Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

After a few days, Woody felt comfortable behind the bar and even received a grudging acknowledgement from Nigel Longstaffe as the little man, like clockwork, shuffled into Pudge’s before noon and settled onto his stool in the corner of the bar.

“I can’t make out what he says, Pudge,” Woody said with some exasperation in referring to Longstaffe’s mumbled greeting the day before. Woody was pulling down chairs and stools as Pudge swept the floor in advance of opening.

Pudge laughed. “He probably said ‘heus’. It just means hi in Latin, my boy. It’s about as pleasant a comment as you can expect. He rarely says anything in English so don’t be offended. It’s not directed at you but at the world in general.” And with a broad swing of his broom, Pudge made a sweeping arc to emphasize his point.

“Listen, Pudge hears a great deal of amateur philosophy in here and you probably will too if you stick around long enough,” he said, speaking of himself in the third person. “Also, be prepared when people tell you stuff, intimate details of their life, that they don’t even mention to their families or their best friends. It’s a kind of therapy zone for many of them and the best thing you can do is listen, nod your head and say absolutely nothing.

“There was hardly anyone in here one day about six months ago and out of the blue old Longstaffe starts talking like we’re old friends. Tells me he came to America from England in the 50s when he was offered a job teaching Latin. Said he got his degree from one of those highfalutin schools, either Oxford or Cambridge. Told me his great-grandfather served in the House of Commons and hobnobbed with all manner of dukes and earls and was even close to the Prime Minister. Then, he just clammed up and mumbled something in Latin. In vino veritas was the first thing he said which I remember, kid. I wrote it down and looked it up. Means in wine there is truth. Not sure that holds true all the time but Longstaffe does have a point.

“Anyway, what I’m about to tell you was related to me by an Irish chap originally from Tipperary who lives downtown and gets lonely for anything that reminds him of the Golden Vale. So, he stops in on occasion to stare at my picture of the shebeen, get a glimpse of The Auld Sod, as some old-timers like to say. As you might expect, after a few pints of Guinness, he gets all weepy and I have to send him home. Well, he heard the story from an old hand at one of those pricey private schools where Longstaffe taught Latin for many years. I forget which one; it’s where the hoity toity send their kids so they don’t get contaminated by the hoi polloi. Apparently, some student accused Longstaffe of an indecent approach – you get the idea – and he was fired the same day without any sort of investigation. Turned out, the kid made up the charge after Longstaffe gave him a failing grade and he wanted to get even. “When he finally confessed, Longstaffe was exonerated, but it was too late. The parents complained that Longstaffe was such a demanding teacher that the poor kid was driven to strike back. Turned the kid into the victim if you can believe it.

“The school didn’t want a scandal so it gave Longstaffe some money to quietly go away. He took it and moved across the river here to Old Town. Lives in an apartment nearby and he sits there every afternoon,” Pudge concluded disconsolately, nodding toward the corner stool.

“I’m no doctor, Pudge, but he looks like he’s at death’s door,” said Woody. “That’s just it, lad. He is drinking himself into oblivion as fast as he can. That’s the plan. Some of these poor chaps crawl into the bottom of the bottle and never come up. There’s nobody that can reach’em – including me. I’ve seen it more than I like to think and it’s a sad sight to witness, indeed it is,” Pudge said. “And where is oblivion for drunks?” Woody asked. “Hell if I know. It’s a dark, forlorn place, full of misery where there’s no redemption, I’m sure of that. I guess it is like hell,” the Irishman concluded with a shrug, his voice ripe with pity as he swept the last of the debris out the door with a flick of his broom.

LONGSTAFFE SHOWED UP on schedule right before noon and gingerly climbed up on his stool in the corner. Without hesitation, Woody brought him a glass of wine and said “good morning” before turning away, not expecting a response.

Longstaffe cleared his throat which made Woody turn his head to see him tip his glass in salute before slowly taking a sip. Woody turned back and watched as Longstaffe smiled darkly and whisper, “mors mihi lucrum”. Woody nodded slightly and walked to the other end of the bar, certain it was Latin but not comfortable asking what it meant. If he had, he would have heard Longstaffe say “death to me is reward.”

IT WAS LUNCH hour when Leonard Scatcherd limped into the offices of the Alexandria Observer and asked to speak to Woodrow Meacham. He was loud enough for Bradley Bertram to hear him as he stood at his office door while putting on his coat.

Bertram confronted Scatcherd at the front door and said “He is no longer associated with this newspaper, sir. I am the editor. What, may I ask, is your interest in him?”

Scatcherd surveyed the editor from head to toe and, having absorbed his contempt, decided to return it in kind. “Since he no longer works here, sir, I would suppose that my business with Mr. Meacham is none of your damn business. Sir!”

Bertram was stunned by Scatcherd’s insolence but said nothing. He walked back into his office, slammed the door and picked up the telephone. Scatcherd stood by the front door and chuckled at the thought that he might have his second confrontation with a security guard and the day was still young. It had been an unnerving morning for him at the Torpedo Factory but somehow he had regained his bravado.

After a few minutes, Bertram came out, snorted and pushed past Scatcherd who was partially blocking the exit. Scatcherd looked around the office, suddenly in the mood to challenge anyone else who might have the effrontery to treat him with contumely. He caught the eye of a plain-looking girl who had paused in her typing to enjoy the episode with Bertram. She took off her thick glasses and smiled sympathetically at Scatcherd. “I heard that Meacham works at that bar down by the water. You know, the one run by the Irishman,” she said. “He’s the cute one. Looks like Nick Nolte with long dirty blonde hair and matching mustache,” she added, still smiling shamelessly.

SHORTLY AFTER WORK, Leonard Scatcherd walked into Pudge McFadden’s. The evening bartender had just arrived and Woody had finished cleaning up the bar.

It was “happy hour” at Pudge’s and an eclectic mix of dockworkers, townies and young professionals flowed in to take advantage of the two-hour window for $1.75 shots with a beer chaser.

Woody was standing near the kitchen door with his apron in one hand, leaning against the bar. He watched as Scatcherd hobbled toward him with one arm stretched out and pointing, as if to say, “hold on there, we need to talk.”

“Are you Meacham?” Leonard Scatcherd demanded, moving in very close. Woody stepped back and let out an amused laugh. “I am. What is it you want?”

“I read that damn article you wrote for the Alexandria Observer , making out that Dumont kid to be some sort of reincarnation of JFK. Pretty pathetic.” Scatcherd stopped and stared at Woody as if he expected him to apologize.