The Blind Beggar
Kelly
Armstrong entered her father’s pub briskly, the thick wooden door going back to
blocking the outside light as it shut. She hung her backpack on one of
the adjacent wall’s brass coatrack hooks and counted four familiar jackets, one
with a purse. The noise of the distant vid screen punctuated the
discussions from those four patrons at two of the small round-tops. The
cleaning bot worked off in a distant corner.
Kelly pulled
her hair into a customary ponytail, the soft neon lights neatly accenting its
reddish brown hew. She proceeded behind the counter and grabbed a small
towel from underneath. The bar itself almost threatened to engulf her small
frame. But, what Kelly lacked in height, she more than compensated with
force of personality.
Kelly’s
father inherited the watering hole from his father and his father from his
father before him. The line went back to time immemorial it seemed.
The legend behind the pub’s origins had long become lost in the historical ebbs
of the community. A time did not exist, nevertheless, when The Blind
Beggar did not serve as one of those hidden treasure dives, forever favored by
locals but remaining relatively unknown to unsuspecting travelers. Yet,
the roster of visitors formed a practical collection of who’s who at almost any
point in history one could name, which the collection of photographs covering a
far wall more than testified.
She paused
and looked at one picture in particular. She studied it while tying a
small apron about her waist: in it, her umpteenth great-great grandfather
stood behind this same bar. The camera caught him laughing, wiping his
hands on a towel as he talked to a young man. That young man’s face should have
appeared as clear as crystal but, for some unknown reason, had blurred.
Odd, since his body stood in perfect focus.
That
particular visit of course occurred many generations ago. A sheriff, Adam
Meiks, from a not too distant county had popped-in while passing through
Hendersonville. He stayed at the pub and visited with several locals as
they came and left. Charming, affable, well-liked, he talked with each and
every one as well as Kelly’s great-grandfather, and he did so well into the
evening. When Sheriff Meiks finally departed, after swapping tales for hours,
he firmly shook the hand of Kelly’s grandfather. Meiks then clasped him
by the arm and leaned forward to whisper “You’re a good man.”
The next
day, when Hendersonville’s own local sheriff found Eugene, a distant relative
of Eddy McNally, dead, murdered in fact by blows from an axe and his body
simply left in a cabin, the event didn’t strike anyone as particularly bizarre,
given the family’s colorful background – except maybe for the one fact nothing
appeared missing – that is, it remained unremarkable until a story broke
several years after the visit. The public came to learn that Sheriff Adam
Meiks was a son of the original “Hand of God Killer,” a murderous spree Adam
apparently continued.
Eugene
McNally had indeed also visited the pub that fateful day and also swapped tales
with Sheriff Meiks along with everyone else. Oddly enough, however, no one, who
visited the pub, nor Kelly’s great grandfather, could remember what Meiks
actually looked like.
‘Guess it
was a good thing I was a good man’ Kelly’s great grandfather would then
joke. It probably didn’t need saying that no one around Hendersonville
particularly mourned the loss of a McNally – except maybe the Phelpses.
When the investigation re-opened, they concluded that Eugene had simply become
another statistic of this serial killer, and the picture’s obscurity deftly
symbolized the mystery behind the whole affair.
Kelly smiled
at her older sister Rebekah, who wiped down the counter’s far end.
Rebekah stood about a head taller than Kelly with hair slightly shorter but
accented considerably more red. No one, however, would mistake them for
not being sisters. Kelly tucked the end of the towel she had grabbed in her
back pocket and checked the ice bins.
The counter
top betrayed the bar’s age, and the stories it could tell would no doubt prove
legendary. Still, a mere ten stools commanded its length, and it
possessed an old fashioned brass railing. It had just enough space for intimate
gatherings. The main floor sported but six small tables. ‘Personable’,
her father would often say – not too big nor too small. The place also
maintained its share of regulars.
Kelly
glanced about the room. Two men sat at one round-top discussing something
apparently rather intense. She counted four empty mugs and two others more than
half full. Another couple sat more quietly nearby, he watching the news
on the vid screen, she worked away on a P.A.D.D. Her wine glass appeared
almost full while Kelly noted his whisky on the rocks (or scotch or bourbon)
would soon need refilled. Kelly also noticed the news ticker feed
mentioned the recent death of yet another serial killer while the anchor
announced a new space program or something called Jupiter. The outside
door opened, and Rebekah greeted the new arrival.
Kelly’s
father preferred to keep the atmosphere subdued, dim but not too dark, the
shadows kept at bay, punched by lights from the occasional neon sign and that
one large vid screen kept primarily to accommodate the many sporting events
patrons liked to watch. Much money would change hands on those days.
Smartly decorated with wooden panels and spouting a worn wooden floor, the pub
also contained an archaic ‘juke box’, though it seldom found use. Most of
the boisterous activity revolved around the periodic poker games – games, which
a certain Jon Burcham never failed to miss … if ever.
“Ladies,” an
older man nodded while planting himself on the bar stool just to Kelly’s right.
He placed a cigar in his mouth. “Jim Beam Black. Neat.”
Kelly smiled
to herself as she reached for the bottle behind her. “You come here practically
every day, Ron. And, you order the same thing practically every time.”
She flipped over a glass and started to pour. “And, you always want three
fingers.”
Ron grunted
an affirmation as he lit his cigar. Kelly slid the glass in front of him.
Ron kept his
salt and pepper hair short, if not a bit disheveled. The pronounced lines
on his darkly tanned, seasoned skin revealed to even the casual observer a hard
life filled no doubt with considerable mileage. He always seemed garbed
in flannel shirts and well-worn denim. His stocky yet quite muscular frame let
everyone around him know that he could handle himself. The thick stubble
on his face neatly accented his square jawline. Kelly could not remember a time
when Ron did not frequent the pub. She would often make-up stories for
her regulars, and she pictured Ron on some distant oil rig or a fishing
trawler. She made a mental note to have a small brass plaque in his honor
placed on that stool the day he ceased to visit.
Rebekah
tossed her towel on the counter beside Kelly and stepped toward them. “Did you
hear?” She asked looking at them both. “The Cannonball Run’s been moved up a
couple of weeks this year? Rumor has it that Jamie Blake and Morris
Fenderbaum will participate this time.”
Kelly
frowned. “You know I don’t follow open wheeled racing.”
“Nascar,”
Ron interjected, the smoke swirling around his head.
“Damn
straight,” Kelly nodded. They bumped fists.
Rebekah
rolled her eyes slightly.
“Besides,”
Kelly retorted. “Didn’t he retire?”
“Jamie? Oh,
some time ago, but this is the Cannonball.” Rebekah placed a small cutting
board on the counter. “So tell me,” she continued as she prepared to slice some
limes. “How was school?” The knife hit the board splitting the first one.
“School.”
Rebekah
paused cutting. “Well, don’t leave me hanging, sis. Anything interesting
happen?” Rebekah continued to slice.
“It’s
Hawkins,” Kelly sighed. She placed both hands on the counter. “You know,
never a dull moment. Oh, there was a fight in the library this morning-“
“Before
classes?” Rebekah interrupted. “Nice.”
“Oh, and
Gwen talked to some new boy from Doss.”
“Get out!”
Rebekah laughed.
“You ‘get
out’. I think his name is Nathan. He had just saved her from a falling
bookshelf knocked over during the scuffle. Real hero stuff there. All of this
happened in front of Shane too.”
“This Nathan
cute?”
“Adorable,”
Kelly popped, then checked herself. “Well, if you go for that whole
clean-cut, dirty blond athletic thing.”
Rebekah
smiled. “Good for her. Smart?”
“Well,
Bekah, I didn’t have time to review his resume, but, tell you what, I’ll
request it from Matt first thing tomorrow.” She folded her arms. “Though, now
that I think about it, I believe this Nathan was one of those kids involved in
the stabbing at the Doss football game last year.” She shook her head.
“At least, those were the rumors floating around by lunch time. He also
apparently tangled with Todd during gym.”
“So, a new
bad boy?”
Ron smirked
while taking a drink from his glass.
“I don’t
think so,” Kelly mused. “Though Matt went out of his way to become his
pal awfully fast.”
Rebekah
finished the last of the limes and wiped the blade of the knife with her towel.
“And how is Mr. McClane?”
“Nosy, as
ever.” Kelly held-up the bottle of Jim Beam again, and Ron nodded at his
empty glass.
“You ask him
out yet?” Rebekah almost whispered. She glanced at Kelly from the corners
of her eyes, smiling. “He ask you?”
“Will you
give it a rest?” Kelly snapped with exaggerated irritation. She poured
Ron another drink.
“I can write
down instructions, if you wish.”
This time,
Kelly rolled her eyes and returned the bottle to its place. “Matt’s far too
busy filling Peter’s shoes.” She opened the beer chiller. “But I
will wager real money it’ll be that new kid. Seems Matt introduced him to the
Tai-Pan at lunch.”
“’Drama’,”
Rebekah mouthed at her. “It also tells me that you’ve been keeping tabs on
Matt.”
Kelly
grunted as she closed the bin. “Why do I bother telling you anything?”
“Because,”
Rebekah grinned once more. She turned to face Kelly. “That little club of
theirs excites you. It did me too. And, need I remind you, the ‘O’ runs
shit through this place-“
“Which
reminds me,” Kelly interrupted. She promptly turned and marched toward her
backpack.
“-and it’s
good for business,” Rebekah added after her.
Kelly
returned with her P.A.D.D. “Did those cases of wine come-in?”
Rebekah
leaned against the bar. “Why yes, yes they did. I already set aside the case
you need.”
“Good.”
Kelly nodded and tapped a couple of times on the P.A.D.D.’s screen.
She glanced over. “Hey, Ron. You wouldn’t happen to know where one
could get metal anodized, do you?”
Ron gazed
into his glass, puffing on his cigar, his elbows planted firmly on the counter,
seemingly lost in thought.
Kelly took a
step toward him. “Some place local, I mean.”
Ron
continued to look into his class.
“RON!”
He shifted
his eyes and, not moving, squinted at Kelly.
“Didn’t you
hear me?” Kelly asked, holding up her arms at him.
Ron grunted.
“Do you ever
listen to us?”
Ron finished
the last of his second drink. “Most of the time … no.”
Kelly
glared.
“Aw, now
pretty girl, I don’t listen to anyone much anymore. Gets me in trouble. Got me
in trouble. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.” He took a puff from his
cigar. “I did my time. I went where they told me to go. I did what they told me
to do. I have the scars to prove it. Now, I just want to mind my own business
and watch the sun set.” He slid his glass toward her. “And, yes, I have a
buddy, who can help you.”
Kelly smiled
gleefully and reached for the bottle again. Her P.A.D.D. lit-up as she
poured. She glanced to Rebekah. “Where’s that case?”
Rebekah
pointed toward the rear door, adjacent the restrooms.
Ron pointed
his cigar at Kelly. “Take the advice of an old man,” he said when Kelly started
around the counter. “Life’s short. Take it by the horns. Don’t let go. This
Matt fella, like him? Tell him.” Kelly paused right beside him. He puffed the
cigar again. “Never let the world make anything ‘too late’ for you.” He
turned to look at her. “Or don’t.” He took a drink.
Kelly hit
Ron in the shoulder softly. She bounded to the case of wine and made a
second mental note to follow-up this conversation with Ron. She simply had to
know his backstory now. Funny, all this time, since she was a little girl, and
they had never really talked. Weren’t bartenders supposed to be the first
ones in which people confided?
“Dames,” Ron
sighed as Kelly disappeared out the back door with the case of wine.
“Men,”
Rebekah shot back.
“Whatever,”
Ron whispered and took another drink.
Kelly
watched as a red, white canopied and slightly beat-up 4x4 pick-up came to a
halt next to her in the parking lot. The canopy, she noticed, proved just
a bit too large for the bed. She shrugged – at least this person had
transportation.
Kelly smiled
at the young lady, who emerged. Petite and just a tad shorter than Kelly, this
girl wore tight faded jeans and old fashioned converse tennis shoes. She
also donned a dark zip-up hoody sweatshirt.
The girl
pulled her hood down as she rounded the front of the truck. She kept her
hair cropped quite short, and it appeared a tad redder than Kelly’s own – more
like her sister’s hair. Meh, a serious number of redheads around here
suddenly, Kelly thought. Granted, none of them were ‘MJ’ red, but aren’t we
gingers supposed to be a rare treasure? This young girl also sported a round
face with just a hint of freckles. Cute as a button, Kelly observed, just
suggesting a tomboy like quality to boot. Someone would undoubtedly find that
combination irresistible.
“Thank-you,”
the girl almost sighed. “You really saved us for this weekend.” She lowered the
tail door to her truck.
“My
pleasure, Miss … ?”
“Denaro. The
name is Mel Denaro.”
