Killing Down the Roman Line (11 page)

Blood rushed to Jim’s cheeks. Humiliated. He hated fighting, hating losing control but at this precise moment he wanted nothing more than to rip Bill’s eyeballs clean from his thick skull. Something held him back, a hand on his shoulder.

It was Corrigan. “Thanks Jimmy but you’re spoiling the fun.”

Jim felt another slam as Berryhill shouldered him aside in a rush-tackle on Corrigan. He leapt at the stranger like it was the old days when he mangled the linemen standing in his way. Stomping the weak underfoot.

Corrigan was a blur, pivoting the big man’s own momentum against him. Berryhill cartwheeled overtop the man and crashed face first into a table. A chair snapped and Puddycombe cursed at them to stop.

Berryhill shook his head like a swatted puppy. Eyes plated with disbelief and then squinting into cold fury. His rage was cut short when a boot connected with his jaw. Bill’s head snapped back and bounced off the floor.

Corrigan raised his foot and stomped the man’s skull a second time, a look of insane glee in his eyes. He bellowed at Berryhill to get up, get up, get up. Bill shielded his melon with his hands and Corrigan hauled a chair overhead, intent on breaking it over the big man’s skull.

This all took ten or fifteen seconds but to Jim it unspooled in slow motion. Shock and disbelief slowing it all to a frame-by-frame crawl. Corrigan was like an animal unleashed, vicious and brutal and lethally fast. Corrigan lofted the broken chair and cursed the downed man as a motherfuckinghalfwitcocksucker.

It was long enough for Jim to snap out of his slow-mo and tackle the crazed man. They tumbled into a table and were doused by sloshing pitchers. Elbows and shoulders rammed into Jim as Hitchens and Combat Kyle dogpiled onto Corrigan.

Bill rolled away and moaned something awful. Kyle jackhammered his fist into Corrigan’s ear fast and hard until Puddycombe waded in and pushed him off.

The entire bar was on its feet. Those who piled on and those who lofted their drinks and backed away, watching and cheering.

Berryhill staggered to his feet and bumped through the tables, a bloody froth stringing down his chin. He swung out like a blind man, looking for anything and anyone to punish. “Lemme at him. Lemme at him.”

Puddycombe and a man named McGillivray held Bill back, got shoved and shoved back harder. “Enough!” yelled the pub owner. All simmered off at Puddycombe’s bark like scolded schoolboys. As proprietor, Puddy wielded some skein of authority.

Corrigan shrugged out of Jim’s grip and hurled the little rat in camouflage away from him. The son of a bitch was grinning, hollering. “Come on, ya fucking retard! Come and get some more!”

Jim and Hitchens crowded Corrigan into the boards and everyone shouted at everyone else to shut up. The hollering and the cursing low-geared into grumblings and both brawlers retreated to their corners.

Hitchens shook the wool from his head and looked around at the assembled faces. “Somebody call the frigging cops.”

~

Red and blue lights blinked against the windows of the Dublin House. The black and white cruiser was from the Exford branch of the Ontario Provincial Police. Cars travelling down Galway Road slowed to rubberneck the flashing lights.

Half the tables emptied when the cherries flashed in the window. Two more patrons slipped out the back when Constable Ray Bauer came through the door and surveyed the bar with keen indifference. Bauer, who loathed being called to a bar brawl, was born and raised in the area and recognized the men involved. Proprietor Brian Puddycombe, Jim Hawkshaw and Dave Hitchens. Bill Berryhill wasn’t a surprise, nor was his surly little sycophant Combat Kyle. These two pissants were often at the center of trouble and more than likely the same turn of events held true tonight.

One man sat alone at a table, watching everything unfold. A tall man grinning through a bloodied lip. Bauer immediately pegged him as trouble.

Bauer decided to start with the proprietor. Puddycombe had the most risk involved here and could therefore be counted on for the most reliable sequence of events. Puddycombe’s statement would serve as a basis to question the others. Halfway through the pub owner’s story, he spotted a newcomer and was surprised to see the mayor. Kate stood at the door and surveyed the broken chairs and upended tables.

Berryhill gave his statement and then slouched into a chair and pressed a wet bar towel to his bloodied mouth. He watched the OPP cop close his notebook and withdraw to a corner to make a call. Puddycombe handed him a clean towel and took the soiled one from him. He grimaced at the smear of blood on his linen. “I’m adding these to your bar tab,” he said.

Jim leaned on the jukebox, his hands still shaky from the fire of adrenalin.
A bar fight for Christ’s. sakes
When was the last time he’d been in one of those? Back when he was a brainless kid. It was downright embarrassing. His dug out his phone, debating whether to call Emma to tell her what had happened. Why he was so late getting home. He dropped it back into his pocket unused.

“Maybe you ought to sit down,” Kate said. She waved Jim over to join her at the table. When Puddycombe had called her, she thought he was pulling her leg. Grown men getting into a barroom brawl? Then he told her that the man Corrigan was involved. She had rushed over.

Although unmarked, Jim looked as if he’d taken the worst of it. “You look a little green,” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said. Jim followed her eyes, watching his hands shake. He folded his arms to hide them away. “You should go on home,” he told her. “No reason you should worry about this.”

“You should call Emma. She’s probably wondering where you are.”

“Yeah.” Jim watched Constable Bauer end his call and turn back to face the room. “Heads up.”

Bauer crossed the floor towards Corrigan, who sat with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Watching everyone with that weird smug look of his. The police officer motioned for him to stand up. “On your feet please, Mister Corrigan. I’m taking you back to the office for charging.”

“Me?” Corrigan laughed. “Under what charge?”

“Assault.” Constable Bauer gave a shrug, like it was all out of his hands.

“Assault?” Corrigan pointed to the far table where Berryhill nursed his bloodied mouth. “That big oaf attacked me. I simply defended myself.” Corrigan turned to Jim. “You saw it, Jim. You all saw it.”

The constable looked at Jim. “Is that true, Mister Hawkshaw?”

For a second time, Jim felt everyone’s eyes on him and broke a sweat under the glare. He nodded and mumbled. “Yeah.”

“Bullshit!” Berryhill’s voice, muffled through the towel. Others muttered in agreement.

Kate stood, hand held up to gather attention. “It doesn’t matter. We do not tolerate drunken violence in our community. And from what I understand, Mister Corrigan provoked the attack.”

“But it’s not for you to make the charge, is it missus mayor?” Corrigan chinned in Berryhill’s direction. “That lump of excrement has to charge me with assault. Not you.”

The glare of the room now swung and targeted Bill.

He blinked at them. “What?”

Corrigan retorted loud, as if speaking to the deaf. “You have to charge me first, you half-wit. Go on.”

“For Christ’s sakes, Corrigan” Jim groaned. “Just shut up.”

Corrigan ignored him and pressed on, goading the bruiser. “Go on, man. Charge me with kicking your worthless ass up and down the bar.”

Berryhill went red. His mouth twisted into a rictus of hatred but he kept it shut.

“Mister Berryhill,” Constable Bauer said. “I will need a proper charge from you.”

The muscles under Bill’s jaw pumped and gritted but still he said nothing.

Kate had no patience for macho posturing and told Berryhill so. “For God’s sakes, Bill. He assaulted you. Lay the charge.”

Berryhill rose and tossed the towel onto the bar. “Just a little misunderstanding, that’s all.” He turned to the door and looked at the police officer. “Am I being charged?”

“No.”

“Good.” Bill stomped for the door, Kyle at his heels. He fired a glance at Corrigan and muttered low enough so that only his little friend could hear him. “I’ll fix you on my own time.”

Corrigan watched them leave. “It appears the man has withdrawn his charge.”

With Berryhill gone, a breeze seemed to sweep the tension from the room. Old Mister Gallagher, who hadn’t stirred from his perch at the bar, turned back to his drink. Kate looked at Jim with a bewildered expression.
What the hell just happened?

Bauer lowered the volume on his belt radio. He stepped over to the stranger, thumbs hooked into his belt and suggested to Mr. Corrigan that he play nice with his neighbours if he was to make a place for himself in the community. “Pennyluck is a nice little town,” he said. Then he leaned in and lowered his tone. “Big city assholes don’t fit in so well, so do like Darwin suggests. Adapt or get the hell out of Dodge. You understand me?”

Corrigan gave back a showy salute. “Loud and clear. Thank you, Constable.”

Bauer nodded to Kate on his way out the door and then it was quiet. Audrey drifted back from her thirty-minute smoke break, having missed the fracas entirely. Looking over the sullen faces, she asked who died.

“Mister Puddycombe!” Corrigan bellowed across the bar like it was New Years Eve. “A round of drinks for everyone please. My apologies for the shenanigans.”

No one even looked at the man. Hitchens spoke, speaking for all. “No one wants your drink, Corrigan.”

Puddycombe squared his palms on the bar. “Best you took your business elsewhere.”

“What kind of man refuses a friendly drink?” Corrigan mocked a gaudy display of shock, like it was all good fun.

Puddycombe plugged the jukebox back in and music filtered over the speakers. Some old George Jones tune about drinking his woman away. Puddy went back to wiping the bar and people drank. The show over.

“I’ll take that drink.”

Jim looked up, surprised to see it was Kate who had spoken. She looked at Corrigan. “Whiskey, is it?”

Corrigan, surprised as anyone, raised his empty rock glass and gave it a tinkle. “Can you convince mister Puddycombe to break out the good stuff he’s hiding behind the counter?”

Kate winked at the pub owner. Puddy tossed his towel down and reached under the bar, shaking his head in schoolmarm disapproval.

~

A table in the back near the billiards. Three clean tumblers and a pint glass of ice cubes. Puddycombe had taken Kate’s hint and set a bottle of Midleton on their table. He fired a dirty look at Corrigan and shuffled off, hoping they wouldn’t drain the bottle.

Corrigan beamed at the two people joining his table. Kate seemed impatient but remained polite. Jim, no poker player, looked downright wary.

“May I?” Corrigan took the bottle and carelessly splashed whiskey into the glasses and over the tabletop. Jim reached for the glass of ice cubes but Corrigan covered it with his hand. “You’ll not profane the whiskey with frozen wellwater, Jim. What would your granddad say?”

“Why do you go out of your way to be a dick?” Jim scooped two cubes and plopped them in his glass. Corrigan flung the rest into the cold fireplace and clinked his glass against Jim’s and Kate’s. “Cheers.”

Jim was no connoisseur of whiskey. Blue collar Ontario boy that he was, he was raised on beer and rarely deviated from that. He expected a bite but it was all buttery gold gliding past his gullet. The surprise registered on his face and Corrigan smiled at that.

Kate gave away no such territory. She drank and cut to the chase. “You’ve caused quite a stir here, Mister Corrigan.”

“Will, to my friends,” he said. “We missed you at the inaugural tour, Kate. May I call you Kate? I trust we’ll see you at the next one.”

“I’m not big on cheap carny rides.”

“Ah Kate, that’s an unjust comparison. You need to see it with your own eyes before passing judgement. You might enjoy it.”

“The only thing I like about carny outfits,” she said, “is their fly-by-night operation. They throw up a tent one day, make a buck and then they’re gone by morning. Off to some other town.”

Corrigan winked at Jim as if they shared some secret. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Kate pushed her glass away. “Then you have to give up this nonsense. You want to settle down, you have to fit in. Be part of the community. That’s the way it is here.”

“You want me to fit in?”

“At the very least,” Jim broke in, “stop trying to make enemies everywhere.”

“I’m not looking for enemies, Jim. I’m a friend to all.” Corrigan straightened up and hollered at the bar. “Mr. Puddycombe! Another drink for my friend Hitchens over there.”

Hitchens sat hunkered over the bar, his back to the room. “Piss off,” he sneered to Corrigan but he winked at Puddy to pour him a drink anyway.

“Let’s cut the nonsense, Mister Corrigan.” It was late, Kate felt her patience running thin. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“How noble.”

Corrigan leaned forward. “This little festival you’re throwing. The Heritage Festival? That’s your idea, yes? Don’t you want to know the truth about your heritage or did you prefer fairy tales?”

She wouldn’t be baited. “Is it money you’re after?”

“Some restitution would be nice. My family owned a lot of land in this town before they were butchered, all of which was divvied up after their murder.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I believe some ‘pain and suffering’ is due.”

Jim leaned back. “Pain and suffering? Gimme a frigging break.”

“Not mine. I want this town to feel pain. I want everyone to suffer.” He leered up at Kate. “And nothing hurts more than a kick to the wallet, does it Kate?”

Jim blanched but Kate looked relieved. At least they were getting somewhere, some solid ground she could negotiate from. “Look around you, Corrigan. This isn’t a rich town. If you’re looking to blackmail someone, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Kate, Kate, Kate. I’m not here for something so sordid as blackmail. I just want to pull all the skeletons from the closet. Dance them around the square.”

Jim rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t going anywhere. “There’s no way to prove your accusation. There’s no mention of any of it in the local history books.”