Twanged (11 page)

As the musty damp smell filled their nostrils, Chappy grew more and more excited. The sight of the gray walls with cobwebs in the corners and big dark pipes hanging from the ceiling contributed to the feeling of forbidden territory.

They went down a hall, past the wine cellar, past Chappy’s baby buggy and all the other requisite junk kept in basements, and turned right. They stopped at a little dark corner that was now lit up by their helmets.

Chappy turned to Duke. “Do the honors.”

Duke bent down and pulled away a stone near the ground, behind which was a door handle. Grabbing it, he pulled, and all the stones above moved forward in unison, revealing a secret room. The two of them hunched over and, once inside, shut the door behind them.

“Ah yes,” Chappy said as he pulled the string to light the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling. “The Tinka Men’s Lounge, a room created during the strain of Prohibition. Grandpa Tinka founded this little speakeasy so his buddies could come over for a few belts without the worry of being busted. Grandpa was a crafty bootlegger who would send his speedboat out to Rum Row, three miles offshore, just outside federal jurisdiction, where they’d stock up on supplies of booze from the boats that came up from the Islands. They’d rush their quarry back to shore, ever on the lookout for gangsters and the Coast Guard. But Grandpa had built his boat to be faster than the Coast Guard’s. Oh yes,” Chappy reminisced with a tear in his eye, “I’ll never forget the first time my father brought me down here. I was thirteen. . .”

Behind him, Duke rolled his eyes. He’d heard this story every time they had come down here for the past ten years.

“Long after Prohibition,” Chappy continued, “this was a special room for the men in the Tinka family. It was our escape. Grandpa and Papa and I would come down here and sit and talk, and they’d smoke their cigars. That’s why, when I leveled the house, I made sure the foundation stayed the same. I wanted to keep this room!” He sat in a thronelike chair and looked around smiling. Boxes and boxes of junk were all over the floor. Girlie magazines dating back to Grandpa’s days were stacked in the corner. The fiddle Duke had stolen from Malachy was propped up in the corner. “To think that this whole place survived the dreadful hurricane of 1938. I love it here!”

What a pit, Duke thought. But he knew to keep his mouth shut when it came to this historic room. He sat in the only other chair and crossed his legs. I should be doing summer stock right now, he thought.

Once seated, they usually didn’t know what to do with themselves. They never even stayed very long. Just knowing it was there made Chappy happy. Today they had a mission, but Chappy always liked to sit for a few moments and pay homage to his rumrunning Grandpa.

They sat there listening to the faraway sounds of activity upstairs.

Finally Chappy stood. “Onward and upward.”

“Okay, boss.”

Through another secret door they went, this one opening onto the tunnel that led straight to the basement of the guest house. This tunnel was also where the booze was stored during the fourteen years of Prohibition, starting in 1920. Because Prohibition was so flagrantly violated, a popular song of the day had been “Everybody Wants a Key to My Cellar.” That was certainly true in Grandpa Tinka’s case. He’d had this long tunnel built to use not only for storing the bottles and bottles of contraband he always managed to procure, but also as a secret passageway for his drinking buddies to get to the speakeasy from the guest house. He never wanted them coming through the main house. Not only was he afraid of the main house being watched more carefully by the police, but he didn’t want his wife, Agneta, having to cope with anyone stumbling out at the end of the night.

The tunnel was dark and damp. It smelled earthy and occasionally a bug or little animals would make Chappy scream. Now he and Duke moved, single file, through the subterranean passageway that opened onto the corner of the basement beneath Brigid’s guest house. Another secret door had been built so as not to be noticed by the casual observer who happened to be in that basement.

No use letting people know about the tunnel and that Grandpa Tinka had been an outlaw, Chappy often thought. Chappy’s mother had preferred that no mention of his colorful history be made in polite society.

The door upstairs in the guest house that led to the basement had no handle, per Chappy’s design. It could be opened only from the other side by someone who was on the basement steps. Since no guest would have any reason to go to the basement, Chappy had in effect sealed it off.

“Well, we’re here,” Duke said, pushing his hair back as they opened the door and stepped out onto the cement floor.

“Shhhh,” Chappy commanded.

“But nobody’s home.”

“You never know!” Chappy said sharply.

Silently they crept up the steps and stopped at the door to listen. They could hear nothing but the sounds of the surf outside and birds cawing as they flew overhead.

“You’ve got the camera?” Chappy asked.

Duke nodded solemnly.

His whole body trembling, Chappy slowly opened the door and looked around. No one was there. A breeze was blowing through the window. Papers were on the table. The sun was streaming in and the whole house was quiet. He turned to Duke. “Come on.”

Leaving the door wide open behind them so as not to be locked in, they both ran through the downstairs room and bumbled up the staircase to Brigid’s room. The door was closed. Chappy stopped and listened and then opened it. Brigid’s brush and creams and perfume were arranged neatly on the dresser. Her suitcases were stacked in the corner. The bed was made.

“What a good guest,” Chappy mumbled as he dove to the floor and checked under the bed. “Aha!” he cried. “Aha!”

He pulled out the fiddle case and lifted it onto the bed. “This case is a little better than the other,” he said to the hovering Duke. When he opened it, his knees almost buckled.

The sight of the CT right there in front of him was almost too much to bear.

“Chappy Tinka!” he cried. “Chappy Tinka.” His eyes grew moist as he lovingly lifted the fiddle and cradled it in his arms. The bow was in the case. “Too bad we can’t take it now! Should I play, Duke? Should I play it?”

Duke shifted from one foot to the other. “I think we’d better just take the pictures. They might get back soon.”

“You’re right. Oh God, you’re right.” Chappy laid the fiddle on the white bedspread, and Duke started snapping away. They turned it over and snapped. They held it sideways and snapped. After Duke used up the whole package of film, Chappy lifted it again as if it were a newborn babe. “Mine, all mine,” he said. “This will bring luck to our theatre, I just know it.”

He laid it back in the case and had just slid it under the bed when through the open window in the hall they heard the sound of tires crunching up the drive.

A horrified noise emanated from Chappy’s being. “Move!” he yelled to an equally horrified Duke, who was standing there frozen. “Move!”

Together they raced down the steps, the pictures in Duke’s hand. They could hear the doors of the red station wagon Chappy had lent the band closing and the guys ribbing each other about golf balls that had ended up in the woods and ponds.

“Hurry!” Chappy whispered to Duke as they raced across the den. A gust of wind blew up and the door to the basement started to shut. Duke dove and caught it just in time.

Outside Kieran could be heard saying, “Teddy, when your ball hit the tree . . .” Then he stopped to demonstrate the swing, as the others laughed.

“Yeah, well,” Teddy replied, “at least I didn’t kill any fish with my shots.”

Pammy could be heard giggling. “I was surprised to see you guys call it quits after nine holes.”

Chappy raced through the basement door and down the steps. He turned to look up. “Shut the door!” he growled as Duke grabbed the handle, closed it behind him, and took the staircase in two leaps.

Upstairs, Kieran unlocked the back door to the guest house, and Pammy and the golfers stepped into what seemed like a perfectly undisturbed room. Chappy made a beeline for the entrance to the tunnel.

“Don’t you want to stay and eavesdrop?” Duke whispered.

“NO!
There’s plenty of time for that later. We’ve got to get these pictures over to the fiddle-maker right now!
LET’S MOVE!”

15

BALLYFORD, IRELAND

M
alachy loved late summer afternoons. He loved the gentle light of the sun and the peaceful warm feeling in the air. Sundays were the quietest. He loved to sit outside his cottage and look out on the rolling hills.

But on this Sunday he was sitting out there feeling a little unsettled. It had been over a week since someone had come in and taken Brigid’s fiddle right off his lap. Now all this talk about the curse and how the fiddle shouldn’t have left Ireland. He was worried about Brigid.

She had called him so excited when she won the fiddling contest. Now she was out there in the Hamptons to play in a festival and then was going on tour. Everything should be all right, he told himself.

He walked into his cottage and looked around.

“A bit untidy,” he said aloud. “I should really clean up.” He started to straighten the piles of papers, then suddenly felt the need for human companionship. He didn’t even have a fiddle around to cheer him up. I’ve got to get a new one, he thought.

I’ll go into town for a bite and a pint, he decided.

He wheeled his bicycle out the door and rode on into town, passing numerous sheep and cows along the way. They all looked bored but strangely contented. Malachy loved to pedal and ride. The wind in his face and the feeling of the summer evening made him feel alive.

Parking outside the one and only pub, he went inside, thinking about Brigid’s birthday party. Was that really only a few weeks ago?

The bar was humming. A television in the corner was tuned in to a sporting event.

“Malachy, what can I get for you?” Eamonn the bartender asked. “The usual?”

“The usual,” Malachy affirmed.

“You’re looking a little blue, my man,” Eamonn said as he put the Guinness in front of him.

Malachy shrugged. “I guess I’m a little let-down after the excitement of the party and all.” He sipped the frothy liquid. “Having Brigid’s fiddle stolen didn’t help, either.”

The bar door swung open, and in walked Finbar, the journalist who had started the stink about Malachy giving away the fiddle in the first place.

Malachy looked at Eamonn. “More to add to my troubles.”

Finbar sat at the end of the bar, three stools down from Malachy. He was a wiry, intense little man with flat brown hair plastered to his head. His plain face was ruddy. He was in his forties, and life had not provided too many thrills for him as yet. To many he seemed intent on getting back at people for injustices heaped on him as a child. Whatever the case, when he came a-calling, people looked the other way.

“Hey, Sheerin,” he said loudly. “Are you going to get your fiddle back from Brigid O’Neill, now that the other one’s been stolen?”

“None of your damn business,” Malachy said.

“Well, you should. That fiddle belongs in Ireland. It belongs to all-Ireland fiddle champions. It belongs to the people in this country.”

“Since when are you the self-appointed chairman of the preservation committee?” Malachy asked gruffly.

“Hey, bartender, I’d like a drink,” Finbar announced. He pointed to Malachy’s beer. “The same.”

Eamonn nodded and filled a glass.

“It doesn’t matter what I say,” Finbar continued. “You should have remembered that that fiddle had a curse on it if it left Ireland. Do you want it on your conscience if Brigid O’Neill has an accident or faces death?”

Disgusted, Malachy stood up and paid for his drink. “Thank you, Eamonn. I think I’ll be leaving now.” He walked past Finbar without glancing in his direction, out the door, and hopped onto his bicycle.

The sweet summer evening no longer held any magic for him.

All he could do was worry about Brigid.

16

T
hings were hopping at the All Day All Night Diner in Southampton. It was Sunday noontime and the usual line ran out the door. Inside it was raucous, with music playing, plates clattering, the air-conditioning humming, and waitresses calling out orders to the cooks. Every few seconds plates were flung on the counter, piled high with an assortment of breakfast specials.

“I’ll have some French toast, with sausage and coffee.” Chuck snapped the menu shut and handed it with a smile to the waitress.

“And me,” Brad added, “I’ll take your western omelette with French fries, coffee, and a great big glass of apple juice.”

“Coming up,” said Lotty, a big fan of their country music station. She always greeted them with a “Howdy, fellas.”

“Well, I guess we should be eating hero sandwiches, shouldn’t we, partner?” Chuck said when Lotty walked off.

“You bet,” replied Brad with a big smile. “Last night I went home and slept like a baby. Have your boots dried out yet?”

“No, sir. They’re in sorry shape. But it was for a good cause.”

A lone man slipped into a seat at the table next to them.

“A good cause it was. I wasn’t even thinking of my boots when I jumped into that pool,” Brad said proudly. “When Brigid O’Neill comes on our show tomorrow, we’ll really have lots to talk about.”

“We sure will, partner. We sure will.”

Lotty came around and poured coffee in their cups. She handed a menu to the single diner, and when he nodded his assent, she poured him coffee, too. “Be right back to take your order,” she said.

Brad and Chuck ate their meals in a hurry. They wanted to get over to the radio station and prepare for their big day on Monday. After they left, Lotty came out with the man’s scrambled eggs.

“Here you go,” she pronounced brightly.

“Miz,” he said as he eyed his eggs, “I couldn’t help overhearing those two talk.” He pointed at the empty table. “They have some radio station or something?”

“It’s new in town,” Lotty responded as she gathered up their dirty dishes. “Country 113. They’re really getting rolling. Tomorrow they’re going to have that new singer Brigid O’Neill on the show. She’s getting real hot.” With that comment, Lotty disappeared around the corner and through the swinging door to the kitchen.