Each man leaned forward upon hearing his name, squinting at the script inside those little rectangles. Rib sauce splattered one corner. Corrigan pointed to a larger patch of land outside of town, leading off the map.
“Over here is the Corrigan farm but down here in town, there are four lots owned in title and deed to the Corrigans.” His finger traced through two lots on Galway Road, another off Chestnut and a fourth on King Street. All smack dab in the center of town. “Now that’s some sweet real estate, eh boys? The Corrigans owned a saloon and a harness shop on Galway and boarding house on Chestnut. The last one was an empty lot at the time, the previous house having been burned down by some feckless bastards in the winter of eighty-eight.
“After the shoddy police investigation into my family’s murder, these properties were held in trust to the town. A year later, the lots were sold off for a pennies on the dollar to prominent families. The McGrath’s bought the tack shop, James Hitchens purchased the boarding house to expand his hotel next door. The saloon was snatched up by Roger Jamesons for a steal. The vacant lot sold two years later to the Murdy’s, purchase price unknown. Maybe a dirty handjob to the mayor.”
Pat McGrath leaned back, smelling a sting was coming after the set-up. He pushed back his chair. “I’m not listening to anymore of this horseshit.”
“It is appalling, isn’t it?” Corrigan chucked up a hearty laugh. “The brazenness of it all. The same men who slaughtered my family snatch up their land at a cut rate not a year after they’re in the ground. Proof of their bloodied hands, clear as day.”
Joe Keefe told him to go to Hell and stood, ready to follow McGrath.
“Oh come on, boys. You haven’t even heard the best part.” Corrigan held up the map again. “Look at these lots. Primo real estate, making the wrong people rich for a hundred years. I want them back.”
The sting. The racket of crickets filled the silence. Thompson declared him a crazy son of a bitch and a fraud to boot. All agreed.
“That’s my counter offer,” said Corrigan. “Take it or leave it.”
McGrath was incredulous. The stupid bastard was bargaining from no position. “Counter offer? To what?”
“Your clumsy attempt to buy me off, using old Jim Hawkshaw as your puppet.” Corrigan gauged their confused looks correctly. Shot back. “I assume the right honourable mayor told you of her manoeuvre?”
Kate shrank under the weight of all those eyeballs. She held her head high and utilized the same tactics of any tyrant big or small. Denial and bluff. Brinkmanship. “That’s enough of your conspiracy theories, Mister Corrigan. Take your paranoia elsewhere.”
The councilmen grumbled in agreement, grunting support for their mayor.
Corrigan feigned a look of martyrdom, all forlorn suffering not dissimilar to Joan in the flames. “I tried, I really did. But since you won’t listen to reason or morality, we can fight it out the old fashioned way. In the courts.”
McGrath laughed at him. “You’re suing us?”
“For the return of stolen lands. For conspiracy to profit from a crime. And the aggregate revenues lost during the last hundred years.”
“Then we’ll see you in court. Goodnight Kate.” McGrath tossed his glass on the table and huffed away. The other councilmen followed. The cook doused a pitcher of water on the grill and the coals hissed up foul and cruel.
The trio on the bandstand held their instruments still. Stranded on the old gazebo, unsure of what the hell was happening. One of them flipped open his guitar case, ready to pack it in.
“Dirty old town!” Corrigan stomped up the steps of the bandstand, champagne bottle in hand. “That old Pogues tune. You know the one.” He dug into a pocket and tossed a bill into the open guitar case. A C note. “Play it!”
One picker eyed the other, neither remembering the song too well. The fiddle player struck it out on her chords, doing her best but all she could remember was the chorus. The pickers followed her lead, the melody recalling only the chorus so they sang that.
Kate rose and followed the council up the path. Camaraderie in her bones. She couldn’t remember the last time all of them had been agreement. It felt good.
Corrigan struck up the tune, adding his voice, bellicose and out of key, to the harmonies of the trio.
Dirty old town!
Dirty old town!
~
Bill Berryhill was not an advocate of the festival. Just the thought of a bunch of tourists plodding around town in their Crocs and yoga pants made him sick. Taking pictures and gawking, driving slow in their SUV’s. And now this, clogging the bar at the Dublin. The damn festival hadn’t even started and they were already here, wasting oxygen in his refuge.
“The hell are you doing, Pudsy?” He elbowed his way in and leaned over the bar. “Giving the drinks away?”
Puddycombe was hustling to keep up, even with Jeanine winging behind the bar with him and two girls on the floor. Smiling through it all, like only Puddy could. Eating it all up, playing the host and ringing the till. “Not bad, huh?”
Bill sneered. “Can’t these rubes go someplace else? Like Gator Bob’s?”
“You be nice, Billy. It all trickles down, son. You’ll see.”
Bill waved a dead pitcher over the bartop. “Well if you’re not too busy, can you see to the regulars who keep you open in the winter months?”
The bar owner hooked the pitcher under the spigot and let it fill while he poured a row of shooters. Berryhill watched the Kahlua and Baileys pour into the shot glasses and shook his head. Christ on a popsicle stick.
He felt an elbow in his ribs and snapped around, ready to lay into some tourist. Hitchens, squeezing his way through the mob. “Bill, where the hell did all these people come from?”
“Dunno but looking at all the faggot-ass hair and stupid clothes, my guess is Toronto.”
“Could be worse, I suppose.” Hitchens winked at Puddycombe. “We may yet get some Quebekers.”
When Puddy set down the fresh pitcher and pint of his usual, Hitchens waved at them to lean in. “You hear what happened down at the fair grounds? About Corrigan’s latest stunt?”
“What’s the bastard done now?”
“According to Thompson, the son of a bitch laid claim to half a dozen properties in town. Says the land used to belong to his family and was sold off illegally or some shit.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Puddycombe shouted back. “You can’t cry foul a hundred years after the fact.”
“He said it’s proof of the conspiracy. The land sold off cheap to the men who killed his family.”
Berryhill dug into a basket of pretzels. “What land is he talking about?”
“McGrath’s hardware. Murdy’s shop. Doug’s car dealership.”
“Doug’s place?” Bill’s employer, Doug Murdoch. Bill spent three days of the week there as an unlicensed mechanic and tow truck driver. Occasional repo man. “Dude’s crazy, thinks he can swindle that horseshit.”
“Ballsy, huh?” Hitchens sipped his pint. “The sonovabitch just keeps upping the ante, cranking us up. I mean, what the hell is he after?”
“Gotta be a payoff,” Puddy said. “He’s extorting us to make him go away.”
Hitchens winked. “I think they tried. On the sly like. Guess it didn’t work.”
“Fuck the town,” Berryhill said. “We need to do what we planned. Only thing that’s gonna work.”
“That’ll have to wait.” Puddycombe set pints down, poured more. “Until the festival’s over. Too many people around.”
“Why? So you can sell more to these stupid rubes?”
“Would you hush your gob?”
“He’s got a point,” Hitchens said.
“That prick ain’t waiting.” Pretzel crumbs flew from Bill’s maw. “He’s doing more of his bullshit tours this weekend. Haven’t you seen the flyers?”
“Leave it. We’ll deal with it Monday.”
Bill dismissed them both as pussies and took his pitcher out to the pa
tio. Combat Kyle sat at a picnic table, blowing smoke out his nose and playing with his Zippo. Flicking it open and snapping his fingers to light it, all in one smooth motion. Something he’d seen Steven Seagal do once in a movie.
“Pour.” Bill set the pitcher down and helped himself to the cigarette pack on the table. Kyle refilled their glasses and took up the Zippo again. Bill watched his mute friend snap the old lighter and stare at the flame like some bewitched Neanderthal.
“Fucking firebug.”
~
Kate steered for home, her eyes flitting between the street ahead of her and the phone in her hand. Scrolling through her contact list for Hugo’s number. His report about Corrigan’s past, added to his crashing her party, had her worried.
Maybe Hugo could help. Effectiveness and discretion were his calling cards. Especially in tricky spots. He could come up here, deal with Corrigan as only Hugo could, and she’d be free of his nonsense.
She hit dial and then panicked and killed the call. Dropping the phone onto the passenger seat. She didn’t need Hugo to come out here to solve her problems for her.
She pulled to the curb and looked out over the street, decorated as it was with flowers and sparkling lights. She’d worked so hard to put all of this together and now this cretin was trying to drag it all down into the gutter. What galled the most was how he’d planned to co-opt her festival to promote his gruesome little sideshow.
Corrigan didn’t care about the new bylaw nor the hefty fines he would incur by going ahead with his tour. Maybe she could shut him down some other way, if only for this weekend. She scrolled through the names on her phone and called Joe Keefe. His crew was doing road work just south of town.
Keefe answered on the third ring. “Kate? What can I do you for?”
“Joe, where’s your crew working tomorrow?”
“The Orange Line. Just a half day, though. The boys are looking forward to the festival.”
“I see. Listen, how hard would it be to move your crew to another location? There’s another road that needs work immediately.”
“That’s news to me. What road?”
“The Roman Line,” she said. “Starting at Clapton Road, then moving west about two, three miles.”
“You mean right near what his name’s place?”
“That stretch of road is terrible, don’t you think?”
Keefe was silent for a moment, then he laughed. “I’d say you’re dead right. In fact, we might have to close off that whole stretch all weekend.”
“Better safe than sorry. You’ll get on that?”
“Right away.”
~
Driving west on the old Roman Line, the only streetlights are posted at the crossroads. A black pickup truck barrelled under the last one, leaving a mushroom cloud of dust under the amber glow. The unpaved surface turned to washboard in spots, hard-packed ripples that will shake a vehicle apart if taken too fast. The black pickup trundled slow over the ripples, picked up speed coming uphill from a low valley. Cresting the rise, the headlights winked out and the pickup ran sleek and invisible in the night.
The truck hewed to the shoulder and stopped. The interior dome light was switched off before opening the doors. Two figures slid out of the cab; one tall and thick, the other short and slight. A nocturnal Laurel and Hardy, up to no bloody good. The tall one reached into the box and came away with a red gas can. The lid was spun off, the spout fixed and reattached. The two figures climbed down the ditch and pitched drunkenly up the other bank.
Fifteen paces through the brittle stalks of mown hay to a wooden signboard hung on a frame of two-by-fours. The hated name painted in simple black against a white background. Further south, at the end of the rutted driveway, stood the haunted house.
The can tilted up and gasoline splashed over the wooden beams. The click-clack of a Zippo and a little flame. Laurel and Hardy giggled and shushed each other to be quiet. Fire leapt from the wick and chased around the base of the sign. The arsons howled and ran headlong back to the ditch, falling and clawing back up to the road.
The pickup spun back the way it came, tires skirting the opposite ditch. The engine gunned and the headlights popped back on. Red taillights fading away.
Inside of a heartbeat, the signboard was a bonfire, all Halloween orange against the black night. The paint blistered in the flames, warping and withering the neatly stencilled name.
The house at the end of the driveway remained dark, the windows reflecting the roiling bonfire in the distance. The only other light was a pinprick of orange glowing from the end of a cigar. Over the pop and snap of the fire, was a rhythmic tack of a rocking chair creaking the floorboards.
William Corrigan rocked slow on his veranda and watched the fire burn. No rush for the hose, no call to the firehouse. He puffed on his cigar and rocked and rocked.
19
“HAVE YOU LOST your mind?”
“Maybe.” Jim wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. The breeze from the window did little but blow the humid air around the kitchen.
Emma tilted against the counter, arms folded. Pure murder in her eyes. He couldn’t blame her. Recounting it from the start, putting the details in order, it sounded moronic. A blockheaded ploy to buy Corrigan off with money he didn’t have and Corrigan’s retaliation with a lawsuit. The bastard’s plan to steal their home out from under them. He wouldn’t blame her if she reached for the cast iron pan and brained him with it. Of course that implied that he actually had brains. His current conduct seemed to preclude that assumption.
“Why?” Sputtering, anger tripping up her words. “What in God’s name were you thinking?”
Jim had no answer for her, nothing that seemed sensible. “I was looking for a solution. The guy needs to go.”
“Why is that your responsibility? Let Kate handle it. Or the police.”
“They can’t do anything, honey. He’s too crafty. But if he doesn’t go away, this is going to spin out of control and someone’s gonna get hurt.”
“People aren’t that stupid. Even in this town, they’re not that go after the guy.” Emma opened the fridge and scanned its interior. Closed it without taking anything. “Even if it did come to that, all the more reason to stay out of it. It’s not your responsibility to keep the peace.”
“Then who, Emm? If the cops and the town can’t do anything, who’s left?”
“It doesn’t have to be you!” Her fists tight at her sides. “Who do you think you are?”
Too hot to think straight anymore. Emma turned to the window and pushed the old pane up higher. All it did was let more humid air billow in. Her reflection stretched in the glass, distorting her face like a funhouse mirror.
An orange glow rippled between her funhouse eyes, like a flame burning up in her head. She pressed her hand against the glass to block the kitchen light and peered through the glass.
“Something’s on fire.”
Jim stood behind her and caught sight of the glow. Out the front door to the yard, where he could see better. Across the field was a bonfire waffling flames into the sky. Even from this distance, he could tell it was Corrigan’s sign that was burning.
Emma drew up next to him, barefoot in the grass. “What is it?”
“Reprisal,” he said.
~
A sullen fog settled over the drinkers. The eve of the festival, with its new faces and visitors, brought a crackle of life to the old pub but as the boozing got down to business, something changed and the revelry turned wistful. If asked what they were wistful for, few could have put a name to it. Most would be more than happy to cut the question short with a slurred exhortation to go fuck oneself.
Puddycombe was cajoled and harassed into plugging in the old jukebox. He demurred but the patrons were unrelenting and the pub owner regretted installing the old thing. It was meant for show. Restless, the natives held sway. Each song notching below the last in maudlin sentiment. By the time Jim came through the door, the whole damn bar was braying l
ike sick dogs, singing along with Shane McGowan about a pair of brown eyes. The howling bristled the hair on Jim’s neck. No good would come of this, the whole effing town was in its cups.
He squeezed through the swaying bodies, ducking elbows and the raised pints sloshing along to the melody. Pushing through, he gripped the cherrywood trim like a floundering swimmer. Waved the bar owner down.
Puddy slung another pitcher under the tap, leaned in Jim’s direction. His tone cold. “What do you want?”
“Where’s that idiot Berryhill?”
“How should I know?” Puddy shrugged, still testy.
Someone stepped on Jim’s toe and he shouted above the yowling drinkers. “Do you know what that idiot did?”
Puddy leaned on the tap, cold. “Do you want a drink or no?”
“Yeah.” He nodded to what the pub owner was pouring. Puddy set it down and he paid and that was the end of it. Jim craned his neck to see over the crowd. No sign of Bill but he saw Pat Ryder in the press of bodies. Shouted and waved at him. Ryder turned his back to him.
Earlier in the day, he couldn’t imagine who would have trashed his pickup with such viciousness. Now shunned on all sides, they all looked guilty.
“Persona non grata. That’s what you are, Jim.”
He turned. Old Martin Gallagher sat at the end of the bar, alone. Watching Jim’s plight. The Dublin House was packed and yet there was an empty stool next to Gallagher. Seemed even the tourists knew better than to fraternize with the old rubby.
He shouted from where he stood. “So why are you talking to me?”
“Even the outcast hate to drink alone.” The old man nudged out the empty barstool. “Come. Sit.”
He trudged over slow, the condemned walking the plank, and set down. “I’ve always wondered what it was like to be publicly shunned.”
“You get used to it,” Gallagher said. “Cheers.” The last thing Jim wanted was to touch his glass to the toothless old man’s but he obliged nonetheless.
Killing Down the Roman Line Page 16
