Jim was boiling but silent. The men were cowed. Hannah stood imperiously before them reciting orders.
“No matter, I’m comin’ even if it turns out me and Annie are the only wives who do. But since all the wives I’ve spoken to already are eagerly lookin’ forward to this grand demonstration of your high esteem towards us in regards to our tireless contributions to this club over the past many years, I’m expectin’ very few will be sendin’ their regrets.”
She then aimed her attention at Henry Finn. “I have also informed Henry Finn’s newspaper friends about this progressive new leaf the M.R.C. is turning over in light of the cause of women’s suffrage sweeping this land.”
She turned to walk out.
“Supper’ll be ready in twenty minutes, Jim,” she said without turning around. “And don’t keep the children waiting. They’re hungry.”
◆◆◆
Months of thought and planning had gone into preparations for the Mutual Rowing Club’s twenty-five year anniversary celebration. Jim especially had thrown himself heart and soul into the project. He’d talked local businesses into donating food and whiskey, fireworks, banners and bunting. He borrowed a giant silver edged crystal punchbowl, silver ladle and a hundred cut glass cups from Flint & Kent, their only proviso being that he display an advertising card declaring “Congratulations and best wishes to the Mutual Rowing Club from Flint & Kent, Buffalo’s premier department store” at its base. The big department stores along Main Street—Hengerer’s, Hens & Kelly, AM&A’s, Kleinhans—were entirely grateful for the years of shoplifting abatement for which the detective was both responsible and steadfastly dedicated. They demonstrated their goodwill through accommodations such as this which enhanced the Mutuals’ reputation for throwing the best shindigs in town.
The parlors were meticulously readied. The Mutuals’ reading room was set up with large tables of refreshments dominated by said punchbowl while the meeting room was taken up for the entertainment and the serving of “wet goods.” A large white canvas tent was erected out front, extending halfway into South Street. Wooden sawhorses tied with white rag streamers fluttering in the breeze were set up in the street at the corner of Hamburg to warn oncoming carriages and motorists of the temporary obstruction.
“Now, Fingy isn’t going to be there, is he? Annie told me that he told JP he wouldn’t be able to make it,” Hannah asked her husband hopefully.
“No, Fingy told JP he would definitely be there,” replied Jim.
“I thought he’d be too busy what with all his scheming with Hearst and Murphy and all the rest of them scoundrels. Well, he got what he wanted, didn’t he, as usual? Those two! I swear! Wasn’t enough he destroyed this city. Now he’s out to ruin the whole of New York State!”
“Calm down, please.”
“I been lookin’ forward to this for weeks now! I thought he’d be in Albany or New York connivin’ with all them other Tammany criminals and much too busy and important for the likes of any of us. I’m not going.”
“Oh, Hannah.” scoffed Jim. “Make up your mind for chrissakes.”
“What?”
“You’re going, you’re not going, then you’re going again, then you’re not. That’s enough. I don’t control him or anyone else—least of all you. He’s one of the founding members and he’ll come if he chooses to. End of discussion. You do what you want. I don’t care anymore.”
Part of Jim’s insisting that Fingy attend, other than Fingy having been the first vice president of the M.R.C., was so he could extract contributions for the festivities. Fingy came through with barrels of Magnus Beck beer from his brewery and chickens and potatoes for grilling from his Angola poultry farm.
“He grows them spuds to feed the ducks!” Hannah protested when Jim told her. “They aren’t no good!”
“Damn it, Hannah!” exasperated Jim, “Spuds are spuds.”
◆◆◆
The Sullivan brothers’ wives may have had their differences and their sporadic spats with each other, but one thing that strongly united them was their mutual hatred for Fingy Conners.
The alderman’s Annie’s longtime resentment began back in the mid-eighties when eager to succeed, JP willingly did scoundrel work for Fingy, placing himself in harm’s way at the expense of his own family. This terrified young Annie, stuck at home with three children under the age of four and feeling vulnerable and alone. For years she was at first too shy, then too enamored with the increasing riches coming her way to protest. JP hired then-twelve year old Sophie, who had recently emigrated from Poland, to live with the family and act more or less as a substitute for himself not being present. But as the children increasingly suffered from lack of a father, and egregious situations putting JP and thus the entire family in peril could no longer be ignored, she straightened her spine.
JP had dabbled in politics of the Democratic variety since his late teen years, achieving the post of doorkeeper at the New York State Assembly in Albany in 1883 when he was 22. Fingy thought it a brilliant idea back then for JP to utilize his jolly nature and jokester personality to ingratiate himself to the State’s lawmakers so as to glean information useful to Conners’ own scheming. Fingy rewarded JP’s cooperation by running him for public office. In 1889 he had set JP up but good, publicly backing him for the office of alderman of the First Ward while behind the scenes financing and supporting JP’s opponent, longtime Republican First Ward alderman Jack White. Fingy forgot to let JP in on his master plan, showing no concern for the feelings of betrayal that JP rightly felt about being used. Ultimately Fingy explained the Machiavellian scheme which involved using Jack White’s power to redraw the ward lines in order to favorably set up White’s own downfall. JP was rewarded the following year with an aldermanship in the newly carved-out 2nd Ward.
Although finally recompensed, the sting of Fingy’s treacherous methods never faded. Every plan put forth by Fingy Conners from that time forward claiming to work to the benefit of JP required close examination as to the likelihood of repercussions that could ultimately place JP in harm’s way. Still JP got caught up in Fingy’s scheming more times than not before finally summoning the courage to begin saying “no.”
Annie’s sister-in-law Hannah hated Fingy Conners for his brazen assault upon Annie the night of JP’s election win, even as her babies clung to her, as well as ordering her own brother David Nugent off to Milwaukee to oversee the Conners operations there as his attorneys schemed to keep Nugent out of the penitentiary. For this banishment of her brother from her life, Hannah would never abide Fingy Conners again. He had stolen him away from her initially during their tender youth, then deported him a thousand miles away to the forsaken wildlands of Wisconsin. These were crimes and wrongs against her so wounding that considering all she had been through previously, they could never be made right by any means.
As the big day approached, Annie and Hannah at the request of their husbands and the event’s coordinator John Regan begrudgingly pitched in when necessary tasks threatened to go undone. They oversaw the hanging of bunting and flags inside and out. They coordinated deliveries. They got Sophie and the kids involved in cleaning, polishing and carpet sweeping. Once they’d won and the members agreed to open the celebration to all the wives, Annie and Hannah couldn’t do enough to help.
◆◆◆
On October 14, Anniversary Day, shortly after the hour of noon, the younger members Of the Mutual Rowing Club began to assemble at the clubhouse to receive their honored senior guests. The first to arrive was founder and M.R.C.’s first President, Detective Sergeant Jim Sullivan, who was greeted with a standing ovation. Fingy’s Courier newspaper in the following morning’s edition would refer to Jim Sullivan as “The czar Tom Reed of the Mutuals,” a fine and appropriate comparison, seeing as Tom Reed was the famed Speaker of the House who changed the way Congress functioned for the better. Reed was known for his ability to light a fire under disparate elements in the do-nothing legislature to ultimately accomplish meaningful legisl
ation. Reed’s changes to parliamentary procedure divested the legislative minority in Congress of their capability to obstruct the law-making agenda of the majority. Piqued Democrats took to disparagingly calling Tom Reed “the Czar,” a nickname Reed accepted as the loftiest of compliments.
Jim Sullivan through the years had intervened in intra-club disagreements and divisiveness that sometimes threatened to scuttle the organization. His influence was said to be the reason why the First Ward’s Mutual Rowing Club thrived longer and stronger than any other rowing club in the city’s history.
“Under Mr. Sullivan’s wise and able leadership,” the Courier continued, “the work of constructing a boathouse, procuring boats and other necessary apparatus for rowing went ahead rapidly. He held the office of president for two years, and all members regretted that Mr. Sullivan declined to accept a third term. The organization as it stands today is a monument to his and his brother members’ untiring zeal and devotion to the cause of rowing.”
Michael Byrne, one of the most prominent oarsmen in Buffalo, who was a member of the West Ends, entered next, followed by former president Alderman John P. Sullivan; police driver Edward Stanton, a member of the famous Pittsburgh crew; William Hannon, a famous stroke; James Cotter, who held office in the club for many years; Pat Coughlin, a prominent elevator man; Samuel Shaver, prominent in transportation circles; Edward Cleary, a member of the police department; James McGuire, an engineer at the Marine Elevator; John Boyd, a well-known plumber; Mike Shea, theatrical manager; Tom Shea, businessman; Tom Nunan, superintendent of the Citizens’ Ice Company and former business partner in the Sullivan & Nunan Ice Co. with the Alderman; ; William Hurley, contractor; Peter P. Dalton, Fingy Conners’ business manager; the Honorable Cornelius Coughlin and John McCarthy, Superintendent of the docks. Finally Fingy Conners, chairman of the Democratic State Committee and proprietor of the Buffalo Courier and Buffalo Enquirer, waltzed in at the last minute. He quite enjoyed making a grand entrance to a full house.
Once all those who were welcomed had assembled, Police Chief Mike Regan called for order. Jim Sullivan was summoned from the crowd to stand before the members. The extent of their emotional greeting humbled him. Jim’s eyes teared up as he absorbed their adulation. When they finally quieted down, the Chief cleared his throat, and towering over Jim, as would Regan’s great height demand, he placed his arm warmly around his old friend’s shoulder.
“My dear, dear friend. In all the years I have known you I have never been more proud, more satisfied or more grateful for what you have built here of which we have all greatly benefited. The Mutual Rowing Club has been our distraction, our pride, our second home. And now it’s our sons who have inherited the privilege and the distinction of becoming a part of this great organization. To demonstrate our appreciation...” Regan pulled a fancy leather case from his pocket and opened it. “We want to present to you this commemorative gold pocketwatch as a tribute, as a token of our high esteem, our respect, and our gratitude.”
Jim had not expected the extravagant gift. For a few moments he was overcome with sentiment as his men cheered him. Once recomposed he began to speak. He recalled the Original Fifty, those men who had cooperated with him in organizing the Mutual Rowing Club. Many of them were present. He praised the enthusiasm they showed for the organization from its beginning. He paid special tribute individually to those founding members who were “no longer with us.” Among those named were Jim and JP’s late brother Daniel Halloran. Jim’s voice broke on reciting his name, wishing as he did that Danny might yet be there with them.
Throughout the speechmaking beer flowed and sausage sandwiches by the platterful were delivered to the gathering from the giant grill set up out front of the club as one man after another rose to have his say. Alderman John P. Sullivan had held the presidency for the two years following his brother’s leadership. He spoke eloquently of the history of the club. Henry Finn then took his turn, recalling his years serving as publicity manager and his relationships with the press. William Aman, the international star rower of the Mutuals, recited inspirational words having to do with persistence and integrity.
One after another, members old and new took their turn in honoring and celebrating their organization until at 7:30 o’clock they all traipsed over to the Elk Street Market to begin a boisterous parade. Headed by Scinta’s Band, 125 members and 300 supporters and friends headed down Elk Street to Hamburg Street to South Street and the clubhouse whooping and hollering. Along the way members had adorned their own houses with buntings and banners in support of the anniversary celebration, the most elaborate of which was a display mounted by O’Brien’s Saloon on South Street. When the paraders turned the corner from Hamburg to South they were met with a blaze of red lights and countless roman candles, sky rockets, and balloons. Japanese daylight fireworks rained showers of confetti and glitter down upon the celebrants, and other pyrotechnics were set off continuously for a half hour or more.
The members’ wives swelled the crowd of celebrants, and a thousand more neighbors had gathered outside to support the celebration. Following the gorgeous explosives show a banquet was served for the members and their wives. The happy crowd on the street received Fingy Conners’ grilled chicken, beer and lemonade. Afterward an open house for anyone who wished to attend was kept all evening where the Mutuals made their friends and neighbors welcome in the famed Mutual style.
As the boathouse Regulator chimed 3 a.m. Jim felt ready to collapse.
“I can’t keep my eyes open no longer,” he said yawning loudly, checking his new pocketwatch. “How’s about you, brother?”
“I’m ready. Let’s go,” answered the Alderman. The siblings toured the rooms, checking for any smoldering cigars or pipe ashes. A few stragglers sat around yet, speaking in subdued tones. Jim passed a bucket by each remaining guest to collect their cigars.
“We’re closing up now gentlemen,” announced Jim. “You know the rules. No more smoking til you get outside.”
The few remaining hangers-on took that as their cue. They gathered their coats, hats and what-have-you and got a pat on the back and a thank you as they were ushered out the door.
When JP and Jim were satisfied everyone was out, they locked up and walked outside, emptied the ash bucket into the water barrel by the door set there for this very purpose, then shuffled around the corner to join their sleeping families.
1907: Happy New Year
◆◆◆
Around 3 a.m. the morning of January 1st, 1907, at 131 Chicago Street, a few hours after her husband Captain Thomas D. Sullivan had departed for his midnight shift at Fire Engine 8 just down the block, Nora Sullivan drew on her coat and left the house for the final time. She had been awakened by the coughing of her baby, Adelaide. Addled by her recent incarceration, distressed by her present incapacitation, and confused overall by ongoing postpartum depression, she entered her sister’s bedroom. Her sibling, Molly Milligan, had been staying there to help care for the children since the day of Nora’s confinement to the State Mental Hospital. Molly said, “Go back to bed dear, I’ll see to the baby. You go ahead now. Everything’s all right, Nora.”
Nora had begged her Thomas to allow her to come home from the hospital for Christmas so she could be with their three children, John, 6, Victor, 4, and Adelaide, 13 months. Things had not gone as well as she’d hoped.
As Molly tended to the baby’s cough, unbeknownst to her, Nora slipped out of the house. In the yard she stopped for a moment not entirely sure at first which direction to go. Up one block to the left sat the fire station where her husband was no doubt sleeping. Directly across the street was the Sullivan Ice Co. office and horse stable. Past that to the right was the path to the Ohio Basin. She didn’t want anyone at the firehouse to recognize or question her so she turned right. She kept her head down as she passed by the three-story Ice Company building where despite the hour and the holiday the lights still burned brightly. She then turned left onto Miami St. where the ice compan
y’s horses whinnied and shivered against the cold in their stable. She steeled her resolve.
The house she’d left was already getting cold. Certainly Molly would notice and stoke the stove. The babies cried for the recently renewed familiar warmth and comfort of their mother. She had earlier covered them in extra blankets, knowing what she was about to do, tucking them in tight before quietly walking out the door.
Nora passed any number of saloons filled with First Warders celebrating the New Year. She, on the other hand, having confessed to her husband and friends what a terrible mother she was, had nothing to celebrate. She in truth was not a terrible mother by any standard. But after Adelaide was born the previous year, she felt herself caught in the grasp of an undertow she was unable to resist, and now, exhausted, depleted, it had come to this.
Nora followed a well worn path plowed by hundreds of preceding footsteps through the snow across the vacant lot one block over to Mackinaw Street, then walked halfway across the narrow Mackinaw St. bridge spanning the slip. She stopped on the bridge for a few moments and observed the Ohio Basin, the ten acre inland harbor ringed by yellow arc street lights, music emanating from the many small saloons tucked in between the various lumber yards and tile and ceramics factories. The sounds of an argument emanated from a dimly lit frozen-in-place canal boat, the couple living aboard it enjoying a drunken row. Acrid smoke drifted up from the barge’s pot belly stove stack right into her face. She pulled her collar tighter against the blustering lake wind and moved on.
From a saloon at the corner of Louisiana and Mackinaw stumbled the very drunk former First Ward Alderman John Sheehan, cousin of the infamous Sheehan Brothers. Sheehan’s countenance had turned quite bitter upon his defeat in the most recent election whereupon he had lost his seat of power at the city hall and much of his historically shaky self esteem along with it. He drank often and bounteously to deaden humiliations both ancient and recent.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 25