Killing Down the Roman Line

by McGregor, Tim

  Red and blue lights blinked against the windows of the Dublin House. The black and white cruiser was from the Exford branch of the Ontario Provincial Police. Cars travelling down Galway Road slowed to rubberneck the flashing lights.

  Half the tables emptied when the cherries flashed in the window. Two more patrons slipped out the back when Constable Ray Bauer came through the door and surveyed the bar with keen indifference. Bauer, who loathed being called to a bar brawl, was born and raised in the area and recognized the men involved. Proprietor Brian Puddycombe, Jim Hawkshaw and Dave Hitchens. Bill Berryhill wasn’t a surprise, nor was his surly little sycophant Combat Kyle. These two pissants were often at the center of trouble and more than likely the same turn of events held true tonight.

  One man sat alone at a table, watching everything unfold. A tall man grinning through a bloodied lip. Bauer immediately pegged him as trouble.

  Bauer decided to start with the proprietor. Puddycombe had the most risk involved here and could therefore be counted on for the most reliable sequence of events. Puddycombe’s statement would serve as a basis to question the others. Halfway through the pub owner’s story, he spotted a newcomer and was surprised to see the mayor. Kate stood at the door and surveyed the broken chairs and upended tables.

  Berryhill gave his statement and then slouched into a chair and pressed a wet bar towel to his bloodied mouth. He watched the OPP cop close his notebook and withdraw to a corner to make a call. Puddycombe handed him a clean towel and took the soiled one from him. He grimaced at the smear of blood on his linen. “I’m adding these to your bar tab,” he said.

  Jim leaned on the jukebox, his hands still shaky from the fire of adrenalin. A bar fight for Christ’s. sakes When was the last time he’d been in one of those? Back when he was a brainless kid. It was downright embarrassing. His dug out his phone, debating whether to call Emma to tell her what had happened. Why he was so late getting home. He dropped it back into his pocket unused.

  “Maybe you ought to sit down,” Kate said. She waved Jim over to join her at the table. When Puddycombe had called her, she thought he was pulling her leg. Grown men getting into a barroom brawl? Then he told her that the man Corrigan was involved. She had rushed over.

  Although unmarked, Jim looked as if he’d taken the worst of it. “You look a little green,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” he said. Jim followed her eyes, watching his hands shake. He folded his arms to hide them away. “You should go on home,” he told her. “No reason you should worry about this.”

  “You should call Emma. She’s probably wondering where you are.”

  “Yeah.” Jim watched Constable Bauer end his call and turn back to face the room. “Heads up.”

  Bauer crossed the floor towards Corrigan, who sat with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Watching everyone with that weird smug look of his. The police officer motioned for him to stand up. “On your feet please, Mister Corrigan. I’m taking you back to the office for charging.”

  “Me?” Corrigan laughed. “Under what charge?”

  “Assault.” Constable Bauer gave a shrug, like it was all out of his hands.

  “Assault?” Corrigan pointed to the far table where Berryhill nursed his bloodied mouth. “That big oaf attacked me. I simply defended myself.” Corrigan turned to Jim. “You saw it, Jim. You all saw it.”

  The constable looked at Jim. “Is that true, Mister Hawkshaw?”

  For a second time, Jim felt everyone’s eyes on him and broke a sweat under the glare. He nodded and mumbled. “Yeah.”

  “Bullshit!” Berryhill’s voice, muffled through the towel. Others muttered in agreement.

  Kate stood, hand held up to gather attention. “It doesn’t matter. We do not tolerate drunken violence in our community. And from what I understand, Mister Corrigan provoked the attack.”

  “But it’s not for you to make the charge, is it missus mayor?” Corrigan chinned in Berryhill’s direction. “That lump of excrement has to charge me with assault. Not you.”

  The glare of the room now swung and targeted Bill.

  He blinked at them. “What?”

  Corrigan retorted loud, as if speaking to the deaf. “You have to charge me first, you half-wit. Go on.”

  “For Christ’s sakes, Corrigan” Jim groaned. “Just shut up.”

  Corrigan ignored him and pressed on, goading the bruiser. “Go on, man. Charge me with kicking your worthless ass up and down the bar.”

  Berryhill went red. His mouth twisted into a rictus of hatred but he kept it shut.

  “Mister Berryhill,” Constable Bauer said. “I will need a proper charge from you.”

  The muscles under Bill’s jaw pumped and gritted but still he said nothing.

  Kate had no patience for macho posturing and told Berryhill so. “For God’s sakes, Bill. He assaulted you. Lay the charge.”

  Berryhill rose and tossed the towel onto the bar. “Just a little misunderstanding, that’s all.” He turned to the door and looked at the police officer. “Am I being charged?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Bill stomped for the door, Kyle at his heels. He fired a glance at Corrigan and muttered low enough so that only his little friend could hear him. “I’ll fix you on my own time.”

  Corrigan watched them leave. “It appears the man has withdrawn his charge.”

  With Berryhill gone, a breeze seemed to sweep the tension from the room. Old Mister Gallagher, who hadn’t stirred from his perch at the bar, turned back to his drink. Kate looked at Jim with a bewildered expression. What the hell just happened?

  Bauer lowered the volume on his belt radio. He stepped over to the stranger, thumbs hooked into his belt and suggested to Mr. Corrigan that he play nice with his neighbours if he was to make a place for himself in the community. “Pennyluck is a nice little town,” he said. Then he leaned in and lowered his tone. “Big city assholes don’t fit in so well, so do like Darwin suggests. Adapt or get the hell out of Dodge. You understand me?”

  Corrigan gave back a showy salute. “Loud and clear. Thank you, Constable.”

  Bauer nodded to Kate on his way out the door and then it was quiet. Audrey drifted back from her thirty-minute smoke break, having missed the fracas entirely. Looking over the sullen faces, she asked who died.

  “Mister Puddycombe!” Corrigan bellowed across the bar like it was New Years Eve. “A round of drinks for everyone please. My apologies for the shenanigans.”

  No one even looked at the man. Hitchens spoke, speaking for all. “No one wants your drink, Corrigan.”

  Puddycombe squared his palms on the bar. “Best you took your business elsewhere.”

  “What kind of man refuses a friendly drink?” Corrigan mocked a gaudy display of shock, like it was all good fun.

  Puddycombe plugged the jukebox back in and music filtered over the speakers. Some old George Jones tune about drinking his woman away. Puddy went back to wiping the bar and people drank. The show over.

  “I’ll take that drink.”

  Jim looked up, surprised to see it was Kate who had spoken. She looked at Corrigan. “Whiskey, is it?”

  Corrigan, surprised as anyone, raised his empty rock glass and gave it a tinkle. “Can you convince mister Puddycombe to break out the good stuff he’s hiding behind the counter?”

  Kate winked at the pub owner. Puddy tossed his towel down and reached under the bar, shaking his head in schoolmarm disapproval.

  ~

  A table in the back near the billiards. Three clean tumblers and a pint glass of ice cubes. Puddycombe had taken Kate’s hint and set a bottle of Midleton on their table. He fired a dirty look at Corrigan and shuffled off, hoping they wouldn’t drain the bottle.

  Corrigan beamed at the two people joining his table. Kate seemed impatient but remained polite. Jim, no poker player, looked downright wary.

  “May I?” Corrigan took the bottle and carelessly splashed whiskey into the glasses and over the tabletop. Jim reached
for the glass of ice cubes but Corrigan covered it with his hand. “You’ll not profane the whiskey with frozen wellwater, Jim. What would your granddad say?”

  “Why do you go out of your way to be a dick?” Jim scooped two cubes and plopped them in his glass. Corrigan flung the rest into the cold fireplace and clinked his glass against Jim’s and Kate’s. “Cheers.”

  Jim was no connoisseur of whiskey. Blue collar Ontario boy that he was, he was raised on beer and rarely deviated from that. He expected a bite but it was all buttery gold gliding past his gullet. The surprise registered on his face and Corrigan smiled at that.

  Kate gave away no such territory. She drank and cut to the chase. “You’ve caused quite a stir here, Mister Corrigan.”

  “Will, to my friends,” he said. “We missed you at the inaugural tour, Kate. May I call you Kate? I trust we’ll see you at the next one.”

  “I’m not big on cheap carny rides.”

  “Ah Kate, that’s an unjust comparison. You need to see it with your own eyes before passing judgement. You might enjoy it.”

  “The only thing I like about carny outfits,” she said, “is their fly-by-night operation. They throw up a tent one day, make a buck and then they’re gone by morning. Off to some other town.”

  Corrigan winked at Jim as if they shared some secret. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Kate pushed her glass away. “Then you have to give up this nonsense. You want to settle down, you have to fit in. Be part of the community. That’s the way it is here.”

  “You want me to fit in?”

  “At the very least,” Jim broke in, “stop trying to make enemies everywhere.”

  “I’m not looking for enemies, Jim. I’m a friend to all.” Corrigan straightened up and hollered at the bar. “Mr. Puddycombe! Another drink for my friend Hitchens over there.”

  Hitchens sat hunkered over the bar, his back to the room. “Piss off,” he sneered to Corrigan but he winked at Puddy to pour him a drink anyway.

  “Let’s cut the nonsense, Mister Corrigan.” It was late, Kate felt her patience running thin. “What do you want?”

  “The truth.”

  “How noble.”

  Corrigan leaned forward. “This little festival you’re throwing. The Heritage Festival? That’s your idea, yes? Don’t you want to know the truth about your heritage or did you prefer fairy tales?”

  She wouldn’t be baited. “Is it money you’re after?”

  “Some restitution would be nice. My family owned a lot of land in this town before they were butchered, all of which was divvied up after their murder.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I believe some ‘pain and suffering’ is due.”

  Jim leaned back. “Pain and suffering? Gimme a frigging break.”

  “Not mine. I want this town to feel pain. I want everyone to suffer.” He leered up at Kate. “And nothing hurts more than a kick to the wallet, does it Kate?”

  Jim blanched but Kate looked relieved. At least they were getting somewhere, some solid ground she could negotiate from. “Look around you, Corrigan. This isn’t a rich town. If you’re looking to blackmail someone, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Kate, Kate, Kate. I’m not here for something so sordid as blackmail. I just want to pull all the skeletons from the closet. Dance them around the square.”

  Jim rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t going anywhere. “There’s no way to prove your accusation. There’s no mention of any of it in the local history books.”

  “I know. I looked,” Corrigan said. “But there’s proof somewhere. You’re just not looking hard enough.”

  Kate studied the man, looking for the con, the ‘tell’ every huckster made. “What if there was an inquest into what happened back then?”

  “That would be a good start.”

  “Nothing grand.” She raised a hand in caution. “Not a trial, just a public inquiry into the Corrigan tragedy. And in return, you’ll end this ‘tour’ of yours.”

  Corrigan raised his glass, waiting for his guests to raise theirs. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Kate clinked her glass to his and Corrigan looked to Jim. Jim balked, reluctant to agree to anything with his new neighbour.

  “Jim?” Kate prompted him out of his rudeness.

  Clink.

  11

  THE TOWN COUNCIL sat Tuesday mornings in the old building it shared with the library and the municipal county office. A clock tower topped the limestone edifice but the clock had stopped working the summer of 1916. Local folklore held that the cessation of the timepiece was in mourning for the large number of local boys shipped to the battlefields of Europe and slaughtered wholesale at the Somme.

  The restoration and repair of the old town clock was one of the items on the agenda for today’s council meeting. Kate had initiated the project with the help of Mrs. Cogburn, the librarian, and Ford Toohey of the Knights of Columbus. Fundraising plans withered and died when the estimate for restoration came in at $78,000.

  Kate would bring it up in council this morning, if only to keep the idea alive. But her main focus was the Pennyluck Heritage Festival. There were still a million things to do and she needed to pry a little more money out of the council to ensure it all came about. She still couldn’t understand how the town fought her for every penny. Every small town from here to the coast had some celebration, a big weekend carnival that drove tourism and boosted local pride. These festivals cost money to put on but they paid huge dividends in the people who visited and spent their money in town. How the council failed to see that was beyond her.

  There were seven members of the town council, including herself. The sitting six had held their seats for at least a dozen years. All men, all over the age of fifty. The old boys didn’t like change and didn’t cotton to terms like ‘innovation’ or ‘rebranding’. They liked their town as it was. Why fix what wasn’t broke?

  The faces of the councilmen were already stones of puffy suffrage and Kate knew she was in for a tough morning. Councilman Gene Ripley, who ran the oldest funeral parlour in Pennyluck, shot down any mention of the clock restoration and Joe Keefe suggested they move on. Kate let it go, focusing on the need for further funding of the festival. Pat McGrath, of McGrath’s Lumber & Hardware, interrupted her pitch, pointing out that they had already allocated ten thousand over and above her written budget.

  “Putting on a festival of this size isn’t an exact science, Pat.” Kate kept her tone pleasant, knowing the old boys could be easily ruffled. “This is our first heritage festival. Problems arise, challenges we didn’t foresee.”

  “I thought you were the expert on this shindig.” McGrath pointed a stubby finger in her direction. “You sold us on this idea claiming you could handle it. And now you’re telling us you need more cash?”

  “There’s a lot of people coming. We’ll need more staff for the events and I’m pretty sure we’ll need a second police officer for traffic and security.”

  “Do you have any idea how much it costs to pay a cop for his weekend?” Councilman Ripley sputtered. “It’s time and a half. I’m sorry, our pockets are empty.”

  “That isn’t true,” Kate countered. “There’s a contingency fund at the bank that, according to Mr. Carswell, hasn’t been utilized in years.”

  “That’s for contingencies.” Ripley’s condescension dripped all over his face. “Flash floods and acts of God. Emergencies.”

  “Then it should have been folded into the existing emergency fund a long time ago. But it wasn’t, and this is a new contingency.”

  Ripley clucked his teeth. The other five shook their heads, killing the idea with silent consensus.

  Reeve Thompson tapped his gavel and grumbled. “Done. Any new order of business?”

  Kate’s list of new business included a proposal for a skate park to be built on the empty lot in the old rail yards and obtaining fibre optic cable for the library computer system. These she set aside and cut to the last item on her list, scribbled down in pen
as an addendum.

  “I want to propose an inquest into the deaths of the Corrigan family in eighteen ninety-eight.”

  It was like God had hit the pause button, the men frozen and the air still. The dropped faces soured and composed slowly with clearing throats and tisking teeth.

  “Next.” Thompson banged the gavel, aborting the matter.

  Kate’s brow arced. She’d never seen anything dismissed so quickly. “Hold on a minute. I’m sure you’ve heard this man’s claims. And the little sideshow he’s putting on at the old Corrigan property. I believe it should be looked into.”

  “The man’s a fraud,” McGrath said, paging through the agenda. “We’ll not entertain his ridiculous claims.”

  “We don’t know that. Which is why an inquest is in order. A proper search of the archives into the deaths of the Corrigan family.”

  Thompson wouldn’t budge. “Absolutely not. And there’ll be no more mention of that name within these chambers.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s ancient history,” said McGrath. “You give in to this guy and you open the door to every other con-man with a grievance. Before you know it, we’ll have the Indians down here making claims about ancestral land rights. Forget it.”

  The gavel rang again and the meeting adjourned.

  ~

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  Travis kicked a pebble into the ditch. “Yeah.”

  Jim walked his son down the driveway to the Corrigan house. “You add this to your chores, you won’t have a lot of free time. You know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  Jim plucked a handful of thistle from the path, watching his boy amble along in that jangleybone way of his, like it would kill him to stand up straight. Or give more than one-word answers. Lately the boy had regressed to simple grunts and impatient sighs. Jim let it go.

  Coming onto the yard, they saw more rotted timber piled onto the ashes of the bonfire. Splintered framing and chunks of desiccated plaster and lathe. Jim gauged the fire pit to be too close to the house, too close to that tinderbox veranda. If Corrigan wasn’t careful, he’d burn the place down. Which, on second thought, might not be such a terrible thing.