Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  Hugh McPhail and the IWW man grunted and wrestled scrappily with each other on the ground and were joined by another IWW man, who grabbed Hugh by the throat from behind. Then Morgan, twenty yards behind Hugh, joined the fray, and the four men grappled clumsily to the boos and roar of the crowd and the din of the brass band. Doc pulled himself glassily to his knees, as a man pushed through the crowd, both hands raised. It was Eamon Flaherty, the strike leader.

  “For Christ’s sake, stop!” he shouted, pulling one of the men from Morgan.

  “What the hell do these boys have on their chests?”

  He dragged Doc to his feet, followed by Morgan and Hugh. On each of their sweaty yellow shirts were the letters “IWW”.

  Flaherty raised his hands.

  “IWW,” he shouted. “IWW! Our boys! Our boys! They’re with us!” The message quickly passed through the crowd. Silence fell, to be replaced, not by jeers, but by mounting applause.

  Morgan pushed at Doc’s shoulder, pointing to the finish. “On you go, Doc. It’s your money.”

  Doc rubbed his lip and smiled. He realized now why Flanagan had insisted on the IWW vests. A moment later he was trotting towards the finish, through waves of applause, up the narrow channel in the crowd. He passed the finishing line as the applause reached a crescendo. Flanagan was standing just beyond the massed band, his face swollen and bruised.

  Doc winked at him.

  “Looks like you’ve seen a little trouble, Flanagan,” he said. “You should have worn one of your own vests.”

  Flanagan fingered his eye and grinned wryly.

  Eamon Flaherty entered the Trans-America caravan, slowly peeled the paper from a large red steak and slapped the meat on the table.

  “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “Slap it on that eye of yours. The bruise’ll be out in a couple of days, with luck.”

  Willard gingerly picked up the limp steak, took it over to the refrigerator and put it on the top shelf. Flanagan beckoned the IWW leader to sit down.

  “Beer?” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Flaherty. “I’m real glad you’re taking it so well. I told you there was nothing personal.”

  “There’s always something very personal about a black eye,” said Flanagan, pouring out a foaming beer for his guest. “Still, I can see your beef. Your IWW boys are out on strike. The Six Companies sponsored the Trans-America. I took their money, so I’ve got to be the bad guy.”

  Flaherty wiped the tears from his eyes as the cold drink hit the back of his throat.

  “Christ, you don’t know the half of it,” he said. “Sure, the boys was fired up when they heard those fat-arses had backed your race. Hell, we’ve been out for over two months now. Two months of nothing but Mulligan’s stew and sourdough biscuits.”

  “Why are you out, Flaherty? Is it the money?” asked Willard.

  Flaherty took another pull at his beer and shook his head. “No, the money’s okay,” he said. “Good for these times. But my guys are losing blood at the dam. Three men dead in the last six months, fifty-two more busted up bad. No safety rules, no insurance, no sick pay. That’s all the IWW is out for.”

  “Aren’t there state safety rules?” asked Flanagan.

  Flaherty laughed and gave him a veteran’s look. “You’re damned right there are. A whole stack of them, a mile high. The state inspector, Malloy, has warned the Six time and time again, but they’ve got pull up at state Capitol, so they just laugh and spit in his eye. Malloy’s been beaten up twice himself. Godammit, we got gas trucks working underground against state laws, we got guys doubling up on hours, we got unsupervised blasting; you name it, here at Boulder we got it. It’s like a butcher’s shop in the tunnel when there’s a blow-back. The walls are red with blood.”

  Flanagan swore loudly, shaking his head.

  “Don’t ask God for help. God’s a rascal,” interpreted Flaherty. “If He were any good He’d have seen off those Six Companies a long way back.”

  “You said there was more to it,” said Flanagan, beckoning Willard to refill Flaherty’s glass. “What did you mean?”

  “I mean that somebody up there doesn’t like you,” said Flaherty. “Up at state Capitol. I know: some of my boys were slipped five-spots to make things tough for you.”

  “Where did the money come from?” asked Flanagan thoughtfully.

  “The cops,” said Flaherty. “You noticed they didn’t do nothing when those drunks hit your boys? The money came straight from the mayor’s office. Our drift is that it came from someone big back at state Capitol.”

  “But the mayor himself invited us here,” interjected Willard.

  Flaherty shrugged. “He couldn’t come out in the open earlier, on account you pulled so many gambling men into Vegas. But he was leant on from upstairs to make it hard for you. You can take it from me. Lucky your boys was wearing them IWW vests, otherwise it could have been real messy for you.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” said Flanagan, pulling on his nose.

  Flaherty blinked questioningly, but receiving no response he gulped down the last of his beer, wiped the foam from his stubbled chin and stood up. “My boys would like to make it up to you, Flanagan; have some of your men down to Camp Stand. Can’t promise you no fancy food, mind, but we do make a real sweet line in bootleg booze.”

  “Accepted gratefully,” said Flanagan, standing up. “Just give us a couple of hours to organize things.”

  When Flaherty had left Flanagan closed the door behind him and stood with his back pressed against it.

  “Well,” he said. “What do you make of that, Willard?”

  Willard Clay shrugged. “Don’t make no sense to me,” he said. “Who would want to stop us?”

  Flanagan sat down and opened another bottle of beer.

  “No one I can think of,” he said. “But it all begins to add up. All those goddam bills that are piling up, the towns ahead making no-no noises . . . Still, let’s face each problem as it comes. And let’s see what friend Flaherty’s fixed up for us.”

  Flanagan looked up at the map and traced with his finger the route east from Las Vegas. More desert, then up into and across the Rockies. It was going to be hard going, even without the hassle. For the moment, however, he was simply going to enjoy himself.

  Four miles south of Las Vegas stood Stand City, a tattered collection of tents and lean-tos, housing seven hundred and sixty-three Boulder Dam workers and their families. As Flanagan and his runners picked their way through the muddy ground towards Flaherty’s command centre, barefoot children ran between the tents, followed by thin, yapping dogs. Ragged women boiled clothes in black iron cauldrons at Flaherty’s “camp laundries” or poked brown bubbling messes of Mulligan’s stew.

  “How do you like my centre?” asked Flaherty, after Flanagan, Willard, Dixie, a dozen of Flanagan’s Trans-Americans and a handful of journalists – now including agent Ernest Bullard – had pushed their way under the flap of the main tent. “This is where we put it all together.”

  For all the signs of hardship, the atmosphere within the tent was very far from being one of despair. Flaherty had transformed his primitive command centre into a buffet area, with trestle tables spread with chicken, salami and hot pizza. On another table sat glass jugs of frothy bootleg beer.

  Flanagan shook his head. “Beats me how you do it,” he said. “You can’t have left a chicken alive for a hundred miles around.”

  “It ain’t often we entertain fellers running all the way to New York,” grinned Flaherty. “Usually it’s horse and rabbit stew here.”

  “I know that recipe of old,” smiled Flanagan. “One horse to one rabbit.”

  Certainly Flaherty’s fare was a welcome change from the monotonous diet of the Trans-America. The runners set to with vigour.

  Hugh had never actually tasted chicken. He saw Dixie look at him as he gingerly picked up a chicken bone, and blushed.

  “Never eaten chicken before,” he said.

  “Don’t
they have chickens back in Scotland?” asked Dixie, smiling.

  “Yes, but not for people like me. I hadn’t even tasted coffee before I came here.”

  In mock disbelief Dixie shook her head, then nibbled at her chicken. “You ought to taste it Southern style.” she said. “That’s really something.”

  In another corner of the tent Flaherty was in conversation with Doc.

  “I’d like to introduce you again to someone,” he said, drawing to him a rugged, bearded man. “You met him yesterday, only in different circumstances.”

  Doc had indeed. It was the man who had put him down the day before. Flaherty’s companion stood towering above him, grinning sheepishly. Then he stuck out a great paw.

  “Kovak,” he said. “Mike Kovak. Want to say sorry about yesterday. Nothing – ”

  “I know,” Doc interjected, smiling wryly. “Nothing personal.” He shaped up to hit the big Pole but instead tapped him lightly on the chin. “Even up,” he said. “Have a beer.”

  Flaherty smiled and moved over to Flanagan, who was standing talking to Willard. “Who the Sam Hill are those guys?” he said, pointing over to the Germans, who stood in an orderly group in a corner of the tent, sipping root beer.

  “Krauts,” said Flanagan. “But they keep themselves strictly to themselves. Surprised they even joined us here. But they won’t trouble anyone.”

  “I checked them out,” said Willard. “They’re from the National Socialist Party in Germany.”

  “Socialists?” said Flaherty, smiling broadly. “Then they’re my kind of people.” He walked briskly over to Moltke, the German manager, and immediately started to engage him and his group in earnest conversation. They looked at him blankly through cold blue eyes and responded politely but without enthusiasm, while Eamon Flaherty jabbered on regardless.

  “I’ve got a feeling they aren’t exactly his kind of socialists,” chuckled Flanagan.

  “They’re sure cold fish,” agreed Willard, gnawing on a chicken bone. He looked around the vast crowded tent as the IWW men mingled freely with the Trans-Americans.

  “What exactly do Flaherty and his IWW lot hope to get out of striking?”

  Morgan, standing nearby with Kate, answered his question. “A fair deal. That’s all any man asks.”

  “Has he got a chance?” asked Flanagan.

  “Not much,” said Morgan. “All he’s got going for him is the fact that it’s public money going down the Swannee each day the dam is delayed. They say it’s going to be called the ‘Hoover Dam’. So perhaps the president will put in his two cents.”

  “Hoover?” snorted Flanagan. “A marshmallow in a bag of marshmallows. He’ll just sit back and watch.”

  Flaherty had left the Germans and now stood on the fringe of Doc’s group. “You’re right,” he said, re-entering the conversation unabashed. “We don’t expect no Washington cavalry riding in to the rescue. We’re on our own here, and we know it. If we lose we go back to more of the same. We just got to stay out as long as we can and keep out any blacklegs.”

  “Irishmen like you have made losing an art form,” said Flanagan, smiling.

  “But we can’t lose,” insisted Flaherty. “Not in the long run. You can take all your managers, your salesmen, your members of the board and dump them in the middle of the ocean, and we could still build this dam, but take away the workers, the muscle, and you’ve got nothing.”

  “Let’s hope that’s the way the Six see it,” said Flanagan.

  “It’s simple endurance,” said Morgan. “Who can last out longest. But you tell me, Flaherty, how many times have the workers won?”

  For a moment Flaherty was nonplussed, his ruddy Irish face displaying a mixture of good nature, aggression and doubt.

  “You’ve got to keep trying, just like we do.” It was Hugh, standing behind Flaherty, who spoke. “The moment you give up, you’re lost. The moment you give up, other men behind you die a little too. When you kill hope, you kill life.”

  The words rushed from Hugh’s lips, surprising him with their passion. He blushed, ending lamely; “Well, that’s the way I see it.”

  The group was silent. They knew he was right. Right about the Trans-America, right about Camp Stand.

  It had been more an order from Flanagan rather than a request, that led to Mike Morgan and Kate Sheridan finding themselves driven by Willard Clay to the Blessed Mary Orphanage, on the outskirts of Las Vegas, on their rest day. Flanagan’s massive white Buick convertible threw up little whirlwinds of dust as Willard drove the car up the hill towards their destination.

  Willard glanced over his shoulder at Morgan and Kate as they sat in the bright morning sun on the scat behind him.

  “I suppose you’re trying to work out why Mr Flanagan picked you out?”

  “It had occurred to me,” said Kate drily. “I’m sure no Sunday-school teacher.”

  “Because they asked for you – that’s why,” said Willard, his eyes now fixed on the road ahead. “You may not know it, but you two are well on the way to being celebrities. The older kids up at the Blessed Mary know all about you – they get it all on the radio every day.”

  Willard changed down expertly as they approached a steep curve.

  “Anyhow, Flanagan reckoned you two would do a good job. And so did I.”

  The Buick slowly drew to a halt in front of a massive brown oak doorway. The Blessed Mary had an unexpected atmosphere of stillness and calm. Kate and Morgan got out of the car and stood below its tall stone walls, occasionally glimpsing a child peering at them from the windows above, before he was pulled away by some unseen hand.

  A tall, slim young nun, dressed in a black habit and white surplice, emerged from the darkness of the entrance doorway and walked over to them, smiling.

  “Sister Eileen O’Rourke,” she introduced herself, proffering a hand to Kate. “You’ll be Miss Sheridan, I take it? We’ve heard so much about you.”

  She shook hands with the two men and beckoned all three to follow her into the orphanage.

  It was like being in church. Morgan could heard the hollow sound of his sandalled feet on the grey stone floors as Sister Eileen led them along a long, oak-panelled corridor. There was no sight or sound of a child.

  At the end of the corridor Sister Eileen knocked gently at the door of the principal’s office and entered.

  In the centre of the room sat an elderly nun in a high-backed leather chair behind an enormous desk. She rose, smiling, as they entered. Mother Theresa McEwan was at least sixty, but wore her years well, her face still retaining its strong, handsome features.

  “Sit down,” she said, indicating three chairs in front of her desk. Sister Eileen placed herself behind her to the left of Mother Theresa’s chair.

  “God bless you for finding the time to come,” Mother Theresa continued. “You see it was only yesterday that we asked Mr Flanagan to send you up to meet the children, but we never for a moment thought that it might be possible.”

  She sat down.

  “You must be very tired,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?” There was silence as Morgan and Kate looked uncertainly at each other.

  “Orange juice?” volunteered Sister Theresa.

  “Great,” said Willard. “I never drink anything else.”

  Kate thought she saw the flicker of a smile in Mother Theresa’s eyes, but she could not be certain.

  “Then orange juice it is,” said Mother Theresa, and nodded to Sister Eileen, who excused herself and left the room. The principal put her sun-tanned hands on the desk in front of her.

  “Well,” she said. “We have over a hundred children here, aged between eight and fourteen. What would you like to do? Give them a lecture about the Trans-America?”

  There was a further silence, again broken by Willard.

  “If I might make a suggestion, ma’am . . .” he began uneasily.

  “Yes?”

  “Most kids don’t really want to listen to people talking at them, you kno
w what I mean? They want to do something – run, jump, throw – let off some steam.”

  Mother Theresa nodded. “That sounds a good idea,” she said. “I know that’s what I would have wanted at their age – I was always an active girl.” She smiled. “You know I always had an idea of myself as a great long jumper.”

  She looked to her left as Sister Eileen entered with a tray on which stood a jug of iced orange juice and five glasses.

  “What are your present sports facilities, Sister?” she asked.

  Sister Eileen lay the tray on the desk and poured the juice slowly into the glasses.

  “A field, a hundred yards by sixty, and two sand pits. That’s about all.”

  “What exactly do you intend, Mr Clay?” asked Mother Theresa.

  “A track meet,” replied Willard promptly.

  “A track meet?” exploded Morgan, almost spilling the contents of his glass as it was handed to him.

  “Sure,” said Willard. “I’ve organized meets for a thousand athletes in the Bronx in half this space. Here’s the way we play it – begging your pardon, Mother Theresa,” he said, nodding in deference to the principal.

  Willard sipped his juice, then laid his glass down on the desk.

  “We have three groups of thirty-odd children. I take runs, you take throws, Morgan, Kate takes jumps.”

  “Throws?” said Morgan. “What do they throw?”

  “A rock, a baseball, a medicine ball, anything. It doesn’t have to be no Olympics.”

  “What kinds of jumps?” asked Kate.

  “Make ’em up,” said Willard, gulping the remains of his drink. “Long jump for starters, hop, step and jump, standing long jump – when you run out of ideas, come over and see me, and we’ll make up some more.”

  He looked at Kate and Morgan, then at the two nuns.

  “Can some of your staff help?” he asked.

  Mother Theresa nodded. “Just one question, Mr Clay,” she said. ‘

  “Yes?” said Willard.