Clancy’s Dirty Dungeon was a thirst palace in San Francisco
before the war. It was two steps down from the sidewalk on a
sidestreet just off Market.
Clancy’s Dirty Dungeon was a thirst palace in San Francisco before the war. It was two steps down from the sidewalk on a sidestreet just off Market.
Duncan Mahoney, that’s me, had a cab stand out front. Me cab, I must relate, had steel I-beams for bumpers and so many traffic scars you couldn’t determine its make. But it knew the city.
‘Twas March 17. As I pulls into me stand, Clancy yells that I have a fare at the water front in front of the Seafood cafe.
Hastening there, I saw a red-headed guy in a black robe and a plowed face with an orange ring over the hairless area atop his head. His arm was out and up at a right angle while his finger tips waved at me.
Me brakes squealed to a halt.
“So sorry am I, Mr. Mahoney. I gave my last fin to a lady with two children. Hungry there were. Inside, they are having clam chowder. I so wanted to go to Clancy’s for a green beer.”
“Outraged I am,” said I. “Get in. Green beer indeed.”
Entering the Dirty Dungeon, three scribes from The Chronicle yelled in unison: “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Duncan Mahoney. Have a beer on the press; one for the priest, too.”
“Thank you, gents,” the robed one said. “My name is Patrick. No longer a man of the cloth. Doing time in purgatory.”
That brought down the house. The juke box was locked on “Danny Boy.” One of the ladies at a table called to Clancy, “Give him another beer. He must be parched.”
Two hard-looking galoots sitting in a booth were not amused.
‘Twas whiskey they were drinking. Suddenly there was a clamor at the door as four musicians came down the steps, set themselves up in a corner and began a session of old Irish melodies. There was an atmosphere of gaiety as the Dungeon began to fill.
After a time, the backbar mirror revealed one of the hard duet standing behind my guest.
“We don’t want no danged priests in here.”
I watched Patrick in the mirror. Pushing his glass back, turning his stool to the left and then he backhanded the guy across the face.
Spinning to the right, he backhanded him again. Around and back he went eight times until the tough guy sank to the floor.
“Now, you’ll know how to greet a man wearin’ the cloth.”
One of The Chronicle scribes came over and said, “Patrick is it? That was a damn fine exhibition of self-reliance.”
Patrick faced him with a grin. A shaft of light fell across him, and the writer grew somber and pale.
“Where do you hail from?”
“I was known as the apostle of Ireland. Born 385 years after Christ. On my demise at 76 years, I was offered a seat in the clouds or purgatory on earth. I chose the latter. No green beer up there.”
The reporter wiped his brow with a trembling hand, shook his head and said, “Well, I’ll be hornswoggled.”
The tough guy’s partner helped him back to their booth. I kept my eye on them. They stated at each other for a long time and then broke into long, spontaneous laughter.
The band played a cheery tune. Two girls took the boys; two others took Patrick and me. We did an Irish jig.
I had to go backstage a moment. Coming back, Clancy grasped me shoulder and proclaimed the Irish day to be the best he ever had and credited the guy with the orange halo for keeping it together.
There was a sudden flurry when people with white aprons and cook’s hats served corned beef and the vegees that go with it. The band stopped playing. The juke box took up with “Danny Boy” again.
When the feast was over, the band took its place again and slowly the dancing picked up.
Me friend, Patrick, was in demand. Each lady had to have a go at him. He was like a cartoon fairy – light and airy, constant smile, looked eye to eye while rocking his head and shoulders. It took only a moment to spot him; the orange halo pointed him out.
With sweat in his eyes, he sat down for a green beer which Clancy himself served.
“You’re a heck of a dancer for an old man,” he said.
“I’m not old. I’m ancient. No dancing in heaven, ya know. No floors on a cloud.”
As time went by, the hilarity subsided and the crowd thinned to a precious few. I always like the hangers-on. Patrick was dealing malarkey to a group. The band gave back “Danny Boy.”
The front door opened quietly as two of Frisco’s Finest eased in. ‘Twas Shenanigan and Murphy the nemesis of cabbies.
“Duncan Mahoney, Clancy,” Murphy said. “How was the great day?”
“Glorious,” Clancy said. “Peaceful, happy, good music, good food. Lotta credit to the old guy with the orange halo. What a saint.”
“Ah, so there he is. We came to pick him up,” Shenanigan said. “Had a pleasant visit with him this morning near the water front. Promised we’d give him a bed for the night. Not jail. We have rooms to tide people over.”
On seeing them, Patrick approached, shook hands with the officers and uttered felicitations to Clancy and me.
We stood at the door of the Dirty Dungeon and watched him sit in the middle of the back seat and wave with his finger as they drove away.
The next day, these officers followed me down Van Ness and pulled me over to say there was no evidence he had slept in the bed they assigned him.
