by Jack Tunney
“That photograph you have of the two of you was taken the week before she left. She didn’t tell so much as the parish priest where she was going. All she wanted was for the likes of you to be safe.”
We sat there quietly for a long time. Outside the noise of children calling and playing in the lane drifted through the window and into the cold room.
“And this signed note? The debt?”
“We were obligated to pay it.”
“But the thing is false. It has to be. You didn’t pay it, did you?”
“Part of the rent goes toward it. I’ve no idea how much. I can never get an accounting from Ardee.”
“But surely the police, the courts would…”
“That all takes money, Kevin, and I’ve none. I live on charity, on crumbs, but for the grace of God,” she said, then made the sign of the cross and stared at the floor. “If I had ever started to ask questions, I’d have been out in the street with nowhere to go.”
“Where would I find this Ardee?”
Her head shot up, eyes wide, the color seemed to drain from her face. “You mustn’t, Kevin. Please promise. Our Lord brought you back to me. Ardee is Satan himself. Promise me you won’t go to him. Promise.”
“Not to worry.” I smiled.
This didn’t seem to put her at ease.
***
I slept better that night, getting used to the floor in front of the fireplace. The following afternoon, my pressed trousers and shirt blended a lot better than my GI uniform. At least people weren’t turning to stare as I walked down the street.
I’d told Gran I was just going out to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. She was busy cooking the roast for dinner. She’d set the last of the potatoes among the coals in the fireplace. The little oven was so small she had to cut the roast in half so it would fit. After more than two years of eating in mess halls I wasn’t really bothered, although she had apologized profusely as she cut the thing.
I walked past The Stoop Inn and into the butcher shop from the day before. The bell rang as I opened the door. The sawdust on the floor looked fresh and gave off just the slightest hint of pine.
“Hi ya.” The butcher nodded, and then recognized me. “Oh, young Crowley, the Yank. I hear you’ve been a busy lad.” He extended his hand across the counter to shake. When I squeezed his hand it was like shaking a brick. “Morris,” he said by way of introduction.
“Kevin, Kevin Crowley, nice to meet you.”
“Kevin Crowley. I knew a Kevin Crowley once, years back.”
“Maybe my father, I never knew him. I came to find out about him and my mother.”
“Neave?”
“Yes. You knew her, knew them?”
He nodded, sort of looked off in the distance. “They were quite the pair, a fine man, she was a looker,” he said, then followed up with a shake of his head. “Pity.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I never knew either of them. She died when I was very young, about four. I was raised in an orphanage, back in the states, Chicago.”
He nodded like he was digesting this information, and then busied himself arranging cuts of meat in the counter. “What can I get for you this afternoon?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could give me some directions.”
“Lost your way, have you?” He half laughed.
“No, I’m looking for a betting parlor, run by a Mister Ardee. I think it’s somewhere on Meath Street.”
A visible cloud descended across his face. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against a chopping block. “Is it the horses you’re interested in or the Hurley match?”
“Neither, to tell you the truth. I was hoping to maybe have a word with Mister Ardee.”
“No good can come of that, son.”
“Just want to chat for a moment, that’s all.”
“He’s not really the chatting sort. You’re likely to get more than a chat from the likes of that villain. He and that bunch of trained monkeys prance around and scare the less fortunate. They should all roast in hell, God forgive me.”
“Still like to try and chat with the man. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
He shook his head as if to suggest he couldn’t believe how stupid some people could be, then stepped out from behind the counter indicating with a flick of his head I should follow him out the door.
“Head down here a bit,” he pointed down the street.. “Walk on until you come to McQuillian’s pub. Can’t miss it. The pub sits on the corner, a nice enough local. Ardee’s parlor is just around the corner from there, black place, windows covered. The name Ardee stands in bold letters just over the door. There’s usually some plonker can’t believe his bad luck crying on the footpath right outside the place. You can’t miss it, but I’m not sure you’ll be too well received. After yesterday, that is.”
“No harm in just talking to the man.”
“That knacker Ardee’s never been much of a talker.”
“Then it shouldn’t take too long.”
ROUND 8
Ardee’s betting parlor was pretty much as Morris had described, around the corner from McQuillian’s pub, everything painted black, including the windows. Above the door, in large yellow letters edged in red, was the name Ardee. There wasn’t anyone crying in front of the place. But there were three guys leaning on the window sill sipping from pint glasses. One of them was my favorite runner, Dennehy, with his swollen nose and black eyes. I recognized the other two from yesterday when they’d pounded on the door to collect the rent.
They didn’t pay any attention to me until I was almost on top of them.
“Bloody hell,” one of them half shouted when he recognized me. The other two coughed as they choked on a mouthful of Guinness.
“Bit far from home, aren’t you, Yank?”
“Not really. Just going in to talk with Mister Ardee about placing a bet.” I kept walking as I talked. I pushed the door open and stepped into the place before they’d really had a chance to get up off the window sill.
The first thing I noticed was the blue haze from pipe and cigarette smoke hanging three or four feet from the ceiling. I think the ceiling was a pressed tin sort of affair, but it was hard to see through the haze. The dingy light was just bright enough so you could find your way to the betting window without a flashlight. There was a large, mangy, brown dog lying off to my left against a wall. He was asleep or dead, I wasn’t sure which. The floor was littered with torn scraps of paper and a few thousand cigarette butts.
A series of high tables were scattered throughout the place with overflowing ashtrays on all the tables. Various small groups of disheveled men, in threadbare coats, clustered around the tables. A few lost souls leaned against a counter on the wall, blankly staring up into the cloud of smoke. Everyone listened while a radio blared out some sporting event. I couldn’t follow whatever sort of match they were listening to. At the moment none of them looked like they were crying, though one or two may have been recently.
Ahead of me, on the far wall, were two windows with horizontal bars running down to a little counter with a sort of well where I presumed you pushed your money through to place a bet. A vicious, sharp featured woman peered out from one of the windows. Behind the other sat a bald man with sparse wisps of white hair greased to either side of his head. He had a hooked nose that sported a prominent bump in the middle. The bump was so large you immediately wondered how he could possibly see past the thing. His face looked flushed, with unshaved jowls rolling over whatever neck he might have.
I walked toward his window, the sharp featured woman glared at me once my direction was apparent.
The three fools from outside stumbled in the door a few paces behind me, but held their ground once they saw where I was headed. The rest of the patrons appeared too engulfed in their own unique brand of misery to pay me any attention.
“Bet,” the man growled once I stood in front of his window. He never bothered to look up at me.
“Actually, I’m not here to place a bet. I was hoping to speak to Mister Ardee.”
He heard my accent and slowly raised his head, fixed his gaze on me and squinted, like he was trying to read my mind. His left eye was opaque, dead, appearing to drift off to the side.
“Kevin Crowley,” he hissed through clenched teeth. It wasn’t a question, more like an accusation, but spoken so softly I could barely hear the words pass over his thin lips.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m Kevin Crowley.
“And I’m Basil Ardee.” He scrutinized me, moved his good eye up and down then simply stared, coldly. After a long moment he leaned back. His chair squeaked in protest. He rumbled some phlegm in his throat as he studied me. “You look just like your father, the bastard.” He slowly moved his lips to form a grimace I presumed passed for his smile.
“And you’re about what I expected,” I replied.
He nodded his head almost imperceptibly, as if considering something, chewed his thin lower lip a moment, then finally asked, “What is it you want?”
“I’m here to give you notice.”
“Notice?” he scoffed.
“Kathleen Crowley. She’ll be finished renting from you in a month. She’s paid up until then.”
“That doesn’t suit me. There’s the matter of what she owes me from…”
“Not my concern, and certainly not hers any longer.”
“Don’t you dare think the likes of you can just waltz in here and…”
“I don’t think. I know, Ardee. She’s through with you at the end of the month.”
“Kathleen Crowley is finished when I say and not a moment before,” he half shouted. Spittle landed on the grimy counter between us. “And the same goes for that redheaded little tart next to her and anyone else on that lane. Do you hear?”
A couple of men quickly stood up from the tables they’d been leaning on and hobbled out the door. The remaining bunch tuned out whatever match they’d been listening to and began to pay close attention to the two of us, hanging on every word. You could feel the tension rise in the room.
“I’ve given you a month. Paid up. I don’t expect to see any of your people at the door, again.” I moved my head to indicate the three who had now stepped just a few feet behind me.
Ardee grew red in the face, then slowly grimaced. “I think you’ve read too many fairy tales about Ireland, young Crowley. You’re the fool, just like your father.”
I guessed my fist wouldn’t fit between the iron bars protecting his little betting window, though it might be worth a try. Control Kevin, control. Father Tim’s voice played like a 78 revolving in my head.
“Thank you for your time, Mister Ardee,” I said, then turned to leave.
I almost ran into ‘S’ curve who had stepped up behind me. My eyes were level with his chin. The two day stubble of his beard caused the scars to stand out in sharp relief. I glanced up into his eyes. They were blue, a chilly blue. Along with that ‘S’ curved nose they suggested a personality bordering on the difficult.
He stared at me for a moment, and then glanced over the top of my head, waiting for the go ahead from Ardee I guessed. I figured he would expect my fist, probably an uppercut, so I made ready to knee him when he suddenly stepped aside.
“Aren’t you the bold one? You just got lucky, mate,” he half whispered as I moved past him toward the door.
The other guy and Dennehy watched me leave. Dennehy made like he might want a piece of me until I looked in his direction and he quickly stepped behind his partner.
I glanced around the room at the patrons, who were blinking in shocked surprise, and then closed the door behind me.
ROUND 9
“You’ve no right to have done that, none what-so-ever,” Mary said, not for the first time. She was storming back and forth in front of the fireplace. The room was so small, she was almost turning around in circles.
“But where will I go?” Gran asked.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, you’re not going to stay here and worry about those thugs anymore. We’ll find something…”
“Isn’t that just grand, in you waltz, no concern for anyone’s thoughts or how they might feel about the matter. Of course we’re just little old Irish people, aren’t we? What in God’s name would we ever know about the ways of the world like you Americans? I suppose it’s grateful we should be that the likes of you arrived just in time to do all our thinking for us.”
“Mary, that’s enough. Kevin was only trying to help. But, I don’t know, Kevin, it seems so sudden. Where will we go?” Gran asked again. She was sitting in the worn chair next to the fireplace. For the last twenty minutes Mary had been twirling around in circles in front of her when she wasn’t waving a finger under my nose. I found myself enjoying the view.
“Look, you can’t tell me you like Ardee and his bunch making your life difficult, do you?” I asked Mary.
“Well, no, of course not. But that’s not the point. I don’t like someone traipsing in and having the nerve to make decisions for me, either,” she said, and then glared at me with those gorgeous green eyes.
“And do you like them coming around pounding on the door? Bothering you on any given day whenever you walk down the street?”
“But that’s not the point. You can’t just…”
“It’s exactly the point. Answer my question, Mary. Do you like them bothering you whenever and wherever? Intimidating Gran here? Well, do you?”
“No, of course I don’t, but you can’t just come in here and without so much as a…”
“I’ll help you find a new place, nicer than this, in a better area.”
“Oh dear, leave the Liberties? I don’t know, that’s not on,” Gran said.
“What?” Her comment about leaving the Liberties caught me a little off guard. “Okay, fine, you don’t have to leave the Liberties, but you can’t stay renting from Ardee. He’s cheating you. He’s been cheating you all along, and we just stopped it. Now the next thing we’re going to do is get you out of this place and into somewhere nicer.”
“But I like it here, and all my friends are on the lane and, well, the money. I don’t have so much as two farthings to rub together. I mean, how can we afford more rent? How will we ever pay for it?”
“You let me worry about it,” I said, thinking Gran had an awfully good point.
Mary rolled her eyes.
“Who’s for dinner?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
***
We were finishing up our plates. Actually Gran and Mary had finished, I was working my way through another plateful of roasted potato, meat, and turnips. Mary bit her tongue and made an effort to go easy on me, at least about the rent.
“So what you’re saying is even though there are only American teams involved… even though no one else, anywhere, understands the game… you call it your World Series?”
I thought about it for a moment. It certainly sounded reasonable. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
“Dafter than a brush is what it sounds like to me.”
“It’s the best teams in the world. But I’ll grant you, they’re all American. However, why should we be punished because we have the best teams? Last year the Dodgers lost to the Yankees. They were the two best teams in the world. That’s why they were both in the World Series.”
“The Dodgers?”
“Yeah, from Brooklyn.”
“And where is Brooklyn?”
“Brooklyn is in New York. Both teams were from New York, as a matter of fact, but they were the two best teams, so they played in the World Series.” It seemed so obvious, so simple.
“Imagine a team named the Dodgers, in a sport no one else can play, let alone understand.”
“Well, if you’re not going to try… you’ve your Irish games. We’ve some New York, Boston and Chicago teams that play hurling and Gaelic football.”
“I suppose you could call it that,” Mary said, mockingly.
“All right, the two o
f you, enough of this back and forth. You’re both giving me a headache, so I’m putting you on the dishes. I’ve a rosary novena to say to our Lady, unless of course you’d care to join me?” Gran said.
“I’ll wash,” I offered.
“Dry,” Mary volunteered with a raise of her hand.
***
I’d washed all the dishes and had the kettle on for more hot water to do the pans. I was just starting in on the fry pan Gran had used to bake the half roast in her small oven. Mary and I were still debating our immoveable sporting positions.
“World series indeed,” Mary huffed, emphasizing the word ‘world.’ The crash from the front room stopped our conversation and we stared at one another for a brief instant.
“Kathleen?” Mary called, brushing past me as she stepped into the tiny sitting room. “Kathleen, oh Kathleen,” she screamed.
I was right behind her. Gran was face down on the wood plank floor, blood slowly spreading around her head. Her hand still clutched the rosary.
“Don’t touch her.” I pulled Mary back, stepped in front of her and knelt down. It was a head wound, a long jagged gash starting in the back and winding around the side of her head almost to her ear. “Get me that dish towel, Mary,” I said.
Mary stood there wide-eyed with a hand to her mouth.
“Mary, the dish towel. Come on, move,” I yelled. I straightened Gran out, attempted to use my hand to stop the bleeding. It didn’t seem to be working.
Mary was back with the dish towel. I covered the wound, applied some pressure with my hand hoping to stop the bleeding.