A Village Voice

by Brian Martin

  Their cousin had taken them up to Eamon Doran’s pub on Second Avenue, and after a few handshakes and introductions they were offered work on a construction site on the Lower East Side. Without a trade and without legal status (the brothers had skipped the Ellis Island formalities) this was about all they could realistically expect. They had been used to hard work at home, but what they encountered on the New York construction site was brutal. Long hours of back breaking, and often dangerous work. The pace at which people worked day in and day out just didn’t seem natural. Billy had vague plans about saving up money and heading to Hollywood to try his luck in films. Dan reminded him that Billy owed him one million three hundred thousand dollars and thirty seven cents and that he expected to be paid in full before Billy went off gallivanting to Hollywood. Dan and Billy had a deck of cards to amuse themselves on the passage over and Billy had proven himself to be the unluckiest card player on the face of the earth. As he would say himself, “Sure, if it wasn’t for bad luck I would have no luck at all.”

  Unlucky with cards, however, he was always quite lucky in love and it was this luck that he was counting on when he headed off for Doran’s on that first Saturday night in September. He had his eye on a young lady fresh off the boat from Limerick, they had exchanged pleasantries and he was determined to take their relationship to the next level and ask her to the pictures (movies).

  Dan would usually accompany his brother to Doran’s on a Saturday night, but he had strained his back again and needed to lie flat for a bit. He wished his brother good hunting and said that he expected a full report upon his return. Billy, indeed, hit the jackpot and got his date fixed for the following Saturday night, he even got a quick kiss on the cheek as they were leaving the pub. He did not get to walk her home as she was there with her two brothers who assured him that they would provide a sufficient escort.

  Billy was walking on air, as they say, as he headed back to the Village. He couldn’t wait to tell Dan about his good fortune. Maybe Maureen would have a friend and they could go bowling or something. Dan could do with a bit of cheering up, he was always a bit too serious and he needed Billy to bring him out of himself.

  Despite the warnings, Billy always liked to walk back downtown over by the Hudson River. It was out of his way but he enjoyed watching the river and passing the piers. It was around 14th Street that he heard the screaming. He could just make out two men who looked to be in the act of kicking a third man to death right down on the dock. The man on the ground somehow caught sight of Billy.

  “Please,” he cried.

  “Please, for the love of Jesus Christ.”

  Billy was torn. He knew enough to mind his own business, but this looked like more than just a row, these guys looked like they would kill this man. God help us, Billy actually thought about the Good Samaritan. He thought about the lives he had taken in Ireland and he thought that maybe God was giving him the opportunity to save one.

  “Hey, lads, back off for fuck’s sake. It looks like your friend has had enough.”

  The larger of the two men turned to face him, “Fuck off and mind your own business, you Irish prick.”

  The man spoke with a foreign accent. Billy had not heard the accent too often, but it sounded Polish to him.

  “Ah, now,” said Billy. As he approached the large man, he held his hands open at his sides, slightly raised in a non-threatening sort of way.

  The large man’s eyes opened wider and opened wider still when Billy kicked him in the bollocks with his size twelve workman’s boots. Billy followed up with a beautiful right that connected perfectly with the big man’s nose. What a story for Dan, he thought, romance, heroism, Hollywood beckons. He noticed that the man on the ground had taken advantage of the situation and instead of engaging the smaller of his two attackers had taken off running. Thanks a fucking lot, thought Billy. It was his last conscious thought; the smaller man had come up around behind him and plunged a six inch stiletto blade into his back. Billy died instantly and the two men kicked him and threw his body in the river, cursing him all the while in their own language.

  Dan had stayed up late waiting for his brother and was anxious to hear how he had gotten on. Maybe Maureen would have a friend. Eventually he had drifted off to sleep. The floor actually helped his back a bit. It must have been two or three in the morning when he heard the knock on the door. He was alone in the apartment when he opened the door. His cousin had gone out to visit yet other more distant cousins on his mother’s side out on Long Island. He saw a uniformed officer and what he assumed was a detective standing in the hall and his heart sank. Trouble, but what kind at this hour, oh sweet Jesus.

  “Dan Flanagan?”

  Without answering the question, Dan replied, “What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

  “Listen, Mr. Flanagan, came we come in? I am detective Robbins and this is Officer Malone.”

  Dan motioned them in and braced himself,

  “Mr. Flanagan I am afraid we have some very bad news.”

  The detective explained that earlier this morning a couple of guys returning from a night out had heard a splash and they went over and managed to pull a body out of the river. They found a name and address on the body and they had come round and woken up the building superintendent who told them that Billy lived up here with his brother and cousin. They wanted Dan to come down and identify the body.

  “Jesus, how did he wind up in the river?”

  “We are not certain just yet, but it looks like he was stabbed and thrown in. He still had his wallet with a couple of bucks in it so it doesn’t look like a robbery. Do you know of anyone that would want to harm him, was he in any trouble?”

  “Jesus, Billy!”

  “Sit down, Mr. Flanagan, have a drink or something. We know this must be a shock. Is there anyone you want to contact, a priest or someone?”

  “No, no one for now. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Listen, we’re going to take you down to identify the body and then we can give you a ride back here.”

  A part of Dan did not want to believe that this was true; he held on to the faint hope that the body would not be Billy, that someone had stolen Billy’s wallet and wound up in the river instead. He was afraid to ask the officers if they could describe the body. Afraid that they would describe Billy. Ah Jesus, what an end. In the fucking river, the fucking bastards.

  The next few days were the worst of his life so far. He had arrangements to make, all the practical details, all things he did not want to have to deal with. Phone calls to Ireland. Thank God their parents were not alive for this. Priests and wakes and whiskey. The only good thing he could remember was the conversation he had with a certain Detective Ryan at Billy’s wake. Ryan pulled him aside and after a few minutes, the connection was made. Ryan is a very common Tipperary name, but it turned out that the detective was related to neighbors of the Flanagans, he knew the brothers’ situation and he pledged his support in finding whoever had murdered Billy.

  “I’ll ask you one thing then,” said Dan.

  “When you find him, let me know first. I would like to have a word with him before he helps the police with their enquiries.”

  “If you are sure, I’ll do my best.”

  They drank a toast to Billy and to the Republic. Dan thought about Billy’s revolver tucked away in a corner in the basement of their apartment building and he began to feel just a little better.

  A couple of days after the funeral, Dan was returning home from work when he saw his cousin sitting on the stoop outside their building.

  “Listen Dan, there are a couple of fellows in that car that want to talk to you, they said it is about Billy. They are Italian fellows and they want you to go with them over to MacDougal Street and meet someone. They have a drinking club over there. I don’t think they mean any harm, if they did they wouldn’t have come to see me and explained.”

  At this point, one of the Italians was crossing the street toward the apartment, “Mr. Flanagan,
let’s go, okay?”

  Dan was of two minds. Maybe these were the lads that murdered Billy, but surely they would not have bothered to explain things to Teddy. Unless they wanted him to come quietly. Oh fuck it and fuck everyone.

  “Yes, I am Dan Flanagan and I would prefer to sit in the back, if it’s all the same to you.”

  He climbed in the back of the sedan for the short drive to MacDougal. When they arrived, he and the guy who had approached him got out. The door was opened for them before they got to it. His guide whispered a few words to the man at the door and they waited a few moments before being ushered to a small table in the back corner. The place was almost empty. A small dingy place, small bar, small bar man, one lonely patron peering at what looked like the racing page of the newspaper, radio playing, sounded like a football game. Dan took his seat alone at the table. His guide went over to the bar and the doorman went back to a seat by the window near the door. A door opened from a backroom; a middle aged guy about five-feet-nine, olive-skinned, wearing a cardigan style sweater and dark slacks approached him. Dan went to get up out of politeness assuming that this was his host.

  “No, don’t get up,” the man smiled.

  “We are very informal here, we are all friends here.”

  Dan noticed that the man did not introduce himself, he just sat down and started talking.

  “Mr. Flanagan, or Dan if I may call you Dan?”

  Dan nodded his assent.

  “Dan, first let me say that I am very sorry about your brother.”

  Dan nodded again.

  “Dan, it turns out that your brother was helping someone close to me when he was killed. This friend of mine was having a disagreement with some guys and he was getting roughed up bad when your brother came to his assistance. It seems these guys then turned on your brother and my friend got away. The thing is, Dan, that people who want trouble with me and my friends will surely find trouble and people who help us will find help. I have heard that you have been making enquiries about those responsible for your brother’s death. Well, I can tell you that that is no longer necessary. There were two men involved and they are no longer in the picture. You see, trouble finds trouble. As for you, I want to thank you for what your brother did for my friend. I hear that you are sleeping on the floor of your cousin’s apartment. Tommy is going to take you over to an apartment on Morton. It is vacant now and the rent is reasonable. You should have a place of your own. Also, I hear, you do that day laboring, construction. Go down to Pier 34 right down at the end of Charles Street and ask for Big Red. Tell him that you heard good things about him from some friends of yours on MacDougal. He will give you work with the longshoremen in the loft which is a lot better than what you got now. Just join the union and pay your dues, anybody bothers you come to see me here. Well Dan, I have enjoyed our conversation and I wish you well.”

  Dan had not said a word; he supposed that he had not been expected to. He thought about asking for a name and since it had not been volunteered, he decided not to pursue it.

  He stood up, shook hands, thanked the man and left with his guide, who hadn’t introduced himself either, but who he now assumed was named Tommy or at least answered to Tommy.

  The car was waiting for them around the corner. They drove in silence to Morton Street. When they arrived, Tommy asked Dan to wait outside. It wasn’t a bad building, not as attractive as some of the brownstones across the street, but not bad. After a few minutes, the superintendent arrived with Tommy. Tommy made the introductions.

  “Mr. Flanagan, this is Dominic, Dominic… Mr. Flanagan. Dominic is going to show you the apartment on the third floor. You should be all set. Don’t forget to go see Big Red about that job. Any problems drop by and see us over on MacDougal.”

  Dan took the apartment right away. It was on the third floor, had two bedrooms with windows facing the street, and the rent as promised was extremely reasonable. He arranged to meet with detective Ryan in Doran’s before he took them up on the job offer. Ryan reassured him that the job offer was very likely legitimate. It was not easy work, but it would be steady and better than what he currently had. However, Ryan counseled him that on no account should he have any further involvement with those people.

  “Don’t ever borrow money from them, no matter how tight things may get and never ever go to them for a favor. Once you are in their debt they own you.”

  “Am I not in their debt if I take the job?”

  “The job is payback to you for what your brother did. They want the story to get around that people who help them are going to be helped.”

  “That’s just what he said.”

  And so Dan settled into a new job and his new apartment. He took up with Maureen who had been kind enough to come to Billy’s funeral and they were married about a year later. They had four boys and two girls.

  Chapter Eight

  New York, 1920

  Dan Flanagan was on his way to work. It was his second week on the job and he was starting to get into the routine of it. He had gone to see Big Red and, as promised, he had been given a job on the docks as a longshoreman and, as promised, he had been getting work in the loft. It was hard physical labor all day long with only a short break for lunch but it was a million times better than the hole or the construction work he had been doing. The loft was relatively bright and you could see and breathe. The hole of a cargo ship was dark and damp and miserable. The guys down there were desperate and miserable too. He was able to walk to the pier from his apartment on Morton Street, just a good stretch of the legs as they would say at home. Most of the time, it was actually quite a pleasant walk although, as the winter set in, it could be damned nippy in New York. No snow today, thank God. Snow was great for kids but damned miserable to trudge along in if you were trying to get to or from work. Today was brisk. Dan had his collar turned up and his cap pulled down but the sun was shining. He rounded the corner and saw a group of men standing in front of the gate to the pier. They were being addressed by a tall curly headed guy standing on a couple of crates. He got close enough to hear. The guy was shouting,

  "Just enough, just enough! That’s what YOU get. You come down here, you beg for work and if you are lucky they pick you. You thank God or your lucky star. You go in there and you break your ass loading crates in a dark hole with no light and no air. You break your back and then they pay you. But what do they pay you? For an honest day’s work, do you get an honest day’s pay? No, no, you know what you get! You get just enough. Just enough to put some food on the table. Some food, so that you and your family doesn’t starve to death. You got a jacket and it’s old and worn and lets in the cold but it’s just enough, just enough to keep you from freezing to death in the winter (the speaker himself had on a relatively new looking navy peacoat and a woolen cap). Yeah, you break your back and you get JUST ENOUGH!

  "Are you tired? Are you tired of just enough? What do the bosses get from your honest day’s work? Do you think they are getting just enough? Do you think they know what it is to be hungry or cold? You walk to work, when they come around here they drive, you got your jacket with the patches and the holes, they got fancy overcoats and new hats. Their children are worried about what college they are going to go to, your kids are worried about whether their old man got a day’s work today.

  “Are you tired of just enough? The only way you are going to get your fair share is to come together with your brothers all across the country, come together in one big union, big enough to make them listen…”

  Right at that moment, Dan felt someone grab his arm from behind and lean in close.

  “Keep walking, Danny boy, walk with me now. This is very important, if you want to keep working here.”

  It was an Irish voice and it seemed friendly and sincere and urgent so Dan started walking through the gate, arm in arm with the stranger.

  “I’m going to laugh out loud and you start shaking your head like you can’t believe the absolute shite that fellow on the crates was talking
.”

  The stranger leaned in again, “For Jesus’ sake man, they’re watching you,” and he let out a loud bellow of laughter and Dan obediently shook his head for all to see.

  When they had passed through the gate, the stranger introduced himself.

  “Pat Whelan at your service, Dan. Red asked me to keep an eye out for you, try and see that you stay out of trouble.” Pat was medium height, stocky build, thinning fair hair and pale blue eyes. Dan always felt that you could tell a lot about a person from their eyes. In Pat’s eyes, Dan saw intelligence, good humor and deadly resolve.

  The kind of man it was probably best to be on the good side of, so he decided to play along as best he could and keep a firm grip on the wallet in his trouser pocket.

  “Well, Pat, I’m sure that I’m obliged to you. Was that trouble?” he said, glancing back toward the gate.

  “Yes, Dan, that was trouble indeed. Quite a few of the fellows at that gate were sent there to watch for who showed up, the fellows that showed up and stayed to listen will never see a day’s work here again. I’m glad I came along when I did. They will put your couple of minutes down to ignorance but for God’s sake don’t ever stop to listen again.”

  Dan and Pat arranged to meet for a pint that Friday night and Pat began Dan’s education on the way things were. The few friends that Dan had made in the pub talked of sports or news from home. His cousin has moved out to Long Island after the visit from the McDougal street lads and had not encouraged Dan to visit. Pat was the first person he met that seemed to understand what was going on and to take a real interest in his surroundings. Pat was from Kilmallock in County Limerick. Pat was a fellow Republican. He had had some unspecified trouble at home, had set off for New York in something of a hurry and had found work for himself on the docks. Big Red, the hiring boss, had some Limerick connections and Pat had been getting steady work on the docks for about a year. The morning they met, just before they parted, Pat had leaned in and told Dan to listen out for fireworks at lunch time. Dan wasn’t sure what he meant, but sure enough, he had just sat down on the edge of the pier to eat his sandwich when he heard gun shots. He looked across and saw two guys in overcoats blazing away at seagulls. They didn’t look like cops and yet they stood there firing away until they emptied their pistols, totally unconcerned like they were at a shooting range or like they owned the place.