sleeve the man from the Emerald Isle rose, a reluctant phoenix, from the ashes of the night before. There was little fire evident in this rare bird, and had it not been for the urgency of the day which lay before him he would surely have returned to the arms of whatever incendiary morpheus rekindled his combustible plumage. He lit a pre- cornflake Woodbine and through the fits of terrible coughing paid his early morning respects to the statuette of Our Lady which stood noseless yet benign upon the mantelpiece.
The Irishman’s suite of rooms was far from what one would describe as sumptuous. The chances of it appearing in
Within this unlikely container, which Omally had smuggled home in a potato sack, was nothing less than an accurate reproduction, correct to the smallest detail, even to the point of spurs and mask, of that well-known and much-loved mode of range-wear affected by the Lone Ranger. It was also identical in every way to the one which Jim Pooley had hired not an hour previous to the furtive Omally’s entrance to the carnival shop.
For Mr Jeffreys, who ran the faltering business, it had been a day he would long remember. How he had come into the original possession of the ten identical costumes was a matter he preferred to forget. But upon this particular day that he should, within a few short hours, not only hire out these two costumes, but the other eight to boot, was quite beyond all expectation. Possibly the ancient series had returned to the small screen, bringing about a revival. Anyway, whatever the cause, he didn’t care; the cash register had crashed away merrily and there would soon be enough in it to pay off the bill for the two dozen Superman costumes he had similarly ordered in error.
Neville picked up his newspaper from the welcome mat and gazed about the bar. He had been up until three in the morning arranging the finishing touches. Little remained of the Swan’s original character; the entire bar now resembled to a Model T the interior of a western saloon. The sawdust which had for the last few days been getting into everybody’s beer now completely smothered the floor. Wanted posters, buffalo horns, leather saddles and items of cowboy paraphernalia lined the walls.
The shorts glasses had been piled in pyramids behind the bar and the place was gaudy with advertisements promoting “Old Snakebelly – The Drink That Made the South Rise Again”. This doubtful beverage was the sole cause of the Swan’s bizarre transformation. It was the brainchild of the brewery owner’s eldest son, who had spent two weeks on a package tour of the States and had returned with a mid-Atlantic accent and a penchant for Randolph Scott impersonations. It was not the finest blend of spirits ever to grace a bar optic, and would probably have been more at home removing tar from bargees’ gumboots. The old brewer, however, was not only a man indulgent of his progeny’s mercurial whims but a shrewd and devious entrepreneur who knew a tax dodge when he saw one.
Lunchtime trade at the Flying Swan was alarmingly slack. Two sullen professional drinkers sat doggedly at the bar, glowering into their pints and picking sawdust from their teeth. Old Pete entered the bar around twelve, took one look at the decorations and made a remark much favoured by gentlemen of his advanced years. Young Chips lifted his furry leg at the sawdust floor and the two departed grumbling to themselves.
When Neville cashed up at three, the till had taken less than two pounds. Neville counted the small change with nervous fingers; he was certain that the ominous smell he had detected that morning was beginning to penetrate the beer-soaked atmosphere of the saloon bar.
It all began in earnest when at three fifteen a van from the brewery catering division drew up outside the Swan in the charge of a young man with advanced acne and a cowboy hat. This diminutive figure strutted to and fro in a pair of boots which sported what the Americans humourously call “elevator heels”. He announced himself to be Young Master Robert and said that he would be taking over personal control of the event. Neville was horrorstruck, he’d been looking forward to it for weeks, he’d got the sheriffs star and everything and now at the eleventh hour, this upstart…
To add insult to injury, the young man stepped straight behind the bar and drew himself a large scotch. Neville watched open-jawed as a parade of supplies sufficient to cater for half the British Army passed before his eyes in a steady and constant stream. There were packets of sausages, beefburgers, baconburgers, beans and bacon-burgers, sausage beef and baconburgers and something round and dubious called a steakette. There were enormous catering cans of beans which the porters rolled in like beer casks. There were sacks of french rolls, jars of pickled onions, radishes, beetroots, cocktail cucumbers and gherkins. There were hundredweight sacks of charcoal.
“I have been light on the cooking oil,” Young Master Robert announced as the slack-jawed Neville watched two porters manoeuvring an enormous drum in through the saloon bar door.
Young Master Robert drew himself another scotch and explained the situation. “Now hear this,” he said, his voice a facetious parody of Aldo Ray in some incomprehensible submarine movie, “what we have here is an on-going situation.”
“A what?”
“We have product, that is to say Old Snakebelly.” He held up a bottle of the devil brew. “We have location” – he indicated the surroundings – “and we have motivation.” Here he pointed to the banner which hung above the bar, draped over the moth-eaten bison’s head. It read: GRAND COWBOY EXTRAVAGANZA PRIZES PRIZES PRIZES.
Neville nodded gravely.
“I have given this a lot of thought, brain-wise,” the youth continued. “I ran a few ideas up the flagpole and they got saluted and I mean S-A-L-U-luted!”
Neville flexed his nostrils, he didn’t like the smell of this. The young man was clearly a monomaniac of the first order. A porter in a soiled leather apron, hand-rolled cigarette dripping from his lower lip, appeared in the doorway. “Where do you want this mouthwash then guv?” he asked, gesturing over his right shoulder.
“Ah, yes, the Product,” said Young Master Robert, thrusting his way past Neville and following the porter into the street. There were 108 crates of Old Snakebelly, and when stacked they covered exactly half the available space of the newly built patio.
“There is nowhere else we can put it,” Neville explained. “There’s no space in the cellar, and at least if they’re here whoever is cooking at the barbeque can keep an eye on them.”
Young Master Robert was inspecting the barbeque. “Who constructed this?” he queried.
“Two local builders.”
The youth strutted about the red brick construction. “There is something not altogether A-O-K here design-wise.”
Neville shrugged his shoulders, he knew nothing about barbeques anyway and had never even troubled to look at the plans the brewery had sent. “It is identical to the plan and has the Council’s seal of approval, safety-wise!” Neville lied.
Young Master Robert, who also knew nothing of barbeques but was a master of gamesmanship, nodded thoughtfully and said, “We will see.”
“What time will the extra bar staff be getting here?” Neville asked.
“18.30,” said the Young Master, “a couple of right bits of crumpet.” He had obviously not yet totally mastered the subtler points of American terminology.
By half past six the Young Master had still failed to light the barbeque. The occasional fits of coughing and cries of anguish coming from the patio told the part-time barman that at least the young man was by no means a quitter.
At six forty-five by the Guinness clock there was still no sign of the extra bar staff. Neville sauntered across the bar and down the short passage to the patio door. Gingerly he edged it open. Nothing was visible of Young Master Robert; a thick black pall of smoke utterly engulfed the yard obscuring all vision. Neville held
