Divide the Dawn- Fight

by Eamon Loingsigh

  “No.”

  The smile on Brosnan’s face in his own lap sickens Daniel’s stomach.

  I have to find someone to hurt me so that this idiot doesn’t follow me around anymore.

  “Ya’re supposed to be in that casket,” Daniel points with a nod toward the bier.

  “Shh,” Doirean angrily taps Daniel’s leg, then brings her hand back over to hold her belly.

  “Daniel,” Brosnan’s eyes look up again and a sly smirk appears on his pale face that has lines of dried blood smeared across it. “Daniel, I’m here to make a deal, ye bowsie bastard. I tried everythin’ to stop ye from workin’ with the fat man, but ye wouldn’t listen. I knew there was a curse on my fam’ly, an’ I was proved right, damn ye. My daughter will live. Life is due her, but as fer yerself? Yer doomed, like. Fer what ye did? Yer doomed unless ye make a deal.”

  Daniel mumbles out the side of his mouth, “Ya got no sway over me, ol’ man. Ya’re time came an’ went. Now fuck off.”

  “It’s power ye want,” Brosnan’s hands straighten his head again next to Daniel on the pew. “Thing is, ye can’t take power with ye when ye die like ye can honor. But it’s the power ye got the lust fer. An’ ye want the captaincy too. An’ ye want credit fer takin’ power ‘way from the gangs an’ the unions, am I right?”

  Daniel lowers his eyes, smacks his lips and looks down to Brosnan’s severed head, “An’ how is it ya’re gonna get me all that, ol’ man?”

  “Divine providence ye bleedin’ dryshite,” Brosnan laughs, then coughs, then laughs again. “It’s not about whether or not I can get it fer ye, Daniel. No, no. It’s about what ye’re willin’ to give up, is all.”

  “What do ya want, one o’ my kids? Doirean?”

  “No, it has to be somethin’ ye care about, like.”

  “Fuck off, I’ll get it on my own.”

  “No, no ye won’t.”

  “What are ya like a ghost? Or a god? Is that what ya’re sayin’? Make up ya mind.” Daniel whispers, then his eyes change to show his worry. “The devil?”

  “Ha!” Brosnan bellows in laughter. “There are no gods or devils that exist beyond our own capacity, right? We create them. We are the gods an’ the devils an’ they only become animated when we fill them with our worries an’ our hopes, d’ye understand?” Brosnan looks over toward Father Larkin, “We are the creators o’ all, even mortal power structures. An’ we give them leaders with authoritative names such as priest, president, prime minister, chieftain, king. . . But all power structures are created by human bein’s to benefit a group o’ individuals who remain loyal to its demands. Have ye been loyal to law, Daniel? Have ye?”

  “I’m loyal to no one. I make my own way, I told ya. No gods or devils? Fine with me.”

  Brosnan blinks and moves his head in Father Larkin’s direction to hear the echoing words of the funeral homily, “Them that sleep in the dust o’ the earth shall awake, some to everlastin’ life, an’ some to shame an’ everlastin’ contempt.”

  Brosnan says, “Ye don’t believe in ghosts either, but ye converse with them.”

  “I got my own plan.”

  “Ah yes, phase three o’ Operation Grey’s Faith, yeah?” Brosnan’s wry smile is punctuated with a wink. “Alas, t’will be ruined before it can ever be realized, ye get me? Unless ye make a deal with me here an’ now.”

  “How’s it gonna get ruined?”

  “Daniel, Daniel, ye’re a fool, ye know it? All along there’s been a spy in yer home.”

  “A spy?”

  “A spy, t’is true.”

  “Who?”

  “Think on it, ye fool eejit. What outsider has been in yer home o’ late?”

  The realization hits Daniel like a course of bricks, “Johanna Walsh.”

  “Shh,” Doirean hits him this time, and even Little Billie Bear gives him a serious stare from the other side of his mother’s belly.

  “Ye have it,” said Brosnan’s head. “She knows all, the woman does. Her name is not Walsh though, it’s—”

  “Connolly,” Daniel remembers Father Larkin call her. “Cinders’ wife, now I know where I’ve seen her before. She’s married to the White Hand.”

  “An’ she will tell Doirean an’ everyone else now that it’s confirmed I’m dead, which will ruin yer plan. She knows what ye did to me, Daniel. An’ the law will have its justice, t’will. They’ll hang ye like a dog. Make the deal, Daniel,” Brosnan gurgles. “Make the deal.”

  “What’s the terms?”

  “I’ll give ye what ye need if ye give me what I want, otherwise. . .”

  “What do ya want?”

  “Well yer soul, o’ course.”

  Sean Dream

  I kick in the door at the Dock Loaders’ Club as the candles gutter violently when the wind whooshes through the open doorway.

  “Jesus, he’s back!” Paddy Keenan yells.

  “No, it’s just me, Liam,” says I.

  But I’ll never be the same.

  The bar explodes in celebration. Everyone round shakes my hand for congratulations and slaps me on the back.

  “Liam, what did I do to ya?” Red Donnelly grabs me by the shoulders. “Beat told me that ya forgive me for what I done an’ that I’d know what ya was talkin’ about, but I don’ know. What did I do?”

  At that I have no words, other than, “Never mind.”

  “An’ the kids, Whyo an’ Will?”

  “I. . . I was delirious or something. I’m not sure,” I limp through the old saloon to a stool.

  “What did they do to ya?” Cinders pulls my arm up to look at the bandages on my fingers, but I just shake my head.

  We all know what it means when police want to “question” you.

  The Lark and Big Dick pick me up on their shoulders and parade me through the saloon. Even Feeble Philip Large is jumping up and down and chanting my name as best he can, “Wee-um, Wee-um.”

  When they let me down someone scrubs the top of my head.

  “Don’t,” says I, coldly.

  Dago Tom responds with a shocked face until I show him the stitches in my scalp.

  When I show them the bruises on my arm and chest and shins, the realization of what I’d been through begins to take shape for them.

  But I can’t show them the worst of my wounds.

  “I’m almost healed now. The nurses said I looked like I had been through a tempest when they admitted me.”

  “Well what happened to ya? Who was it did this?”

  “It was just Culkin. The last thing I remember I was looking out the curtain of the ambulance, then nothing for days.”

  “Get ya a drink, Liam?” Freddie Cuneen asks, but before I can answer him The Swede and Vincent storm down the stairwell from upstairs.

  “Liam!” The Swede yells.

  But Feeble Philip practically tackles him before The Swede dives in for a hug, “Urt, urt. Wee-um ‘urt bad!”

  “Whad they do to ya?” The Swede stands off, looking me from shoe to cap.

  “Ah he can take it,” Vincent says. “Tough yoke, this one.”

  Next to Ragtime Howard at the bar, a forlorn Dance Gillen elbows up with a drink in his fist.

  I scoot in next to him, “How you? What’s doing at the Atlantic Terminal?”

  “Russians ain’t back yet,” he half-heartedly nods.

  “I miss the docks. And it’s only been what? Two weeks since I left. . . the gang.”

  “This mean ya’re back or somethin’?”

  “I uh. . . I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “Unless ya leave Brooklyn.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “I didn’ say that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Are ya wit’ us? Or are ya gone? ‘Cause everyone here thinks ya’re a hero now. There’s a big fight comin’ up. We could use a hero,” he ends the sentence with a sarcastic tilt to his head.

  “A hero? Come on. Why would anyone say that?”

  “On
ly heroes stick to the code o’ silence under that kinda torment an’ pain,” He waves his drink in the direction of my bruises. “Alcohol might be the truth serum, but pain is the tongue loosener.”

  You have no idea that I was moments away from turning Dinny in.

  “No Dance, I’m not a hero. Not even close. I’m just a soldier.”

  “Call it what ya will, ya’re proven now. No matter what ya do, it’ll always seen as heroic. It’s like a shit gold coins. I’ve been workin’ on these docks since before ya even came to Brooklyn, an’ no one sees me in the same light as ya. Why ya think that is, eh?”

  “You’re a hard fellow, Dance. A smart guy once told me a hard man is good to find. I stepped away from the Atlantic Terminal knowing full well that it would be yours afterward. Some people have to prove themselves ten times over just to be considered an equal. It’s not right, but it’s real. Those are the true heroes. You’re the real hero here, Dance. In my mind, at least. You keep your head down and your fists up.”

  “An’ ya’re weak,” Dance says. “Weak on account o’ ya care too much about other people, just like Dinny does.”

  “Yet he’s been the strongest man in Brooklyn for six years.”

  Dance nods in admission, “That’s exactly what baffles me so fookin’ much. I just wish I had the chance to prove myself like ya did.”

  “Petey still owns me. I’m nothing, nobody.”

  “If Petey was smart, an’ he ain’t, but if he was he’d steer the fuck clear o’ the likes o’ Poe fookin’ Garrity.”

  I nod and put an arm on Dance’s shoulder, “I’m with you. I’m not gone, I’m with you.”

  “Good to hear, we need all the help we can get because if Dinny loses this fight wit’ Bill, all fookin’ hell’s gonna break loose in Brooklyn, ya know what I mean? That happens an’ ya gonna have to move because Bill’ll demand us gone or he’ll send his lieutenants to kill us all.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where we would go,” I wonder aloud.

  “Don’ worry about it, just know that we can’t lose,” he says. “No matter what, Dinny can’t lose, but. . .”

  “What?”

  Dance’s tone goes dark. “Eddie Gilchrist—”

  “Lumpy? What about him?”

  “Up in Sing Sing. They found him wit’ his throat slit, ear to ear.”

  Inside my pocket I touch the pencil I stole from him, “Was it Pickles?”

  “No one knows for sure, but. . .”

  “He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve anything he got. He was good. He was innocent—”

  “He was helpless,” Dance corrects me. “He couldn’t defend hisself. He never even knew what was goin’ on around him. All he knew was numbers.”

  “Tanner,” I ball my fist and watch the stitches strain to hold the skin on my knuckles together. “Tanner was supposed to—”

  “Ya know Tanner’s dead too?”

  “He is? Who got him?”

  “The Blood Feud.”

  “Thos Carmody; the guy who plays on both sides of the fence right out in the open.”

  “An’ does it well,” Dance holds a palm open. “We got five o’ Tanner’s men outta the deal. Lefty, Costello an’ a few other galoots. But as soon as the tunics found Tanner’s body in the Marginals Club, they had to lam it to Jersey. So now we got nothin’ outta it but Thos Carmody’s promises. I don’ trust that one, Liam. Not one bit. He’s proven nothin’ to us, but I wanna see if Thos Carmody lines up wit’ us when it counts at the fight.”

  “Jesus, what else did I miss while I was gone?”

  “The leaflets.”

  “Leaflets?”

  Dance pulls a piece of paper out of a coat pocket, “Thousands o’ them just showed up over night all over Irishtown. Up an’ down the territories.”

  I hold the leaflet close to the candlelight and read.

  Martyrdom means an early grave,

  Don’t live life as a mere squatter.

  Come to Bill, be strong and brave,

  Or stay helpless as a delicate daughter.

  Come to Bill, and everyday you’ll eat ham,

  While Dinny treats you as cannon fodder.

  Remember you’re old friend Lumpy the Lamb,

  Lumpy the Lamb—who Dinny sent to slaughter.

  Take hold of life, see how Dinny is deceitful.

  Come to Bill, for Bill is the seed of the people.

  I toss the paper to the peanut shells on the floor, “A simpleton wrote this.”

  “Simple words for simple people,” Dance says. “We lost a few more to Bill this week.”

  “That just makes it less and less likely that Bill leaves when he loses,” I look at Dance. “Then what?”

  “Then ya step away, Liam. Step away so the soldiers can war. That means killin’ people, an’ we all know ya ain’t got the heart for that.”

  “When is the fight?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” he drops his whiskey on the mahogany.

  I flex my hand. The same hand with four fingernails missing. When I make a fist, the stitches in the wound strain to keep the skin closed. Deep in my bones an ache spreads up my arm and into my shoulder.

  I turn to Dance, “What’s the plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “Where’s Dinny? The fight is tomorrow and we don’t even have a plan? Dinny always has a plan. Why don’t we have one? Why haven’t we talked about it?”

  “A plan for what? It’s a fight,” The Swede shrugs.

  “I seen a hundret o’ these,” Vincent tosses hair off of an eye. “Dinny used to get challenged everywhere we went. It’s just a one-on-one.”

  I look at Dance and the rest. “I don’t trust that Bill will show up without weapons or. . . or do something, I don’t know, Bill Lovett’s a cheat and we should account for that. Vincent, are you going to bring your .38?”

  “Nah, rules are no weapons—”

  “Where’s Dinny now? Like right now?”

  “Where he always is after the divvy; the old section,” Dance says.

  “We never even considered putting Bill in a box,” I stand from the bar.

  “No, we didn’t,” The Swede lowers his eyes. “But me an’ Vincent did. Ya didn’t want to hear about it. Now ya have a change o’ heart?”

  Yes, I have changed, without doubt. But how much?

  “How many people’s lives could be saved if we—” I stop myself, unsure of my own thoughts.

  Vincent says, “Bill’s as good as a corpse already. Let Dinny do the deed wit’ his fists. Afterward, all Bill’s men join us or—”

  “Die,” Dance finishes the sentence.

  “But if we lose. . . then what?” I break in.

  “Dinny’s never lost,” Vincent says.

  “Nothing is never,” says I. “Where in the old section is he?”

  “Probably the tavern. Ya’ve been there before, remember?”

  Paddy watches from behind the bar as I rush through the labormen and leave.

  Outside the wind rushes into my face and I have to pull the door closed as a train rumbles overhead, cha-chum, cha-chum, cha-chum. The metallic churning sound of the Manhattan Bridge overpass echoes off the water and cement, and rushes between the buildings on Bridge Street. It almost sounds like a keening woman. Like a banshee wailing her lament, warning of death.

  Stop thinking like that. I’m not superstitious. I’m not going to die.

  East I go, and north, deep into Irishtown where the cobblestones are as patchy as an old man’s mouth and bite at the ankles if I don’t watch my step. The old pre-Civil war shacks sway when the waterfront gusts dial up. They creak too, like the old oak framed hulls of masted barques in the nightmares of the Great Hunger’s children. The windows are so covered in coal dust that I can only see shadowy figures pass in front of them over the street. The alleys are unpaved and strewn with weeds and shards of glass. When a tomcat with a gnarled ear senses me, it leaps up on
to a ledge and scatters into a broken window. The coal holes are like open soars on the sidewalk and I once heard rumor that below them are tunnels that let out into the anchorage. Where they lead inland I have no idea, but in olden times the moored cargo ships would be pilfered at night and their goods run below Irishtown to be fenced or sold directly to anyone who could rub two coins together.

  It’s so quiet that my bootsteps talk back to me when the sound of them bounces off the tenement walls, while the wind whistles cryptic words in my ear. Above, up in a window I can sense that someone watches me. But I cannot look. I will not look. I’m too scared to see who it might be. Mostly scared that it is myself that watches as I sneak through the old town. Watching from some other time.

  Don’t look up, just don’t, I think. I’m not psychopathic. There’s nothing wrong with me.

  Yet something stops me. In the middle of the street, I stand as if frozen in time. What am I doing? A cool wind tosses my hair about as tingles rush through me like ocean currents. Deathly still, I remain, but the wind and the tingles actually feel like something else. Something more. Like eyes that look me up and down. Like thoughts that see through me.

  I’m not superstitious, I tell myself. I’m not psychopathic. Nobody watches me. No one is there.

  Slowly, I move my eyes up. In a third floor window an old man leans on the sill and stares down at me. A soft smile comes to his mouth when our eyes meet. His features are strangely reminiscent of my own, though his hair is white and stands like a pointed crown that shifts in the waterfront wind, his back has bent and wrinkles sadden his countenance.

  “I’m not scared of you,” says I while a train thunders in the distance.

  “I’m proud of you,” says the old man in a strained voice. “When honor becomes the enemy, it must act alone. It is not your fault.”

  “What isn’t my fault?”

  But the old man retreats into the room and lowers the window.

  “Are you a ghost?”

  I look round, but no one is there. Still, the eyes see through me and send shivers up me along with the wind.

  Not far from here I was arrested. Children and the aged had appeared in my defense, hurling streetwise anything they could grasp only to disappear again.

  Did all of that really happen? I wonder. But my wounds tell the truth of it.