A Long Line of Dead Men

Page 32

 

  Maybe, as Jim Faber has suggested, it was a way for me to have the drink without the hangover, to recapture the sweetness of saloon society without risking a seizure or liver damage. Maybe, as Elaine proposed, the two of us had a long karmic history together, and were just renewing the ties that had bonded us in innumerable past lives. Or perhaps, as had sometimes occurred to me, Mick was at once the brother I never had and the road Id left untaken.

  And maybe were both just men who like a long night in a quiet room, and a good story or two.

  "You recall," he said, "when I went to Ireland the year before last. "

  His lawyer, Mark Rosenstein, had sent him out of the country to avoid a subpoena. "I was going to join you," I reminded him, "but something came up. "

  "Ah, wed have set the heather blazing, yourself and I. Theyre a curious people, the Irish. Did I tell you about Paddy Meehans pub?"

  "I dont believe so. "

  "Paddy Meehan kept a public house in West Cork," he said, "and I believe it was a right hovel, though I never saw it in those days. But your man had an uncle in Boston, and the old fellow died and left a daicent sum, as I heard it called. "

  "Left it to Paddy, I suppose. "

  "He did, and himself showed a cool head for business for the first time in memory. He invested the whole lot in improvements to his place of business. He had the walls paneled in knotty pine, and he had chandeliers installed and fitted with dimmer switches, and over the door he had a new electric sign hung. A right wonder it was, visible for miles. " He smiled, savoring the memory. "And he had the wooden floor covered with the finest linoleum, and bought new tables and chairs, and truly spared no expense. But most wonderful of all in this little country pub were the two new doors standing side by side on the back wall, each with a sign on it in the old Ogham script. One door was marked FIR, the Gaelic for Men, and the other MNA, for Women. And there were those silhouettes of a man and a woman, such as youll find on airport rest rooms, for the benefit of tourists who couldnt read the Gaelic. "

  "He put in bathrooms. "

  "Ah, you would think so, wouldnt you? Quite the fellow was Paddy Meehan. When you walked through either door, FIR or MNA, you found yourself standing in the same five-acre field. "

  He told another story about Ireland, and that reminded me of something that had happened years ago at an Emerald Society dinner. The conversation found its own pace, with stretches of silence interspersed. Outside the rain poured down.

  "Did I ever tell you," he wondered, "about Dennis and the cat?"

  "Not that I remember. "

  "You would remember," he said. "Even if ye drank youd not likely forget this one. Oh, he was a lad, Dennis was. "

  "I remember Dennis. "

  "We were raised decently, you know. I was the only one turned out bad. Francis became a priest. Now hes selling automobiles in Oregon. Makes a change, eh? And Johns in White Plains, a pillar of the fucking community. "

  "A lawyer, isnt he?"

  "Law and real estate, and it spoils his breakfast every time theres a story about myself in his morning paper. " His green eyes sparkled at the thought. "And Dennis," he said, "was what youd call happy-go-lucky. No harm in him, and no darkness, either. Of course he had a liking for the drink. "

  "Of course. "

  "He liked his few jars. Fresh out of high school he went to work for Railway Express. Midnight to eight five days a week at their central depot, and he never missed a nights work, and he was never without a drink from the moment he punched in until he walked out into the light of dawn. Every one of them drank like that, and when they werent drinking they were stealing, and when they werent doing that they were figuring out what to steal next. The companys out of business now, and it doesnt take a genius to tell you why. "

  "I guess not. "

  "But the finest thing that ever happened there," he said, "was when they had the cat. This woman owned a prizewinning cat, a Persian, I believe it was. One of the longhaired sort, at any rate. Shed had a wooden crate specially built for the cat, and brought it to one of the receiving stations for shipment to California. "

  "And they stole the cat?"

  "They did not. Why would anyone steal a cat? All they did was drop it, crate and all. The fine crate shattered, and the cat stood in the wreckage and looked around at these drunken idjits, and in a flash it was gone. So what do you think they did?"

  "What?"

  "They reassembled the crate. They got a hammer and nails and put it back together again, and a fine job they did, to hear them tell of it. But when they were done the cat had not reappeared, and who could blame her? Well, they could hardly send an empty crate to San Diego, and so the whole crew of them stalked through the warehouse, calling Here, kitty kitty and making little mewing noises. "

  "That must have been something to see. "

  "If the cat saw it," he said, "it took care not to be seen in return, for never a hair of the creature did any of them ever take sight of again. But they did find another cat, a nasty old tom blind in one eye and missing an ear, and his dirty old coat matted and scabby with mange. He made his home in the warehouse, dont you know, living on rats. And small children, I shouldnt wonder. "

  He smiled richly at the memory. "And it was Dennis who solved the problem," he said. " It says Contents: One Cat and thats all it says, he told them. She put a cat in the box, shell take a cat out of the box. Whats her problem? And so they placed the old tom in the crate and sealed him up, and off he went to California. "

  "Oh, no. "

  "Ah, Jesus," he said. "Can ye picture it, man? The poor woman herself opens the crate and out leaps this wee savage with an evil glint in his good eye. "

  " Oh, Fluffy, " I said, pitching my voice as high as it would go, " what have they done to you? "

  " Ach, Fluffy, I hardly knew ye! "

  " Was it a hard trip, Fluffy? "

  "Can you see it, man? Oh, you should have heard Dennis tell it. He told it much better than I ever could. " His face darkened, and he took a long drink of whiskey. "And they called him for Vietnam," he said, "and the damned fool went. Id have got him out of it. I told him Id get him out of it, there was nothing easier, all I had to do was make a telephone call. "

  "He wouldnt let you?"

  "I want to go, says he. I want to serve my country, says he. Dennis, says I, let someone else go. Let the fucking niggers serve their fucking country. Theyve got more to gain and less to lose than yourself. But he wouldnt hear of it. And off he went, and he died there, and they shipped him home in a body bag. Sweet Jesus, what a fucking waste. "

  "Why do you suppose he went, Mick?"

  "Ah, who can say? He was home on leave before they shipped him overseas. I told him if he wanted to get out now it would take more than a phone call, but twould be easy enough to get him out of the country. He could go to Canada, or to Ireland. Mickey, says he, what would I do in Canada? What would I do in Ireland? What did I ever do here? And he gave me this sweet smile, a smile to break your heart. And I knew he was going to die over there, and I knew that he knew it. "

  I thought for a moment. I said, "You think thats why he went?"

  "I do. "

  " I have a rendezvous with death, " I said, and quoted the few lines I remembered of the Alan Seeger poem.

  "Thats it exactly," he said. "A rendezvous with death. He had a date and would not break it, the poor lad. "

  A little before two, Burke shut down the taps and sent the handful of customers on their way, all but the little old man in the cloth cap. He stayed put on his stool while Burke placed the chairs on top of the tables so theyd be out of the way when the floor was mopped first thing in the morning. When he was through he brought over Micks bottle and a thermos of coffee, setting them within reach on the next table.

  He said, "Im off, Mick. "

  "Good man. "

  "Mr. Doughertys still sittin there. Ill walk out with him, shall I?"

  "Ask him if hed rather s
tay until the rain lets up. Hes no trouble. Just lock up, and Ill let him out when hes ready. "

  But the old fellow didnt want to stay past closing. He followed Burke to the door and they went out together. Mick turned out all the lights but the one over our table, came back and freshened his drink.

  "That was Eamonn Dougherty," he said. "He never set foot in here, and then in the early spring they closed the Galway Rose on Eleventh Avenue. The buildings scheduled for demolition, or maybe theyve already taken it down. I havent been over there to see. Dougherty went every day to the Galway Rose, and now hes here every day. Hell sit for eight hours and drink two pints of beer and never say a word. "

  "I dont believe I know him. "

  "Why should you? He was killing men fifteen years before you were born. "

  "Are you serious?"

  "We talked of West Cork," he said, "and Paddy Meehans pub and its improvements. Eamonn Dougherty is from Skibbereen in West Cork. During the Troubles he was with Tom Barrys flying column. " He sang: " Oh, but isnt it great to see / The Auxies and the RIC / The Black and Tans turn tail and flee / Away from Barrys coll-yum. Do you know that song?"

  "I dont even know what the words mean. "

  "The Auxies were the Auxiliaries, the RIC was the Royal Irish Constabulary, and you know who the Black and Tans were. Heres a song youd understand without a glossary.

  On the eighteenth day of November

  Outside of the town of Macroom

  The Tans in their great Crossley tender

  Came hurryin on to their doom

  But the boys of the collyum were waiting

  With rifle and powder and shot

  And the Irish Republican Army

  Made shit of the whole fuckin lot.

  "It was a bloody massacre, and trust the fucking Irish to write a song about it. Eamonn Dougherty was in the middle of it. Oh, he did his share of killing, that one. The British had a price on his head, and then the Free State government put a price on his head, and he came here. A relative got him a job unloading trucks in a warehouse, though you wouldnt think he had the size for it. Then he was a taxi dispatcher for many years, and hes long since retired. And drinks his two pints of beer a day, and says not a word, and God alone knows what goes on in his head. "

  "When you first started talking about him," I said, "I found myself thinking of another little old man. His name was Homer Champney. "

  "I dont know him. "

  "I never knew him myself," I said, "but he started something. Or continued something, its hard to know for sure. It makes a hell of a story. "

  "Ah," he said. "Lets hear it. "

  23

  And so I told the story of the club of thirty-one. I talked for a long time. When I was done Mick didnt say anything at first. He filled his glass and held it to the light.

  "I remember Cunninghams," he said. "They served good beef and the bar would pour you a decent drink. When I think of all the places that are gone, all the people who are gone. I dont understand time. I dont understand it at all. "