“A deal is a deal, it’s done son,” Detective William Brosnan assures his son-in-law Patrolman Daniel Culkin.
“I’m fine wit’ it, dad. I don’ wanna work for Wolcott no more. We pick up the last payments on the tug this mornin’ an’ tell Lovett about that thing. Did ya tell them already? The thing?”
“I did.”
“Who’d ya tell, Bill hisself?”
That’s not your business, son. It’s mine, Brosnan runs the back of his hand up the stubble of his cheek in thought. When you make a move in Brooklyn, you run the risk of losing the piece of meager ground you hold. But violent moves risk life and limb. Bill’s invasion and conquest of the South Red Hook Terminal could not go without an Italian response, Brosnan had learned from a few gumshoes. Paul Vaccarelli, the old leader of the Five Points Gang hired a young gun by the name of Scarfaced Al, a two-hundred pound, twenty year-old to exact revenge. Lovett’s new gang may have won for the time being, but the Black Hand’s next move could cleanse Red Hook with Irish blood.
“Bill deserves fair warnin’,” Daniel says.
“It’s done, son. That’s all there is to know. Why do ye care about Bill Lovett anyhow?”
Daniel bites his lip and growls under his breath, enough for Brosnan to hear. He’s too young to be making demands. Too excitable. His time is coming soon enough. He need but wait, as my time draws to an end.
“Daniel,” Brosnan reaches for his son-in-law’s arm to turn him round.
In civilian garb they stand beneath the length of freight-rail platforms along the Atlantic Terminal. On the shorefront, the young and gloomy-eyed riverine laborers of the Atlantic Avenue Terminal watch wordlessly at the two plain-clothed policemen amidst the criss-crossing freight tracks.
“What?” Daniel flippantly responds.
Brosnan touches his floppy cap at the men on the Atlantic Terminal, then looks down down to Daniel’s eyes, “I want ye to know somethin’.”
“What, say it then.”
“I know ye’re not a Brosnan.”
Daniel shrugs impatiently.
“But I want ye to know that my home is yer home an’ that. . . The dignity o’ my house is. . . It’s the strength we hold in our name, the Brosnan way.”
Daniel’s eyes wander until they come up to meet Brosnan’s, “Thanks Dad, I uh. . . I really appreciate that. Means a lot.”
The old man’s eyes fill with water and goose-prickles gather on his arms. A sad sort of happiness lumps in his throat and the tears he hides from his son-in-law are wrought of joy, not pride.
My little Doe will have her children’s father by her side long after they put me in my hole, he smiles while thinking of the home in Peekskill he bought for them.
“Did ye hear talk o’ the Garrity buck taken over the Atlantic Terminal?” Brosnan calls ahead to his son-in-law in a chesty voice.
Daniel nods as he strides a subgrade of railway track.
“They’re cute when they’re kittens, but lions grown want for blood,” Brosnan surmises.
“But why’d they boot Reynolds?”
“For once in my life,” Brosnan takes a deep breath. “I don’t give a fiddler’s fart.”
“Maybe Reynolds killt Mickey Kane?” Daniel wonders.
“If I’m to believe Lovett’s camp, Dinny Meehan killt his own cousin.”
Daniel laughs, “That’s my favorite one.” But the young patrolman’s eyes go dark.
Does he think I tipped Meehan that Wolcott put a target on Reynolds? Brosnan wonders, then speaks up, “Tanner Smith’s back by Dinny’s side, maybe that bowsie bastard had somethin’ to do with it,”
But Daniel gives him a squiggly mouth to show his doubt, which injures Brosnan’s pride and sends his thoughts tumbling, the underworld stirs to life as resources grow scarce. More murders are undoubtedly coming. I hope I’m doing the right thing for him. But if my move is made with love in my heart, how could I be wrong?
Out on the water, to their right, tugboats negotiate through the mist with warning blasts like blind and bleating goats in a foggy Irish valley. Tall above them all, obscured by passing sheets of vapor, the craggy peaks of the Manhattan skyline come into view in dream-like outlines.
“Son, do ye remember back when ye asked me for Doirean’s hand in marriage?”
“Course I do.”
“Did ye know that I tore holes in my socks on purpose, so I could intimidate ye?”
“I remember how ya propped ya feet up on the dinin’ table, but I didn’t know ya did it on purpose.”
Brosnan giggles with a chesty timbre, “Doirean lost her head over it. She screamed at me for that one. But outta all the boyos that’d come for her, ye were the only one she liked.” Brosnan lies. “She said that, ye know. Truly. She loved ye from the start. I don’t know why, ye were a damned nuisance.”
Daniel laughs, “I was. . . eager, as ya like to say. I’m sorry Dad. If I’ve caused trouble—”
“Ah stop with that, will ye,” Brosnan slaps a delighted hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “I was once a hellion myself with the broth of a boy, o’ course. All young men are. But a man’s gotta strike his own path.”
“That’s true,” Daniel mutters.
“Ye’re makin’ the right decision, son,” Brosnan announces as he lights a Na Bocklish and whips out the match. “This house up Peekskill-way is a beaut. I want ye to know, Daniel. The future is comin’, do ye know what I mean, like? An’ it’s not here in this city. No sir. It’s out there. Out in the new world. The suburbs. My god, I can’t wait to see the look o’ her face tonight when we tell her about the house.”
“It’s got a new boiler in it, ya say?”
“Paid for it myself and then had to pay for the damn yoke to be installed on top of it,” Brosnan proudly glances sideways. “Oh the fireplace works fine, o’ course. But the house has new pipes and it’s all controlled down in the basement. Upstairs there’re three bedrooms. The master bedroom is yers and the two children can stay in their own rooms. When the baby comes, there’s a small room, like a nook, in the master bedroom for a newborn.”
“Where’re you gonna sleep, Dad?”
In my hole, Brosnan thinks. He hadn’t put much thought into devising a scheme for all to believe he would be coming with them. He has other plans. Plans he could never talk about again for fear of being called psychopathic. Or superstitious, as Wolcott named him. No, I’m not going to Peekskill, a deal is a deal, even if I forced Wolcott into it, he thinks. They will know when they find my cold corpse next to Dinny Meehan’s when I sacrifice myself to this devilish destiny. I will go right up to the Dock Loaders’ Club and do the deed, then. . .
Brosnan peers down at Daniel, “I can stay on the sofa downstairs. Or maybe we’ll put a mattress in the basement. We’ll see.”
“Nonsense,” Daniel waves off. “Ya can stay in one o’ the bedrooms. Little Billie and Daniel Jr.’ll stay in the same room together.”
“Ye’re a good lad,” Brosnan allows. “I’m so glad for ye and my Doirean. Truly, I couldn’t be happier for ye both.”
Up ahead, through the maze of dock sheds and pierhouses and the hole-in-the-wall shops for rope craftsmen, tug repairmen and junk dealers, the two policemen in civilian garb come upon the Baltic Terminal. There, The Lark and Big Dick Morissey supervise a few longshoremen as they load an automobile truck. One of the workers has his pants round his ankles and unwinds silk from a large spool round both of his legs. When he sees Brosnan and Culkin his eyes dip downward as he pulls his trousers up and stands in front of the silk spool, as if hiding it.
“Bunch o’ gypsy thieves,” Brosnan shakes his head. “Speakin’ o’ which, did ye know that strange feller Darby Leighton snuck up on me a few days back?”
“Oh yeah?”
Now you know who I told about the vengeance from the Black Hand and this Scarfaced fellow.
Brosnan looks down toward Daniel, “Scared the bejaysus outta me, he did. Darby Leighton was a recluse livin’ in the back arse o�
� nowhere for so long his mind’s gone soft. He doesn’t know how to speak natural, like a normal person, like, ye know? He just tilts his head an’ stares side-eyed at ye. No handshakes, no ‘hi, how are yez,’ just threats from the gobshite tool.”
“What did he say?”
“If I wanted help overthrowin’ them lot o’ diddicoy culchies that follow Meehan because Bill Lovett’s the rightful leader o’ the White Hand an’ this that an’ the other thing,” Brosnan’s face blanches when he realizes that he may have given too much away.
“What did he say then?”
If you’re moving to Peekskill, what’s with all the questions about Brooklyn Brosnan looks away, “He said he knows where we live an’ if I don’t get my priorities straight, he can’t promise our safety. Ye know how them yokes work.”
“An’ what did ya say to that?”
Brosnan shoulders uncomfortably in the civilian garb, clears his throat and turns to Daniel, “I told Darby there’s no bleedin’ difference between Meehan and Lovett and that the real threat to them all is Garry Barry. Well ye’d think I took his last drink o’ water ‘way from him when I said it. He didn’t even know Barry was still alive.”
“That’s good,” Daniel looks away when he is speaking. “Someone should take care o’ Garry Barry some day.”
He truly has turned away from Wolcott.
Brosnan rolls his eyes and bellows, “Darby was askin’ me who poked that little feral she-hound, the Lonergan hussy. Apparently she’s reached the age that she can feel the heat twixt her legs. But if that one’s gonna start whelpin’ pups, ye’re leavin’ at the right time, Daniel. Her mother squeezed out fifteen, for god sakes. An’ all o’ them bite too. Well maybe that Tiny Thomas wasn’t so rabid, poor child. That little sweet moppet, aye, he died ‘cause his thick mother still believes hospitals will give ye the black bottle if a Protestant needs the bed. The child steps on a nail and is done-in by the infection. The ignorance o’ these back-arsed people, ye know what I mean, like?”
“Why would Darby be askin’ about Anna Lonergan?” Daniel wonders.
“The Leightons are a flock o’ dingbats, don’t forget. The only one who had any sense in that fam’ly was the eldest brother, Frank, an’ he’s leavin’,” Brosnan turns the conversation away from Brooklyn. “Ah sometimes ye just gotta build a bridge an’ get over it. Ye’re right to move away from Garry Barry, son. That’s a troubled soul, believe me. Troubled to the core o’ him. I’m proud o’ ye. Ye know how much I care about my little Doe. But don’t ever forget that ye’re part o’ our fam’ly, as I said. An’ ye always will be. I remember yer father. The story he told me about what happened to yer grandparents on the ship from the ol’ country was a damn tragedy—”
“I don’ wanna talk about that,” Daniel turns away.
“Why, I was only—”
“The past is dead,” Daniel says with bitterness on his mouth. “An’ the dead don’ talk so there ain’t no use lookin’ back to them. If I never hear anythin’ about County Mayo and that fookin’ famine again, I’ll be happy.”
“There’s a lot to be learnt from the past,” Brosnan says softly.
“Only if ya’re a prisoner to it. I’m a free man. What about ya’self, ol’ man? Are ya imprisoned by the talk o’ the dead? Are the ghosts o’ the past drawin’ ya inward like the infirm to the house o’ god?”
He knows. Wolcott must have told him. Damn that Wolcott to an eternal hell. Brosnan clears his throat, “Ye don’t know what I know about Garry Barry, son. Or what I’ve experienced.”
Daniel grits his teeth and clenches fists as a wet, foggy wind sweeps through an an alley one block away from the water and ripples through their civilian garb. Under a lean-to they pass a chandler who drops a wick into a greasy tallow mold and catches a glance of them. The small man croaks something in their direction and sweeps a shaky arm along his wares like a starved salesman. And next to him is a cooper in a dark room who swings a mallet onto a chisel to lower a metal hoop round the beveled staves of a barrel.
“Dad,” Daniel says without looking up at him. “I’m sorry. Ya’re probably right. It’s just that. . . It’s hard to remember sometimes that I’m young. An’ I know we’re doin’ the right thing t’day. After we meet Wisniewski, for the last time, we’ll be through wit’ Brooklyn. But Wolcott owes us for services rendered. I got him Garry Barry an’ ya got Meehan jailed for the boot theft at Hanan’s. After this, we’re square wit’ him. An’ I know, in the heart o’ my heart, that movin’ up to Peekskill is the best for us.”
“Ye’re a good lad,” a lump grows in Brosnan’s throat and his eyes threaten to boil over with tears of happiness. “A pain in my arse, but a good lad. Ye’re doin’ what a man was made to do. It’s our duty to arrest the bad guys. But our true callin’ as men is to ensure our fam’lies are safe. All else pales in comparison.” Brosnan stops Daniel with a hand to his arm again, “Tell me I’m right, Daniel. What is a man’s true callin’?”
Daniel stares back at his father-in-law’s demanding eyes, “A man’s true callin’ is to take care o’ his fam’ly.”
Satisfied, Brosnan strides along the wharf’s edge where Meehan’s territory ends and Lovett’s begins at Union Street, “As an older fella who learned his lesson many a-year ago, I take great pride in helpin’ ya do the same. If this is all ye ask in return,” he raises his hands toward the tugboat. “I’ll gladly come along. Most policemen in Brooklyn are on the tug. It’s been part o’ the job since before I joined the force back in ’88. Christie the Larrikin had me meet him at the end o’ Gold Street when he became boss in 1900. When Meehan took over, he moved it over by the Fulton Ferry Landin’. Now Wolcott has us way down here on the Union Street dock. At least it goes quickly. Get on the tug, take the envelope and get off.”
“Well who was the King o’ Irishtown before Maroney?”
“Eh?” Brosnan is taken aback by the question and has to think on it for a moment. “Yeah well, no one rightly knew, to be honest. T’was shrouded in their code o’ silence. There were rumors o’ some feller by the name o’ Sean Dream, but I never met him. In them days I used to meet the gangs on a tugboat near the Jay Street Railyard, but it was the Dock Loaders’ Club where they were headquartered. Meehan re-opened it in 1913, an’ that was that.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Back when ya started, how did ya learn about the handouts?”
“The hard way. Captain Sullivan was a detective back then. He took me in an’ gave me the chance when I was off the boat from Dublin. Just as I brought yerself in. O’ course I had my own philosophy on life an’ took a moral position on the whole affair, as youngsters tend to do. ‘I’m a man o’ god,’ I told him. ‘My duty is to serve the law an’ I won’t be corrupted.’” Brosnan laughs at his younger self. “I thought I knew it all. Well ol’ Sully took me by the neck an’ told me outright, ‘If ye don’t take the yoke from the gangs then ye can ask His lordship His very-fookin’-self upon the pearly gates if he agrees about yer moral fookin’ position. Ye wanna survive? Get on the tug.’”
“That’s what he said?”
“That’s what he said,” Brosnan confirms. “But from what I hear about things up in Peekskill, the longshoremen gangs an’ the unions don’t pay the police off.”
“That’s good to hear,” Daniel peeks up to Brosnan. “What about the businesses? Fact’ry owners’n shippin’ companies an’ the like?”
Brosnan groans, “I dunno. Ye’ll have to find out when ye—we—get up there.”
The two plain-clothed policemen turn up a wooden dock and high-step over the gunwale of a tugboat where the giant Amadeusz Wisniewski sits with a scrawny hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers. The stink of diesel comes from an exhaust pipe and mingles with cheap tobacco. When Wisniewski sees Brosnan he stands in the back of the boat a head-and-a-half taller than the bear.
“How ya, Wiz? Let’s get this over with ye big lump,” Brosnan says. “Hand her over.”
Brosnan looks up to Wisniewski, “That envelope’s empty.”
Wisniewski taps on the window behind him with his wedding band and the engine is suddenly floored.
“Where’re we goin’?” Brosnan bellows, catching his balance.
Two men appear from the wheelhouse above and descend backward down the bridge ladder next to the single round smokestack. Brosnan recognizes the first man, but can’t put a name to the face. The second face causes his right hand to move for his police issue revolver. But before he can draw it, he feels another gun press against the skin under his ear, cold and hard.
“No Dad,” Daniel Culkin says from behind as he holds his own revolver to his father-in-law’s head with his right hand and gently takes Brosnan’s police issue from the holster with his left.
Garry Barry walks toward the stern and worms in close to Brosnan with what appears to be a bail hook in his hand. Barry gazes up into the bear’s eyes as the bulkhead of Brooklyn is left behind. The scar that runs from above Barry’s eyebrow down through his left eye still seems swollen and has blackened with a greenish-yellow color underneath. One eyeball is black, while the other is a pale gray. As the smell of infection and puss comes to Brosnan’s nose, his mouth fills with water and his stomach turns. Barry’s scar then runs below the left eye and forms a v-shape, going up into his bent and bulbous nose and ends just over his upper lip. Brosnan had learned that while Barry was in the hospital, doctors had hastily opened his face to repair the broken bones in his sinus cavity and orbital. Then haphazardly stapled it back together, convinced he’d hemorrhage and die. But that was months ago. More than a year, even.
Brosnan notices Barry also has a hole in the left shoulder of his coat and a red glistening wound beneath. It is not a bail hook he holds, but a scythe wrapped with leather straps round a piece of wood. The fetid stench coming from Barry’s mouth reeks of putrified, rotted skin. When a maggot wriggles from Barry’s nose unnoticed, Brosnan almost gags.
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