THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 7:  The Old Mid-Field Double Reverse...
Yo-Ho-Ho and a Bottle or Two of Five-Hundred-Year-Old Whiskey!

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

The plan was basically simple... which stands to reason, as all the conspirators (including the priest) were eventually as sloshed as the dead moonshiner.  They finished the beer, killed what was left of Pegleg’s hooch, and he and O’Neil, flashlight in hand, rowed (the captain refusing to get into ‘dat damned h’oar-less raft’) back to the cave and brought back three more bottles for samples.  Then O’Neil rowed back for another dozen bottles, of which ten made it to daybreak.

They had considered faking it by using Pegleg’s booze just to take the prize money away from O’Malley; the old “mid-field double reverse” so to speak.  Father Sean balked at that idea at first, but when the name “O’Malley” was thrown into the mix he agreed that a little fudging with five century old whiskey wouldn’t hurt the man... as much as he deserved.  But O’Neil pointed out that any true shiner would know it was an aged whiskey the minute he sniffed it.  And, while it was undoubtedly at least 150 proof (one of the main qualifications to be moonshine) if not more, aging in the oak barrels for so long had turned it into real ‘quality’ whiskey.

When O’Neil and Beau confessed their plan to create Mad Dash Whiskey to the priest, Pegleg and Fitz-Ryan fairly Jim-beamed with pride that these two Americans had an Irish streak a mile wide!  There was something in the way O’Neil explained it that made the captain sure he and Beau were ‘boney-feedy’ Moonshiners.  Beau and the Father would make the rounds tomorrow and pass out samples of their ‘American’ whiskey to the locals and make it known they were entering the competition.  O’Neil, under the direction of Pegleg, would begin work on a new still.  Fitz-Ryan would keep an eye on the doings of the O’Malleys.  That would take a supreme effort and a sober mind, neither of which Fitz-Ryan possessed in great profusion.

By daybreak everyone was home sleeping off the night before, so the nine o’clock meeting time passed without incident.  Of course Pegleg, having no need of sleep, did need something to do.  So he hung a board with the name ‘O’Malley’ scratched on it, stood ten yards away, and threw his dagger at it.  By noon, the thumping of the blade into the wood finally alerted the two rednecks that there was a certain lack of hospitality at Casa O’Neil and it was time to get up.  Easier said than done.  When Pegleg heard them shuffling about trying to concoct something akin to coffee, he went into the kitchen and started cooking.  He presented the ‘boyos’ with an omelet dish made with a little hair of the dog, a few herbs and spices, and a few more things Americans probably didn’t want to know about.  Talk about bringing the dead back to life!

“Well, boyos, when Lizzy’s navy, small as it was, be seen on the ’orizon a’ Galway Bay, the night before don’t count.  Gets crackin’ or start dancin’ on d’end of a rope!”  It was all he had to say about the eggs.  It worked though, and soon O’Neil was rowing for the cave, with Beau driving to the rectory to gather up the padre.

Father Sean was bright-eyed enough to earn Beau’s respect.  But while O’Doul wasn’t all that hung over, Beau found him sitting quietly at the kitchen table examining the bottle he’d sent home with Sister Maria.  It seemed to be half-empty, and he couldn’t remember having a nightcap before bed.  He’d found it that way this morning.  “Lord help me, I mus’ be out a’ practice,” he mumbled to the big American.

Beau looked at him a bit incredulously.  “Ya could’ve fooled me, Father.  Ya looked like Eli Manning in the last two minutes of a game.”  The comparison to the Giants’ MVP quarterback brought a smile to the priest’s face.  Somehow, a shot of whiskey and a football equated equally in his mind today.

The first stop they made was to the Widder Browne’s place, above her grocery store.  Finnerty the stock boy, usually there at the time of the morning, was by himself.  The Widder had gotten a call from Barrister Fitz-Ryan, and she had left with him in his Caddie.  Beau was about to give the jug of Paterson’s liquor to Finnerty to give to her, but the padre, standing behind the stock boy, shook his head ‘no’.  Calhoun let the bottle slip back into the sack he was carrying.  “Tell the Widder we said ‘hullo’ and we be back later.”

On their way back to the truck, the priest speculated what old Hubert was up to with Widder Browne.  “She’s a fighter, dat one.  You two Yanks’ll like her.”

“Father Sean, don’t call us ‘Yanks’, it could be dangerous.”  He shifted the bag to the other arm.  “Where to now, Father?”

“We’re goin’ ta see Pat McNally over at the Half Filled—”

“We’re givin’ a bottle to a bar owner?”

“Actually, we’re givin’ d’a man two bottles!”  Beau stopped walking and just looked at the clergyman.  The padre was two steps ahead by the time he stopped and looked back.  “Think, man.  McNally knows every soul in Brannock-A-Bend.  They all drinks in his establishment.  I’m wonderin’ what he’ll be chargin’ fer a shot of this fine...”

“He’s gonna sell—”

“As sure as me name is Father Sean O’Doul, he will!  And they’ll know t’ain’t his!  Nor anybody else’s from these here parts—in the las’ four or five centuries, anyway.  That leaves the two Americans who don’t come in to town and don’t invite anyone to their place...”

“Hey, c’mon!  Between stills blowing up and entertainin’ a five-hun’red-year-old dead guys watchin’ our TV, drinkin’ our beer and fryin’ eggs, we been busy!”

“Sure, sure, sure.”  They walked to the truck and got in for the ten-minute drive to McNally’s pub.  O’Doul sat silent, lost in thought.  “I be wonderin’ wat Fitz-Ryan is doin’ wid d’Widder!  Sure he should have told us his plan last night.”

Old Fitzy wandered into the mayor’s office just two minutes after the mayor had gone out to lunch.  He told Emma Kelly, his secretary, to be sure to let the mayor know he had come in.  Some might say the crafty old barrister had planned it that way, and indeed he had.  O’Malley, in legal terms, was a long term criminal enterprise.  If Pegleg was right—and there was no evidence to suspect he wasn’t—the O’Malley crime family reached back for centuries.  They’d be there at a later time to deal with under the law.  But for the now, Fitz-Ryan was more worried about the Dougal brothers wandering around Ida’s property and finding Brannock-A-Bend’s banshee... ghost... Peg-whatever.  The Dougals started garbage collection at 10:30 A.M.  By noon lunch, they were done!  While it looked shady in nature, in a town of three hundred people there just wasn’t a whole lot of garbage to collect!  So the Dougals would start drinking.  All Fitzy had to do to find them was to make the rounds of all the pubs and taverns.

The Dougal problem had been partially solved last night.  The good Father had managed to burn through the permanent haze around Pegleg’s head and made him understand the importance of his trademark yelp.  Pegleg, knowing a boot up the arse of old man O’Malley was at stake, became as regular as a Yellowstone geyser.  There was a collective sigh of relief from the town’s populace that took two chimneys and a whole bunch of TV antennas down.  By breakfast, a feeling that normalcy had returned to the town had descended on the heads of the citizens.  Fitz-Ryan knew, though, that while the Dougals might take a long lunch... a longer lunch today, Calhoun and O’Neil had fallen under the eye of O’Malley, and the bugger wouldn’t let things rest until he knew what was going on.

“Wad does I be tinkin’?”  The ghost lifted up from the tubing he’d been joining and looked at O’Neil, who was finishing cleaning up the thump keg.  “I be tinkin’ yar all out a’ your fookin’ minds!  Yar time-crazy, ev’y fookin’ whon a’ ya!”

O’Neil stopped his labor and looked at Pegleg with a surprised expression.  “What are y’all talkin’ ’bout, ghost.  We got us ’lectricity...”

“And a boat tats h’run on it and strands ya in the middle of a lake!”

“Well!  We got gasoline motors, too!  Some can travel a hun’red...”

“Yeah, I’ve smelled them and seen the crashes on tat infernal cool fireplace in your front room.”  O’Neil was ready to argue, but Pegleg raised a finger and shushed him quiet.  “Yar be time-crazy!  Was ya listening last night when the good Foder was tellin’ that great hulkin’ beast of a friend a’ yours how by takin’ a diff’rent, ah... dem tings what goes under...”

“Subway trains?”

“Subway trains!  By takin’ a diff’rent subway train, he could gets where he was a’ goin’ and save a good six minutes?”

“Yeh.”

“A question fer ya, bucko!  Wat d’fook ya goona do wid the six minutes!  I kin see savin’ six months by sailin’ d’cape, but six minutes?  Time crazy!  TIME ‘FOOKIN’ CRAZY!”

“And what’s so bad—”

“H’alright, boyo let me ’splain it so’s even you can understands it.  Instead a’ playin’ the whole game a life, d’only part a’ game yer playin’ is the two minute drill.  Even yer fookin’ moonshine!  In my day, even the cheap stouf was aged, six months or a year.  You boys don’t let it cool, and ya be pourin’ it into bottles!  I was a cutthroat; I went after men with a knife.  Most was enemies a’ Ireland, sum was cuttin’ into me trade.  You boyos are pretty careful as mooch h’as I can tells, so’s I don’t minds helpin’ ya.  But how many shiners has ya got back in h’America bot’lin pure alcy’hol?  Blindin’ poor fools lookin’ fer a good time, killin’ folk not knowin’ better.”

O’Neil had never thought about that.  It was always a hobby, a chemistry problem.

Pegleg saw that he had cut O’Neil’s sail lines.  “Boyo, ya seems a good man.  If yer shine with its little agin’ trick saves the town from the likes a’ tat ole weasel O’Malley, you’ll has done good work.  Don’t know d’Foder mooch, boot hey seems ta be a good man, too.  I’m no h’expert on good men, boot I don’t tink he’d be wid us if we was a hinky bunch!”

Beau and the good Father pulled in front of McNally’s joint just in time to beat a sudden downpour and hear a good yell from Pegleg.  The American was surprised that the sound could make it all the way across town.  “It’s the mountains,” the priest explained, “it acts like the sound board on a pianer.”  They went inside to where McNally was cleaning up the remnants of a recent visit of the Dougals.  The day man, Charley Brennan, was standing behind the bar.

“Ga’day, ta ya Foder,” McNally greeted him.  “Are ya needin’ anudder boddle already?  Sister Maria jus’ lef’.”

The priest pulled his head back in confusion.  “She was?”  He shook it off.  “Actually, Patrick, I’ve come with a bottle for you.  Two, in fact.  A gift from the Americans, made at tere still at home in the colonies!”  O’Doul took two bottles and walked away from Beau.

Calhoun looked at Brennan and said, “Pour me one, and one for you, friend.”  Brennan was impressed that the big American would think of him.  They conversed over their whiskies as men in bars do.  As they talked, Beau could see an old man shuffle by the window.  As he did, Brennan took out three shot glasses and filled them to the brim, one seat down.  “Thas’ ole man Murphy,” he explained.  “Ev’y day he comes in and has three shots of me best whiskey.  I says to ’em once, ‘Murphy, would it be better for yeh if I put all three shots of Irish whiskey into one glass?’ and he says, ‘Well... no.  See, I have two other brothers back at home in Dublin I h’ain’t seen in twenny years, Patrick and Owen, and every time I come into a pub, I order a shot for each o’ them so I can remember the good times.’ ”
            The old man came in and greeted the bartender and the big stranger.  He threw the first two shots down, pushed the third one sadly away and prepared to get up and leave.  Brennan looked at the old man immediately.  “Mister Murphy, is everything okay?  Did somethin’ happen to one of your brothers?”

The old man blinked a few times and smiled sadly.  “Oh no,” Murphy said.  “Me wife decided I should quit drinkin’!  Good day to ya, Gentleman.”

Brennan never looked up, but cleared the bar, poured Beau another one, and said, “Welcome to Brannock-A-Bend, Yank.”

The bar stop was most fruitful, and in fact they left a third bottle with McNally.  With the buying of a few drinks, Beau Calhoun had been christened into the community.  They had reached the truck when Fitz-Ryan turned the corner and Father Sean hailed him over.  The old boy was definitely worse for the wear.

“Hubert, ya look like the dog bit ya good!  Ya don’t look well, poor man!”

Fitzy just shook his head.  “I ben ’voidin’ the mayor and lookin’ fer d’Dougals all day long.”  The old man removed his spectacles and rubbed the lenses with his tie.  “I got ta finds them two criminals before they get into real trouble fer us!  I was tellin’ the Widder here...”

“Fitzy, you’re alone!” Beau remarked politely.  He had old man Murphy in mind, and realized that the barrister might indeed believe he was ‘accompanied’.

Fitzy looked behind him, then rotated in a three-sixty.  “Wha???  Wah-d’hell!  D’ bloody woman was...”  He never finished the sentence.  A bright red Fiat whizzed past them beeping its horn.  “Ah, she’s on d’move, good woman dat she is.”

“And what t’is it d’good woman be doin’ fer us, if ya please, Hubert?”

“On her way t’a hobby shop in Galway village for O’Neil.  If you Yanks—”

“Don’t call us Yanks!”

“...can whip up a batch o’ good shine as fast as ye sez ya kin, he’s gonna need those supplies.  Many years in law and if nuttin’ else, I learned whon ting: If you’re goin’ ta do somp’in shady, sen’ somewhon else ta do it fer ya!”

“Now why did the good Widder Browne agree to get down to Galway Bay to help the likes of...?  Hubert Fitz-Ryan!  Ya didn’t tell Wider Browne about... you know who!”

“Him?  Now why would I...”

“Yeah, him,” Beau said almost dejectedly.  “Can you boys give out the rest of the hooch, I gotta get back to d’still.  They gonna need my help.”

Fitz-Ryan nodded, and Father Sean made the sign of the cross at Beau and said, “Go with God, my son.”

It sort of made the big Southern Baptist feel kind of special.

Back at the fort, the wagons had already been circled.  When Beau motored in and walked up the hill he was greeted with a tremendous hoot, enhanced by O’Neil joining in to make it a stereo hoot as two mugs of whiskey disappeared.  Calhoun was shocked when he entered the cave.  All the barrels, kegs, and pots for both stills were assembled and ready to be hooked up.  O’Neil, who looked like he’d run into the Pittsburgh defense with no blocking in front of him, saw the expression on his cohort’s face and just pointed at their ghost.

“Not a break in the last seven hours,” O’Neil grunted out.

Pegleg looked at Beau.  “Jus’ like we laid out, Master Beauregard, an’ not a single flaw I kin find!  You be a good brewer, lad.  Now bring h’on d’O’Malleys, ya has us ready for business.”

The complement brought the first real smile of the day for the big guy.

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