Michael Quinn

by Caleb Borne

  I shrugged with honesty. “You know Mama and Daddy make out the guest list, Butch. It’s just my job to show up, smile and be pretty. Then, as soon as it’s over, I’m out the back door and on my way to California!”

  Frowning, he asked, “Does your daddy know about that?”

  “Of course not, silly! He’d have a cow if he knew and he certainly wouldn’t be putting me in the Debutantes Ball. Don’t you say a word, you hear? If things don’t work out for me in Hollywood, I can always come back here, and I don’t want my reputation ruined.”

  Butch’s face crinkled. “I won’t be able to stop the gossips, you know, Katie. I mean … Hollywood and all ….

  “I’ll handle them, but don’t you be making my job harder, you hear?”

  Butch nodded. “Tell your daddy I’d sure like to get one of those invitations.”

  I stuck out my bottom lip and gave him a stare.

  “I know, I know. You don’t make the decisions. Well, tell him all the same, will you? And I hope you’ll come with me when we run Blue Boy at Keeneland next week?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Of course, it is. Will you be my date?”

  I pursed my lips. “I’ll think about it and let you know in church on Sunday. Now run along. I think that’s Sister June headed this way. I can tell by the way she walks—like a general.”

  Butch didn’t stick around to find out exactly what that meant. He didn’t want me getting in trouble and missing out on Keeneland. He fairly galloped to his car and leaped over the side, waving goodbye at me. I waved back. Butch was a great guy, but more like a brother to me than anyone I could feel romantic over. Anyway, I was headed to Hollywood to make my mark. I couldn’t afford to get tangled up with anyone who would get in the way. I was only doing the Debutante’s Ball to keep my mama happy, but then you’d never know who might be scouting for fresh talent and I wanted to be where people were young and beautiful.

  Daddy was picking me up since it was Friday and I always went back to Tipperary for the weekends. It was more routine than even going to church. I suppose for Daddy, Tipperary was a little like his version of church. Everything he loved had come from there, including me. He worshipped the stables and rode every day, even when he was sick. Not me. I loved Daddy, but he could keep all his horses as far as I was concerned. Oh, they were beautiful to watch, grazing behind the white, board fences but the smell of the barns clung to my nostrils and I couldn’t wait to get back to the house. Especially after the accident.

  Daddy had brought in new stock and wanted me to ride the place with him. It always made him feel good to brag about his animals. He’d given me Duchess to ride, even though she’d always had what you might call a bi-polar personality. It was one of her bad days and she was wild as the wind—and then had me on her back. Daddy had ridden ahead and I was fighting Duchess’ reins. She’d finally had enough and went vertical, throwing me. For extra measure, she’d kicked my leg and broken it. I remembered lying there, screaming and crying and Daddy never paid any attention; he was so caught up in what he was doing and Mama always said, drunk as a skunk. I’d been terrified of horses ever since.

  That said, I knew if you were going to be an actress that you must know how to ride. Elizabeth Taylor did it. Grace Kelly and Bette Davis both rode. It showed there was more to you than a pretty face and a wardrobe full of dresses that looked like cupcake frosting.

  “How’s my girl?” He always asked the same thing as he pulled up at the end of the sidewalk.

  “Fine, Daddy, how was your week?” I kissed him on the cheek and settled back to pretend I was listening as he told me. His stories were always the same; deals with rich men who thought they had him hoodwinked, but he’d known what they were doing and always kept the upper hand. I don’t think money meant a thing to him. He seemed to have fun talking about it.

  I hoped I could find a way to make some money when I left for Hollywood. They said it took some time to get discovered; like Lana Turner at the drugstore soda fountain. I knew Daddy would blow his stack when I left and he wouldn’t contribute a dime, hoping it would force me to come back home. I’d already counted on that. I thought maybe I could waitress. It wasn’t hard work and I’d pick a restaurant where all the big directors and actors had lunch. That way I could make money and a good impression at the same time.

  I also hoped I might find a boarding house with other girls who shared my dream. I’d seen that in a movie. In my mind’s eye, there I was, getting a phone call after an audition. It was my agent and he would tell me they wanted to sign me for an exclusive contract—immediately, before anyone else saw my unbelievable talent. Of course, my mind’s eye exaggerated. I expect it would take more work than that to make it big, but I was determined.

  Nothing and no one would stop me.

  Michael

  His nails tapped an irregular rhythm on my desk. I knew it was an attempt to control the conversation, so I just smiled into his stare.

  “You have an odd accent, Quinn. Where are you from?”

  “I be from Dublin City, don’t ye know,” emphasizing the melodic rhythm of my native country.

  He nodded. “I thought as much. I’ve been gone a long time, but some things you never forget. So, what do your friends call you?”

  “Me friends call me bastard, and they’d be right in that. Now me American friends call me The Mick.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?” At least the infernal nail tapping had stopped.

  I looked into his freckled fat face and shook my head slowly.

  He was taking shallow breaths, fighting for the control. It was obvious he was nervous, so I continued. “You can call me Mick if we’re to do business. Otherwise, Mr. Quinn will suffice.” I resumed the American accent with that last sentence. It made things very clear.

  He looked away, as though studying the heavy cherry paneling that lined my office. It was a move designed to buy time but when the nail tapping stopped, I knew I’d get my way. This was all for show; a pretense to make me think I was somehow … questionable.

  “Mick, I’d like you to take a ride with me,” O’Hara invited, and I knew I was right about winning. “Can you spare an hour?”

  “To …?”

  “Tipperary—that’s my farm. I believe men who do business together should know a little something about the man when he’s not in the office.”

  I gave him a low, slow nod. “I believe I could do with a bite to eat. Why don’t I treat you lunch and then we can take a look at your Tipperary? I’ll drive myself … just a quirk of mine.”

  He nodded, again handing over control—and to a much younger man. I don’t think the fool even realized it. O’Hara was not one of my people. He would have been one of the fat rich kids set upon by my friends when he asked to join the game of kickball. I could picture him lying in a ball, his hands protecting his head as he cried out for his poor mother. I generally felt contempt for his type, but in this case, that was not an emotion I could afford in business. Instead, I chose pity.

  We rose and I told Margaret, my secretary, I was leaving. She nodded, never asking when I’d be back. She knew better. Margaret never asked questions she had no business knowing. She waited for me to tell her when necessary.

  I signaled I would lead the way and walked up to my 1935 Mercedes Benz in its reserved, extra-wide spot near the door. I’d celebrated my first million by buying it; it was built the year I was born. My attorney, Saul Bloomstein, had a standing order to buy every one he could find. I intended to never run out.

  I pulled out of the parking garage up Third Street, taking him to a little diner squirreled away at the back of an alley. It wasn’t even a building of its own, but in a room made of add-ons from the buildings it adjoined. They were both office buildings, and when it came time for lunch, employees had distances to walk for a decent place to eat, making them inevitably late when there was a crowd. To solve the problem, the neighboring companies each donated half of the cost to build the
diner between them and let Ted, who was now long gone, run the place. Eventually, it became his, and now his son’s, also named Ted. I thought it a pity to be named after a diner because it made the legalities simpler. Regardless, I liked the atmosphere; noisy enough to cover your conversation and quiet enough to be heard, if you sat in the back booth, which was always reserved from noon until two, for me.

  We settled in, and I ordered corned beef with cabbage for the both of us. O’Hara’s finger slid along his shirt collar. That told me he didn’t care for cabbage, which made it that much better.

  “So, Mick, tell me, if you don’t mind. How did you make your money? I asked around, I don’t mind telling you. It seems to be a mystery.”

  “Then maybe I like it that way.”

  “Ah, I understand. A little below the table, eh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The waiter stepped up, the two plates in hand. He knew to wait until the right moment, so I’d never be interrupted. I’d seen to that, and the boy had seen the logic of it by the bills left for him on the table.

  O’Hara turned red. He over-stepped, and he knew it. He changed the subject. “I raise thoroughbreds, did I tell you that?”

  I stared at him, waiting for him to continue without any acknowledgment from me. I was building my superior platform from which to bargain.

  Clearing his throat, “Oh, yes, my pride and joy, except for my daughter, that is.”

  I pictured a younger, feminine version of his fleshy jowls and the dense freckles that gathered in places to look like discolored skin patches. I let him go on.

  “Bought a colt at the Keeneland sales two years ago. I’m going to run him tomorrow at their track. I think he has Derby potential. I would like you to be my guest. I have a box, of course.”

  A muscle jerked in my gut. I wondered if he knew my weak spot—horses. I had the eye for winners, sometimes legally and sometimes with a little help. That part of my boyhood had never left. I nodded. “I’d be honored.”

  He practically rubbed his hands together. “Post time is one o’clock. Ask for my box; anyone will know. Thank you for accepting. Do you like the horses … Mick?” He hesitated just slightly before saying my name. Being of Irish descent, he understood the slur an Irishman felt at being called that name, generally preceded by the descriptive term, “dirty.” That’s exactly why I chose to embrace it; to turn the tables, you might say.

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “Oh, wonderful. Do you enjoy riding?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, perhaps I shouldn’t press.”

  “Perhaps.”

  We finished lunch, and I left money on the table while O’Hara washed his hands. I followed him this time, to his farm. It lay on the main road between Louisville and Lexington, near Harrodsburg. The countryside there reminded me of home. Lush, green and of course, the white-board fences that kept the beautiful, galloping creatures safely in. I knew some of the horses were worth well into six figures. They proved their value at the tracks and then when a few years had passed, they were loaned out as stud or bred with mares at the owner’s farm. Every colt born was a Derby hopeful.

  It was a beautifully elegant, exclusive world and as different as was possible from the dingy, smoke-tinged brick streets outside my mother’s cramped rooms. She couldn’t afford much, and as it was, I didn’t question where she made what little we had. Naturally, I suspected it had something to do with the male callers who seemed to always show up when I was being told to go out and play with my mates. I reasoned, young and street-wise, that my own father had been one of them; as was my brother, Colin’s.

  Two years younger than me, I’d had to grow up quickly to look after him. Colin and I only shared a mother, but I never cared; he was my brother. He was sickly, often in bed for weeks at a time with the croup. He must have been pretty sick since Mother didn’t make him leave when her callers came. She hung a thick blanket over the doorway of our small bedroom and told him to go to sleep.

  I believed that Mother’s bawdy house upbringing was what made Colin turn bad. As he grew older, he was forever in trouble and it was up to me to bail him out.

  But now there I was, driving through a part of the world few outsiders ever saw. There were no apartments, no subdivisions, and no pavement once you left the highway. It was easy to mistake the farm manager’s house as the main house until you pulled into the long, dogwood-lined drive that curved back to the actual owner’s mansion. That was where O’Hara was taking us, and as promised, I followed.

  Beagles flooded his feet as he climbed from his sedan. O’Hara was wearing a tweed walking hat, and the impact knocked it to the ground. I was just stepping out of my Mercedes when a young woman came around the house, running up to him and rescuing the hat before pointing an arm and speaking to the dogs in a loud tone.

  Dressed in a slim wool skirt, she wore a short-sleeved sweetheart sweater, bobby socks, and loafers. She was very blonde, fair-skinned and had the most vivid blue eyes—exactly the color of the wild Irish forget-me-nots we called ceotharnach beag. You could have blown me over when O’Hara opened his arms, and she ran to give him a hug.

  Turning to me, he said, “Mick, I’d like to present my daughter, Kathleen. Kathleen, this is Mr. Quinn, a business associate of mine.”

  I wasn’t wearing a hat, so I held out my hand. When she looked up at me, her face fairly exploded with sunshine. Her eyes twinkled, and matching dimples set off perfect white teeth. Her blonde hair was tucked into a ponytail, and she gave me the briefest of curtsies. “How do you do?”

  She had finishing school written all over her. My millions had suddenly cleansed the dirt from my sooty Dublin hands.

  O’Hara’s chest had puffed out, and it occurred to me she was probably the only beautiful thing he’d ever contributed to in his life.

  “Katie, run along now and tell Mama to have George set another place at dinner.”

  His words startled me. “Oh, no, I don’t want to impose.”

  Katie looked up, and her dimples surfaced. “Mama will insist, Mr. Quinn. Daddy doesn’t often bring home visitors. She’d love to meet you.”

  I felt the heat in my cheeks and hoped it wasn’t visible. “Then, I accept.”

  “Oh, good. You look … hmm … interesting,” she gushed and turned away, headed to the entrance porch of the house. “Mama … Daddy’s got company for dinner. Set another place, George,” I heard her call out. There was no mistaking she owned the place, but even more amazing was that she’d been immune to whatever it was that made men fear me and back away. She was absolutely fearless.

  O’Hara shepherded me in the direction of the horse barns, not that it took much coercion. That said, I could feel the glow of Katie’s radiance still clinging to my back as we walked away. I allowed myself one quick glance, pretending to stoop to tie my shoe. Sure enough, she was sitting in a white rocker on the wrap-around porch, watching me. She caught me peeking and smiled with a wave. I pretended not to see and quickly got to my feet, nodding my head at O’Hara’s endless jabber.

  Kathleen

  The screen door slammed behind me as I ran up the stairs toward my room. I barely had enough time for a quick bath and a clean dress.

  “Katie?” my mama, Bella, called up the stairs. “Katie!”

  “What is it?” I leaned over the railing of the upstairs gallery; my blouse already flung off onto my bed.

  “Katie! You can’t go around dressed like that! Who is it your father has asked for dinner?”

  “Don’t be so old-fashioned, Mama. His name is Quinn, he’s doing business with Daddy, and he’s a dreamboat. That’s all you need to know!” I rushed back to my rooms, quickly running a tub of water. I hopped in and out, maybe being just a little liberal with the lemon verbena bubble bath.

  I jerked my pale blue seersucker from its hanger and laid it on the hobnail bedspread. I found a clean bra and panties in the drawer, and then furiously brushed my hair as I pulled the dress on, shifting the brush fro
m left hand to right. I chose white sandals, a bit of mascara and a pale pink lipstick that I dabbed and dabbed on with a tissue until it was barely still there. I’d washed my hair just that morning, so it was still nice and poofy. Kneeling on the settee Mama had beneath the window in the gallery overlooking the barns and back patio behind the house, I could see Daddy and Mr. Quinn there with drinks in their hands. Mr. Quinn was considerably taller, his hair black as night and he wore it a little longer than was the style with the front flipped audaciously to one side. His suit was expensive, and I stared a long time until I was sure there was no wedding ring on his left hand. Judging by the tiniest wrinkles I’d noticed at the corner of his raven-black eyes, I thought he might be about five years older than me. Judging by his car, he had all the money Daddy could ever want, so he’d give me no trouble. He was perfect! Best yet, no one I knew had ever mentioned his name. I loved Yankees, or whatever he was. He had a strange accent, and that made him all the more mysterious.

  “What are you doing, young lady?”

  Mama’s bark startled me. Turning, I saw her just cresting the top of the stairs. “You’re not to spy on your father and his guest like that. What’s the matter with you?”

  I motioned to her to come closer. “Look,” I pointed. “Isn’t he dreamy?”

  Despite herself, Mama leaned over my shoulder and looked down to the patio. “He’s not one of us, Katie. Your father would never approve.” She gave herself away, though, by looking longer than she had to.

  “Oh, Mama, don’t be such an old prude. You have to admit he’s handsome.”

  She took another look, nodding. “I will agree with you there, daughter. Look at the way he carries himself; as if he has the entire world at his beck and call.”

  “I know … isn’t it wonderful? I want him, Mama.”

  Mama pulled back from the window, dragging me with her by the shoulder. “You heard me. He’s not one of us. You can tell by looking at him, and I’d know about him if he was. Not only your daddy, but neither would I ever agree to it. Besides, you can’t just order him up like you do a new dress or a bottle of perfume. He’s a man, honey, and by the looks of him, he doesn’t follow anybody’s order. Now, you scat downstairs and see if George needs any help. He’s not used to company on Lilah’s day off. He’ll have his hands full.”