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Skullduggery PA

Michael Madden

    Kaitlin woke to the sound of gunfire.
    She rolled over and smacked the alarm clock radio off its stand and onto the pile of dishes on the floor. When the shooting didn’t stop, she called out to her husband, the bourbon soaked piece of white trash who had once again lubricated himself into a coma in front of the tube.
    “Shane, turn off the Goddamn TV!”
    In the sad history of the world there was never a more foul time and place than Skullduggery, Pennsylvania, 1991. Only twenty miles northwest of Philadelphia, it might as well have been Texas. It was from the shallows of its gene pool that Shane Patrick Cole and his entire family of epic losers had been spawned. Three brothers, two of them bartenders and one doing a fifteen year bid up in Graterford for statutory rape. Mom, on the prowl for husband number four while finishing up stint number three at the methadone clinic outside town. And Grandpa Cole, a lecherous-eyed lunatic that Kaitlin fantasized gouging to death with a fork.
    “Shane!”
    Scholl Diggery and Mining Company was the town’s namesake, its reason for existing and claim to fame. Founded as a coal mine in 1852 by brothers Helmut and Werner Scholl, it had been declared a national heritage site in 1969 and its ruins preserved as a monument to the industriousness of the noble immigrants that the Scholls had imported, like cheap potatoes, from Ireland’s famine-struck western coast. While elsewhere the Irish had been treated with distain, the Brothers Scholl had embraced their ilk. In exchange for signing a five-year contract at subsistence wages, they were advanced the cost of ship’s passage and given a shack in the growing shantytown surrounding Scholl Diggery, which the Irish renamed.
    They are a very poetic people.
    “Shane, you faggot son of a flat-chested whore!” Kaitlin screamed, bursting into the living room wearing a camouflage-print bra and panties, towering over the man who had once been her high school sweetheart, now thirty pounds heavier, stretched out on the couch in stained boxers, snoring like a congested troll and still balancing a fifth of Jim Beam on his chest. “Shane!”
    “Big shabang at the Ambassador last night,” croaked Grandpa Cole from his wheelchair in a dark corner of the room. “Shane here caught a bit of a buzz. Whole town did. Yo, what’s dat you’re wearin’ doll? You goin’ huntin’?”
    Ignoring the old man’s lustful gaze, Kaitlin yanked the television plug from the wall and then stomped to the bathroom to slap on her face.
    Her shift at The Ambassador started in twelve minutes.
    Although the mine collapsed in 1903, most of the town’s original charter families could still be found clinging to the area, eking out a living in their own unique way. The Fergusons owned Skullduggery Liquor. The Kellys operated the dump. The Hagen Clan had a strangle hold on local construction with the Kings, Holts and McFaddens providing the electrical, plumbing, and roofing services respectively.
    For most of their history the Coles lacked anything close to a specialty unless you counted coal mining in the nineteenth century, moonshining in the early twentieth, a pitiful attempt at organized crime in the nineteen-forties, or dealing weed in the sixties and seventies.
    It was mostly welfare fraud after that.
    A higher purpose found the Coles at exactly 11:52 am on March 17, 1989 when Grandma Cole was decapitated in a freak accident with the town’s Saint Patrick’s Day float. The lawsuit put a strain on the Coles’ relationship with the rest of the town, but scored them enough to purchase The Ambassador, Skullduggery’s one and only stripper bar.
    After nearly a century and a half, the bastard sons of Erin had finally found their niche.

#


    The Blizzard of 91’ is what they would eventually name it, but for the time being they just called it “the Storm.” For three days the sky had belched up a wicked blend of snow and sleet whipped into a froth by high speed winds. Philadelphia had declared an emergency and implemented its blizzard disaster plan: salt the streets, plow the snow, dump it into the Delaware River. Skullduggery had implemented its own three-part plan. Hunker down. Ride it out. Drink heavily.
    Kaitlin plowed her jeep into a snow bank and made a slip-sliding dash for the Ambassador’s front door. It was barely eleven o’clock in the morning but, since the town had shut down on account of the storm, the regulars had already clocked in. The Kelly twins were slamming shots nonstop at the end of the bar. Tommy Hearn and his cousin Fergus were taking shots at the Queen Elizabeth dartboard on the wall. The Kingston Trio, Brian King and his two lackeys, Barton and Milton Holt, were guzzling beer straight from a pitcher while taking turns dry-humping the pinball machine. The lot of them, except for Derrick Cole, the bar manager, were engaged in Skullduggery’s favorite pastime.
    General jackassery.
    “Where you goin’?” Derrick asked as Kaitlin headed for her waitress apron behind the bar. “Didn’t get my message? Bambi called in.”
    “Your wife. Your problem,” Kaitlin said, snatching up her apron.
    “She’s snowed in. Got caught in the storm up in Phoenixville and had to spend the night at the Motel Six.”
    “Forget it, Rick. Ain’t no fuggin’ way.”
    “Sorry Sis.” Derrick took the apron from her hand and jerked a thumb at the stripper pole. “Looks like you’re gonna have to suit up.”
    Kaitlin slammed the dressing room door into the gouge in the wall. At the dressing table, she inspected her breasts, each bursting with enough silicone to split a grapefruit. If one were to rupture, she fantasized, it would mean a ten thousand dollar settlement and an all-inclusive weekend retreat at Philadelphia General Hospital courtesy of Dow Corning Corporation.
    And if both were to bust, well, she dared not even dream about that.
    Out on the floor, Kaitlin plunked a fist full of quarters into the jukebox and hit B-17, Motown Philly by Boyz II Men.
    Nine times.
    Not a one of the jagoffs bothered to look up, not even after she’d mounted the stage and dropped her J.C. Penny, Japanese print wrap to the floor. It had been Sinead Blaine, Kaitlin recalled as she zombie pranced around the pole, the dancer they called Bumper, who had clued Kaitlin in about the class-action suit.
    
    Face down in a tanning booth at the Boyertown Mall, Bumper had experienced what they called a double blowout. Both of her implants, swollen by the ultraviolet rays, had ruptured simultaneously leaving Bumper flat as a schoolgirl and out of work, but first in line for a fat Dow settlement. The last Kaitlin heard, she had traded in her husband for a Latino model and her Skullduggery doublewide for a row house in South Philly. Shangri-La.
    Back in school we’d dream every day. Could it happen to me? Will my dreams fade away ...
    “Gotcha covered, baby doll” Barton Holt said, sliding a crumpled single into Kaitlin’s string and treating her stomach to a back-handed brush on the takeaway.
    “Gee thanks, Bart.”
    “No problemo, baby doll. Where’s Shane? He asked me to take a look at the shitter. Said somethin’ about a leak in the tank.”
    “Home drunk,” Kaitlin said, making sure to avoid eye contact.
    “Men.” Barton wrinkled his nose. “Whaddaya gonna do?” He tossed her a wink before staggering off for another draft.
    Doom da, doom diddy. Doom da, doom diddy dat...
    The real money, Kaitlin figured while hooter-jiggling to the back of the bar, was in slow leaks. A rupture was a one-time hit, a quick and dirty cash settlement. A slow leak, on the other hand, provided access to a smorgasbord of long-term ailments that could land you on the retirement train. The big “C” was a first-class ticket if you didn’t mind losing a headlight. Rheumatoid arthritis was good for a ride and came with a lifetime supply of oxycodone. And then there was the mother of all claims, the gold mine of silicone induced syndromes. Swiveling her hips, Kaitlin couldn’t help but grin at the thought of it.
    Lupus.

#


    By twelve noon, ice on the power lines had once again severed Skullduggery from the grid, forcing its population to seek warmth at the only establishment in Eastern Pennsylvania savvy enough to have purchased a generator but tight-assed enough to have kept coal heat.
    “Where you goin’?” Derrick asked as Kaitlin slipped her wrap back on and joined him behind the bar.
    “Fuck’s sake, Rick. There’s kids in here.”
    Derrick looked up and squinted his eyes as if surveying the situation for the first time. Every table was taken. Teenagers were at the pinball machine and the crowd at the bar was damn near two-idiots deep.
    “Fuggin’ A,” he said. “Goddamn storm is a gift from God. Handle the bar. I’ll hit the kitchen and fire up the stove. Call Shane and tell him to get his sorry ass over here right now. We’re gonna make a killin’.”
    Allison Strauss had gotten lupus from leaky implants her husband had given her as an anniversary present. By Kaitlin’s mark, the sore joints, occasional headaches and mild rash that Allie had endured were a small price to pay for the brownstone she’d landed in Philly with the settlement money, not to mention the fifteen-hundred-a-month compensation package and the funds to hire a kick ass divorce lawyer.
    Turned out, the settlement money wasn’t marital property.
    Kaitlin started slinging beers. The Kingston Trio, the Kelly twins, Fergus and his cousin Tom had all staked out their regular stools and were engaged in an intellectual debate. The topic was a familiar one.
    Mexicans.
    “Like fifteen of em,” Brian King was saying. “Moved in last week. All chatterin’ at the same time. Galack alack alack alack...”
    “You mean like Fergus?” Barton nodded toward Fergus McFadden, sitting at the end of the bar with his long hair hanging down over his face, muttering to himself.
    “Fergus!” yelled Brian.
    “Huh?”
    “Fuck you talking to yourself all the time for? What are you, goin’ schitzo?”
    “I heard ya,” said Fergus. “Mexicans. Where’d they move in?”
    “East Pratt. Supposed to be opening some kinda taco joint.”
    “No shit,” said Fergus. “Ma lives on Pratt.”
    “You’re mom lives on West Pratt, dufus.”
    “And, she’s a hoe,” added Barton Holt.
    “Hoe bag,” Brian clarified.
    “Fug off,” said Fergus, inspecting the swig of foamy beer still left at the bottom of his mug. “Kate, there’s something floatin’ in my beer. No shit. Can I get another?”
    Kaitlin topped off a Natty Light and slammed it down. “Two-fitty.”
    The hard part, Kaitlin realized, would be engineering a legitimate leak. Spontaneous leaks were a sure thing. Even leaks caused by accidents qualified. Case in point, Tammy Delgado had caught a slow leak as she was driving home from her shift at the Skylar up in Norristown. Dow paid out on her rheumatism claim despite the fact that the leak had been caused when she’d mashed her Toyota into a police cruiser while ripped on benzos.
    Intentional leaks were another thing entirely. Years before she’d hooked up with Derrick, Bambi had punctured hers with a syringe. Instead of starting a slow leak it caused a blowout. Figuring it was at least good for a ten-grand hit, she filed a claim. The problem was, when the Dow company doctor took a look, he could tell it had been an inside job and the poor kid had to jiggle it with one hooter until she could scratch up the cash for a new one. Blowouts were risky.
    Slow leaks were the bomb.
    “You do realize,” Milton announced. “That speakin’ Spanish don’t make em Mexican.”
    “Oh geez,” said Brian. “Here he goes.”
    Milton Holt was one of Skullduggery’s few high-school graduates, the Ambassador’s resident know-it-all and all around pain in the ass. The faded scar across his left cheek had appeared two years earlier when he’d started hanging at the Roadside Grill across town. Rough crowd at the Roadside, apparently. After only two weeks he’d returned to the Ambassador with a black eye, a fresh scar and a blessedly humble demeanor.
    Since then, all three had dissipated.
    “Point a fact,” Milton announced. “All the Mexicans ‘round here are Salvadorian.”
    “Where’s Salvadoria?” Fergus asked, carefully stacking two-fifty in change on the bar.
    “In Salvador, fuckhead,” said Brian.
    “No shit. Same difference. Either way we’ll be feastin’ on tacos.”
    “Not necessarily.” Milton jerked a thumb Brian’s way. “Assumin’ genius here knows Spanish when he hears it, then our new neighbors are probably Salvadorian. Ergo, they will likely not be opening a taco shop and instead will be opening what’s called a pupuseria.”
    “Puseria?” Brian snarled. “The hell is that?”
    “Of course,” Milton said, cocking an eyebrow. “For all we know it’ll be a pizzeria.”
    “Puseria.” Fergus snickered, pushing his stack of change forward. “Sounds like competition for ya Kate.”
    Kaitlin eyeballed the stack. “You’re short.”
    “And retarded,” Brian added.
    “My bad.” Fergus dug out another quarter and clinked it on top. “Keep the change.”
    “Yo, Baby Doll!” Barton bellowed, his wife on his lap. “When’s the next floor show?”
    Fer fuck’s sake, Kaitlin thought. She’d settle for a double blowout.
    A God-awful moan drifted down from above. Low at first, it built in intensity, winding up through the lower registers and tapering off to a shrill shriek before concluding with a loud crack! The entire bar was struck silent, staring at the drop ceiling.
    Derrick burst out of the kitchen. “The hell was that?”
    “The building settling?” suggested Brian.
    “Water in the pipes?” offered Barton.
    “Rats,” said Fergus.
    “Dumbass,” said Brian. “Ain’t a rat in the world big enough. Fuggin’ sounded like a two-ton banshee!”
    “Ever been to the kitchen? No shit. Seen a rat back there could fuck a Rottweiler.”
    The second time it lasted longer. Starting out with the same awful moan, it blossomed into the whiney creak of a wooden ship and ended in a series of small thuds like baby gorillas brawling in the attic.
    Kaitlin stepped up to the only one in the entire bar who seemed unfazed. “Christ, Milt. What is it?”
    “Well,” began Milton. “As you may be aware, water is dense as shit. Even when compared to some of your more viscous oils—“
    “Fucksake, Milt!”
    “Snow,” he said. “Twenty-four inches by now, puttin’ pressure on the rafters.”
    “The roof,” said Kaitlin, “Will it collapse?”
    “Well, if ya ask me—”
    “That lazy wetback,” Derrick cursed. “I told Juan to shovel the roof yesterday. He check in today?”
    “Snowed in,” Fergus informed him. “Got caught in the storm up in Phoenixville. Spent the night at the Motel Six.”
    “Fuggin’ Mexican,” Derrick muttered.
    “Interestin’ sideline here.” Milton pushed his mug forward. “Top me off, will you Katie? And stop me if I’ve told this before. Did a term paper back in Ms. Henry’s history class. The topic? Swear ta God, the Blizzard of 49’. Records are sketchy, a course, but back then it snowed for at least—”
    Kaitlin swept his mug off the bar and sent it crashing to the floor. She grabbed Milton by his shirt. “You pompous, shanty prick! Will ... it ... collapse?”
    It breaks down like this.
    A cubic foot of snow weighs in at around fifteen pounds. Double that to account for two feet of accumulation. Now multiply that figure by twenty-four-hundred square feet, the area of your standard stripper-joint. What you’re looking at is seventy-two-thousand pounds of pressure, all bearing down on the rafters. But, when you add the fact that this particular stripper-joint was constructed in 1904 by unemployed Irish coal workers whose only previous attempt at building rafters had resulted in a mine collapse, what you’re really looking at is what engineers call imminent system failure.
    So, yeah. It’s coming down.
    The next twenty minutes, however, were as normal as it gets mid-day in a strip club. The Kingston Trio continued debate on the origins of Salvadorian Mexicans. The Kelly twins resumed their argument about whether Superman had ever done it with Louise Lane. Fergus sat mumbling to himself at the end of the bar.
    Then it started again. The creaking. The moaning. Splintering sounds up in the rafters that had even Milton quaking. Just as the cacophony reached its crescendo, the door swung open and in stepped Shane Patrick Cole.
    “Fucksake!” he screamed. “Somebody toss me the shovel!”
    There was a loud snap! A section of rafter crashed through the drop ceiling and landed splintered on the bar.
    “Lord Jesus, Fuggin’-H-Christ!,” howled Fergus, swiping beer-soaked shards of mug off his shirt.
    Derrick tossed the shovel to Tom, who passed off to Fergus, who dropped it. Kaitlin snatched up the fumble and completed the play, lobbing it into Shane’s outstretched arms. Shane reached up and pulled down the ladder that led to the roof. Cocking the shovel over his shoulder, “I’m goin’ up,” he said.
    The cheer was deafening.
    The brave Skullduggerans cowered together at the bar, shouting encouragement as their hero scaled toward the roof. For reasons they would have trouble explaining later, not one of them thought to exit the building.
    In their defense, there were four things of which they were not aware. The first is the concept of maximum load, the static load rafters can safely support. The second is terminal load, the point at which static load exceeds tensile strength and rafters break. The third is the fact that the rafters above them were two-hundred pounds shy of terminal load.
    The fourth, however, and this is the kicker, is that Shane weighed two-hundred and eight.
    “Maybe ... we should ... go somewhere else,” sobbed Bernie Holt, clinging to Barton’s arm. “Saint Paul’s has got those gas heaters. Father Cavanaugh wouldn’t mind.”
    “Let’s everybody not panic,” Derrick advised, holding up a platter of food. “Shane’s got everything under control. Come on, now. Who ordered the wings?”
    “How ‘bout another round, Kate?” asked Fergus, dangling his shattered mug by its handle. “No shit. I only got a sip.”
    “Wings are mine!” someone yelled from the back.
    The way they would tell it later, it came without warning. While this is not entirely true, it did happen pretty fast. A section of rafter gave way, dropping a hundred years of attic debris straight to the floor. Two old water heaters. The Christmas display. Cast iron pipes stolen from a Holt Plumbing jobsite in 64’ when the Ambassador’s previous owners had intended on remodeling the john. And five-hundred pounds of assorted rubbish including two-years-worth of used fryer grease that the Coles had stored in gallon jars instead of paying Kelly Waste Removal to cart away. Unfortunately for everyone involved, much of it landed in a colossal pile directly in front of the door, except for the jars, which exploded on impact like mortars.
    Pandemonium ensued.
    There was yelling of course, screeching if you count Bernie Holt, and a mad rush by the Kingston Trio to clear the door, impeded though it was by the layer of grease now coating most of the floor. Their Three-Stooges styled rescue attempt concluded with Brian King out cold and the Holt Brothers in a low-crawling, marine-style retreat back to the bar after the three of them had back-flipped on the greasy floorboards.
    Every moron in the joint then tried to squeeze into the narrow space behind the bar. The thinking, apparently, was that the rows of delicate pilsner glasses dangling from the ceiling rack would provide shelter.
    Kaitlin hoisted herself above the hysterical mob.
    “Kaitie!” Derrick screamed as Kaitlin drop-rolled off the bar. “Where you goin’?”
    Kneeling before the striper pole, Kaitlin folded her hands. “Our Father who art in heaven. Hollow be thy name. Blessed are the sins of your fruit Jesus ...”
    “Everyone quiet!” ordered Derrick.
    “Forgive me not through your temptation. And please, Lord, get me outta here.”
    “Shaddup!” Derrick smashed a fifth of Johnny Walker Red against the wall, the sacrifice earning him a moment of silence. He pointed to the roof. “Listen!”
    The creaking had stopped. Nothing but the howling wind, Kaitlin’s whimpered little prayer, and Shane scrunching through the packed snow on his way to the top.
    Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch ...
    “Father, please don’t let the roof come down. I promise, Lord, I’ll never strip again. Move outta this sinful town.”
    Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch ...
    “All I need is the deposit money, maybe first month’s rent. Swear ta God, Lord, I’ll scrimp and save to get the bread. Work double shifts. Sell hand jobs on Main Street. Just don’t let this be the end.”
    Scrunch, scrunch ...
    “Deliver us from evil.”
    Scrunch.
    “Amen.”
    It came down like they do in the movies. All at once. The drop ceiling slammed down in one piece with the rafters layered on top and the snow supplying most of the pressure. The coal heater choked out. The lights flickered off.
    Except for the shallow breathing, the Ambassador went silent.

#


    Kaitlin was drifting into unconsciousness by the time she heard voices again.
    “Mira! Mira! Uno más! Justo aquí!”
    The pressure eased as, piece by piece, they yanked off the debris. Last to be removed from the ruins that had once been the Ambassador, Kaitlin was led through the ruble to the parking lot. The gang was all there.
    The Kingston Trio.
    The Kelly twins.
    Tommy Hearn and his cousin Fergus.
    All were nursing their wounds while listening to Shane recount his brave attempt at saving them. Kaitlin limped straight for her jeep.
    One of the Salvadorian Mexicans ran up. “Necesita ir al hospital?”
    “No,” she said.
    “Mira!” he said. “Es desigual!”
    “No probelemo,” she replied. “Got a spare key in the jeep.”
    “Es desigual,” he repeated, stepping in front and cutting her off, lifting his palms breast high and pulling one back further than the other. “You no ... you no ... you not even!”
    Kaitlin looked down at the miracle that had been her breasts. The left one was full, voluptuous as the day it had rolled off the factory floor. The right, a sagging mess.
    It wasn’t until she fired up the jeep that Shane looked up.
    “Katie doll, you O.K.? Where you goin’?”
    Kaitlin looked out at the snow covered town. So white. So pretty. Goddamn postcard picturesque.
    Smiling as she threw it in gear, “Philadelphia,” she said.



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