Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

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.

The AC blasted full but couldn’t keep the soupy air from creeping in every time the door swung open. Jim peeled off the T-shirt taped to his back. Hitchens passed by without so much as a look. “It’s like high school all over again.”

“You ought not to complain, Jimmy.” The old man wiped the Guinness from his lips. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t go crying, son. You broke ground on that Godforsaken land, the Corrigan’s. You woke the sleeping ghosts.”

Here it comes, he thought. “Spare me the crazy talk, huh?”

“Used to be a time when just uttering that name was chancing bad luck,” Gallagher croaked on, happy for an audience. “That’s why no one spoke of it, see? Why would they? Damn awful business.”

Jim watched the room. Fraser and McFarlane bellowed sloppily at one another, arguing the merits of the country’s obligations in Afghanistan. Damn near coming to blows over staying the course or leaving the obstinate bastards to their medieval doom. Five minutes earlier, they’d been talking hockey. The two men were now on their feet, teetering and barking, waking their mate Atkinson who warned them to shut their yaps before he glassed them both with the pitcher. A bottle shattered on the north end of the bar and two knotheads at the pool table went at it, going to the floor in a blur of fists and elbows. They were hustled out the door to finish it in the parking lot.

“Nothing changes, does it?” Gallagher watched the fights with rheumy eyes. “How we managed to survive this long without nuking the world into a cinder is beyond me.”

The old man was waxing. Time to split. Jim drained his glass when the old guy leaned in close. “Do you want to know a secret, Jimmy?”

“Nope.”

“You know his story’s true, don’t you? Our forefathers murdered the Corrigans. Mine, yours.” He nodded at the drunken louts before them. “All of them.”

He should have left then and there. Jim looked at the old man. “You’re drunk.”

“There’s proof,” Gallagher whispered. “The worst kind.”

Jim gripped the man’s arm. Skeletal under the sleeve of rancid tweed. “What proof?”

“You sure you want to know?”

First instinct, damn straight. But Jim wavered and kept his mouth shut. Something in his gut held him back. Fear, reluctance? Some loosed genie that would not go back in the bottle?

“Hey!” A holler cracking over the bar. Berryhill swaggered in from the patio, elbowing bodies aside as he strode right up on Jim. “Who you calling an idiot?”

Jim despised Bill at the best of times but always remained wary. Belligerent and red-eyed, Berryhill was downright scary. Jim bluffed up. “That was one stupid stunt you pulled.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” Lager breath blowing hot on Jim’s face.

“What the hell were you thinking torching Corrigan’s sign?”

The best defence, no matter how damning the evidence, is always a flat out, unshakeable denial. Even fools know this. Bill swayed, eyes glassy. “Wasn’t me.”

“The wind changes direction and that fire sweeps directly my way. You could have burnt my house down, you idiot.”

Berryhill struck out, slamming the heel of his hand into Jim’s breastplate. “Told you. Wasn’t me.”

Faces turned, eager to see another brawl brew up. Jim felt his face burn hot. Goddamn high school all over again. His guts ordering him to back off but the pressure from the gawkers egging him on. No way in hell he could win. Bill would stomp his guts in. “Grow the fuck up.”

The big man leaned in, jutting his chin forward. “Take a shot, you pussy. On the house.”

Combat Kyle chittered and giggled like some ape, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jim knew that if he went down, the little rat bastard would jump in, boots first. He’d seen it before. Jim felt his fist whiteknuckle. It would almost be worth the punishment if he got one clean shot to this troll’s ugly face.

“BILL!”

Stuey McGuire pushed through the onlookers, gangly and panting. “Bill! Your truck’s on fire!”

The black crewcab was already an inferno. Flames licking into the sky, threatening to melt the power lines above. Greasy black smoke choked the parking lot. The acrid stank of melting plastic and burning rubber.

Puddycombe dashed out with a fire extinguisher and emptied the whole canister. A chemical fog roiling over everyone but the flames roared up angrier. Patrons jumped into their cars and pulled away from the burning pickup. Instant gridlock inside the lot as every driver honked and cursed to save their vehicle from the same scorched fate.

Bill’s jaw worked up and down but no sounds came, eyes bugging at the sight of his truck burning to cinders. It was paid for. The sound system he installed, the blower and bodywork, all of it going up like a campfire. All he could do was watch his beloved ride give up the ghost.

The signal from brain to lips finally clicked over and Bill sputtered. “Son of a bitch.”

Jim watched the gates of hell open and swallow Bill’s truck. Puddy tossed away his dead extinguisher, looked at Jim. “What the hell happened?”

Jim had a good guess but kept it to himself, shrugging instead. God knows.

Bill knew. “Corrigan! That motherfucking Corrigan!”

Jim cleared everyone from the lot, hollering and shoving them away. Atkinson and McFarlane pitched in. No one knew how much fuel was in Berrhyill’s truck. Puddy reeled out his garden hose, spraying down the wall of his bar. Half the crowd was drenched by the time the volunteer fire crew screeched in, lights whirling. The tang of wet charcoal stung every nose and Bill, still cursing, had to be dragged away.

Jim jostled through the gawkers pushed to the far side of the alleyway, choking up a hairball of soot. He pushed through the slackjawed faces, looking for the old man. Asking if anyone had seen Gallagher. Someone said he’d stayed inside the pub the whole time.

The fire crew were a blur, unloading gear and barking orders. Jim slipped the barrier and darted back inside the pub.

Puddy had snuck inside moments before. He stood in a puddle of beer, looking over the empty room. Close to tears. “Christ almighty,” he said, seeing Jim. “I was a hair away from losing it all.”

Jim patted the man’s shoulder, told him everything was fine. No one got hurt. “What happened to Gallagher?”

“Dunno. He must have legged it.”

7:00 AM, Saturday morning, a five man crew met at the municipal yard over on Mersey Avenue. All of them griping about working the Saturday. Most had planned on being at the fair grounds for the festival, or at least sleeping off Friday night’s drunk. The griping ended when Joe Keefe pulled into the yard with coffee and a box of donuts. Handing out the cups, Keefe thanked his crew for working the day and told them he’d be providing lunch. The mood of the bleary-eyed men lifted and they asked what this ‘special job’ was all about.