CHAPTER SIX:
Temporary Shelter
AFTER LEAVING THE offices of the Alexandria Observer, Woody ambled down King Street toward the water with no objective or destination in mind. He had his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his khakis and suddenly blurted out, “What in the name of Sam Hill am I doing down here?” He pulled the newspaper article and picture of the Dumonts out of his back pocket and threw them away.
Staying in the Washington, DC area right after his discharge from the Army hadn’t been based on any sort of intelligent assessment of opportunities that he might pursue. Even the job at the Observer came about by happenstance and certainly wouldn’t have sustained him for long as he ate through his savings.
It was the 1970s, but he felt that he was being treated like a carpetbagger who had snuck across the Mason-Dixon line into the Old South without permission. While researching an innocuous puff piece on a local pooh-bah, he found himself monitored by the librarian and then admonished by his editor as if he had done something unethical – or at least improper. It all seemed so childish, so infantile but Woody knew that these people were deadly serious. It seemed absurd but Woody decided that he would be circumspect about where he went and what he said while he remained in town.
He talked to his parents almost weekly, never voicing his concerns or doubts about the future but they sensed things weren’t right and cautiously urged him to at least consider returning to Parlor City – if only for a visit. He knew a job most likely awaited him there with the Police Department but then he would be working for the Police Chief – the stepfather for whom he had the utmost respect. And for that reason and others, he was not ready to make such a move. With summer approaching, his Mother had suggested that he spend time at the family cottage in Parlor Harbor but that quaint village on the lake conjured up painful memories.
Woody looked up and found himself standing in front of Pudge McFadden’s saloon. The door was propped open and Pudge himself, whistling away, was sweeping the floor and pushing the detritus from the previous evening out the door.
“Hey, kid. Top of the morning to you,” Pudge said cheerily. Woody looked up and, in a rare unguarded moment with a stranger, said “I suppose it is somewhere.”
Pudge frowned and pointed into his saloon. “Hey, my back is acting up this morning and I could use a bit of help putting down these chairs and stools if you’re not busy. I’ve got a pot of coffee in the back and Irish stew simmering on the stove as your reward.” Pudge was now grinning and waved a pliant Woody inside.
Soon, the chairs and stools were in place and Woody sat facing the bar waiting for Pudge to return with the mugs of coffee. He gazed around the pub and noticed the picture of a dilapidated structure over the bar with a few shabbily-dressed men loitering about. Woody was trying to figure out the scene depicted in the picture when Pudge walked back in, motioned to the bar and said “shebeen”.
Woody looked perplexed and Pudge had his opening. “A shebeen, in the old country, was an unlicensed drinking establishment, kid. It could be an old cabin, a hut or, like you see on the wall there, a barn. Sometimes, there would be a still stationed in the corner with a coffin brought in to serve as a table. Now, there’s dark Irish humor for you, eh? Taxes got so high that poor people had to make their own whiskey and, of course, find a place to sell it illegally. It was powerful stuff, you can be sure. It was called poteen back in those days. Hell, a shebeen might be set up as a temporary shelter and then disappear a few days ahead of the tax man. It was one of our ancestors’ ways of rebelling against the oppression of the crown.”
Woody was nodding his head and smiling as Pudge went on. “When things got tough during the famine years, a lot of our expert poteen distillers joined the exodus to America. Wouldn’t you know that they became talented moonshiners? Back then, my forefathers saw lots of signs on shop and store windows that read ‘Irish Need Not Apply’ so who can blame them when they got busy making hooch.” Pudge slapped his knee and took a large gulp of coffee.
“So, was that your family’s place in the picture?” Woody asked hesitantly. “Lordy, no,” roared Pudge, slapping his knee again. “My ancestors were all law-abiding folk, or so I’ve been told. Settled outside Philadelphia in the years before the Civil War. A few became cops and made it into the suburbs but most just labored on in Irish conclaves near the Schuylkill River with names like Devil’s Pocket and Corktown. I had to get away so saved money like a demon and came down here ten years ago. I’d love to name my place McFadden’s Shebeen, but I don’t think the customers would understand so I settle for that picture instead.”
Pudge looked up and could see someone peering through the glass door. “Damn, there I go living in the past and the present is demanding my attention. Stick around if you’d like but I’ve got to get ready for the lunch crowd. If my cook doesn’t show up, I’ll be running back and forth between the bar and the kitchen doing double duty.”
Pudge had locked the front door after sweeping out and opened it now to let in the sickly-looking little man that Woody had noticed at the bar a few days before. The man walked to a stool in the corner of the bar near the front window and plopped down.
“That’s Nigel Longstaffe. A very strange bird originally from England who spends all afternoon here and hardly speaks a word. When he does, it’s usually Latin. He thinks that stool is reserved for him.” Pudge hurried behind the bar and poured out a glass of wine for the Englishman before disappearing into the back.
Woody was nursing his coffee and didn’t have the impetus to leave. He really had no place he needed to go and was starting to feel comfortable. In fact, it would be a welcome distraction to listen to Pudge McFadden for the rest of the day. He glanced at Longstaffe, but he was hunched forward staring into his drink.
Woody looked over to see Pudge emerge from the back with an apron tied around his waist and a scowl on his face. “My cook is not answering his telephone which means he’s drunk as a skunk and I’ve got to handle kitchen duties. How about you hang around, help at the bar? I’ll show you the routine and if anyone orders any of those sissy drinks, shout for me. Mostly, it’s a shot and a glass of beer for my lunch crowd. I’ll be paying you regular wages for this duty, lad, if you can help me out.”
Woody stood up and smiled. “Do you have an apron for me?”
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Bellows Gets Stung By The Queen Bee
ADDISON BELLOWS WAS summoned by Helga Dumont the same day that Woody Meacham visited the library. Bellows was not the groveling sort but felt a certain degree of humility and even trepidation when a special request for his attendance was made by the family matriarch.
Tonight, there was no soiree or political gathering and Bellows could see that Helga Dumont was troubled as she marched toward him without saying a word, peremptorily waving him into the sitting room off the foyer. She thrust an envelope into his hand and barked, “You are an archivist whose job includes the protection of confidential and classified documents, is it not, Mr. Bellows? How do you explain this outrage?”
It had been only a few days since Bellows confrontation with Scatcherd at the Torpedo Factory and he had envisioned the moment when he would notify her of his success in retrieving the purloined photographs. Now, the archivist was mortified and astonished to learn that Scatcherd had acted precipitously and upset all his plans.