Doreen stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Who said I got nice bubbies?”
“My brother.”
She shifted her eyes. “How do you know what I got that’s nice, Tim Riley?”
“He can see, can’t he?” said Eddie.
Tim smacked the back of his brother’s head and pulled his own hat down over his eyes in embarrassment.
“I think they’re nice, too.” Eddie pulled the harmonica from his pocket. “So I’ll play them a song.”
“A song?” She almost laughed. “Tim, your brother is strange.”
Tim peeked from under the brim of his hat.
Eddie started in on “McNally’s Row of Flats.” It came from one of the big Harrigan and Hart downtown shows. Everybody knew it.
And as if she couldn’t help herself, Doreen started singing:
Down in Bottle Alley, lived Timothy McNally
A decent politician and a gentleman at that
The girl sure loved to sing, thought Tim.
Beloved by all the ladies, the gossoons and the babies,
That occupy the building called McNally’s Row of Flats
She loved an audience, too. Her eyes flashed around at the faces now turning toward them, and she whispered, “C’mon, boys, the chorus. You know it.”
Tim decided that if it would put him back into her good graces, he would sing:
And it’s Ireland and Italy, Jerusalem and Germany,
Chinese and Africans and a paradise for rats,
More heads turned. Passersby slowed to listen. A few even joined in the chorus.
All jumbled up together in the snow and rainy weather,
They constitute the tenants in McNally’s Row of Flats.
Then Eddie launched into an instrumental bridge, a jaunty Irish reel that he played as fast and furious on the harmonica as if it were a tin whistle.
And when the song was done, a dozen people had gathered around, and it looked as if they came from all the places celebrated in the song. And they were all applauding.
Tim was so surprised that he just laughed. But Eddie was smart enough to take off his hat and make a big show of how hard it was to bow on a crutch. And Doreen was even smarter. She snatched Tim’s hat off his head and held it out.
The kids sang two more songs and passed the hat twice more and came away with seventy-five cents in nickels and pennies.
As another train roared overhead, they divided the money.
“We make a good team,” said Doreen.
“Yeah,” said Eddie. “You’re singin’ better.”
“And you’re pretty good on that thing,” she answered. “Even if you are fresh.”
Eddie grinned.
“Hey, mutts!” Dinny Boyle and two pals were hanging by a delivery cart on the corner. “It’s good you’re singin’ down here. You sing on my street, you’ll have to pay.”
“Says who?” Eddie’s mood changed in an instant.
“Says Mr. Strong McGillicuddy. He made a rule. Nobody sings on Forty-eighth without they pay the street captain, which, as I already told you, is me.”
“I never heard that rule before,” said Doreen.
“You never sang with these nancy-boys before.” Dinny stepped up from the curb and kicked away Eddie’s crutch, sending Eddie sprawling onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, there!” shouted a woman trundling along with her shopping bags. “Don’t be doin’ that to a cripple, especially one who can play the harmonica so nice.”
“Oooh, jeez, I’m sorry there, lady,” said Dinny Boyle. Then he leaned down to Eddie, who was struggling to pick himself up from the litter of newspapers and cabbage leaves and tobacco spit on cobblestones, and he shouted, “Oopsie-daisy!” Then he spun about, knocked Tim’s hat off, and he and his friends went laughing up Ninth Avenue.
By the time another train thundered overhead, Eddie had gotten up and was thumping down the street.
“Hey!” shouted Tim. “Where are you goin’?”
“I got somethin’ to do,” answered Eddie. “Get the stuff for Ma. I’ll see you at home.”
“Ain’t you gonna go with him?” asked Doreen.
“He gets like that some time. It’s the foot. He gets mad at the foot. Then he gets mad at everybody. You can’t talk to him. You just let him alone.”
Doreen watched him for a moment, then said, “Is it true what Dinny said?”
“About what?”
“About how you’re nancy-boys?”
Tim’s answer was to kiss Doreen right on the mouth. And when he felt her mouth against his, he opened his mouth and touched her tongue with his. He had never known any experience to equal it. His whole being seemed to expand.
“And what do you think you’re doin’?” A police officer came swinging his nightstick along. “Get along with you before I find your parents.”
WHEN TIM CAME home with the bundles from the Paddy Market, he knew that something was wrong. Eddie was sitting in the front room in the dark. Their mother was slumped in her windowless bedroom, staring at the flickering oil lamp.
“Ma?” Tim put down the bundles.
She gestured to the piggy bank on her dresser. “There was forty-seven dollars in there. I give you two dollars for to buy groceries, so there should be forty-five dollars left. But there’s only thirty-five. Did you take it?”
“Me? No!” Time walked into the front room. “Eddie?”
Eddie just shrugged.
After an hour of interrogation, their mother gave up. She blew out the lamps and told the boys to go to bed. She said she’d expect an explanation in the morning. “And remember, it’s a sin to receive Communion if you been tellin’ lies.”
The boys pissed into the chamber pot. Then they pulled the rolling bed out from under the sofa in the front room. Eddie slept on the inside, facing the wall. Tim slept on the outside, facing the other direction. But it was hot and the street was noisy and Tim’s mind was working, so he could not sleep. He rolled over and lay on his back and stared at the shadows of the street lamps, then he rolled over again, and then again, and that was when he felt it.
He jumped up and reached under the mattress and pulled out a pistol. It had a short barrel, a wooden handle.
“It ain’t loaded,” said Eddie. “I hid the bullets. I took the ten bucks from Ma’s piggy bank and bought the gun from a guy on Fortieth.”
“Ma will kill you.”
“Better her than the McGillicuddys or that prick Dinny Boyle.”
Tim did not grip the gun by the handle. He held it in the palms of his hands, like a living thing. The metal flashed blue in the half-light rising from the street.
“I got it planned.” Eddie swung around in bed and sat up. “We do it late at night, when they’re sweepin’ up, right when a train is passin’, so no one hears the shots.”
“We?”
“I’ll do it. They won’t expect a crip to walk in and start shootin’.”
Across the way, somebody threw something out a window and it splashed on the sidewalk. A full chamber pot.
Eddie said, “It’ll be like in the cowboy books. I’ll shoot Strong first, then Slick. Then I’ll shoot the mother if she’s there.”
“And then you’ll run away?”
“I can’t run, asshole.” Usually when Eddie said something like that he sulked for ten minutes. Tonight, he kept talking. “But I got it figured.”
Downstairs, a man yelled. A woman yelled back, then she screamed. The Fighting Flahertys were at it again.
Eddie said, “I’ll use the fire escape. You drop the ladder as soon as you hear the shots. And I’ll climb up. Like Pa used to say, my arms are strong from liftin’ my own weight all the time. Then we’ll pull up the ladder and—”
“This is stupid.”
“The McGillicuddys ain’t done, Timmy. You know that. They was lookin’ for that funny money when they come after Pa. They heard about it from Uncle Billy, I bet.”
“But the bonds are worthless. They must’ve
heard that from Uncle Billy, too.”
“What if they don’t believe him? They smell money, they’ll never let us rest. And they know you was in the house when they killed Pa, so—”
There was movement in the other room.
“Shit.” Eddie grabbed the gun and shoved it under the mattress.
Their mother shuffled in. “What are you boys doin’ still awake?”
“Can’t sleep,” said Tim. “Mr. Flaherty’s beatin’ his wife again.”
She listened for a moment to the sounds echoing through the tenement, then she looked around, found the chamber pot, and disappeared into the hot darkness.
The boys lay back. They heard their mother adding to the pot in the other room. They heard Mrs. Flaherty crying.
“If you don’t help me,” said Eddie, “I’ll do it myself.”
“What if I could find a way to buy us out of here? What if I had a plan? Would you wait?”
“You promise not to tell Ma about the gun?”
“So long as you promise not to use it.”
THE NEXT DAY, their mother gave them the “good conscience” treatment. During breakfast, on the walk to Mass, and all through a stifling afternoon of humid rain, she said nothing about the money. Finally, over a dinner of baked beans, she allowed as how it was possible she had miscounted. Maybe she had been light a ten spot all along.
That, they knew, was another part of the “good conscience” treatment. But the boys held fast and kept quiet.
It was still raining the next morning.
Tim rose early and walked down to the pier at the base of Thirty-fifth Street. On the north side, a freighter was unloading coffee. Teamsters were driving wagons. Longshoremen were shouting. Small ferries were puttering over from New Jersey.
Tim leaned against a tarp-covered pallet and waited.
Around eight o’clock, a black box cab clattered onto the dock and stopped at the head of a gangway. At the same time, a steam launch pushed away from the Corsair.
The driver of the cab popped a black umbrella and went down the gangway to the slip dock at water level. About ten minutes later, the umbrella rose above the head of the richest man in New York.
Even if Tim had not known J. P. Morgan by his photograph, he would have picked him out by his imperious gaze, his potent bulk, his Olympian solitude. No entourage of lackeys followed him. No secretary whispered in his ear. Though the dock was busy with comings and goings, no one was audacious enough to approach him. And he offered eye contact to no one. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on some middle distance, where maybe there was a pile of money that only he could see.
The driver held the right-side door, Morgan stepped aboard, the springs creaked, and the black cab sped off toward Wall Street.
Then Tim Riley went home to refine his plan.
BY TUESDAY MORNING, the rain had turned to summer drizzle. The dank overcast lay so low that it was hard to tell where the clouds ended and the river began.
Again the cab arrived at eight o’clock, the launch puttered in, the great man rose beneath his umbrella and stepped onto the cab.
And Tim Riley swallowed his fear. Then he willed his knees to stop shaking and his legs to start moving, and as the cab rolled away, he ran.
He grabbed the left-side door, pulled it open, and threw himself inside.
Later, he would remember the horse’s hooves clopping on the cobblestones, the rocking motion, the smell of tobacco and leather. But at that moment, all he heard, felt, smelled, or saw was the presence of J. P. Morgan.
A huge white face—from which erupted a massive, bulbous, red nose—loomed above him. All else around the face—Morgan’s black hat and morning coat, the shadowed interior of the cab, the gray world outside—existed to frame that face and the angry black eyes aimed now at Tim Riley.
“Stop!” cried Morgan. “Smythe! Stop! Instantly!”
“Please, sir,” said Tim.
Morgan kicked him. “Get out. Get out or I’ll flay you.”
All in an instant, the cab stopped, the driver pulled open the door and grabbed Tim by the belt. “Get out, you little bastard.”
Tim did not have time to reflect on how badly this was going. As the driver pulled him out, he snatched the envelope from his pocket and threw it on the seat next to Morgan. A moment later, he landed in a puddle of water and horse piss.
“I ought to have you arrested,” cried the driver.
“Not today,” growled Morgan. “I’m in a hurry.”
As the cab clattered away, Tim saw Morgan pick up the envelope.
It was addressed to Mr. J. P. Morgan, Esq. Tim had added the esquire because he thought it sounded important. Inside was a 1780 bond and a letter:
Mr. Morgan,
I am in possession of several of these. They may be of interest to yourself as a collector of historical treasures. If so, please contact me at 436 West Forty-eighth Street.
Yours, Timothy Riley
TIM RILEY DID not hear from J. P. Morgan that day or the day after. He thought about going back and jumping into the carriage again, but he expected that the left-side door would now be locked.
So he read. And he listened to his brother play the harmonica. And he went for his evening walks in the hopes that Doreen would join him again. But her father had heard about that sidewalk kiss, and he had informed Tim’s mother that any further liberties with his daughter would result in a busted head for her son.
Then Uncle Billy showed up again.
He had been to the barber, so his face shone like a polished apple. His hair was slick, and he didn’t smell of beer but of bay rum hair tonic.
After Billy had been on a toot for a while, he always awoke one morning and decided that he had been drunk long enough. He would clean himself up and get back to work—whatever it was—and then, about a month later, he would have a beer, and the next day he would have two beers, then three, and so on, until the cycle started again.
It had been easy for Billy to go on his toots when his brother-in-law held a job for him. But when he came to the door that afternoon, bearing a bunch of daisies, Tim wondered who had hired him now.
Billy grinned and handed the daisies to his sister.
She took them like a woman receiving a rent notice. “Where’d you get five cents to buy these? Didn’t you drink up all your money?”
“I drank most of it.” Billy smiled sheepishly. “But I got a job, too.”
“A job? Where? Jobs is hard to come by.”
“Now, sis, I know you won’t be too happy, but—”
“Mother of God . . . you didn’t take the job at McGillicuddy’s?”
“I went to two or three other places and they all said that with this panic thing, they got no work for a simple drinkin’ Irishman who don’t have no skills beyond brute strength and ignorance. So I took what I could get, all so’s I could give you this.” Billy offered her an envelope. “Call it a little advance.”
Mary looked at the envelope but did not take it.
Tim looked at Eddie, who had stopped playing his harmonica.
“If you’re workin’ for the McGillicuddys,” she said, “you ain’t welcome here.”
“What?” Uncle Billy ran through his series of expressions. “Not welcome? But I been tryin’ to tell you, they ain’t such bad fellers. Even Slick said it’s all bygones now.”
“Bygones my bottom.” Mary Riley grabbed a glass jar from the shelf. “I better go get some water for these flowers.” And she stomped out.
Tim asked his uncle, “So what do they want from you?”
“Want from me?”
“Every man always wants something. Figure out what it is and give it to him and he’ll be your friend for life. That’s what Boss Plunkitt says.”
“As a matter of fact”—Billy glanced over his shoulder to see if his sister was out of earshot—“Strong asked me again about the bonds. I told him what Plunkitt said. Strong said Plunkitt lies about everything, so he probably lied about that, and if we
give him and Sunny Jim a look, they might be able to help us.”
A FEW NIGHTS later, Tim went out for his walk. But instead of heading for the river, he went over to Ninth Avenue and half a block south under the El until he came to the words MCGILLICUDDY’S SALOON painted across a plate glass window in gilded block letters. He peered in. The place was deep, but no wider than the flats directly above it. The long bar on the right faced the tables on the left. Sawdust covered the floor. Gaslights burned bright and yellow, but the shadows were dark in the corners. A sign hung above the bar: THE IRISH NINERS POLITICAL CLUB SUPPORTS SUNNY JIM MAGUIRE.
It was a quiet night. Two drinkers stood at the bar. Two or three more sat at a table in the back. Strong played solitaire at a side table, a coffee mug next to the cards, a leather blackjack next to the coffee.
Mother Mag worked behind the bar, in the place where Tim had expected to see Uncle Billy.
But Billy had other duties. He came staggering out of the shadows and set an armload of beer mugs on the bar. Then he picked up a rag, got down on his knees, and began polishing the brass foot rail.
Mother Mag leaned over and watched him for a moment. Then she snatched the rag and shook it in his face. Then she grabbed a broom and put it into his hands and gestured for him to sweep.
Tim felt something rise in his throat, a strange mix of embarrassment and pity. Billy wasn’t a bartender. He was just a janitor who cleaned the puke from the corners when the drunks threw up and emptied the spittoons in the street when they got full.
Billy began to sweep the sawdust, and Strong leaned back in his chair to watch, like a man enjoying a show.
So Uncle Billy was right, thought Tim. Those fellers had long memories. Kill the husband, then humiliate the brother. Victory for the McGillicuddys, even if it was six years coming.
As Billy carefully pushed the sawdust toward the front door, Tim turned to leave. He didn’t want Billy to see him, because it would be an embarrassment for them both. But he bumped right into Slick, who was striding along the sidewalk.
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