Unraveling Yarns, Part 5 of 5: Twelve Pints

Feargus MacLeod has been fighting, and fighting, and fighting. It is all he is known for and all he is seen as. When he is removed from his war, he does not know what else to do with himself beyond drown his own sorrows. That is, until a deadly assassin darkens the door of his favorite pub.

The five parts of Unraveled Yarns have been collected in The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: Operation Arm Breaker, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

Twelve Pints is a standalone short story, but features characters from Operation Arm Breaker, The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden, The Case of Friendless and the Six-Toed Cat, The Man with the Silver Sword, and The Butcher and the Black Tide.

Content warnings: Minor swearing, violence, gun violence, alcohol use.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, NOVEMBER 25, 1942
Y PORTH RHYDLYD, CAERDYDD
CYMRU, THE UNITED KINGDOM

The first pint appeared just seconds after Fergus MacLeod had settled into his favorite booth at the Rusted Gate.

“Thank ye kindly, Bron,” he said. The little pub’s owner patted him on the shoulder and was about to attend to the other tables when a man near as large as the Scottish commando slid into the booth across from him, soaked to the bone by the chilling November downpour.

Hector Salcedo was not quite as tall as Loud MacLeod, but he was just as broad, with massive arms, legs thick enough to kick the lid off an armored car, and a mop of sopping black curls. His olive skin was about four shades darker than that of the Welshmen who usually occupied the Gate. He wiped the raindrops from his face and smiled at the matronly woman waiting on him.

“And fer ye?” she asked.

“The same, por favor,” he replied with a rolling flourish. His grin made both the waitress and MacLeod roll their eyes. “Gracias, mi amor.”

“She’s old enough t’be yer ma, Heck,” MacLeod whispered when she was out of earshot.

“You know I am un comunista,” Salcedo said. He watched the older woman squeeze behind the bar and pull a fresh ale from the cask.

“Keep tha’ doon,” MacLeod hissed. He looked around, but none of their few fellow patrons had heard Salcedo’s proclamation over the sound of a boxing broadcast. “Besides, what’s tha’ got t’do with anythin’?”

“As a communist, I share everything I have to give,” Salcedo said devilishly, adding: “You know, ‘from each according to his ability…’”

“I’d prefer shillings,” the waitress grunted, making Salcedo jump in surprise. She set his pint down with a little splash and wandered away. The old comrades managed to hold in their sputter of laughter until she got back behind the bar.

They finished their first pints talking about the weather. MacLeod, from the Highlands, found it very agreeable. Salcedo, though he had not been home to Valencia in four years, described it as ‘horrid.’

“Ye heard from any of ye kin?” MacLeod asked after a moment, once they had their second pints in hand.

“No,” was all Salcedo wanted to say. Another sip of the half-warm, half-flat cask ale loosened his tongue. “My father wants nothing to do with me. Nada. He still lives there, on the farm. I do not want to draw attention to him by forcing it.”

“Attention from who?”

“There is a reward for my death,” Salcedo answered. “I do not want them to involve my family.”

“A bounty? Lord Almighty, Heck.”

“The Germans have a price on your head, no?”

“Nay, nae a price high enough t’give anyone new ideas,” MacLeod answered. “Any bugger huntin’ me now already was.”

“Not to brag, but my price is fairly impressive,” Salcedo said. He smirked at the Scotsman across from him. “They are offering salvation. A ticket to heaven, the whole bit.”

“‘Salvation?’” MacLeod scoffed.

“Father, son, y las demás,” Salcedo chuckled. He took another slug from his glass.

“Ye must be bloody daffin’’ me,” MacLeod scoffed.

“Well, the Catholics seem perfectly happy under Franco’s thumb, so…” Salcedo offered with a shrug.

“This is about the churches,” MacLeod groaned. “It’s always about the bloody churches.”

“So I helped burn a few churches,” Salcedo muttered.

“Ye lot burned twenty-thousand churches,” MacLeod pointed out.

“¡No todos a la vez!” Salcedo snapped. He pouted and downed the rest of his pint in one gulp. “I was only there for four or five.”

“Photographed, if mem’ry serves,” MacLeod pointed out.

“I did not ask to be put on the front page of la Batalia,” Salcedo grumbled. He sat up in his seat and stretched his neck, looking for Bronwen.

“So it was nae bumpin’ off that major that put a price on your head?” MacLeod asked.

“Sinceramente, nobody minded him,” Salcedo said with a shake of his head and a hand over his heart.

“And it was nae the bridge.” Another denial.

“Or joinin’ the Office?” That wasn’t it.

“And it was nae the judge?”

“Not him, either.”

“And nae the professor.”

“Well, I was there, yes, but he fell off that balcony on his own,” Salcedo objected.

“Lucky break. But after all this soldierin’ and killin’ all over the bloody world, pokin’ Nazis and monsters and murderers right in their blasted eyes, what ye are tellin’ me is that ‘tis the bloody Catholics that want ye dead most of all,” MacLeod concluded.

“Looks that way,” Salcedo admitted.

“Well, cheers to you and to the bloody Catholics,” MacLeod said. He held up his glass, only to realize that Salcedo’s was empty. He shouted loud enough to rattle the rafters: “Bronwen, me dear, let’s have another!”

Their pints arrived quickly, and MacLeod clinked glasses with Salcedo and drained his drink, then got a healthy slurp from his next to catch back up.

“Cannae have a half-pint Spaniard ahead of me in cups,” he belched.

“Half-pint? What have you got, two centimeters on me?”

“At least three.”

"Of course, Annie,” Salcedo snickered.

“‘Annie?’” MacLeod roared. He shook his head so his crimson locks flew about. “Do ye see a single bloody curl on me head?”

The old miners looked up from their drinks for a second, shook their heads, and went back to it. They were used to him at that point. Bronwen rolled her eyes from behind the bar.

“Ah do nae look like Little Orphan Annie,” MacLeod grumbled to himself.

“No, no, no, of course not,” Salcedo said, hiding his smile behind his beer.

They drank in silence for a little while, listening to the rain pound against the walls of the old pub. The building had been standing for four hundred years, and Macleod expected it would stand four hundred more. The Blitz hadn’t scathed her, and she’d survived worse.

“Where were you, Norway?” Salcedo asked.

“Aye,” MacLeod said with a nod. “The krauts were cookin’ up some right nasty beasties.”

“What did you end up calling them?”

“‘Trench sharks,’” MacLeod answered.

“Right, right. Very evocative.”

“Have ye met Castaño yet?”

“Not yet,” Salcedo replied. His finished his pint and waved at Bronwen. She ambled over with a fresh glass for each of them.

“Ye’d like Castaño,” MacLeod assured him.

“Why is that? Because we both speak español?”

“He do nae speak a word of it,” MacLeod replied. “No, because ye both right puds. Though ah will say, his shoulder chip’s more pronounced.”

“What’d the krauts do to him?” Salcedo asked.

“Oh, they took the whole bloody shoulder, and his whole bloody arm along with it,” MacLeod said. Salcedo sat stunned for a second.

“Yes, I see. That would certainly make for a healthy grudge,” he said after a moment.

They both waited and watched the other, bottled up, unsure if they were going to guffaw or down their full beers in memory of Quint Castaño’s late arm.

In the end, they did neither and continued to sit quietly.

The Rusted Gate was frankly a droll pub when football wasn’t on the radio. It was populated by old factory men with a lot of ideas about the war and modern society that they kept to a dull murmur. They did not bother MacLeod with these thoughts. The thick door blocked out all of the road noise and the blackout curtains cut off whatever was left of the outside world. It was like being in a bear den in the dead of winter. The place was a far cry from what either of these men experienced the rest of the time. MacLeod was no Welshman, but he felt at home there. He drank his ales, rarely caused a ruckus, and treated Bronwen with respect. They made him feel at home. The Gate was both bicycling distance from his assigned quarters and a world apart from the Office. It was exactly what he needed sometimes.

“So where next?” Salcedo asked after a long contemplation of the meager suds in his his glass.

“Ye remember Pettlebaum?” MacLeod asked.

“Ezra? Of course, he was a tough one,” Salcedo replied. He tapped his face, reminding MacLeod of the black eye that Pettlebaum had given him during training.

“He threw a bugger of a sucker punch,” MacLeod said with a chuckle. He sipped on his ale again.

“‘No such thing as a sucker punch…”” Salcedo said.

“‘…because there’s no such thing as a fair fight!’” they shouted in unison, repeating the lesson Dangerous Dan had drilled deep into their heads. The old men around them glared over their shoulders, unaccustomed to raised voices in the Gate when the Corries were not on the radio. MacLeod grinned and waved an apology at the old grumps and they went back to their drinks.

“So what is Pettlebaum up to?” Salcedo asked.

“The jerries got him,” MacLeod said. The smile melted off Salcedo’s face. “He was on the job in Prague. Some monstrous bastard found him out. Twas horrible, from what we found.”

“Jesus,” Salcedo hissed under his breath. He looked up and caught MacLeod with a raised eyebrow. Salcedo shrugged and took another slug of ale, muttering: “Old habits.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, listening the old men murmur and the building creak. Salcedo stared into his ale. The pub’s door opened and closed, sending ripples through the golden liquid. He threw the rest of it back.

“You know who did it?” he asked.

“We think so,” MacLeod replied. “Carbonneau’s puttin’ together a team to tip them back. Ah volunteered.”

“Good,” Salcedo said. He sighed into his empty glass. “My new assignment starts soon, otherwise…”

“Ah know,” MacLeod said. “This bloody fawkin’ war.”

“This bloody fawkin’ war, indeed,” a man chuckled. They both jumped, surprised to find a wiry Irishman standing over their table. He shrugged out of a dripping yellow slicker and hung it off MacLeod’s booth seat. His blue eyes crinkled as he smiled, but they watched both officials like hawks’.

“We were talkin’ privately,” MacLeod said.

“I’m sure ye were,” the stranger told him. He rolled up the sleeves of his dark green sweater, revealing arms coiled with muscle and engraved with old scars. “But ye lads got room for me an’ Bas, don’t ye?”

“Bas?” Salcedo asked. He leaned over to look past the standing man. A gigantic, sopping hound had taken a seat between their booth and the door. It had to weigh fifty kilos. It snorted then shook out, spraying down the walls, and ceiling with filthy rainwater from its curly gray hide.

“Oy!” Bronwen shouted from behind the bar. “No dogs in the Gate!”

“Dear, why don’t ye let Bas worry about ‘imself and pour me and the lads some fresh pints,” the Irishman replied. He stretched, his hands nearly brushing the low rafters. His sweater came up, revealing a Luger tucked into his trousers.

MacLeod and Salcedo looked at each other, then back to the stranger. He was too far to grab, and too close for his shots to miss.

“What do ye want?” MacLeod asked.

“Oh, just a few pints, boy-o,” the stranger answered.

“We don’t tolerate foolishness here,” Bronwen objected. “Ye’ll have no pints drawn under this roof.”

“Ye best see to those bloody pints, ma’am. Ye don’t want me to find other ways to amuse meself, a can assure ye of that.”

“Want me to fetch the bobbies, Bron?” one of the regulars asked. The goat-bearded old man looked so ancient that he might’ve sat out the last war, too. As soon as his chair scraped against the floor, Bas’ lips curled back. His growl echoed through the small pub like a truck motor, and his yellow fangs looked as long as framing nails.

MacLeod looked at Bronwen and shook his head. She knew enough about him to know that he could handle this. She took a deep breath, smoothed her apron, and forced a smile.

“Keep to ye business, Cy,” she said. The old man settled back into his seat and Bas laid down on the floor. Bronwen’s gray curls wobbled with barely contained fury. “Rydych chi'n cadw llygad arnyn nhw, I’ll see to getting these boys a fresh pour.”

The tottering geezer sat back down, glaring.

“Thank ye, ma’am, Cy,” the stranger said. He nodded to Salcedo, asking: “So, are ye goin’ ta make some room?”

Salcedo snorted, but a near-imperceptible nod from MacLeod convinced him to relent.

“Have a seat,” MacLeod offered, scooting over to the inside of the booth. The Irishman slid in next to him. Up close, the stranger was younger than he looked. His face was wrinkled, not from years but from harsh living. A mop of black hair tumbled out from under his sock hat. The pints arrived as he settled in.

“Ah, perfect,” he said. He took a long sip, getting suds in his mustache. He slurped them out with practiced ease.

Salcedo looked like he wanted to feed him the pint glass.

“Drink up, lads,” the Irishman said. He kept one hand under the table, clutching the pistol. Of the three, only the stranger indulged.

“Do ah know ye?” MacLeod asked after moment’s staring. “Ah know most every man with the bollocks to take on a contract this heavy.”

“Now you know another. But ah’m not after ye, Red,” the stranger replied. He nudged Salcedo. “This is me lad, right ‘ere”

“The bloody Catholics,” MacLeod sighed.

“Not me, but me ma,” the stranger said. “Now, bottoms up, ah’m nae doing tae deny any man ‘is last drink.”

Salcedo lifted his glass. He briefly considered trying to smash the stranger’s face in with it, but he sipped it instead. Both he and MacLeod knew that there was no way everyone in the Gate would end up unscathed if bullets started flying. They took healthy gulps and gingerly set their glasses back down.

“You cannot spend it, you know,” Salcedo told him.

“Ah cannae spend an indulgence?” the stranger asked. “Ye know, that’s exactly the same tack me ma took to get me on this job. ‘What good’s cash to ye when ye burnin’ in the pits o’ ‘Ell, lad?’ Just like me ma. Word-for-bloody-word.”

“Your ma sounds like a smart woman,” Salcedo offered.

“Do nae give ‘er that much credit, ‘Ector,” the stranger said. “Twas ‘er idea that put me on ye. Between the tree of us, ah think she’ll keep the indulgence for ‘erself. She’s done plenty tae upset the church, and ah ‘ave plenty of time to earn me own.”

With that, he took another slug from his pint.

“Ah’m tired, lads,” he said to the tabletop.

“We all are,” MacLeod offered.

“Ah’ve seen me share o’ blood,” the stranger sighed. “Buckets an’ buckets o’ red.”

“Even a drop is too much,” Salcedo replied.

“Imagine ‘ow many drops ‘twould take t’ rune this little pub,” the stranger said. He picked up and downed his glass in one frankly impressive go.

“No need tae get nasty, Mister…” MacLeod offered.

“O’Laughlin, Murphy O’Laughlin,” the stranger said. His wide grin flashed ivory below his black mustache. “Recognize it? Nae? That’s fine. But ah doon intend t‘get nasty. That’s up to ye lads.”

“And what can we do for you?” Salcedo asked. He was coiled as tight as a cobra.

“Well, ye could jest make it easy, Mister Salcedo, and walk on out o’ this delightful pub with me an’ ol’ Bas,” O’Laughlin offered with a shrug.

“Then what?” MacLeod asked.

“Mister Salcedo gets to visit ‘is ol’ mates in Seville, me ma gets ‘er peace o’ mind, and ah get t’take a real contract.”

“Seville, not Madrid?” MacLeod asked.

“Sí, he is not taking me to Franco. Sevilla is the headquarters of la Inquisición. His calificadors are there.”

“Lord Almighty. Do ye know what they intend for him, Mister O’Laughlin?” Macleod demanded.

“All manner o’ nastiness, ah presume,” O’Laughlin said, his voice dryer than his ale. He smacked his lips and spun the empty glass on the table.

“They are no men of God, they are butchers,” Salcedo told him. “They pierce, break, cut, and burn. Mis camaradas have died at the ends of their ropes, on their wheels, in their, eh, doncellas de hierro. When only skin and meat is left, they parade them around the countryside, pinned up like wolf hides.”

“Ech,” O’Laughlin groaned. He toyed with his glass, annoyed that it was still empty,

“Ah thought ye tired of bloodshed, Mister O’Laughlin,” MacLeod said. “Ye’ll be handing a man over to monsters.”

“That’s bloody rich, boy-o,” O’Laughlin muttered. “Ye know ah ‘ave ‘eard what ‘e ‘as done. If the Catholics are bloody monsters, what do ye call an assassin an’ a church burner?”

“I did what I felt right,” Salcedo offered. “No one died in those fires; it was only wood that burned. But our choices are shaped and limited by war. Right and wrong are different from how they should be.”

'“‘War’ is ye defense?” O’Laughlin chuckled.

“I did not choose my missions,” Salcedo replied.

“Ye can no’ blame another for the results of ye deeds,” O’Laughlin said. “That’s why me an’ Bas claim no flag.”

“So ye can hand him over tae the fawkin’ Inquisition, and ye hands are clean?” MacLeod snarled.

“Shut ye gob,” O’Laughlin mumbled.

“Bron!” MacLeod shouted. He lifted his own glass and drained it. “Bron!”

“What?” the bartender squawked. She hastily slid a kitchen knife under her apron.

“No need for tha’, dearie,” MacLeod told her. O’Laughlin twisted around to see what she was up to. Salcedo could have slammed his head down on the table right then and there, but MacLeod flashed him the Office’s ‘all’s well’ hand signal, a quick drag of his thumb down his cheekbone. Salcedo clenched his jaw, but he trusted his comrade. He chugged down his ale as well.

“Grab us another round, would ye?” MacLeod asked.

“Cheeky,” O’Laughlin muttered.

“On us,” MacLeod assured him.

Basil rumbled as Bronwen ambled over with the three pints, but stayed where he was by the door. She set them down on the table, her movements stiff as a old marionette, and took up their empties.

O’Laughlin picked up his pint and examined its color and bubbles in the light then switched it with Salcedo’s.

“No need for tha’, either,” MacLeod said. He grabbed Salcedo’s new glass and downed a confident slurp. “No tricks.”

O’Laughlin smirked and took a sip.

“The mad thing about ale is that ah could drink a dozen-and-an-’alf in a go,” he said after wiping his mustache off.

“Why is this funny?” Salcedo asked.

“Because, lad, the ‘uman body only ‘olds twelve pints o’ blood. Tha’ makes me more beer than blood at the end o’ a session.”

“Ah never thought of it that way,” MacLed said. He swirled his drink in the glass, bringing a fresh crop of tiny bubbles to its surface. “Always preferred ale to blood meself.”

“Aye,” O’Laughlin said. “A man kin only see so much red in ‘is life. No matter where ye go, who ye bleed, ‘tis all red.”

“Where have you seen action?” Salcedo asked after a moment.

“All over, boy-o,” O’Laughlin replied. “Greece, Lebanon, France, Belgium, Florida.”

“Florida?” Salcedo said.

“Aye, Florida,” O’Laughlin confirmed. “A nasty bit o’ action there. But, ‘tis all the same, no matter where ye be.”

“So why nae just stop?” McLeod wondered.

“Stop?” O’Laughlin chortled. “An’ do wha?”

“Ye sound an experienced mud-stomper,” MacLeod offered. “All manner of people need ye kind o’ help right noo.”

“Jes kill for a different banner?” O’Laughlin said. “Ah told ye, me an’ Bas ‘ave no flag.”

“Except for ye ma.”

“Aye, me ma. She fought for ‘erself for time, then tried it for a flag. Now look at ‘er. Two bloody stumps for legs. Not tha she did nae earn ‘em. She was a right ‘arridan in ‘er day.”

MacLeod caught O’Laughlin staring into his glass. He tapped his eyebrow twice. Salcedo brushed his chin, asking for confirmation. MacLeod repeated the signal. They could stand down.

“Sounds like me ma,” MacLeod said. “A mean old bird.”

“‘Mean’ ‘ardly covers the first chapter,” O’Laughlin grunted.

“Mine would make us sleep outside if we misbehaved,” Salcedo offered.

“Aye, and mine had a stew spoon that she could bring around faster than a bullwhip. Split me eyebrow once, she did.”

“Me ma used me buggy as a distraction and shot an inspector in front of me when I was tree years of age.”

Salcedo and MacLeod looked at each other, then raised their glasses.

“To Maria Olvida Salcedo.”

“An’ Sorcha MacLeod.”

“Gladys O’Laughlin,” O’Laughlin concluded. They clinked their pints together and drank deep.

They sat in a silence for a while before O’Laughlin cleared his throat, declaring:

“Ah ‘ave been from one end of this bloody planet to th’ other, so trust when ah say that Wales has awful weather.”

“I was just telling him that!” Salcedo said.

“Ah’ve seen worse,” MacLeod mumbled.

“Sure, we all ‘ave, Annie,” O’Laughlin said, grinning at MacLeod’s scowl. “But this is nae dangerous, tis…”

“Nasty, dreary,” Salcedo offered.

“Aye and aye!” O’Laughlin said, bouncing n his seat. “All the nastiness o’ bad weather, but nae dangerous enough t’be excitin’.”

The three killers sat and talked for another two hours. Neither official made a move when O’Laughlin holstered his pistol. Basil eventually wandered over for scratches behind his giant floppy ears that Salcedo was more than willing to provide. The hound got a few more from MacLeod then went and laid down in front of the wood stove by the bar. Bronwen had to be careful not to trip over him whenever she had to bring out fresh pints.

It was well after dark when O’Laughlin and Basil wandered out of the Rusted Gate’s front door. He stuck Salcedo and MacLeod with the tab.

Like what you read? Buy me a beer or @ me about it.

Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres.