Divide the Dawn- Fight

by Eamon Loingsigh

  He lifts her dress in the darkness and yanks down on her bloomers on one side.

  “Mummy?”

  L’il Dinny?

  “Mummy where are ya?”

  “Sadie,” Happy Maloney’s deep voice calls out. “Sadie we heard ya yell. Where are ya?”

  “Mummy?”

  “Fookin’ hussy spawn,” the man mumbles.

  In her hand she feels he is no longer stiff and the penis flops out of her grasp. Then he reaches down to feel it himself.

  “Fuck,” he leans his weight against her and grabs for her left hand. In the dark she can feel his tongue wiggle over her ring her finger until she feels her wedding band plucked off. “Tomorrow meet me in room 310, upstairs. Top floor. I’m keepin’ this just in case. Ya don’ show an—”

  Sadie nods and straightens her clothing.

  “Don’ fookin’ say nothin’ or else. I’ll wait in here a couple minutes, hurry up.”

  Sadie falls out of the broom closet and onto the hallway carpet. She looks at her left hand minus her wedding band and pulls herself back up again and straightens her hair. When she looks behind her, Happy and John are not there. She then turns in the other direction, toward the lobby.

  “Mummy! There ya are!”

  Sadie runs toward her son and falls to her knees to embrace him on the carpeted hallway.

  “Oh my god I love yu so much, Li’l Dinny,” Sadie holds his face.

  “I’m John Carter,” he says.

  “Yu are, John Carter. Mummy’s little hero.”

  “Where were ya?” Happy says. “We was lookin’ from pillar to post for ya. Ya know there’s a whole bunch o’ women down the hall an’—”

  Sadie doesn’t hear the rest of what Happy explains. As the three walk down the hallway, they come upon the broom closet where the hotelier hides.

  She stops and pulls Happy down for a whisper, “D’yu ‘ave that revolver?”

  “Sure I do.”

  Sadie looks at the door and clenches her teeth.

  Not My Enemy

  “Bill wouldn’t just come to. . . to kill us like he did those people down in Red Hook, would he?” I wonder aloud.

  By the barred door Vincent huffs on his .38 and buffs it on his waistcoat while Henry Browne turns the bowie knife back and forth in front of his confounded face. A collection of cudgels and brickbats are wielded by the other dockbosses in the light of the arched windows.

  I toss my pipe onto Dinny’s desk, “He wouldn’t do that, would he? If not, we need to make peace with Bill and all his.”

  The Swede palms the grip of a bail-hook and stares my way, “Petey Behan owns ya an’ ya look the other way. Bill kills Mickey Kane an’ ya turn the cheek. The war ain’t even started an’ ya cry for peace. Are ya wit’ us or are ya a craven scamp?”

  “I just—”

  “There’s no time for just. Let’s go.”

  I speak to The Swede’s back, “Every move we make has to be thought-out. If we take unnecessary chances we risk losing it all. The seat of power,” I turn to all. “Our families. Everything.”

  Vincent mumbles while eyeballing his pistol, “Let’s finish it now then.”

  “Wait,” Dinny stops the men from going for the door.

  Downstairs a rumpus of men’s voices come to us to the tune of dragging stools and drink requests. Then songs begin to waft up through the floor boards. The first round goes down quickly and only whets their appetite for the second, and from up here in the office we are besieged by a sing-along that Bill seems to be leading.

  Don’t you ever laugh as the hearse goes by,

  For you may be the next to die.

  Dinny says, “Paddy ordered extra whiskey for the shelves. Let them get lubricated. We call him Minister o’ Education for good reason.”

  “That’s right,” I remember the words told me when first I came to the Dock Loaders’ Club, “There’s many a slip ‘twixt cup an’ lip, an’ all that is spilled in Paddy’s bar ends up in Dinny’s ear.”

  They wrap you up in a big white sheet

  And cover you from head to feet.

  “Don’ sound like they’re talkin’ much, just singin’,” The Swede says. “Let’s go.”

  “Leave the weapons up here,” Dinny orders. “If Bill’s men came wit’ weapons, we’d’ve known by now.”

  The Swede snarls through clenched teeth, “We could end this right now. Who cares if Bill didn’ disappear Brosnan. If people think he spilled the ol’ tunic’s blood, we’d be heroes for cleanin’ it up, right?” He nods in my direction. “An’ this boy’ll stop pissin’ his trousers.”

  “No violence!” Dinny stands from his desk. “We got twice the men they do. We have to offer them our hospitality. If they don’ respect it, then and only then do we come out swingin’.

  “Shootin’,” Vincent corrects.

  “But we go down as one. Let’s be clear about one thing, Bill is here to recruit men,” Dinny points a finger into the desk. “This thing. This room. Upstairs, under the bridge. The power in it. He wants to harness the lightnin’ an’ turn its power against our own people. This,” he points again. “This is all he wants. An’ he’ll give up anythin’ to get it. So if we give him any idea that there’s dissent among us, it’ll be blood in the water.”

  Through the flooring the voices reach up.

  They put you in a big black box

  And cover you with dirt and rocks

  All goes well for about a weak,

  Until your coffin begins to leak.

  The dockbosses are first down the stairs. The bar is shoulder-to-shoulder with men. In the back by the stairwell are dour faced followers of Dinny while Bill’s men are cramped round the mahogany trough by the front door, spilling outside. The street is filled with more of Dinny’s men, who surround the visitors but Bill’s baying hounds bear their toothy grins to keep the factions separated.

  As Dinny makes his way down the stairs, Bill is shaking hands with Beat McGarry who tries to pull his hand away. But Bill won’t let go. He holds Beat’s shake sternly and smiles toward Dinny. Eventually he lets go and Beat scurries off. Just then the song careens toward its chorus and Bill pounds on the bar to the rhythm. His men follow suit, stamping on the floor and laughing it up.

  The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,

  The worms play pinochle on your snout

  They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,

  They eat the jelly between your toes.

  As we approach, Bill’s lieutenants form behind him. His Army uniform is newly pressed with a warn sheep’s pelt over it, though he makes sure that everyone sees the Distinguished Service Cross that is pinned to his chest. Upon his neck, above the uniformed collar, blisters weep pink puss. Some are scarred over. Never a handsome man, Bill repulses now. A face sculpted by morbid and sullen assuredness.

  As the two gangs slowly face each other, Darby Leighton slips in the front door as it closes. He rights his coat as listless eyes pan across the inside of the Dock Loaders’ Club.

  “Get that one outta here!” The Swede bumps ahead of me. “Eighty-sixt means gone for good an’ ever. White flag or no, he goes.”

  Bill casually looks back at Darby, who freezes at the attention paid him, “He’s wit’ me, Swede. Like all the other lost soldiers the White Hand tossed away.”

  The Swede turns incredulously to Dinny, who waves it off with a slow turn of his hand, “Let Darby darken the air wit’ his lies so that all the men here can see the light o’ truth. Eddie, Freddie, pat him down. If he means to sneak a weapon in here, then this meetin’ will be short-lived.”

  Eddie Hughes slaps at Darby’s hand to make him raise them faster while Freddie Cuneen rifles through his pockets and palms his cock and balls. When it’s found he is clean, the two shoulder back through the slew of young labormen to Dinny’s side.

  “These the scarpers that couldn’t finish off Garry fookin’ Barry?” Non Connors snarls and turns his eyes up to The Swede. “An’ yaz got them
runnin’ security? In our gang we don’ raise up them what don’ succeed.”

  Big Dick Morissey growls behind me as Dance Gillen is halted from speaking out when Dinny places a palm on his chest. Meanwhile, Needles Ferry nods out, high from a recent fix. His long, narrow fingers reach across the small table while his mouth gapes like a man in his last gasps.

  The Swede turns his rage to the bone-thin junkie, “Fookin’ guttersnipe catchpenny,” and gives him a kick. But Needles’ slack body just slivers bonelessly to the floor until someone drapes him over the table again like a suit on a hanger.

  I find myself face to face with bantam Petey Behan, who is even smaller than I remember, yet casts a long shadow over me. Petey and I have a long feud between us ever since he stole a coat right off my shoulders. Dinny wouldn’t let me forget about it and made me challenge Petey to a fight on the Belgian bricks behind the Dock Loaders’ Club. A fight I lost. Since then I grew taller, while he remains short-legged, though shouldered with broad muscle. Petey has begun to take a leadership role of sorts. He’s assumed the mantle of the old Lonergan Crew now that Richie has become a lieutenant.

  “Next time ya won’ be able to get up, Liam. So this is what I want ya to do. I want ya to put ya lips on it, right here,” he holds his crotch. “Open ya mout’ see? Up an’ down. I see I left my mark on ya too. When ya look in the mirror that scar’ll always remind ya that ya’re feckless an’ infirm. Ya should be sized up for a wooden overcoat now ‘cause next time we tangle ya gonna end up in Green-Wood under a tree.”

  Their side chuckles and crows at that.

  I measure his jaw in my mind. I know his moves. He is strong, but I am stronger now. “Next time I’ll square things, right like,” I glare down.

  “Oh did ya first mentor Tommy Tuohey teach ya how to fight? I guess the lessons got cut short though. I was there when that stupit Pavee gypsy took his last breath after I kicked him to sleep wit’ all my brothers.”

  “If you were confident you wouldn’t threaten me, Petey. I see you.”

  “Ye’re payin’ yer own way, ye are Bill,” Paddy suddenly declares. “Ye think ye can galavant in here with a few thick navvies an’ call the shots? Sure ye haven’t the shame in ye to cause a rúla búla an’ then on top to if, summon free drinks fer yerself?”

  “Fookin’ disrespectful o’ vet’rans,” Non Connors sneers. “Ya breakin’ ya own rules already?”

  Bill leans across the bar at Paddy and points at Darby’s buttoned, rust-color stained shirt, “Ya see these men in here? They got the blood o’ I-Talians on them. We took back Red Hook. Ya can use that as payment. Ya’re fookin’ welcome.”

  Paddy fires back, “I don’t feckin’ care if ye killt Oliver Cromwell and Queen Elizabeth as the cherry on top, ye’re payin’ yer own way in this feckin’ bar!”

  Bill shrugs and removes some crumpled bills from his pocket and slams them on the bar, “Drinks for everybody!”

  A roar is sent up at those words, and not just from Bill’s men.

  “Bill,” Dinny’s voice can be heard as he slowly raises his head to the rebel leader. Dinny’s shoulders partially obscure Bill from my view, but to compare the two would be fruitless. Dinny has a thick trunk, wide neck and the small ears of a fighting dog, while Bill is slight of build and four inches shorter.

  “Yeah,” Bill runs his tongue over his teeth and goes to his tip-toes to see the many men behind Dinny. “I come here t’day to announce that I am the new leader o’ the White Hand an’ will take my place upstairs. We need not draw blood or go to war. All that can be avoided. Wit’ a handshake, I pledge to Dinny Meehan twenny percent o’ all profits gained from tribute for ya to distribute as ya see fit. The men that wanna work. . . They will come to me from here on out.”

  “Stop sayin’ that name,” The Swede’s bloodshot eyes stare down into Bill’s.

  “Twenny percent? For doin’ nothin’?” Dinny asks.

  “For steppin’ aside, peaceably.”

  “All because ya announce it?” Dinny says loud enough for all to hear. “Ya must think ya’self some kinda god, amblin’ in here wit’ those words on ya lips.”

  “We are not your sheep any longer. We will not follow ya over a cliff. Me? I am fated! The signs are unmistakable, an’ they all point upward. I will sit atop Irishtown soon enough, even as ya send dagos against me,” Bill rounds on him in a black fury and shows everyone the bullet scar that cut through the hair over one of his fawn ears. “That’s from one o’ ya I-Talian assassins. An’ if that wasn’t enough, ya had me charged wit’ murderin’ him. Then I took the plea an’ joined the Army where I inhaled enough mustard gas to kill a stegosaurus,” Bill addresses the entire room with an arm extended into Dinny’s face. “This is how ya sheepherder rewards his drove.”

  “Ya rebelled against Irishtown an’ killt one o’ my enforcers,” Dinny too speaks to all in the room. “Would anyone here’ve honored my dignity if I looked the other way?”

  “So ya make a deal wit’ the Black Hand against ya own people?”

  “I got no qualms wit’ anyone willin’ to work wit’ me,” Dinny announces, then faces his opponent directly. “Bill? We worked together in the past. We need to think as one on things again. The true threat to us all is on the rise an’ in the wise words o’ Detective William Brosnan, the real enemy will leave us all in a welter o’ our own blood an’ bones. . . Ya come to our headquarters to recruit my men, an’ I allow it. But I want ya to know I’m here to recruit you. Come back to us, Bill. If ya don’, we’ll all be wiped out an’ hist’ry will never know Irishtown existed. To come back to us, I offer ya inside information. There is a true threat on ya head, Bill. This Scarfaced Al comin’ up from the south.”

  “It’s true, Bill,” Vincent leans back against the crook in the bar with both thumbs under suspenders. “I got it from a good source.”

  The Swede buts in, “Don’ confuse him wit’ facts, Vincent. His mind’s already made up.”

  “He’s after blood vengeance,” Dinny picks it up. “If ya join us again, I can talk Sixto Stabile an’ Frankie Yale outta sendin’ him after ya.”

  Bill snarls, “Sounds like a bribe.”

  Bill doesn’t like it when power is taken from him. Even when it’s in the form of caring.

  “This guy ain’t like other I-Talians,” Dinny continues. “This guy? He’s on the up. Two hundret pounds. Meat fists. An’ surrounded by a group o’ maniacs. Besides,” Dinny looks out the window, then back down to Lovett’s eyes. “Some things should be kept between us, ya know? Outsiders got no business in our territories, even if we fight amongst ourselves. Don’ matter, right Bill?”

  Bill looks round as slow nods come from both sides of the room.

  “Here’s my second thing,” Dinny presents his offer. “Ya will have autonomy in Red Hook. Give Irishtown fifty percent o’ the tribute money ya earn, an’ we will provide ya more strength against any future I-Talian incursions. I will even name ya to my council wit’ an equal say alongside The Swede. Accept these terms an’ the enemies o’ the White Hand will tremble again when the worst thing possible happens; Dinny Meehan and Bill Lovett shake hands. A united Irish-America right here in Brooklyn.”

  Bill looks down at Dinny’s extended arm, then looks beyond Dinny to the men who stand behind him, “For six years he has sat upon his throne upstairs. A throne he won wit’ blood. He will tell yaz, as he told me, that wit’ every vict’ry, there will be losses. He won that chair not only wit’ the blood o’ Christie the Larrikin, but by throwin’ Pickles Leighton under the trolley. Yeah, he rules t’day, but he will fall like the rest an’ when we string him up an’ the swains who support him, I will turn to the rest o’ yaz. An’ I promise I will personally separate the sheep from the wolves. Unlike this guy who would put a crown o’ thorns on his own head so the world could see him as a victim. I will reward the wolves, while the sheep will be slain. Ask ya’self this; what are ya? A follower o’ a fake messiah, or a wolf ready to join the new pack? ‘Cause i
f ya’re a sheep, ye’ll be slaughtered.”

  Dinny steps forward, “Slaughtered? Just like my cousin? That’s what most people around here are sayin’, at least. Ya seen him around, Bill? My cousin Mickey Kane? The dockboss o’ Red Hook.”

  Bill’s coal black eyes turn to Dinny. His lips tighten angrily until a hyena smile appears on his face, “We heard he went for a swim durin’ the storm.”

  Dinny lowers his voice and moves even closer, “Ya killt’em, didn’ ya Bill?”

  “Nah, I heard ya did it ya’self.”

  Opposite me, Petey Behan sniggers and one-arm Joey Flynn quarks in response, caw, caw, caw.

  “Bill,” Dinny says. “I’m askin’ ya, man to man. . . Is he dead? Should I tell my aunt to stop believin’ he’s gonna come back? Did ya kill him?”

  “Nah, I didn’t kill him,” Bill looks round his men and slowly raises a pointed finger. “Richie did.”

  We all turn our eyes to Richie Lonergan behind Bill’s left shoulder, but the teen is undaunted. As his head slowly swivels toward us, his eyes change from gray to blue when the light that sprays through the front window reaches them.

  “I guess ya made ya choice between Bill an’ I, eh Richie?” Dinny nods toward him.

  Richie shifts his weight from the wooden peg to his one good leg without a suggestion of shame in his distant, high-cheekbone eyes, “Guess so.”

  Vincent tosses hair off his eye and puts a hand on Dinny’s shoulder, “Richie, if it wasn’t for this man, ya little brother an’ sister would be in pauper’s graves right now. An’ he’s always made good for ya Ma all these years. Paid the rent for ya place on Johnson Street an’ the bike shop on Bridge Street—”

  “Bribes,” Bill interrupts. “Don’ listen to him, Richie. They made a fortune in graft an’ tried to buy ya loyalty. Ya made a decision to join me based on respect, not payoffs. All o’ these men here t’day what support me and my claim do so outta respect. They was lost before, an’ they come to me. Ya set them free Dinny, ‘cause ya had no use for them. An’ now they’re found. They summoned me to lead them. Understand? An’ if ya don’ move outta the way peaceably,” Bill raises his voice. “I say put the crown o’ thorns on his head an’ we’ll nail him to the Brooklyn Bridge so the rest o’ us can get on wit’ the future.”