Men of No Property

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  “And they were well disposed toward you?” said Finn.

  “I’m not easily disposed of,” said Dennis, “and I don’t think they want to.”

  Mr. Finn nodded. “My own concern with the Council at the moment is transportation. I’m a seller of small wares, most of which can be carried home by bus. But quite aside from my own interests, the city is in need of a central line. Yet there are merchants who would block such a franchise lest it disrupt their carriage trade.”

  Dennis whistled. “By them standards, I’m dealin’ in mites.”

  “Precisely. So don’t be foolish enough to think your buying a man a drink persuades him of anything except your amiability. And if you’re too amiable, he’ll take you for a fool.”

  The little ferret, Dennis thought, wondering if he had come by his knowledge by instinct or by report. “There was no man I set up more than twice,” Dennis said. “And none in whose presence I took more than one drink myself.”

  “Splendid,” said Finn. “I’m at City Hall each morning now for the reading of the day’s agenda. I’ll send for you posthaste when the committee on markets reports back. Room thirteen.”

  “And what’ll I do when I come?”

  “Why, either you will sit and observe yourself ruled out of business, or you will speak on your own behalf. And now you will not be a stranger to most of the gentlemen.”

  Dennis grinned. “Not even to Mulrooney.”

  The message came one morning mid-week. Dennis was hugging the stove in the kitchen watching Norah in profile and wondering was it the shape of a son he could see in the making. He gave the messenger twopence and insisted that Norah brush him down before he hoisted on his greatcoat, although in her worry she was near brushing him into the street.

  “Have you no confidence in me at all?” he said, standing his ground at the door.

  “Ah Dennis,” she said, “would I be hurryin’ you into a match if I didn’t think you its equal?”

  He kissed her cheek and patted her stomach.

  The halls and the chamber were a crush of cigar chewers and tobacco squirters. All the lotions and potions of Broadway couldn’t sweeten the smell of them, Dennis thought as he pushed through the horde. “Hey, chum,” said one of them into his face, “who’re yer hittin’ for? If yer need a runner, I’m yer boy. Jackie Nolan’s m’name. Remember it, eh?” “Sure,” said Dennis, “I’ll remember.” A policeman blocked his final way to the door. “I’ve an interest in the markets,” said Dennis. “I’m expected in there.” He was passed on his air of authority.

  Within the chamber, he stood against the wall, for all the seats were taken. After a moment’s squinting through the cigar smoke he recognized the men beyond the railing: the Common Council of New York. Mr. Finn sighted him and gave up his seat to come and stand by him.

  “The market report will be called up next,” he whispered.

  “You’ve the wonderful ear,” said Dennis. “All I can hear is them growlin’.”

  A mutter of “ayes” finished whatever business was then in debate, and the chairman of the day pounded his gavel. A great flurry of clerks and dispatchers caught up papers and messages from various men of the council and fled the room with them. Mr. Finn, meanwhile, whistled up a page and sent him to the council table with a note to Mr. Hodge. “That’s to tell him you’re in the chamber,” Finn explained.

  “Godalmighty, but I wish I was out of it.”

  The gavel fell again and the grumbling-rumbling subsided. “You have the report on the city markets, Mr. Hodge?”

  “I have,” said Hodge, and cleared his throat. He ran through a muddle of figures that must have made sense to someone, Dennis thought, for they “ayed” him at the end. Again he cleared his throat. “A complaint was brought before us last week on a violation in the Catherine Street market of the regulation closing time.” He spoke out as Dennis prayed he would, but lo, he might as well have been whispering, and in another county at that, for all the attention paid him at the table, except for Mulrooney. He nodded at every word, puffing his cheeks like a toad. But the rest of them concerned themselves with their own papers while Hodge tripped through an account supported by affidavits of the increase in crime and rowdyism over the past four months in the Seventh Ward. “According to the complainant, gentlemen,” Hodge concluded, “eight out of ten of the men, women and boys taken into custody by the police admitted having gone to their mischief after patronizing the so-called ‘Eight O’clock Market’…”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Dennis under his breath, and there was a murmur of amusement at the council table itself.

  Mulrooney put up his hand.

  “May I finish my report, sir?” said Hodge. The chairman sounded his gavel.

  “If it please the chair,” Mulrooney growled, “I’m askin’ a point of privilege. I want to speak on the report seein’ you gentlemen find it laughable.”

  “Do you yield, Mr. Hodge?” said the chairman.

  Mr. Hodge yielded whether he wished to or not, for Mulrooney proceeded, rumbling as though each word was wrenched from the pit of his belly. “I’ve fought all my life at the side of the workin’ man to win him a twelve hour day. He has the need of his rest and his supper at a decent hour. It’s no laughin’ matter that out of twenty men I talked to, eighteen of them were gettin’ home to their supper and findin’ no supper. Their women were off to market at that unholy hour of the night. What’s a man to do when there’s no supper and no wife waitin’ him?…” The Council, Dennis noticed, leaned back to enjoy themselves, for Mulrooney was not ashamed of his honest emotion. “He goes out into the street and maybe takes a drink to warm him, and after one drink another until he never gets home at all…That is a very sad story, gentlemen. Now I wouldn’t say that this Eight O’clock Market business is the only thing wrong in my ward…”

  “Hear, hear!” someone murmured.

  Mulrooney scowled and summed up: “But it’s one thing wrong we’d have no trouble correctin’ with the cooperation of the City Council. Thank you, Mr. Hodge.”

  Hodge took a squint around the table and proceeded quickly: “The committee suggests that the phrase ‘sundown’ in the market regulations is too ambiguous. We recommend a six o’clock closing weekdays, nine on Saturdays.”

  He was through, Dennis thought, astounded. Forgot were the drinks poured in the Crystal Bar, washed out with Mulrooney’s deluge. That it was a trifling matter to all of them, nothing but spoof and spit, was obvious. But since Mulrooney had decided not to let them get round him, they weren’t troubling themselves to go through him.

  “I’ll entertain a motion to amend…” murmured the chairman.

  “So moved…”

  “Seconded…”

  “Will the clerk read the motion?”

  “… Six o’clock… nine o’clock…” was all Dennis heard.

  “Now,” said Finn, “or you’re through.”

  “Your honor!” Dennis called out, and having the council’s attention, lowered his voice. “May it please the council to give me a minute before you?”

  “Is it to speak on the motion?”

  “It is, sir.” His heart throbbed as though it would splinter his ribs. He drew the foul air into his lungs as he went forward to the railing. “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, not knowing where he would find the words. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, intending to wipe his sweating hands, but seeing a look of amusement on their faces at its appearance, he found his lead. He ventured to lift it to his eyes and that brought a quiver of laughter. “I was near overcome with Mulrooney’s sad story. Oh, Lord, I says to myself, tryin’ to keep back the tears…oh, Lord, I says, but he’s a good man, Mulrooney is. And isn’t it fortunate for all them poor workin’ men in the ward, isn’t it fortunate he isn’t turnin’ his wrath on the grog shops? Where would a poor man turn, says I to myself, and his wife caperin’ off to that den of iniquity, the city market, if he couldn’t find himself a snug nook in Mulrooney’s bosom?
”

  A howl of laughter went up in the council at the phrase. Dennis began to enjoy himself. He pulled a long face and went on. “I can see I’ll never touch your hearts like Mulrooney. But I wonder if maybe I can’t tickle your pride? Is it presumptuous of me to ask—is there a man here would go home two nights in a row—one night maybe, but two nights in a row—to his supper and no supper to go home to? By my faith, it wouldn’t happen in my house! And I’ll venture to say it don’t happen in Mulrooney’s, for he does look to be a man well able to fill his own trousers…”

  There was more laughter. “The question,” Mulrooney growled. “Let’s have the question.”

  The chairman gaveled Mulrooney down but Dennis had the sense not to spoil his advantage. “Let me say my name and be done, for you’ve more work to do than I’m liable to have by your rulin’. I’m Dennis Lavery, and you’ll not be surprised to know I’m the owner of the Eight O’clock Market. If you must close me up, by all means close me up. I’m an enterprisin’ lad. If I wasn’t I wouldn’t have the gall to be here.” He laced the sarcasm into his final remark. “I’ll have a new start and in a business where I won’t be corruptin’ the neighborhood with butter and cheese and a bit of meat. I wonder which of you gentlemen is in charge of licenses, for I do fancy myself openin’ a groggery.” Their laughter drowned his thanks for the council’s attention.

  Before he reached the back of the room the question was put to a vote: a single aye and a thunder of nays.

  Dennis strode out of the chamber with Finn in his wake and well aware of the eyes upon him which had taken no notice of his entrance.

  “I’m proud of you,” Finn said when they reached the City Hall steps. “I’d go so far as to say I should hate to be your antagonist.”

  Dennis grinned. “I was prayin’ at first the earth would open up and swally me, and I ended up feelin’ I could swally the earth.”

  Finn grunted. “Well,” he said, “remember the fable of the fox and the cock. Don’t crow too loud in the city market.”

  Dennis decided that he would not crow at all except to Norah. He had little use himself for a braggart, but he did wish profoundly that word of his performance before the council would leak out amongst his friends. It more than leaked although he was not aware of it until his day’s work was done, his market boarded up, and he stopped at the station house on his way home. All the boys in the house seemed on his entrance to be working at the game of cribbage which but two of them could play at once.

  “Where’s Gilley?” he asked, warming his hands at the stove.

  They turned their faces up to him like sunflowers. “Snug in Mulrooney’s bosom!” they chorused, leaping up then and pounding him on the back, howling their boisterous glee over the rise of one of their own.

  “You heard about it then?” said Dennis.

  “Heard about it! We read it in the Evening Post. Here.”

  Dennis took the paper they thrust upon him to the light and read almost word for word, his remarks to the council. “Did I say that—presumptuous?”

  “You must of if it’s in the Post.”

  “Isn’t it fortunate,” he said, smiling round, “they didn’t ask me to spell it? Can I keep the paper?”

  He ran most of the way home with it to Norah, and before sitting down to his supper had read her the piece three times over. Norah finally persuaded him to eat, and through it she sat, puzzling out the words, one by one for herself. “Dennis,” she said finally, “do you think they printed this to put you up or to put Mulrooney down?”

  Dennis stirred his tea violently. “If you mean were they worried lest my market be closed on me, they were not. Why are you always lookin’ for hidden meanin’s, Norah?”

  “I’ve a fearful nature, I suppose. Peg, now, is more like yourself. The both of you are ’cross the river and safe before ever lookin’ to see was the ice crackin’ under your feet.”

  “Ah, love,” said Dennis, putting his hand on hers, “I’ll carry you across in my arms wherever I go. Will you drink a cup of tea if I bring you a cup?”

  “I will,” she said, “and maybe it’ll break the chill. I’ve the feelin’ of a pooka over the house all night.”

  “For the love of God will you leave off your superstitions? The night we landed you could feel a wind blowin’ us back into the ocean. And could a hurricane budge us now? Look at us, Norah—what we’ve got and landin’ without the nails to scratch ourselves. A child of our own, and one near as dear dependin’ on us, and another well on his way…and all of them with shoes to their feet as never I had at home.”

  “Ah,” said Norah, rocking back and forth, her hands on her stomach, “I’d the feelin’ myself this afternoon he was wearin’ shoes.”

  “He’s kickin’, is he?” Dennis cried. “Oh, by the glory!” Norah nodded and smiled. “Ah, love,” he said, kissing her. “You’ve the changes in your face of a summer sky.”

  It was near midnight when they let the fire die out and went to bed, for Dennis worked at his account book and Norah would not go without him. She sat with her knitting and rocked, the creak of the rocker across the floor setting Dennis’ nerves as nearly on edge as her own. But he said nothing because of her condition, and knowing the familiar noise drowned out the strange ones for her. In bed the sound of his breathing gave her the same comfort. Sleep had almost come to her when she heard the pounding of hobnailed boots up the steps.

  Dennis himself started up at the fierce, cold clutch of her hand. He leaped from the bed as hammering struck at the door and a voice without called, “Lavery! For the love of God, Lavery, open up! They’re wreckin’ your shop!”

  “I’ll let him in, God help us,” said Norah. “Dress yourself.”

  Dennis managed a light for the candle and gave it to her. He pulled his clothes on in the dark while she went to the door.

  Report of the wreckage had reached the station house and one of the men sleeping in had come running. “A gang,” he said, “is all I know. They’re at it with sledges and rocks. Will I turn out the boys say the word?”

  “No,” said Dennis, “they’ll be done by the time we get there.” And done they were, with only the urchins of the ward groping in the dark amongst the ruin when Dennis swung his lantern upon them. Their eyes stared up at him from behind the sundered counter, their wizened wee faces with no more expression than so many pennies. One lad leaped into a barrel, by oversight left whole, and squealed out his misery. He was up to his belly in freezing brine. Dennis turned him out and added his laughter to the wild screams of it from the urchins. “Here, take hold, me lads!” he called out. “What you can take is yours! Firewood? Grab onto the door there. They splintered it down for yous!” A couple of lads had laid hold of a peddler’s cart where it was stored behind the shop. “Bring that back when you’re through. It don’t belong to Lavery!” Dennis shouted. He put his foot through what was left of a bin. The arabs grappled amongst themselves for the meal spilling out and ran into the night with it dribbling out of their pockets. “Better you than the rats, me lads!” he called out again, plying the rest with potatoes they nibbled at raw. And who could tell the difference in the species, he thought, from the look in their eyes? Who could tell which it was God gave the souls to, the rats or the children? But easy it was to see He made no distinction when He gave out the bellies. Spending a part of his wrath on the Almighty, he was finally able to face the devil. Dennis abandoned the market as Kevin approached it. He heard his brother calling out his name and went on without answering. He could hear him scatter the urchins, ringing curses out on them like changes in hell. There was not a hack on the street and not a horse if there were could keep pace with him. His own boots raised up sparks as he trod hard upon the cobbles, and the sound of them echoed through the hollowed stillness of the empty streets. Across through Franklin Square he went and up to Chatham Street, along it to Park Row, past Tammany and in view of the darkened City Hall until he came to the Empire Club.

  He knew Captain Rynd
ers, its owner only by reputation: and fearsome it was, Rynders’ reputation. A member of the Tammany General Committee, he was for hire for the direst and dirtiest of political jobs—but only on the highest level—flavoring the Forrest-Macready feud with political riot, for example. He would not himself break up sticks for Mulrooney. But his club was something else. Its basement saloon, the Arena, was known to snuggle sports and politicians into the early hours. Where better for Mulrooney to caucus a few rogues? The door was locked. Dennis tweaked the bell viciously as though it were his enemy’s nose. From within he could hear the voices of jubilant men and the pretty tinkling of glasses: a delicate business they toasted, no doubt. A doddering grandpa of a man squeezed his head through the width he opened the door and wheezed: “Who is it you want to see for we’re closed?”

  “Mulrooney,” said Dennis.

  “Oh-h-h, he’s a-bed. Dan’l’s a-bed,” said the old man.

  “Then we’ll turn him out.” Dennis shouldered the door from the old man’s grasp.

  He pounded across the hallway into the barroom from whence came the sounds of revelry. A dozen heads tilted his way, leaving off their wagging over the bar. There were men in the booths to the back, some collecting, perchance, for their mischief. The purr of their talk made the silence in front more perishing.

  “Is Daniel Mulrooney in the house?” Dennis called out. “I’d have a word with him.”

  Even the purring left off, and not a word was spoken. One and then another of the men at the bar turned around as though they preferred not to trust their backs to him. More than one of them groped in his pocket for something, Dennis thought, to adorn his knuckles. He stood, his legs apart, his coat open and his red shirt wide at the throat.

  “Is there a man here then who’ll speak for him?” Dennis cried.

  The barkeep plucked the stub of a cigar from between his teeth and jerked his head toward the rear of the room.

  “Call him up here,” said Dennis, “for I’d like your impartial witness.” He knew well that his every word carried to the back of the room. He waited, his hands on his hips. Mulrooney was here, he thought. By God, Mulrooney was in the house. He could feel the wrath riling up in him and sped a singing mouthful of it into the nearest brass spittoon.