Archives for March 2019

Chapter 4: Name That Tune

I don’t normally talk in these terms, but my visit to St. Nicholas had been a real blessing. Reverend Stockwood wasn’t very forthcoming with information, but his reluctance about Mr. Schrödinger confirmed my suspicions about my client. There was more to the missing piano player than people were willing to tell me. At least ‘Pig-Sty,’ the parish custodian, was able to point my feet in a promising direction.

The Peppermint Club was a new American-styled jazz joint out in Salthill run by a former ‘business’ associate named Pat Regan. Regan was a gun-runner during the War of Independence and then played both sides for profit during the Civil War. Sick of spying for the Brits and desperate for seed money to start my business, I used my Norwegian contacts to help set up a smuggling run for Regan. (Let’s say mistakes were made and move on.) Since my first and only foray into illegal activities, I’d done my best to give Regan a wide berth after our business venture went under, literally. However, if Regan had hired Schrödinger to play piano at the Peppermint Club, then I could hardly avoid a visit.

I walked the Prom and found the club. It wasn’t hard to miss despite its speakeasy theme. Some workmen were making a beer delivery around back so I let myself in. I was hoping to run into the band, or even Schrödinger himself, but I should’ve known I wasn’t that lucky. No one was around except a bartender signing for the shipment. When I mentioned that I knew the band leader, the bartender was kind enough to tell me that most nights the band ate dinner before the show at a restaurant around the corner.

The mention of dinner reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything that day and so I decided to have a decent meal for a change. I can’t remember the last time I’d had a steak. No, that’s not true. It’s just what people say. The sad truth was that I knew exactly when I last ate steak; I’d been counting the days.

As I finished my meal, Frankie Armstrong and another black man entered the restaurant. With the responses I’d been getting to my inquiries, I decided to play this one less directly. So despite the stares the two dark-skinned Americans got from the other patrons, I let Frankie notice me first.

“Charles Browne, is that you?” Frankie’s deep voice resonated across the room. It’s a voice that you can feel as much as hear.

“Hey,” I said in mock surprise, “what’s the craic, old man?”

I got to my feet just as Frankie reached my table, enveloping me in that annoying American pastime called ‘a hug.’

I first met Frankie in an army hospital while my broken leg mended after my plane crash and he was recovering from a gunshot wound to the forearm. We had the same crazy doctor who insisted on nontraditional physical activities for recovery. I listened to Frankie learn the clarinet and he held the rugby ball in place while I tried to kick it. We bonded over the humiliation and humor of it all.

Now I was a gumshoe in Galway and Frankie was a journeyman saxophonist and band leader headlining at The Peppermint Club. He might also be my best chance at finding a certain missing piano player.

After far too long of a bear hug, Frankie let go and sized me up.

“Charles,” Frankie said pointing to the man who came in with him, “this is my cousin, Louie. Louie, this is Charles Browne . . . or as I liked to call him: Sparkplug.”

I cringed at the nickname and the retelling of the embarrassing story. Not wanting to admit to being shot down on my first mission, I initially told Frankie that I had broken my leg when my plane crashed on take-off due to a faulty sparkplug. The lie didn’t last very long, but our friendship has.

Louie politely listened and laughed as Frankie and I took turns taking the piss out of each other. Louie even chimed in with a funny story from their childhood together. But I eventually had to subtly steer the conversation around to business and the missing piano player.

“I hear the great American jazz band has an Austrian tickling the ivories for them,” I joked. “What’s next, Frankie . . . an actual French horn player?”

Louie leaned in, mouth open to speak when Frankie gave him a playful nudge and Louie was cut off like a skipped record.

“Oh, don’t you let ole Sparkplug change the subject now,” Frankie interjected hypocritically. “I was just about to tell you about the time I met ‘Pretty Boy’ Floyd.”

I allowed Frankie hijack the conversation without letting on that I was wise to him. After a few shots and a reasonable amount of time I made my exit with promises to catch a show sometime soon, but in such a way that would leave Frankie to think I’d never be seen again.

I bided my time by ‘kicking the wall’ and watching waves crash against Blackrock. When the time was right I headed back to The Peppermint Club.

A bouncer gave me the once-over through a speakeasy style door that was purely for show and let me in straight away. Apparently the ‘secret password’ is the sound of one hand knocking. Once inside the bouncer failed to notice the bulge under my jacket or the small of my back. Fine by me; one less hassle in a day full of them.

I found a seat at a small, round table in a poorly lit corner on the opposite side of the room from the band stand. When the dance floor cleared a bit between numbers I saw (or rather didn’t see) what I suspected.

Just then a man small of stature, but big on notions approached my table. He was wearing a much more expensive suit than the last time I saw him. He stopped at my table and glared down at me, preferring to stand and intimidate than sit and be sociable.

Cúigear was Regan’s top henchman. Rumor had it that he earned his nickname from the number of Black and Tans he killed as a youth during the War of Independence. Nobody was dumb enough to ask for verification, lest he change his name again.

“Nach tusa atá ceanndána ag teacht anseo,” Cúigear spat out each word of Irish like he was swearing at me.

“Is Pat still holding a grudge?” I asked.

“Tá an ceannasaí críochnaithe leatsa. Níl aon úsáid ag Regan le haghaidh smuigléirí a fhaigheann réidh lena lastais ón gcéad uair a fheiceann siad frigéad Briotanach.”

“Everybody gets boarded sometimes. Do you think I had a choice?” I asked.

“Tig leat é sin a rá le Regan. B’fhéidir nach dtógfaidh an ceannasaí ach do theach.”

I laughed. “Pat will have to work that one out with the bank.”

“Bhí mé ag tnúth le seo le fada an lá,” Cúigear said as he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled it back to reveal a Webley revolver, with a ‘bird head’ grip, tucked in his waist band.

I leaned back and put my left arm over the back of the booth so that my jacket fell open in a way that Cúigear could see Snuppa resting snug in the holster. His bug-eyes widened even further.

“Yeah, I bet a lot of people are interested in who’d shoot first,” I replied, “but a gun fight in the club isn’t exactly good for business, now is it? And as much as you want me dead, you don’t want to anger your boss.”

Cúigear re-buttoned his jacket, kicked over my table, and stormed off. I don’t think you can actually curse with your feet, but Cúigear’s stomp sure came close.

I stood up and walked past the bar, flipping the bartender a coin. “Sorry about the mess.”

I made my way through the crowded dance floor and waited for the song to end. When the band finished playing, I hopped up on the bandstand, and sat down on the empty piano bench. Frankie and I locked eyes. I raised an accusative eyebrow at him, asking without actually saying, “Where’s your piano player?”

Behind Frankie’s angry and embarrassed eyes I sensed fear. He grabbed me by the elbow and pointed towards the door with his other hand. I let Frankie drag me along without saying a word. In cases like these, with good men, I like to let silence and guilt ask the questions.

At the door, Frankie handed me off to the befuddled bouncer. I felt Frankie drop something into my pocket just before he retreated back to the safety of the bandstand. Cúigear was intensely watching the whole scene from the bar. I expected him to see me out personally, but as the bouncer showed me the front door Cúigear headed behind the bar and out a service door.

The night air outside the Peppermint Club felt cool. After all that cigarette smoke, it was good to breathe in the sea salt. It smelled good, even if it also held the promise of an impending storm.

I began to stroll, weaving just enough to let people think I’d had a few too many. My deliberately slow pace allowed me to notice that I was being followed. I never saw his face, but that suit was hard to mistake . . . even in the dark.

I doubled back and lost Cúigear quickly enough.

Once I was sure no one was watching I pulled out the matchbox Frankie had slipped into my jacket. I was surprised the once-glorious Daisy Hill Hotel still had enough money to advertise, but God bless old friends with consciences.

Like most things in Galway, the oversized B&B wasn’t far away. I took my time and made sure I’d lost my tail. When I finally arrived at my destination, I found the Daisy Hill Hotel swarming with Guards. There were two cars out front and at least one Gardi standing at each entrance.

My first thought was that Frankie had tried to set me up. Maybe he guessed that I’d show up at the club and see that his band was missing the piano player I was looking for. My delay in going to The Peppermint Club would have given Frankie time to arrange for a false clue that would put me at the scene of a crime and have me framed for it.

I didn’t dare approach the hotel, least the Guards were alerted to be on the lookout for me. But then it occurred to me that as incompetent as the Guards are, they’d never have arrived so early and so visibly if they intended to ambush me. God save us all from our own protection, if that were the case.

I saw a couple of women talking over a low wall, pointing towards the hotel and speaking in conspiratorial whispers. I approached and asked what had happened. Earlier in the evening there had been a major disturbance of some sort at the hotel that rousted them from their dinner tables (too early for Frankie to have set me up). Two men were seen running from the hotel, together or one chasing the other was of much debate. Another woman approached and said she had been out walking her dog when two men ran past her, heading towards the Salmon Weir Bridge. She trailed behind them at a distance for a bit of excitement. When she arrived at the bridge others told her that one of the two men had gone into the Corrib while the other ran off through the college. The three women began to debate whether the first man had jumped, fell, or been pushed into the river. As none of them had been near the bridge when it happened, I ignored the idle speculation and slipped away.

I strolled up to a Guard and only got half way through a question before being shoved along. A few men I recognized as local reporters could be seen through the front window, standing around in the sitting room.

I walked to the bridge, but there was nothing to be seen there either. It all seemed like too much of a coincidence that Schrödinger’s possible last known address was the scene of so much police activity. And yet, I had no proof that anything significant had happened here and no way of knowing if Schrödinger was even involved in any of it. What did the Yanks say, ‘a day late and a dollar short?’

It was so late that it was almost early and I was knackered. As I walked home, I resigned myself to likely solving the case of the mysterious missing Mr. Schrödinger by reading the morning papers. I prayed my client, the mysterious red-haired woman, wouldn’t demand a refund.

Chapter 3: Family Matters

With my pistol holstered at my side under my coat, I strolled across Shop Street and towards St. Nicholas. I hesitated outside a barber shop, but swallowed by pride and went inside.

I hung my dark grey fedora on the coat rack. Peg had the hat special ordered to fit my larger-than-normal head. It fit like a glove and it covered my bald head from sun and rain alike with a dash of complements on the side. If Peg had taken the hat with her, I might’ve followed. I love that hat.

“I don’t offer discounts for the bald, son,” the barber said without looking up from the customer in the chair. The row of old men sitting on the bench behind him roared with laughter.

“It never gets old, does it dad,” I said, running a hand over my head.

“Unlike you,” my father said in reply. “What do you want? I got a line of . . .”

“I got something for Peg,” I interrupted.

“She’s your wife, son. How would . . .”

“When Síle comes with your lunch today, would you please give her this?” I asked, taking the cash-filled envelope with her name on it out of my pocket. “She knows where Peg went and how to get it to her.”

“Just put it in the draw over there,” dad pointed with the ever present scissors in his hand. I walked over and opened the draw in question. I was surprised to see a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson Safety Hammerless revolver lying inside. The engraving on the mother of pearl handle told me who the owner of the gun was and it wasn’t Dad.

“And you can take that thing with you. Síle brought that by last week. Peg don’t want it; Síle don’t want it; and I should don’t, either.”

I snapped the ole ‘Lemon Squeezer’ open and shut again before sticking it in the small of my back under my belt. “Did ya know it was loaded?” I asked.

“How would I know a thing like that? Just get that thing out of my shop,” he snapped at me. It wasn’t until I joined the army that my dad told me about the time he was robbed at gun point. It was before I was born, but dad described it like it had happened to him the day before. A drunk with a shaky hand burst in the shop at closing and shoved a pistol in dad’s face. Dad cooperated, but was left tied up and locked in the backroom. Dad was about as fond of guns as he was of my career choices.

My dad was a fisherman who gave up the sea when he moved to the big city after he married a Norwegian novice who’d run away from her religious order and ended up in, of all places, Connemara. Dad started sweeping up hair back in the day and eventually bought his own shop. He hoped I’d go into the family business, just as he hadn’t. But I spent enough of my youth sweeping up hair to not want any more to do with it.

I left the shop without another word between us. Maybe I should’ve become a barber like my dad. He’s never hurting for work. Hair grows for free, but it doesn’t cut itself. My dad, when we do talk, likes to tell me that I’m as bald as one of them Asian monks just to spite him. Maybe he’s right.

As I stood in front of dad’s shop I saw my little sister, Síle, walking up the street. She was on her way to bring dad his lunch. She had taken over this duty from mum a while back. Dad had talked about retiring early, selling the shop, and moving someplace tropical with mum. But then mum got sick and after she passed . . . Now the shop seems to be the only thing keeping him going.

My twin nieces were with Síle today, so I decided to slip away before I was noticed and had to stop for a chat. I’m not often in the mood to be around children these days. (Is it wrong that I miss little Jeannie more than Peg?)

After ducking around the corner I entered St. Nicholas’ beautiful red side door. I found the lanky, yellow-haired vicar flitting about the church, attending to several things at once and accomplishing none of them. He was whistling a hymn, but stopped when he saw me. With some effort I got Rev. Stockwood pinned down in a pew long enough for a chat. It was odd how reluctant this normally chattering clergyman was to talk.

“God’s peace upon you, my son,” said the man ten years my junior.

“What’s the craíc, vicar?” I asked.

“All is glorious through God’s grace,” he replied, removing his spectacles and cleaning them on his cassock. “How may I help you today, Mr. Browne?”

“I’m looking for a piano player,” I said matter-of-factly, without divulging more than I needed to.

“Will any piano player do,” Reverend Stockwood asked, “or do you have a particular one in mind?”

“The particular one I’m looking for,” I answered, “is an Austrian gentleman. He would’ve been new to town about a month ago.”

I could see the normally relaxed cleric tense up.

“There was a young foreign lad who played the organ, very beautifully I might add, here in the church for a couple of funerals and a wedding,” the reverend began.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“No,” came the too-quick response. Recovering just as quickly, “I enjoyed his God-given musical talents so much that I asked him to consider playing the organ at the occasional Sunday services.”

“He was that good, was he?”

“Yes,” Reverend Stockwood said, “and as our regular organist is advancing in years I had hoped to secure a ready replacement before too long.”

“But I take it he declined your offer?” I prompted.

“Not exactly,” he said, fumbling to put his glasses back on evenly. “I never heard back from him. I’d hoped Mr. Schrödinger would be more reliable . . . but alas, he must have moved on without another word.”

The vicar noticed me taking note of his slip of Schrödinger’s name, unprompted. I let it slide, for the moment.

“And you have no idea where I might find him?”

“I’m afraid not. I suspect he travelled south to find work in Limerick or Cork,” he said, “but if you come back this Sunday for service . . .”

“Thanks, but no thanks, vicar,” I said. “I won’t be ‘taking the soup’ today.”

The normally peaceful reverend glared over his glasses at my turn of phrase. Realizing I’d crossed a line, I tried to make good my escape.

“Thank you,” I said and almost meant it. “Cheers, vicar.”

“Godspeed, my son.”

As I left through the main doors toward Lombard Street I had the nagging sense that I hadn’t asked the reverend the right question.

My thoughts were interrupted by the scraping of metal on stone. Glancing over my shoulder I saw St. Nicholas’ custodian tending the graveyard. Everyone called him “Pig-Sty,” but only behind his back. In fact, most people avoided talking to him all together. But I knew that his near invisible social status allowed him to see and hear more than most ever would. Maybe there was something to learn at church after all.

I rounded the church corner and found Pig-Sty bent over a grave, scraping moss off a headstone. With the light shining brightly behind him, I could make out the cloud of filth that surrounded him and earned him his nickname. It was difficult to make out the original color of his clothing through the layers of dust and mud and stains and smears and . . . He is a dirty man is what I’m saying, and either he didn’t notice or didn’t care. But fair play to him all the same. I wish I had is gift for ignoring what other people thought of him.

I took my time approaching and readied myself for the smell of him.

“What’s strange?” I asked.

The large-framed man enveloped my outstretched hand in his sizable paw. I made a mental note not to wipe off the dirt he left on my palm until I was out of sight.

“Everything,” he said with a voice too small for his large frame. “And it’s grand, is it not?”

Optimism like that tends to depress me, but from Pig-Sty I couldn’t help but smile.

“Tis frightfully hot weather to be working outside,” I said getting the ball rolling.

“It is, it is,” he agreed, “but it’s a wonderful change of pace all the same.”

“I fear we’ll pay for it later though,” I said, squinting up into the sky and shading my eyes with my hat.

“Perhaps, but today is good drying-weather and that’s good enough for me.”

“Have ya been keeping up with the news lately?” I asked as introduction to more pointed questions.

“I’ve no need of the papers,” Pig-Sty said. “I get all the news I need from what I see and hear.”

“Speaking of listening,” I said slyly, “did ya get a chance to hear that foreign organist play? The Rev. Stockwood was telling me about him. He was quite taken with him.”

“Aye. He was the best I ever heard,” Pig-Sty said with an ever growing smile. “And he had quite the gift for jazz!”

“Are ya a jazz man yourself?” I asked.

“I am, I am,” he stammered with excitement. “I was delighted when Mr. Schrödinger told me he would be auditioning for that new club out in Salthill.”

“Did yer man get the gig?”

“I would think so,” he speculated. “At any rate, he was mighty good, pure class he was, and he hasn’t been back here to the church since. I figure he’s playing there full-time and hasn’t time to play for the pittance the church could pay him.”

“I’ll have to check it out,” I said.

“Be sure to come back and tell me how it was.”

“I will indeed,” I promised. “I’d best be off. I’ll be back and tell ya how I liked the club and if Mr. Schrödinger was playing there.”

“That’d be grand,” he said, showing less than a full set of far-from-pearly-white teeth.

As I turned to leave, Pig-Sty stopped me in my tracks with what he said next.

“Ya know what? It’s odd you mentioning Mr. Schrödinger like that,” he said, “as there was a smallish fella in a fancy suit just the other day asking after him.”

“Ya don’t say,” I said. “Did ya know the man?”

“No,” he said, “and my Irish is none so good, so I had trouble understanding him completely. And the reverend certainly seemed shaken up after speaking with him.”

I hadn’t gotten an address for Schrödinger, but there was only one jazz club west of the Shannon and it was just a scenic walk away.

“Thanks a million for the tip,” I said as I started to leave. “I’ll walk over there now and go check out the club.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time, Mr. Browne. I hear that club doesn’t even open its doors until the sun goes down.”