A Village Voice

by Brian Martin

  Pat took a long sip of his beer and sat back to explain, “You see, Dan, those fellows are from the union. They came around and made some noise and got everyone’s attention. You thought just what they wanted you to think. By God, these fellows come down here and shoot off their pistols just like they own the place. And that, Dan, is because they do. They just want to remind everyone that they run things and that fellows like the chap outside the gate are outsiders, troublemakers.”

  “Were the shooters Italians, as well?”

  “Probably, but they have other fellows working with them from time to time, although never high up, never bosses.”

  “I was always told that the Irish run this city.”

  “Well, to a certain extent we still do. We still have Tammany and we took back the Mayor’s office from the so called Reformers, thank God. City Hall gives us the police and fire department and all the city jobs and that keeps us strong, but times are changing and I see the Italians more and more. We’re getting soft and already many of the Irish are moving out to the suburbs and moving up finding the American dream. Don’t get me wrong, we still have our own hard men, there are a few very likely lads in and around Hell’s Kitchen, but the Italians are different. The Irish have a reputation as fighters and brawlers, but the Italians bring things to another level. They will commit murder over relatively small amounts of money or over an insult and they will do it stone cold sober. They will also obey orders without question. Tangle with one of them and you find yourself facing dozens. They are moving in on gambling and unions, they are paying off the policemen who want the money to send their kids to college. They have it figured out, and I see a big future for them in this city. The trick will be to make enough money and get the hell out of here, before they take over altogether. In the meantime, you can buy another round. Teaching a thick Tipperaryman is thirsty work.”

  It was the first of many lectures that Dan received on what Pat liked to call “the way things are.”

  Chapter Nine

  New York, 1960

  On the occasions when he was home on a Sunday morning, Jim Flanagan liked to sleep late. His wife Jeannie would keep the kids quiet and then take them to eleven o’clock Mass. By the time they got home Jim would be up and he would fix them breakfast (although the kids insisted on calling it lunch having had their breakfast around eight thirty). Jim had just turned over and fallen back into a deep sleep, it must have been around nine O’clock, when he was gently shaken awake by his wife. His dad was on the phone and needed to talk to him right away. Okay, not good, his dad seldom called the house, which was fair enough as Jim kept very irregular hours. Something was wrong. He went down to the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  “Pop, you okay?”

  “I’m alright, I need to see you this morning. Be here at eleven. I’ll explain later.”

  “Do you want me to…”

  “Don’t talk, son, please just listen and be here at eleven. I need to see you.”

  Jim was going to ask if his dad wanted him to bring the car but clearly his dad didn’t want him to mention it.

  “Alright, Pop, I’ll be there for sure. See you then.”

  “Alright, Jim, see you in a little while.”

  Jim hung up and began to worry. He was not by nature a person who worried much about anything. He had never heard his dad sound like this. Why couldn’t he say anything, why not mention the car? His dad sounded like some of the guys he worked with, “don’t use the phone, but if you have to, say as little as possible, you never know who’s listening.” Oh God, I hope it’s not that kind of trouble. Jesus, what has he gotten himself into now? He thought about phoning his brothers, but assumed that if his dad wanted them he would have called them by now. He looked at the kitchen clock; he could catch a train and then take the subway but Sunday morning transit into the city from Queens could be slow. To be sure of getting there on time he would bring the car. Why didn’t Pop want to mention the car on the phone? Maybe he needed Jim to take him somewhere. It’s not a medical emergency, he has two sons living in the same apartment building, they could call an ambulance. He wanted Jim and he wanted the car and he was being cautious about what he said on the phone. Ah Jesus, this was trouble.

  Jim explained to Jeannie that he had to go see his dad right away and that he didn’t know what it was about. She said that she hoped everything was alright. She knew better than to ask any further questions and she never ever asked him when he would be home. They were way past that. She tried to always have a little something in the refrigerator for when he was home. In fairness to Jim, he would always either come home or call every couple of days and he was usually home on Sunday to spend some time with the family. When they got a babysitter and went out for date, they always had a great time. They would go to a nice restaurant in the city or to a show, sometimes they would even go dancing. Jim was still a handsome, charming guy and he provided well for his family, but she didn’t in her heart of hearts think they were going to make it long term. She worried about him when he wasn’t home and wondered what he was up to and who he was with. People in his line of work didn’t have great prospects. She wanted a more stable environment for the kids.

  Jim had run upstairs to change and had come back down in record time. He usually took a while to get himself ready. He liked to dress well and he had all these sayings, like, ‘clothes make the man’ and ‘look good to feel good.’

  This morning he had a tight fitting tee shirt and a pair of old pants. This must be an emergency. Jesus, men, Jeannie thought, and what trouble they bring to the world. She would say an extra Hail Mary for him all the same and for his dad, the crazy old Irish bastard.

  Jim hugged his wife and kids and set out for the city. Pop wanted him and wanted the car. They were going to need the car. Must be something outside the city, his dad had never learned how to drive. He had come straight from working on a farm in rural Ireland to living in Manhattan. He didn’t much like being driven around either. He used to say that they lived in the greatest city in the world, everything was there and you could get to everything by train. They used to ask him if he missed all the green grass that they had in Ireland. He would say if he wanted to look at grass he could go to Central Park. Jim thought about bringing a gun but then decided to leave it at home. No need to encourage the old man if he was angry. If they really needed one, he knew where he could pick one up in the city without any questions.

  He made it into the city in record time and actually arrived early at the apartment. He hoped he didn’t run into his brothers as they would insist on coming along and that may not be what his dad wanted. Then it occurred to him that his dad had chosen eleven O’clock because his family would all be at Mass over at St. Joseph’s. His dad opened the door before he had a chance to knock. He must have been watching from the window.

  “Jim, good man. Thank you for coming in.”

  “Of course, Pop. What’s the matter?”

  “Here, sit down, we have time for a cup of tea and then we’re going out to Long Island to see your brother-in-law, Lord Fauntleroy.”

  Lord Fauntleroy was the family nick name for Alexander Jonathan Fountainebleu, known to his friends as AJ and to the entire Flanagan family, with the exception of his wife Margaret, as Lord Fauntleroy. Margaret, ignoring the strong objections of her family, had married out. AJ was that very rare creature in their world, a genuine pure blood WASP. He was born and raised in Connecticut, went to prep school, graduated from Columbia and was a successful advertising executive with a firm on Madison Avenue. Along the way, he met and married a beautiful Irish American girl who made him laugh. His family were appalled but came to like Margaret; she really was beautiful, she was extremely nice and she made them all laugh, even AJ’s father who had not laughed at much of anything since the market crashed. The Flanagans had never liked AJ and still didn’t. He was an arrogant, spoiled, self-indulgent prick and they could see nothing but trouble ahead for Margaret. The only thing old Pop Flanag
an insisted on was that any children they might have be raised as Catholics. AJ wondered if this would impact their chances of being accepted at the right schools but he eventually agreed and the couple were wed. The wedding itself was what you would expect. Very few of AJ’s relatives showed up and those that did kept to themselves. It probably didn’t help when toward the end of the night people started signing Irish Republican songs. The Fountainebleus were proud of their English heritage. Their ancestors were Normans who crossed to England with William the Conqueror. The Fountainebleus had come to New England as part of the British administration and one of them had become a judge. Although their sympathies were Loyalist, like all good bureaucrats they managed to survive the general upheaval of the Revolution and keep their positions and land.

  AJ was expected to follow his father and grandfather into the law, but he astonished everyone by announcing that he had decided on a career in advertising. So far, he had done quite well, but his father still held out hopes that he would attend law school after he had gotten the nonsense out of his system. AJ really did love Margaret at first, but he loved her less after they had two kids and she put on a bit of weight; no matter how much he loved her, he had always loved himself more. He had become quite successful and was really quite good at what he did. It was the golden age of advertising and he was young, talented, good looking and he was making good money. He worked hard and he felt that he deserved to have fun. He deserved to spend some time with the young attractive girls at the office. The girls were willing, and as long as he paid attention to Margaret, and made sure she didn’t go without, what was the harm?

  This went on for a while and of course, Margaret began to have her suspicions. The ever increasing late nights at the office were beginning to get on her nerves. She usually didn’t wait up for him, but last Friday night she decided to wait up and talk to him about it. AJ was surprised to see her up. He had consumed quite a few martinis and had been out partying with a young secretary, finishing up the evening with a couple of hours in bed in an apartment he was renting in Chelsea. He shared the rent with another partner who was also married. They referred to the place as ‘the pad’ and it actually worked out to be cheaper than taking the girls to hotels. When Margaret asked him, why after a hard day’s work and an evening entertaining he smelled like he had just stepped out of the shower, AJ became belligerent and told her that he would not be badgered in his own home. He told her that although she was raised there she needed to take her mind out of the gutter. Well, that did it for Margaret and, as they say in the family, the blood of the Quinlans rose within her. Stung by his words, she slapped him quite hard across the face. She was surprised when he responded by punching her full force in the jaw and calling her a shanty Irish bitch. She fell to the floor and felt one of her teeth had come loose, she could taste blood in her mouth. AJ had the good sense to leave immediately. If he had stayed she would have gone straight for the carving knife in the kitchen.

  In the morning, Margaret took the kids to her sister’s place in Woodside and despite her objections, her sister Mary had phoned their dad. Mary’s husband Pat was six-feet-four and weighed about two hundred and forty pounds. He was a fireman and he was in great shape. Sound man that he was, he immediately volunteered to go see AJ and straighten him out. Mary made him promise to stay where he was and that her father would call him if he was needed. Pat had always liked Dan and all of the Flanagans. He knew how close they were; for a second he almost felt sorry for AJ. On that Sunday morning, AJ called Mary’s house looking for Margaret and he asked Mary to ask her sister to come home, that he was terribly sorry and that if she would just come home they could talk things out. Mary agreed to pass on the message, hung up and called her dad to let him know that AJ was at home.

  Jim had heard the whole story by the time he and his old man arrived in Forrest Hills. What he had not heard was what his dad intended to do about it. He assumed he was there to throw AJ a beating and he was really looking forward to working the punk over. He was working out just how to inflict the most damage without killing him when they arrived outside the house.

  “Drop me here and ride around the block or whatever they have here. Come back in ten minutes. You got your watch, yeah, ten minutes now, and bring this.” He handed Jim a brown paper bag. It was heavy and shaped like a very large revolver.

  Before Jim could think, let alone reply, his father had jumped from the car and was headed up the driveway. Jim did as he was told, looked at his watch and pulled away.

  Dan got to the door and rang the bell. AJ arrived at the door but did not open it the whole way. He stared cautiously at the old man. He had worried about the Flanagans arriving in force and he was ready to call the police at the first sign of trouble.

  “I’m here by myself AJ, not to worry. I was talking to Margaret and I just want to talk to you for a minute. Can I come in?”

  “Dan, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I was expecting Margaret.”

  “Just for a minute, AJ, I think we should be able to work this out in a way that Margaret will feel better about coming home. A wife belongs with her husband and the kids need their dad.”

  “Alright Dan, just for a few minutes, okay?”

  AJ opened the door cautiously and peaked around, half expecting the clan Flanagan to emerge from the bushes and rush the house. His grandfather had warned him that the Irish were a treacherous lot and not to be trusted. He did think to ask how Dan had gotten out to the house. Dan replied that a friend of his had given him a ride and that he would call for a taxi to get him back to the train station.

  Dan was wearing an old navy windbreaker which he had left open; he raised his hands when the door opened to assure AJ that he was not hiding anything in the jacket. AJ half-smiled and motioned him to come in. They were walking down the hall toward the kitchen when Dan turned back to him, “It has been a while since I was out here, I think it…”

  And then he hit AJ as hard as he could in the solar plexus. Dan was not in bad shape and this was a punch he had practiced all his life. AJ had the wind knocked out of him immediately and bent forward, doubled over gasping for breath. Dan hit him again on the back of the neck and knocked him to the floor. Before AJ could react, Dan had brought some masking tape from his pocket and had wrapped it around AJ’s head, covering his mouth but leaving his nose clear so he could breathe. Dan dragged him by the hair of his head to a kitchen chair, got him sitting down and taped his body to the chair, then his legs and his arms. The old man was ridiculously strong and oh God the bastard was treacherous, like his grandfather had warned. He was going to die, this crazy Irish bastard was going to kill him. He tried to scream and he tried to move but the tape held him in place.

  “Now, young AJ, I want your full attention. Nod if you can hear me. I said nod, you bastard.”

  AJ nodded.

  Dan took what looked like a sharpened toothpick from his pocket and a pair of pliers. “I am not sure I have your full attention.” Dan took the toothpick and shoved it under the nail of AJ’s left hand index finger. The pain was excruciating and AJ almost passed out.

  “Now, I’m going to ask you again, AJ. Do I have your attention?”

  AJ nodded more vigorously this time. At that moment, the doorbell rang.

  “Hold on there a moment, AJ, don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

  Dan rushed to the door and let Jim in. As he did so, he leaned forward.

  “Don’t speak, give me the package. Don’t worry, I am only going to put the fear of God in the bastard, I won’t hurt him much. Stay here and I’ll call if I need you.”

  Dan was back with AJ in less than a minute.

  “Right now, where were we? Yes, I was trying to get your full attention.” Dan took out the matchstick and shoved it under the pinkie finger of AJ’s left hand.

  AJ’s eyes opened wide and once more the pain made him light headed. He prayed that he would pass out and that when he woke up this nightmare would be over. Dan got a glas
s of water and threw the contents in AJ’s face.

  “I’ll bet you know what I’m going to ask you, don’t you, AJ?”

  AJ nodded a sad slow nod this time.

  “Okay then, I think we have established that I have your attention. Now that hurt a bit, didn’t it, AJ.”

  Another nod.

  “I want you to look at these pliers, AJ. Take a good look.”

  Dan held the pliers in front of AJ’s face. AJ closed his eyes and felt the fear rush over him.

  “I said, look, AJ. Have I lost your attention?”

  AJ forced himself to open his eyes.

  “Now given how much the toothpick hurt can you imagine how much it would hurt if I took this pliers and pulled out all your fingernails, one by one?”

  AJ nodded vigorously again and then began to shake his head.

  “Yes, AJ, I’m sure you would prefer that I not do that. I’ll tell you what, I’ll let it go this time, but if you ever strike my daughter again or any of my grandchildren, I will find you and I will rip every nail from your hands. We will go somewhere nice and quiet so you can hear yourself scream. Then, AJ, you will hear another sound, the last sound you will ever hear.”

  Dan produced the revolver and held it close to AJ’s ear.

  “Listen carefully now,” and Dan cocked the revolver. “Were you listening?”