charge of all the prep work for making the mix that would become the mash needed to manufacture the shine.  He and Beau had gone over the recipe for days, honing it to a fine point, running it past O’Neil for the quantity of chemicals he’d need.  Beau had essentially brought in by himself, to the cheers of the patrons of McNally’s bar, the two-thirds of the corn crop old man Murphy’s horse had left standing.  Most moonshiners would throw whole cobs of corn into the bucket, but Pegleg, Beau, and O’Neil had stood shoulder to shoulder, took all the kernels off, and filled several barrels with the fruit of old man Murphy’s labor.  Corn was something sort of new to Pegleg, as it was not common all the time in his day, but he liked what it did to the mix in Idy’s still.  It was a lot of work, but worth it.

O’Neil had tried to revive Idy’s wheat crop, but while he was a great blocking back, he was a lousy farmer.  He got some usable wheat of pretty good quality, but the Widder Browne (from Oklahoma—she’d figured out why Kentucky was noted for Blue Grass and not wheat crops) got a small pickup truck full of barley, including two barrels of already-malted barley she'd hoisted... obtained... from a music fan who was also into the arts and would never miss it or know who’d borrowed it.  It was top-quality fixins all the way, the best sugar and yeast (and a splash of molasses and black licorice per Beau’s recipe) imported all the way from Dublin.  All that was required now was the tender love and years of experience that was needed to take it from being everyday moonshine to genuine drink-and-go-naked party juice.

Pegleg had it all worked out in his mind.  He’d set the mix, having added that wonderful iron-free Irish spring water, in a warm dry place, then watch it for three days and three nights until it fermented into the mash solution.  Pegleg would heat it to 174 degrees—and he was delighted that O’Neil had contrived a gauge that told the temperature!  No more guess work, no more burned or undercooked mash; it stayed at the point of vaporization, 174 degrees, without any fluctuations!  Nothing more, nothing less—oh, these wonderful modern times.

174 degrees is the danger point.  As the vapors accumulate and build up pressure, one mistake would get the shiner blown to the moon.  The vapors ran through a copper coil Beau had rigged to lope the liquidizing vapors through the spring to super-cool it back to fluid form.  It would eventually be reconstituted to a clear liquid and drip into an oak barrel.

The quality of all the fixins they were using were so first-rate, they could just add more water, sugar, and yeast to the mix and have another eight or nine runoffs!  They’d stop at five for fear of quality loss, as the old pirate recommended.  Once in the barrel, O’Neil would do his magic and the new liquid would convert from 180 proof moonshine to 180 proof golden-brown Irish whiskey identical to what was coming out of Ida’s still and sitting in Pegleg’s huge barrels!  Only better!  This hooch would be the death knell for O’Malley!

“Is we really gonna do dis?”  The small truck slid to a stop on the gravel-coated parking lot in front of McNally’s pub.  Beau sat back in the seat and just looked at O’Neil.  The two oversized jugs of shine from Idy’s still in his lap were heavy, and the jolt slide had banged them down on his testicles, which only helped to lower his mood even more.  Pegleg had offered two jugs of his whisky, but O’Neil refused to waste five centuries of aging on these two mutts.  “Are we really gonna give these here jugs to the Dougals?”

“Not only dat... we goin’ ta drink wit dem!  An’ if necessary... we gonna have a go ’round with dem.  But I don’t dink so.”

Calhoun raised his eyes and just shook his head.  He undid his safety belt, got out of the pickup, and stepped into the crowded parking lot looking like a seventh grader being forced into a school room for a big test he knew he hadn’t studied for.  He turned to say something to his associate, and saw him reaching behind the bench seat of the truck.  O’Neil carefully extracted a brown paper bag that clinked mysteriously.

“O’Neil.  Wat dat?”

“Idy’s best Irish crystal.  Fitzy tole me she only used it for special ’cajons.”

Beau stopped moving.  “Is you kiddin’ me?  You crazy redneck, we gone trash dis place an’ evy’thin in it, includin’ Idy’s—”

“Beau Calhoun.  I know wat I’m doin’.  Trust me... an’ behave yer self.”

Beau just nodded and walked to the barroom’s door.

The usual crew had filled the bar by the time the Dougals had walked in.  When they saw the Americans drive up later, the crowd ran for the exits to find good places to stand on the outside and look in through the windows while being safe from flying debris.  By the time the footballers entered the room, it was empty (other than McNally behind the bar) except for the Dougals, who leaned on the bar and leered at the Americans.  The brothers began to stand and approach the footballers for battle when O’Neil raised a hand and motioned them back down.

“Now hold on fellas, we come bearin’ gifts.”  Beau held up the two large jugs.  “We can go ’round later, but how’s ’bout we has us a snort or two ba’foe da bloodshed?”

Now if there was one thing that the Dougal brothers liked more than fighting, it was getting loaded on great moonshine—and the reputation of this shine said it was really great.  They looked at each other.  Daniel Dougal shrugged and mumbled, “We kin kills dem lay-ter.”

O’Neil smiled.  “Good!” was all he said.  Beau slammed the big jugs on the bar, one in front of the Dougals and one near O’Neil, who slowly opened the brown paper bag, which immediately got a nervous rise out of the brothers.  “Whoa, big guys!  Just my Aunt Idy’s best Irish crystal.”  He pulled two handsome crystal water glasses out and set them in front of their adversaries.  Then he extracted two plainer-looking everyday glasses for himself and Beau.  “Aunt Idy always gave these to guests on special days.  I’d be honored if ya used dem and we did the first round to her memory.”

Darrel Dougal raised one of the crystals, sniffed it, and put it back down.  “Idy O’Neil was a good woman fer sure, an’ drinkin’ t’her mem’ry is fine wid d’Dougal boys... but I hain’t so sure as ta yer likker.  How’d we know t’ain’t poisen?”

O’Neil pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.  “Fair ’nuff!” he said.  He reached for the bottle in front of the brothers and filled his glass about a third up.  Then he took the bottle in front of him and filled the glass a third more.  “Mister McNally, have ya got a swizzle stick, a spoon, and a bottle of seltzer water, sir?”  The barkeep pointed to O’Neil’s right for the stick and reached under the bar for the spoon and a very old bottle of seltzer.  He popped the top and placed it in front of them along with the spoon.

O’Neil took the spoon and measured out two spoons of the seltzer, dropping it into the whiskey, then stirred violently with the stick.  Then he pounded the whole concoction right down.  All eyes were affixed on his glass.

“Wad d’fook was tat all about?” Daniel grunted.  “I kin sees ya drinkin’ both likkers... but the rest?”

O’Neil pushed back on his bar stool.  “Well, I’ll tell.  My college roommate went to work for the famous American law firm of, um, Mantle, Mouse, and Finn.  These guys always wanted pro ball players around, made ’em feel important.  So, to help my old roomie out, I went to a few of the big time lawyer parties.  They showed me how ta make the official company drink, the Mantle-Mouse-and-Finn.  That little splash of seltzer bubbles?  Blows t’alchahol right to the brain.  Hell, I’m spinnin’ on dat little... hey, you guys wanna try one?  But, I gotta warn ya.  This stuff’ll knock even a big man down!”

Both Dougals, feeling that anything that would tumble a big American wouldn’t affect them at all, pushed their glasses at O’Neil, who was already pouring one for Beau.

“Mantle, Mouse, and Finn?”

“Yeah, Beau.  You remember... Michael Mantle, Michael Mouse, and... Michael Finn?”

“Michael Fi...  Ohhh.  Of Course, Michael Finn, hell.  I remembers him.”

“I thought you would.”

By the third “Michael Finn,” the Dougals were spinning on their stools.  They were insulting the American manhood shamefully when they collapsed off their perches and onto the floor.

“Are dey ded?” asked McNally, leaning over the bar, not particularly concerned.

“Nope.  But you could cut their toes off and they’d never flinch.”

“Michael Finn, is it boys?  Be tat d’same Finn we Irish know as Mickey?”

“One an’ d’same, boss.”  O’Neil stood up.  He took the crystal glasses the Dougals had been drinking from and handed them to McNally.  “Here, throw these out before they hurt somebody.”

“But dese h’are yer Aunt Idy’s bes—”

“Are you kiddin’?  If I used any of Idy’s crystal on these two mooks, she’d turn over in her grave and come back to haunt me!  Nah, I bought ’em both for less den a Euro at a gift shop in Galway Bay.”

“Hey, O’Neil,” Beau said.  “Wad you slip dese guys?  I was watchin’, an’ I didn’ see you put...”

“Beau, didn’t I tell ya to trust me?  I coated the insides a’ dose cheap glasses wid an interestin’ tranquilizer that was activated by d’salts in d’seltzer.  That stuff is wat dey use to transport gorillas, so’s I thought it was appropriate.  They’ll sleep real good for about tree days!”

“How long dey out fer?” McNally asked.  As he did, a large hauler pulled up in front of the pub.  Four big guys got out and pulled two very large, very strong animal transportation cages.  They loaded up the Dougals in the cages, threw the cages into the hauler, accepted the remainder of the jugs on the bar and a large fistful of American greenbacks from O’Neil, and drove off.

“Where you sendin’ dem boys, O’Neil?”

“Ahhh, not quite sure.  They be joinin’ up wid the Russian circus in some place called Minsk.”

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