A Harsh and Private Beauty

by Kate Kelly

  Growing up, Daniel is quick with numbers. At six, he can work out the odds for his father at the local betting house. Annie has no worries about tucking a list and money into his pocket for the butchers. “Now remember, Danny, the best of corn beef Mr. Marlow has and four pieces of gammon. And check your change before you’re leaving the store.”

  “Yes, Ma, I know. I’m not an imbecile!”

  “And if you come across Michael, send him home, the toe-rag. I don’t know what I’ll be doing with that brother of yours.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about him, Ma. He’s a one of a kind who emerged from a broken mold!”

  Annie laughs and ruffles Danny’s hair, “You’re a dandy. What would I be doing without you?”

  Daniel has inherited his father’s love of words and his tenacious sense of humour, and his mother’s striking blue eyes and black hair. He adores his big brother, who accepts the hero worship as an older brother’s right. Michael is twelve, loose in his skin like a lanky horse and bursting toward the future with the enthusiasm that comes with a new country, anxious to test himself, anxious to scratch the maddening itch of ambition that has settled on him like an affliction.

  Daniel trails after Michael his pursuit relentless, when he can find him that is.

  “And take your brother with you!” This is Annie’s constant war cry; the worst thing Michael can hear. “At least he knows better than to be getting into trouble.”

  Michael slips from the house like a ghost, hoping that his mother—busy at the sink, or the stove, or the sewing—won’t lift her head at the last moment, calling after him. It’s a sixth sense she has. Shaking his head at the door, his freedom in sight, Michael sighs. His father is right—she’s got eyes in the back of her head! “Do I have to take him, Ma? He’ll only be in the way and I can’t be watching out for him.”

  “You’ll take your brother and you’ll watch him or, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’ll be getting the back of my hand.”

  “Oh, come on then, Danny.” Michael waves, his body tight with frustration. “And if you’re causing any problems, I’ll skin ya’ alive.”

  Daniel runs after his brother, pretending not to notice the resignation in Michael’s eyes. “I’ll be so good you won’t even notice I’m with you, Michael.”

  MOST MORNINGS, Michael leaves for school with Daniel, but he seldom makes it as far as the school grounds. The lure of the street and his best friend Vincent Ducci—who at thirteen has all the makings of a gangster—are too enticing for Michael to ignore.

  Pulling off his school tie and ramming it into his back pocket, Michael turns to Daniel. “All right boy-o, I’ll see you at home.” Scanning the street for Vincent, Michael has already forgotten his brother’s existence. It takes him a few minutes to realize that Daniel is following him back toward the tenement. “Danny, get going!” Michael points toward the school. “You’ll be late.”

  Daniel stands his ground. “But I don’t want to go to school. I want to stay with you.” Rushing to make his case, he continues: “I can help you find Vincent. There are too many streets in Chicago for one person.”

  Michael, laughing, ruffles his brother’s hair. “No, Danny. You can’t come with me. You’re too small. Little boys need to be in school.”

  “But I don’t want to go to school.” Danny repeats what he’s already said, but this time with a whine, kicking at the ground in frustration.

  “Danny, I’m not going to tell you again. If you don’t get going, I’ll march right back home and tell Ma that you’re playing hooky.”

  “But you’re playing hooky too. How can you tell Mammy on me? You’d be telling on yourself! Besides, I hate school.”

  “No, you don’t.” Michael grunts. “You love school. You’re good at it. You get all your sums right—you’re the shining star of St. Pat’s. I was never good at sums. I can read and write as good as anyone and that’s all I need.”

  “Michael!”

  Turning, Michael waves at Vincent Ducci, who is coming down the alleyway. Vincent is big and dark, moving toward the boys and brimming with the mischief of his age. He has taught Michael all the swear words in Italian and how to toss for pennies. Michael can’t help smiling at his approaching friend. Then he looks back at his brother, whose eyes are swimming with disappointment. “Get going now, Danny,” he says impatiently, pushing him in the direction of the school. “You’ll have to run now to make it on time.” He pushes him again. “Now get going. If I hear you’re late I’ll tan you black and blue.”

  Daniel shrugs and turns slowly, moving in the direction of St. Patrick’s.

  “Get going now!” Michael calls again, prodding his brother into a slow jog. “And Danny?” Daniel turns, his satchel swinging against his legs. “If you get all your sums right, I’ll take you to the White Sox game on Saturday. You can look through the fence with Vinny and me!”

  Daniel smiles, the disappointment of a moment ago forgotten with the promise of the White Sox.

  “Your brother’s gonna be late for school.” Vincent Drucci says, sidling up to Michael and watching Daniel weaving through the early morning pedestrians.

  “It’s nothing new. He won’t catch too much for it though. He’s St. Pat’s prize pupil.”

  “So, he don’t take after you?” Vincent asks, smiling.

  “No, he don’t and he better not or I’ll kill him.”

  The boys watch like worried parents until Daniel is lost to the street. “Come on, Mick. Enough babysitting.” From his thin jacket, Vincent pulls a warm bun, rips it apart, and holds out the small half to Michael. “I grabbed this from O’Malley’s on the way by.” He shoves the bread in his mouth and continues, talking around it. “Let’s get going, I told Hymie we’d be at Holy Name by nine.”

  Making their way through the streets of Kilgubbin, the Irish area of Chicago’s North Side, Michael and Vincent experience a sense of pride, of ownership almost. They know these streets as well as they know the faces of their families. Weaving along the sidewalks, jumping garbage cans and crates left on curbs, sometimes moving into the street to run alongside horses and carts, they make their way with naïve confidence to Holy Name Cathedral. Earl “Hymie” Weiss is already there, watching their approach, smoking a cigarette swiped from his old man.

  Chicago is a brooding, dirty, exciting city on the southwestern edge of Lake Michigan. It is a break bulk point, with waterways and railways bringing commerce and influence to a growing population of immigrants. It is chaotic with growth and the inevitable problems that arise with too many newcomers and too few accommodations. Max Weber likened the city to “a human being with his skin removed”—pulsing reality exposed, grotesque and wonderful in its harsh beauty, a place all too readily available as a testing ground for three young boys on the precipice of manhood.

  “You guys are late. I been here fifteen minutes already.” Hymie spits at them, flicking his butt to the ground for emphasis.

  “Micky was kissing his brother goodbye. Besides, I didn’t know ya’ could tell time, Hymie. Whadya do, steal a watch?”

  “It’s more than you can do, Ducci, you dumb wop,” Hymie fires back not without humour.

  “Boys, boys! Enough!” Michael extends his arms for emphasis. “We’re waistin’ time. Settle down and tell me: where do we wanna go this fine morning?”

  “Let’s go over to Ragen’s. They got a new ring set up,” Hymie suggests eagerly.

  “Yeah, and you two can climb in and blow off some steam.” Michael laughs.

  “I’ll be Jim Jeffries,” Hymie says, throwing punches, bobbing and weaving, looking more like a dancer than a fighter.

  “You’d be the last choice for the great white hope, Hymie.” Vincent laughs.

  “At least I’m whiter than you,” Hymie answers.

  “I’ll be Jeffries,” Michael says, weighing in on the argument, “and I’ll t
ake ya both on one at a time. Youse are both so slow you’ll never lay a glove on me!”

  THE RAGEN’S ATHLETIC and Benevolent Association is an athletic club on Chicago’s south side. For years, it has been attracting men and boys from the neighbourhood who, looking for a feeling of belonging, pour their angst and misery into organized sport and rivalry. The boys who move through the early morning streets on their way to Ragen’s are familiar with every nuance of the city: pilfering fruit from the store fronts, stealthily feeling through pockets, laughing at their antics. They are relaxed within the stream of city life the way their fathers and grandfathers only a few short years ago were relaxed within the rural life of the country. By the time they reach Ragen’s, their colour and spirits are high.

  Vincent stops abruptly, his hand on Michael’s chest, nodding toward the front door. “Hey, Mick. Ain’t that the little gimp Dean O’Banion from our close?”

  Michael follows Vincent’s gaze. “Yeah, that’s Deanny. Lives in the next tenement and sings in the choir at Holy Name. What’s the little bugger doing here? He should be at St. Pat’s with the rest of the babies.”

  “Let’s go give ’im what for.” Hymie smiles at the prospect.

  “What for?” Michael asks for fun.

  “Shut up will ya and let’s just do it,” Hymie answers with little amusement, pushing through the door and grabbing Dean O’Banion by the scruff of the neck. “What ya doing here, gimpy?”

  Dean, struggling from Hymie’s grip, turns and, with the momentum, plows Hymie in the side of the jaw with his fist. As Hymie staggers back, Dean dives head first into him, shouting through clenched teeth, “I ain’t no gimp you lousy, smelly kike.”

  “Hey, hey!” Hymie shouts, his voice pitched to a squeal.

  The men in Ragen’s turn in unison to watch the two boys, now rolling and flailing, a cyclone of legs and arms.

  “Shit, that kid’s wild,” Vincent says. He turns toward Michael, but his eyes never leave the two boys locked in mortal combat, their grunting and swearing punctuated by cheers of encouragement from the onlookers. It’s Frank Ragen himself, roused from his office by the commotion, who wades in to separate them. Frank is big and brawny, and he parts the boys with ease, holding each one by the scruff of the neck. The boys are panting hard, their eyes locked on each other with unabashed aggression.

  “Ya’ little beggars! Ya’ won’t be disrupting this place, do ya hear!” Frank shouts. Dragging them to the door, he pushes it open with his foot and tosses them out onto the street. “You keep your street brawling where it belongs and not in an establishment like this. And don’t ya’ dream of coming back, or so help me god your mammies won’t recognize you.” Frank turns from the door, the smile on his face slipping when he notices Vincent and Michael standing there. “And you two—get the hell out of here! We don’t need Ities and North Side scum the likes of you in here.”

  Stunned, Michael and Vincent stare.

  “I said, get the bejeezes hell out of here! Or will ya be needing my help?”

  “No. No, Frank. See, we’re gone,” Vincent says, grabbing Michael and propelling him toward the door.

  “And it’s Mr. Ragen to you lot!”

  Michael and Vincent make it to the door, followed by the jeering and laughter of Ragen and his friends. The Ragen Athletic and Benevolent Association will eventually evolve into a gang that, by 1910, will begin to finance the careers of hundreds of Chicago officials, aldermen, police chiefs, and city treasurers. Frank Ragen himself will become a Chicago police commissioner.

  “Good work, Frank!” one of the men calls from the ring. “Those little buggers don’t need to be coming round here.”

  “Yeah, well see to it that I’m not disturbed by them again, or else I’ll be flailing the skin off every man here!”

  Frank Ragen and the Ragen gang will contribute to the Chicago Race Riot of 1919 by pitting black against white in the South Side neighbourhoods. The violence will last for four days, resulting in the looting and destruction of homes and businesses, injury to more than one thousand, and the deaths of thirty-four people. Some of the Ragen gang members eventually split off and form the NFL football team, the Chicago Maroons, later the Chicago Cardinals. But for now, they are happy with the expulsion of the boys.

  Outside, Hymie and Dean pull themselves together. Hymie, still on the ground, checks out the rip in his pants, the scrape on his knee visible. “My ma’s gonna be some mad.”

  “I hope you two fools are happy wid yourselfs. We’ve all bin thrown out.” Vincent seats himself on the curb, spitting to emphasize his displeasure.

  “It was that little gimp’s fault.” Hymie nods toward Dean.

  “Let’s not be starting anything again,” Michael jumps in.

  “Who needs them anyway? We can start our own club,” Dean says, his voice earnest and sincere.

  “Aren’t you a little young to be telling us what to do?” Vincent asks.

  “What does age got to do wid it? ’Sides, I’m almost the same age as Michael and twice as smart.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be hard,” Vincent quips.

  “Shut up Vinchenzo.” Michael hits the back of Vincent’s head and takes a seat beside him on the curb.

  Dean O’Banion sits down on the other side of Vincent and continues as if he had never been interrupted. “We can get the money together and make our own place, our own club.”

  Hymie joins them on the curb. “How do we get the money, smarty-pants? It ain’t growin’ on trees.”

  Dean looks at Hymie and then at Vincent and Michael. “I got a few ideas.”

  So begins the Market Street Gang. Dean O’Banion, although the youngest of the boys, is by far the most imaginative and a born leader with a gift for oration. His skill with language and his fearless attitude lends itself to the developing underworld of Chicago, where moral absence is a reflection of a people dispossessed and disillusioned, struggling to find meaning in a developing, industrial, city.

  Starting small, the boys begin to steal for the black market, finding numerous fences anxious for whatever they can produce. Another friend from the neighbourhood, George “Bugs” Moran, joins the gang. Although Daniel intends to join and run with the Market Street Gang when he gets older, Michael will always keep him at arm’s length, allowing him to hang out with the guys but never letting him take part in any activities. He will remain an observer, a bench warmer, watching but never participating. Daniel will experience his own war, overseas and catastrophic, the war to end all wars. He will return with new eyes, aged with suffering. Back in the familiar streets of his own city, he will continue to watch people die as petty larceny, violence, and gangs begin to organize themselves into deadly syndications. The systemic growth will span countries and continents, slowly making its way into the fabric of America.

  WHEN DANIEL IS TEN, Dean and Michael are working as waiters at McGovern’s Liberty Inn. It is a busy three-storey inn with a bar and restaurant on the main floor. Catering to travellers and regulars alike, it is a smoky, pulsing place, eager for entertainment and novelty. On busy evenings, Dean sings to a crowd captivated by his melodic Irish tenor voice. While the patrons are carried by the gentle, heartfelt ballads back to the emerald Isle, Hymie, Vincent, and Bugs move through the crowd lifting wallets and bill clips. The singing is like a drug, appealing to the need for what is good and pure in humanity, a connection that is beyond the physical, beyond the demands and harshness of life.

  Michael can’t help but feel bad for the poor suckers as Dean soothes their weary souls, caressing them with memories and dreams with the voice of an angel, stealing from them while offering hope and beauty. And afterwards in the back room of their club house, Daniel counts and sorts the money, keeping a ledger full of his precise notations and exact accountings. He keeps a running tally in his head; the books are for Dean, who has become the undisputed leader. Daniel’s abili
ty with numbers serves the club well, and they nickname him “Strings” for purse strings, since all the money flows through him. Daniel has the combination to the small safe; his youth and innocence ensure his trustworthiness. He is being paid for his services; the gang agreed that he is an essential asset to any well-run organization.

  “So, what was the take last night, Strings?” Hymie asks, watching Daniel finish with the money and the ledger.

  Daniel smiles. “Eleven dollars and twenty-seven cents.”

  “Oh, Deanie boy, they love your sweet voice, don’t they?” Hymie jibes, looking over at Michael and nodding.

  “Don’t they just.” Michael jumps in, ready for some good ribbing. “You’ve a voice of an angel, sure and you have, Dean O’Banion.” Michael slips into the brogue, pinching Dean’s cheek.

  “The voice of an angel and the heart of a devil.” Vincent laughs.

  “Youse are just jealous of my talents.” Dean smiles out of the corner of his mouth. “God bestowed the voice and the brains—it’s up to me to use them to their best advantage.”

  “You mean use them to take advantage.” Daniel adds, seating himself beside his brother.

  “Am I taking advantage, Danny boy, or given ’em a respite in their journey, singing of the ‘aul sod,’ given ’em what they wants.”

  “Yeah, while we takes what we want!” Michael cracks and they all laugh.

  “We’re living in new times,” Dean goes on when the laughter subsides. “We can own the world if we want, mark my words.”

  MICHAEL WORKING as a waiter and running with the gang brings in good money. Joseph is well established at the rail yard, and the Kenny family can feel the fulfillment of the American dream pushing in around them “with the strength of a Liffey current” as Annie would say.

  It is Wednesday afternoon in late March; the promise of spring is on every breeze. Daniel sits at the kitchen table, his homework spread out before him, listening to the street noises wafting up from below: streetcars, dogs barking, kids shouting, and his friends being called in for supper. He can sense their reluctance to go inside now that the days are longer and stick ball and scooters clog the street. His pencil dangling from his fingers, Daniel dreams about the scooter he wants for his eleventh birthday the coming week. Annie, fixing supper at the stove, calls over her shoulder, rousing her son from his daydreams. “Danny, go ask your brother if he’ll be wanting some tea before he goes to work.”