Time: Saturday afternoon 4/25/98
Follows: Glow Worms In Toronto
Heather, Pen Durrell, and Nyx Fixx are used with permission.
Consuela O'Brian-Eccevarrio and Patrick "Miguel" O'Malley are fictional characters, as are the "former-IRA" types.
[Saturday 25 April, 4PM]
"Pass me that Murphy's OilTM, will you?" Lora asked Brenda, who was using the soap straight from the gallon bottle.
"Sure, hold on," she replied, pouring a liberal dose of the stuff on the countertop before capping the bottle and kicking it across the floor. "Wish this stuff worked a little better than it does," she said, pushing at a stray hair with the back of her hand before continuing to scrub at the bar's mahogany finish. Dark wood was nice, but the natural walnut finish of the bar would be nicer.
"It'd do fine, Brenda," she replied, "if you diluted it like the directions say."
"Hah!" the shorter woman snorted, wondering where they could get some of that miracle stripper she'd seen on a few infomercials back home. "It looks like it does okay where the finish was stripped, but it doesn't seem to be doing much good where there's still any varnish left."
"Here, let me see," Lora responded, leaving her brass polishing to inspect the work. Sure enough, the bar exhibited a peculiarly irregular checkerboard pattern where the cleaner had seeped into the unprotected wood. "Looks like we need to strip that varnish first," she advised. Lora leaned a bit closer to examine the wood; something about the grain didn't seem right for walnut. She grabbed a clean rag from the bag on the floor and started wiping an area. "Oh my," she said softly, going into a daze. "Oh my!"
"What is it?"
"This isn't a mahogany finish. This is MAHOGANY!"
"Kewl," Brenda said. "But where's that miracle stripper when you need it?"
Lora blushed deeply. Just the other day at work she and a co-worker had been discussing a "special" bar she had gone to in her younger and wilder days. Visions of well-muscled scantily-clad men removing varnish from the bar suddenly danced in her head.
"Are you okay?" Brenda asked, seeing her friend looking light-headed.
"Fine," Lora replied, shaking her head to clear it. "It's just that you mentioned 'miracle stripper' and my brain went elsewhere," she said, chuckling.
"Where's Nyx, by the way?" Brenda asked. "Didn't she say she'd be coming right down to help out?"
"Family moving emergency. The phone call came while you were still in the shower. She was gone by the time you finished dressing."
"Oh, lovely." Brenda groaned. "War is starting, the place is about to open, and we're stuck here alone, not sure of what's going on."
"Not exactly," Lora told her. "There's a drawer full of papers and contracts and stuff that's supposed to contain all the information we need."
"You wish -- right?"
"Yeah, I wish," Lora sighed. "Maybe between our editing skills and ability to skim through documents, we can get a handle on what's going on."
"We'll start on that during break time, then," Brenda suggested.
[Sunday 26 April, 1 AM]
"That's the last of it, Ms Bell," the muscular brunet said, wiping his face on the chamois that hung from his belt.
"Good. I can use a break," Brenda sighed, leaning on the hand truck.
"Three hundred seventy-three, three hundred seventy-four, three hundred seventy-five, three hundred seventy-six," came a voice from inside. "Yup, we got them all," it shouted. "Three hundred seventy-six plain-bottom side chairs, two hundred-fifty cane-backed Brewer chairs, one hundred padded-seat armchairs, one hundred upholstered wooden folding chairs, fifty four-seater pedestal tables, forty collapsible six-foot-diameter round tables, forty bar stools, twenty four-seat booths with tables, and ten eight-seater-with-fold- down-leaves-to-convert-to-four-seater pedestal tables," Lora counted, emerging from the service entrance with a clipboard, checking off each item.
"You forgot the partridge in the pear tree," Brenda quipped, rising on tiptoe and trying to stare over the taller woman's shoulder.
"The cat ate it," the near-redhead replied, sarcastically.
"The cat ate it????" Brenda asked, taking Lora way too seriously.
"Aye," the muscular fellow replied, just as seriously. "The cat wha' ran right by here not ten minutes ago."
"Not a stray cat, I hope," Brenda replied, worried about what that would do to the health inspectors' report.
"Naah," a freckled brown-haired fellow responded. "There must be twa' or three of them wha' lives here," he said with a wink. "I' fact, there goes one o' them now." Just as he pointed, a long-tailed furry gray thing flew down the street, almost too fast to be seen under the dim street lights.
"That's no cat," Brenda exclaimed, scurrying toward the implied safety of the moving van, "that's a RAT!"
"A rat?" Lora asked, unbelieving.
"There's no rats around here," the brunet responded, a twinkle in his voice.
"As sure as I am standing here, that's a rat," Brenda insisted. "And rats that size are beyond dangerous. . . they're. . . they're. . . "
"They're what?" a black-haired fellow asked, as the short woman unknowingly backed into him. The resulting scream made everyone jump back three feet.
"You must be Brenda," he continued in a soft lilt, as the graying brunette turned around to face him. "Patrick O'Malley, at your service," he bowed. The woman's glow turned a pale pinkish gray. "He's the cook," Lora whispered to her blushing cohort. Good thing they'd begun reading the papers over their take-out Chinese dinner.
"Oh," she replied, the pink deepening. "Lethal," she finished, extending her hand in greeting.
"But I also answer to 'Miguel'." Instead of shaking her hand, he took it in his and pressed his lips to the back of it.
"Miguel?" she asked, her color turning back to its normal grayish glow. "Lethal?" he sang at the same time.
"Aye, and there's a long story behind that one, too," he lilted.
"Sounds like it," Brenda groaned. "And rats that size have been known to strip men to the bones as quickly as piranha. Just for a warm-up."
"Well, that one there really is a cat," the cook told her. "It doesn't want for much, just a few scraps of fish and a bowl of milk. We haven't had a rodent problem in years," he tried to assure her. He turned to the almost-redhead. "And you must be Lora?" he asked, stepping up to greet the taller woman in the same fashion. She shifted the pen to her clipboard before offering her hand, palm facing downward, to him.
"It still looks like a rat to me," Brenda insisted.
[Sunday, 5AM]
The two women were exhausted. They'd worked through the night, surviving mostly on coffee, Mountain DewTM, Coca-ColaTM, and more coffee.
The take-out Chinese, a couple of pizza boxes, and the remains of "Miguel's" burritos graced the top of the now-stripped bar.
"I'm losing it," Brenda said, nearly falling over the patch of paneling she was resurfacing.
"It's time for me to call it a night before it's morning again."
"Umm... Brenda?" Lora said. "We only have today to finish the job before the inspectors come."
"Yeah -- but if we fall asleep on top of our work, we're only going to have to do it all again."
"If you leave that wall half-done, you're going to have to do it again," Lora reminded her.
"That's all I feel like I've been doing," the brunette yawned, closing her eyes. As she swiped at the wall, her knees began to buckle under her. Feeling herself drop, she quickly locked her knees and shook her head, trying to jerk herself awake. "Ain't happenin'," she said, shaking her head.
"There's only one panel left on that wall," Lora observed. "Why don't we compromise: you finish this wall, I'll finish sealing the floor. Once we've set that first coat of sealer, we have to let it set before we can do anything more, anyway."
"Deal," Brenda yawned.
"Sounds like you ladies are in need of some more of this stuff," Patrick said, entering with a tray of Cafe BusteloTM.
"Uggh. Stale coffee," Brenda wrinkled her nose.
"How thick is that stuff?!" Lora complained, looking for a quart of heavy cream to dilute the contents of the four ounce cup.
"Just drink it!" the cook sung.
The women quickly downed the hot, bitter brew and returned the cups to the tray.
"Thanks, O'Malley," Lora told him.
"By the way," he told them, "the boys will be down after eleven o'clock Mass, so you'll want to be showered and dressed by then. Consuela and I have taken the liberty of ordering some refreshments for them; Consuela should be down in a couple of hours to start preparing."
"Consuela?" Lora asked, feeling the caffeine hit already.
"The pub cook," Patrick reminded her. "I run the cantina kitchen, and Consuela O'Brian-Eccevarrio runs the pub."
"Why does that sound a little... back-asswards... to me?" Brenda asked, still weaving on her feet.
"It's a long story," the Irishman replied. "I'll tell you when you have more time."
"More long stories," Brenda muttered, returning to her wall.
[Sunday, 10:30 AM]
Lora emerged from the bathroom and approached the sleeping Brenda. "Your turn," she told the slumbering woman.
"Whe-where am I? What time is it?"
"You're in the Fiendish Glow, it's 10:30, and it's your turn in the shower." Lora suddenly sniffed the air. "Ummm," she said, recognizing the odor of waffles, sausage, and eggs, "and you might want to hurry -- that definitely smells like breakfast!"
"Consuela?" Brenda asked.
"Gotta be," Lora said, combing her hair. "O'Malley's still at Mass with the 'boys'," she grinned.
"Ah. Right." She rose and sniffed the air as well. "Sausages -- ugh!" Without a second thought, she dove under the quilt, covering herself head and body with it.
"What about the waffles? Creamery butter? Fresh maple syrup? Freshly-squeezed orange juice?" Lora tempted. "And if you don't like that, I'm sure you can find something else around here to eat."
"Ok, you got me," the brunette conceded, kicking back the covers.
"Better be quick about it," Lora said, plaiting her hair into a thick, reddish-brown braid over her right shoulder. "Nyx gave me the impression that we do not at any cost want to keep our security staff waiting."
"Why am I not surprised?" Brenda asked, padding towards the showers.
[Sunday, 11:45 am]
Lora and Brenda descended the stairs to the sounds of people chatting over coffee by the cantina's bar. Each was dressed as close to "Sunday Best" as her baggage would allow. For Lora, that meant the button-down white silk shirt, a white satin scrunchy, a Celtic-knot scarf tied at her waist, and a matched set of silver and malachite jewelry to set off her natural coloring. For Brenda, it was the Macmillan Ancient kilted skirt she'd borrowed from her sister, and an Irish crochet barette she'd made some years previously. A cairngorm brooch accented the stand-up collar of her heirloom-style cotton blouse. Patrick was at the bar, chatting with the men and women, and occasionally bending down to answer a question from one of the many children running around the tables and behind the bar.
"Bang! Bang! you're dead!" one of them tagged Lora as she entered the room.
The two women exchanged glances as Lora shrugged, trying to decide whether or not to play along with the tyke, who appeared to be about seven or eight years old.
"Owww! You shot me!" Lora finally said, dramatically clutching her heart and pretending to fall against the banister. Before she completed the scene, one of the men came up and captured the child's arms, spinning the boy around to face him and squatting down to his eye level.
"Daniel Joseph Patrick Kelly," he scolded. "How many times have your ma and I told you not to disturb strangers wi' your war games?" "She's no' a stranger if she's here, da," the child reasoned.
"The lady is a grown-up, and ye'll treat her with respect, son."
"Yes, Da," Daniel replied meekly. "Sorry, ma'am," he said to Lora. At his father's glare, he bowed slightly.
Lora nodded her acceptance of the child's apology.
"Now go to your ma, and don't get into any more trouble, ye ken?"
"Yes, Da." The child turned and ran to the opposite side of the room, where he began tugging on the sleeve of a thirty-something woman with an infant in her arms.
"I apologize for my son's wild behavior," the burly blond said, rising. "Daniel Patrick Kelly -- senior -- at your service," he bowed. As his chest lowered and he extended his hand to Lora, his suede vest fell open, exposing a .38 semiautomatic tucked into the side of his waistband, and several loaded magazines bulging from the inside pockets of his vest. The stock of a Luger peeked out of the straps of a shoulder holster, and the sight of a small handgun poked out a well-worn hole in the front pocket of his pants. From the women's viewpoints, Kelly looked every bit the part of a drug dealer -- or a gun runner. Fortunately, the women could not see the leg holster under his chinos, or the assorted other weapons he had secreted in various other areas of his clothing. "May I introduce you to the rest of the boys?"
Lora's jaw dropped at the armament. She loved a .38 semiautomatic as much as the next person (as long as the next person loved to target shoot), but this was a bit much! As she followed Brenda and Danny, as he introduced the two of them around, she wondered how long it would be before the police would burst in on a weapons raid -- and the consequences that would have for her job back home. Nonetheless, she couldn't help but drool over the various small arms that peeked out from under vests and jackets -- she recognized the handle of a 12-inch hunting knife sticking out of a boot and asked the young man if she could see it. He obliged, expertly flipping it out of it's hiding place and carefully handing it to her handle first. She handled the highly sharpened blade carefully; it was definitely well used, she could tell, because of all the nicks and dings that had been pounded out. She handed the lovely blade back, hoping those nicks came from hunting use.
The afternoon was spent in that intersection of business and pleasure that occurs when everyone has a stake in the outcome of the event. The security folk checked out the communications and surveillance systems, the bouncers lent a hand moving the pub's furniture into place, and the older children -- bribed by the promise of Consuela's "leprechaun cakes" and a couple games of mondo-big-screen NintendoTM, concentrated on washing down and polishing the tables and chairs. By three o'clock, the crowd dulled down to a low roar, as most of the employees and their families left for their traditional Sunday dinners and the children's leftover homework. A scant handful remained to finish cleaning up and to help with the last bits of sealing and polishing.
[Sunday, 3PM]
"I think this is it," said Brenda as she put the final touch on the handbill design.
"You're sure you won't mind doing this, Ronnie?" she asked as a stocky Irishman stood by the table with the small printer, waiting for it to spit out the page in question.
"Not at all," he replied. "The colleens' families depend on their tips and all," he explained. "Anything we can do to help, is. . ." he shrugged. The women nodded assent. Bored with standing still, he noticed Lora lovingly finishing up the final coat of sealant on the bar and went over to check out her work.
"Nice bi' o' wood there, lassie," he said, running a hand over the thick hair down her back.
The near-redhead's back stiffened as she turned angry green eyes toward him -- Lora had a zero-tolerance policy when it came to uninvited attention.
"Back up, laddie. I did not give you permission," she said with an icy voice.
Ronnie removed his hand instantly and involuntarily backed up a step. "Whoa- ho," he said, recovering from her icy blast. "Now the' 's o spirited lassie!" he laughed. Ronnie backed up another step and bowed, saying. " 'umble apologie, m'lady. Ol' Ronnie mean' no 'arm."
Lora had to smile at the "boy's" antics. "Apology accepted. Just be more careful in the future." The "boys" made Lora nervous. Although she'd been assured by Nyx they'd disassociated themselves with the IRA after immigrating to Canada, she still worried about their connections. Her Pentagon job was precious to her, despite it's long hours that prevented her from having a social life; she earned a good living and wanted nothing to jeopardize that. However, this Ronnie O'Mannion was a charmer; too bad Irish men did nothing for her. She mentally sized up the big man before her -- 5'10", probably about 220 lb., and mostly muscle. She doubted that a claymore-toting redhead would make him nervous.
"I'm upstairs," Brenda told Lora. "There's still lots of sewing to do."
No sooner did she begin to ascend the stairs than the Irishman turned towards the door.
Brenda looked back. "Hey, Ronnie -- the handbill!" she reminded him.
"Aye, m'lady," Ronnie said, saluting the brunette. He quickly grabbed the flyer out of the printer and headed out the door.
[Sunday, 6 PM]
"Are the curtains ready for me to press?" Lora asked, wringing out the scrap of linen that served for a press cloth. "How many panels are there?"
"Eight, and you're a bit late for that. They're sitting on the sofa, waiting to be hung," Brenda told her, looking up from her cutting. "Find anything interesting in that drawer of papers?"
"Yeah. The health inspectors are supposed to show up tomorrow. What's the chance they'll issue us the permit right away?"
"Presuming we pass inspection?" the brunette asked.
Lora nodded.
"Anybody's guess," Brenda shrugged, putting down the right-handed dressmakers' shears, shaking her left hand, and examining the open blister that had already formed by its thumb joint. "I think it depends on how these things are authorized by the province."
The taller woman sighed as the shorter one picked up the shears in resignation and began to cut an intricate bodice in the cotton velveteen fabric. "Ow!" she exclaimed, quickly dropping the scissors and massaging her hand again. "You'd think Heather would have remembered to pick up a set of left-handed dressmakers' shears and a rotary cutter!" she moaned.
"How was Heather supposed to know you were left handed?" the presser retorted.
"Well, the least you could have done was offer to do the cutting while I did the sewing!"
"In case you forgot, I did -- and all I got were complaints. 'Cut the voile on the grain -- no, the straight of grain, not the cross grain.' 'Pile it all up and cut it at once?' 'Where's the seam allowance?' 'Layer it so I can assembly-line stitch it.' 'Would you iron the frigging things before you hand them back to me?'" she sing-songed, mocking Brenda's complaints. "That's why we decided I would look through the documents while you sewed."
"Sorry." Brenda shrugged. "I really feel responsible for all of this turning out right -- and if you haven't noticed, neither of us has had much sleep this weekend."
Lora looked at Brenda's hands and made a decision. "How do you feel about Reiki?" she asked, walking over to the younger woman. "I'm a level-two practitioner."
"What's Reiki?"
"Don't worry -- it won't hurt," she said, taking Brenda's injured hand between her two.
The shorter woman closed her eyes, opening her mind to the flow of energy she expected to experience. Shortly, a sudden feeling of heat radiated from Lora's hands. "Interesting," Brenda said in the Vulcan manner -- that is to say, with a single raised eyebrow. "Thanks!"
"Don't thank me," Lora said, "I'm just a conduit. I'm just glad it's working -- unfortunately, my talent is sporadic. Also, a lot depends on the recipient, and you certainly seem receptive!"
"It's all in how one is trained," Brenda shrugged.
[Wee hours Monday morning, 27 April]
"There. It's online," Brenda said stifling a yawn, as the Fiendish Glow Web Page fluoresced into sight. "Not the best I could do, but then again, I don't have Frank here to do my perl programming for me. Can we turn in now?"
"God, I hope so," Lora said as she put the lid on the last of the handbills the "boys" would distribute as soon as they got their permits cleared. Her head landed with a soft *thump* on the box she just closed. "Oops," she said to the box, then turned a sheepish face toward her friend. "I guess we both ought to turn in shortly if we're going to meet the inspector first thing in the morning." Lora looked at her exhausted co- hort -- Brenda's eyes definitely had that "I've had it" look. "Tell you what -- you head on to bed. I can finish hanging the curtains myself."
"Sounds good to me," Brenda nodded as she set the security on her laptop and shuffled off to their room.
As she watched her friend go, Lora realized she'd probably need the service elevator coming back upstairs as well as for bringing the boxes down. Normally she preferred using staircases; she felt they kept her legs in shape and they were a wonderful aerobic exercise. However, tonight she was just too tired. She pushed the boxes of handbills into the elevator, out the back, and into the store room -- the "boys" would be by to pick them up as soon as The Fiendish Glow got its permits. Then she went down to the pub and hung the curtains. "I'm glad we saved the easiest job for last," she said, smiling and admiring the way the cloth panels turned out. The shamrocks and Celtic knot lace motifs would work well against the filmy white background and would look wonderful backlit. She tied a gold braid tassel to each end of the bar, then stepped back to check the length; after one or two minor adjustments, she went on to the next "window." After all eight were done, she went to the bar and flipped a switch. "Perfect!" she said, adjusting the lighting up and down the band. She flipped them off, then checked the security system to make sure it was set before heading up to bed herself.
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NEXT
STORY: A TOUCH OF IRISH POLITICS
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