Exile on Bridge Street

by Eamon Loingsigh

  “Forty-five men we need. Which forty-five wanna werk? Stand tall then. And at his attention along dis line where I p’int here,” I demand, Big Dick shoving men by their backs and shoulders to it, Philip moaning and clapping his paws together, and Happy is laughing and smiling as I point toward the bridges. “West on John Street. Left on Adams. Touch the Waring Envelope building and come back. First ten’s guaranteed a spot. Go.”

  “Don’t trip on the tracks, fookin’ fool,” Big Dick yells at a man who goes face down.

  And the men run with all they have, pushing each other out of the way in a dead sprint. All we can see is the backs of their skinny hides chugging and competing against each other for the right to work.

  “Look at ’em go,” Beat McGarry appears. “Just like the good ol’ days too.”

  I begin walking away toward the train car floats when Beat hollers toward me, “Ol’ Gas Drip Bard’s talkin’ tomorrow night, Poe. Bring the fam’ly on over to the tavern house on Hudson Avenue by the water and you’ll get to meet ’em.”

  “No time for that bunk,” I yell back.

  “Bunk he says.”

  With one foot on the dock and the other on a car float, I help connect them to the Baldwin locomotive at the end of the cement and wave toward the driver, who guides it off the float bridge into the rail yard and then onto the cobbles and the neighborhood toward 10 Jay Street. Watching them move from the float to land, I look across the East River as the fog breaks. Look closer again, and I see a sign over a Lower East Side pier that says DAILY FERRY TO ALBANY: $2.

  “Well anyhow,” Beat continues. “The ol’ man was lookin’ forward to meetin’ ya. Maybe another time.”

  * * *

  WHEN THE JOB IS DONE, BIG Dick, Philip, Burke, Happy, and I report back to 25 Bridge Street where Mickey Kane is in charge, Cinders Connolly at his side divvying the day’s small profits, Chisel MaGuire in Lumpy’s seat.

  “Problems?” Kane asks Philip and I from Dinny’s desk.

  Mickey is nervous. Before I can even answer, he is looking out the windows behind him at the men gathered in the alley. A toll is taken on him for not having slept for days since his cousin’s arrest. Overseeing business at the Dock Loaders’ Club day and night.

  As Mickey’s back is turned, I look up to Cinders. Downstairs there is a scuffle, loud voices, and before any of us can comment, Mickey gets up and leaves the room to check on it.

  “Don’ worry about him,” Cinders says, walking past me to close the door Mickey left open. “He’ll be all right. Tell me how things went today.”

  I shrug and look at Philip. “We can’t do this forever. We’re vulnerable here. Philip and Big Dick and the other guys that helped me were great, but they can’t stick with me on the Jay Street Terminal forever. We need more men. Every day there’s Polish, Russian, Germans, Finns looking for work and don’t care who we are. They’re ready to take us on. I have my family here now. They need me. I can’t turn up dead or arrested, Cinders. When is Dinny getting out? And The Swede and Vincent and Lumpy?”

  “Doesn’t look good, but we been here before. Been t’rough this,” Cinders says sitting on the desk in front of Philip and I. “Dead Reilly’ll figure it out. The worst of it is, eh . . . the papers’r callin’ him the leader now, Dinny. So now everyone knows. An’ Brosnan’s talkin’. Ya know ever since they did those stories on all the crime and murders in Brooklyn that go unpunished, that fookin’ Brosnan’s opened up. Talkin’ an’ gabbin’ about how he arrested Dinny back in 1904 an’ sent ’em to Elmira. Arrested ’em again in 1912 wit’ Vincent’n McGowan’n Pickles. He’s recitin’ the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag in the newspapers so everyone knows he’s on the right side. Won’ even talk to us anymore. He even told a reporter that Dinny’s boastin’ about how they’ll never be able to send ’em up to the penitentiary.”

  “Dinny would never say anything like that.”

  “That’s what I says. An’ you know it too, right? But the readers? They don’ know nothin’ ’bout nothin’. At the trial for killin’ Christie Maroney back then, they said he was unable to speak, ya know? Like he was deaf an’ dumb like. Like he wasn’t even there in the head. O’ course, that was Dinny’s plan, since he don’ want nobody knowin’ he’s the leader, but now they know. Everyone knows. An’ these yokes on the Waterfront Assembly’n Wolcott, Jesus. Fookin’ Wolcott again. He’s talkin’ ’bout Dinny too, how he was the leader in 1916 when we hit Red Hook, remember? Burnt down McAlpine’s Saloon wit’ people in it, killt I-talians left an’ right and that we’re in like Flynn wit’ the ILA. . . . That he ordered Silverman killt in 1917. That Dead Reilly represents us. The newspapers? They’re even quotin’ Father Larkin from St. Ann’s about Dinny. It’s Dinny Meehan this, Dinny Meehan that. . . . An’ then there’s them dried-ups say he’s a saloon owner shillin’ whiskey. Jesus, man. Goes on an’ on. Everyone knows who he is now.”

  I look outside at the laborers in the alley below the window, “Should I be, uh . . . if I get arrested . . .”

  “Chisel?” Cinders interrupts me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Give us a minute, yeah?”

  Chisel stands from Lumpy’s desk and walks out, but Cinders does not speak until he hears footsteps down the stairwell.

  “Listen,” Cinders says with Philip still behind me. “Here’s what I do. I took a wad o’ money I been savin’ an’ put it in a bank. Added my wife on the account so if anythin’ happens to me . . . ya know?”

  “I understand.”

  “You should do the same. Add ya mother’s name to it and tell her where to go if anythin’ happens.”

  “I don’t really want to . . .”

  “Gonna have to, William. Otherwise what?” He comes off the desk and goes back around to Dinny’s seat. “An’ keep a few bucks in ya pocket just in case ya gotta lam it. Things’ll get better though, don’ worry.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yeah, listen. I’m gonna see the ol’ man on Hudson Ave tomorrow night at the tavern house. The Bard feller. A little time away from it all, ya know?”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah, sure, wit’ the kids an’ the wife too. Ya comin’?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “It’ll be good for ya. An’ I was hopin’ to meet ya fam’ly, right? Ya ma, sisters’n . . . any word on ya father?”

  “Just missing.”

  “Yeah, just missin’, hmm. Ah, sorry to hear that but uh . . . Philip’s goin’ tonight too, right, Philip?”

  Philip moans in agreement as I look at him.

  “Listen,” Cinders says again. “Until ya talk wit’ ya mother about a bank account, I’ll make sure anythin’ happens to ya, she’s taken care of, uhright?”

  I look up at him from the seat, “Thanks.”

  “Don’ thank me, just return the favor.”

  “All right, I’ll do the same, if somethin’ happens to you I will—”

  “Good, good. I don’ wanna hear any details o’ that. We’re on then, you’n I, right?”

  “Right.”

  By seven o’clock it’s dark and Harry Reynolds, Burke, and I are struggling up flights of stairs at the Eighth Avenue building. Burke stops on the second floor and goes inside his home, and as Harry and I keep going up, all I am thinking about is my bed.

  “There they are,” my mother says welcoming me and Harry with a smile.

  “Anybody knock on the door today?” I ask.

  “Not a soul,” says she. “Here’s yer tae, William. And yers too, Harry.”

  “It smells so good in here,” Harry says.

  “Well that’s because I found the grocer there round the block and I’ve put together a meat pie.”

  “Did you . . .”

  “O’ course, Liam. I told him to grind the meat right in front o’ me or I wouldn’t be buying it, I did too,” she says, proud of herself.

  “Well that’s good, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea to go wandering around the
neighborhood, Mam.”

  “Well then, ye’ll have to find somethin’ to keep us busy then. There’s nothin’ round here to cut the boredom, William. Hour after hour. . . . And we don’t even know a single person. Haven’t even met the people downstairs yet, what did ye call ’em?”

  “The Burkes?”

  “Well I wouldn’t know what their names are, would I?”

  Sitting at the table, Harry and I are given plates of food, but before we can take the first bite, I hear footsteps coming to the third floor. Harry looks at me. There are two other tenants on our floor, but they don’t go out at night. Then a knock comes that scares my mother.

  “Jaysus on the cross,” Mam yelps.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, already at the door while Harry stands from the table.

  I hear a whisper from Thomas Burke on the other side.

  “Who is it?” Mam asks.

  “The Burke man from downstairs. We’ll be right back,” I say, knowing that it must be something important. Harry and I slip out the door before my mother can invite him in.

  The three of us walk halfway down the stairwell when Burke says, “Sadie’s downstairs.”

  Harry stops in the stairwell. “I can’t see her.”

  “She’s cryin’,” Burke says. “Someone went to her home and she’s askin’ for help.”

  “William, you’re gonna have to help her,” Harry says. “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “Dinny doesn’t want me around her, especially when he ain’t here.”

  “Why?”

  “Get her outta here for a while. Outta Brooklyn,” Harry says turning around and going back upstairs. “I’ll keep ya ma’n sisters busy.”

  “Wait,” I say, but the door closes.

  Burke leads me downstairs where Sadie is in tears at the bottom of the stairwell with a bag of clothes in one hand, L’il Dinny pulling at the other in his short pants and boots.

  “William, we can’t go to our ’ome,” she says desperately.

  “Why?”

  “It’s terrible. They’re everywhere and I’m alone, William.”

  “What happened?”

  “Anna Lonergan, that l’il spiteful thing and one of ’er bruvas, I fink ’is name’s Willie. Well, they stood outside on Warren Street for like two ’ours and next fing I know, a rock comes through the window, glass everywhere. I have a child in the home, William.”

  “I know, all right, all right . . .”

  “And ’at’s not the worst of it, William. I saw me cousin outside too.”

  “Which one?”

  “Darby. And ’e was yellin’ fings up into the broken window. . . .”

  “Just calm down, he just wants to get into your head. Don’t let him do it, all right?”

  “All right but . . .”

  “Just don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him scare you. Do you have money?”

  “A little.”

  I turn to Burke, “Can you help us?”

  “Sure.”

  “My mam and sisters have only been here a few days, and I really don’t want them to think things are uneasy here. Can you take Sadie to the Long Island Railroad for a place called Rockville Centre. In a hotel. A nice one,” I turn to Sadie. “It’s a nice little town, I hear. Very quiet. Out in the country. You can take a taxi from there down to Long Beach, Sadie. It’s really beautiful, and it has a boardwalk and no one will know you’re there. As soon as you get there, write me a letter to this address, all right?”

  “All right, William.”

  “Take this.” I hand her my day’s earnings as a dockboss.

  “I can’t, William. I ’ave me own money.”

  “I would be very unhappy if you do not take this, Sadie. I’m going to send Happy Maloney down there to watch over you.”

  “He’s back?”

  “Minus a leg but yes. I want you to be comfortable and to have food brought to your room and I want you to go shopping too.”

  “Shopping for what?”

  “Clothes or whatever you’d like. You’re going on vacation, Sadie. . . . Until Dinny gets out.”

  Sadie looks up into my eyes and smiles. She wipes a tear away and hugs me. Holds me. And so does L’il Dinny, hugging me by the leg. But Sadie holds me close, pulls my ear down to her and whispers, “I always knew yu’d be good. Yu’re good, William. Now yu need to start makin’ a plan for yu’self an’ yu family to escape ’ere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But she just smiles solemnly, leaves with Burke.

  On the second floor I knock on the Burkes’ room and gather them, including the eldest boy who can barely walk.

  “I asked your husband for a favor, Mrs. Burke,” I explain. “I’m very sorry for not asking you about it first, but it was a bit of an emergency.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Come with me though,” I say, and help her son up the stairs to the third floor, step by step. His arm over my shoulder, scared out of his wits of falling down the stairwell.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Not to worry, everything will be fine. I have you. What’s your name, anyhow?”

  “Joseph,” he mumbles, petrified.

  “Is that right? I used to know someone named Joseph,” I smile. “I bet you’re a lot nicer than he was though. Does your mam call you Joey or Joe?”

  “Just Joseph.”

  “Joseph it is then. Do you like meat pie, Joseph?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, good. I bet you eat as much as a horse,” I say.

  “He does,” his mother says.

  And opening the door on the third floor I yell, “Mam, we have visitors.”

  “We do?” she says, her face lighting up. Harry sits at the table with cards, entertaining Abby and Brigid, who stand from the table with bright eyes to greet the visitors in the gentle and humble manner in which the Irish welcome people to their home.

  “Yay!” two of Mrs. Burke’s toddlers run in, a fat-cheeked baby on her hip, smiling, that is immediately taken from her and showered with adulation and blessings as our tiny home is filled to overflowing with family and friends. And tea. And I know that this is the life for me. And, if only for a moment, I let the peace we feel among ourselves take me over.

  “And after church tomorrow, we’ll go and see a shanachie,” I say aloud.

  “Here? In America?” Mam asks.

  “Yay!”

  “With Joseph?” Mrs. Burke asks desperately.

  “We wouldn’t go without him.”

  And Joseph, with his contorted features and glazed eyes smiles a distant smile, but a smile all the same.

  CHAPTER 28

  Deliberation

  “AREN’T WE A HANDSOME BUNCH ALL dressed up in the veins o’ nicety. Now that Father Larkin? Is he from Dublin?” Mam asks outside after a late Mass at St. Ann’s.

  “I believe he is.”

  She harrumphs at the idea. “I knew it by his tongue. He’s a bit of a swaddler, I’d say, goin’ on and on about the baby Jaysus’n all. He is Catholic, is he not?”

  “He appears to be,” I say, lifting Joseph Burke into the horse-pulled taxi next to his mother and siblings.

  It is only a few blocks to the tavern, but for Joseph it’s quite a distance. The most of us walk alongside the taxi and though I know my mother has many questions, she resolves to keep them to herself. For the time being. The scar over my left eye only mentioned in passing and the other day when she found plumbing pipe fitted into my coat, she simply handed it to me and turned round.

  “Oh, what it must’ve cost, all of this,” she said one morning in our room. And knowing my mother as I do, I could see she was not only referring to money. “The price we’ll have to pay, hmm.”

  And although we talk and talk as we meander through the old neighborhood, there is a great and still silence between us. The longer she is here, the more she finds out, the louder the silence.

  “These’ll break yer ankles, won’t they?” she say
s, speaking of the rough cobbles of the old town.

  “Take my arm.”

  We are greeted merrily in the tavern, women and children allowed in on storytelling nights. Hanging our coats by the door, we are met by soft-spoken old-timers along the stretch of the bar who hat-tip us and smile, grab our hands in salutation, and it seems once again we are back in the old country. The smell of pipe smoke, stale beer, turf, and whiskey. There are no windows and the darkness is only broken by amber light. In a back room there is a grand hearth-fire and candles on the floor and on the odd table. Mealymouthed children whisper to each other and know to tiptoe, as there are mothers and fathers here that waste no time in clouting them on the top of their heads for a lesson.

  An old man sits by the fire smiling like a thin, close-shaven Santa rocking back and forth. He is the center of all attention here and all around him are chairs for people to sit and listen to him speak. His hair silver with experience, eyes drooping with knowledge. He seems well into his eighties but his mind is about him tightly, I can see. All call him The Bard, or The Gas Drip Bard, for he worked some fifty years or more as a gas works employee.

  “Well,” he begins, and quickly everyone becomes silent for to hear his words. “I see we’ve a good wheen o’ childers here, but the child what can’t sit still won’t get a candy.”

  He starts off with two tales for the children, the first an old-country yarn from Killarney called “Peg the Damsel.” Then he crosses the Atlantic with us to Irishtown in Brooklyn with the comical, pre-Civil War story, “Buxom Biddy Hoolihan and the Drunkard Goat of Shinbone Alley.”

  The room is quickly taken with his stories and not a child in the house is without full attention on him. His voice pitching high when he needs to make a point. Low with the slight sarcasm of the indigenous Irish. Some say his way of storytelling is like a magician’s act. A true art form built through tradition predating Jesus Himself. Others describe it as catching words like birds in their flight from Irish to English. Yet the Irish ways still lived in the themes and plots that leave out the righteousness of the Anglo-Saxon’s method. But in clear-spoken English, his stories are told.