Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins

by Richard Sullivan

  “Don’t you dare touch my tender baby with them metal things, you bastard!” she bellowed with fury. The force of her rage was just the right exertion required to introduce the infant to the world.

  “It’s a boy,” smiled the physician. “Congratulations, Mrs. Alderman.”

  ◆◆◆

  Alderman Sullivan’s eldest son Thomas sat at the kitchen table, dunking toast into his morning coffee and absentmindedly dripping it on the newspaper he was reading. “Careful, I haven’t read that yet,” the alderman scolded, upon which Thomas burst out laughing. A spray of coffee and toast chunks covered the page.

  “Thomas!”

  When he finished coughing and choking he laughed, “Sorry, Pop, but here you are in Dinny McCleary’s Tales again.” He used his napkin to clean up the mess.

  The Buffalo Express had been periodically running stories of the First Ward authored by the “Wild Irish Lad, Dinny McCleary.” In each installment the unrelenting Dinny McCleary collared Judge Simon Nash as His Honor anxiously awaited the trolley in front of his house on Hamburg Street. In almost every chapter Thomas’ Pop was either a central figure or at least mentioned as being Dinny’s cousin Johnny Sullivan. The joke of the series was that every First Ward character Dinny mentions in every installment is claimed to be his cousin, uncle, or what-have-you relation.

  “Who writes this Pop? Ain’t never heard of no cousin of yours named Dinny McCleary.”

  “ Any cousin,” he corrected, “and no, I have no idea who writes it. I have no such cousin.”

  JP feigned a disinterested irritation, but he himself always read the stories, chuckling to himself at the inside jokes. He had asked at the paper who the author was. Judging by the local knowledge revealed within the prose it certainly had to be someone deeply embedded in the business of the Ward. The lads at the Express indignantly responded, “Why, Dinny McCleary writes ‘em! Can’t ye read, Alderman?” and then proceeded to laugh their fool heads off.

  Each story began with Dinny cornering the evasive Judge Simon and prattling on and on about nothing much at all.

  “Listen, Pop, this one’s about Dinny tellin’ the Judge who should or shouldn’t be wearin’ a silk hat. It’s titled,

  EASTER’S CROWN—A SILK HAT:

  Dinny McCleary’s Dissertation on that

  Ancient Mark Of Respectability

  GLORY OF THE CHURCH PARADE;

  To Be Up Bright An’ Early To See The Big Men

  Of The Parish Pass Home To Eat Eggs.

  “I have to get to the icehouse, Thomas.”

  Wait, wait, This will only take a minute. You’ve got to hear this, Pop.”

  Thomas read aloud:

  “Well, Si, when I meet ye tomorrow mornin’ ye’ll be wearin’ that crown that is bestowed on every justice and every governor in the United States” said Dinny McCleary, the Wild Irish lad, as he met Justice Simon A. Nash Jr. in front of the Nash mansion on Hamburg street yesterday morning.

  “And what sort of crown is that?” asked the justice, glancing furtively up the car tracks.

  “ A silk hat” said Dinny, proud that had sprung one on the justice. “Ye know, Si, to be a real judge ye’ve got to wear a silk hat, and I know of no better day for ye to begin to wear yer crown than on Easter.

  Sure, it’s the day when everyone comes out with somethin’ new. Even Pete Keenan’s goin’ to have a new hat. And ye ought to see it, Si. Sure, it’s a wonderful thing of white. The lads at Tommy Whalen’s saloon was a-tellin’ me about it. Sure, Pete’s a fine lad, Si, but if he ever wears that hat it’ll be all off with him and a lot of his bosom friends. Me only fear is that he will come down through south Michigan street with it some fine day and some lad will take him for a rent collector just out from college and drop a brick on the hat.

  “But it’ll be a great day, Si. I can see it all before me now. I’ll be awakened early in the morning by the smell of eggs, and without knowin’ it, I’ll announce that I’ll have mine scrambled. Then I’ll be off to Sandusky street and watch the distinguished men of the ward pass in review after church.

  “First of all, there’ll be me cousin, Gen’ral Johnny Sullivan. Of course, Johnny won’t be wearin’ a silk hat. I’ll say it for Johnny that, no matter how many times he’s been elected, or how many times he intends to be, he never forgot to visit the icehouse every mornin’, and of course, he couldn’t wear a silk hat to the icehouse. Can ye imagine, Si, a man walkin’ out the Hamburg turnpike with a silk hat? I’d dread to think what would become of the—hat.”

  Thomas roared with laughter. His father feigned disinterest, but didn’t think the prospect of his getting bricked in the head was all that funny. JP got up and kissed Thomas on the forehead. Then he sought out as many of the other leprechauns as were in reach, especially Mildred, his favorite, and left the house. His intent was to first check on things at the icehouse, then head off for the city hall. Thomas ran right after, shouting “Let me crank it, Pop!” Thomas cranked the shiny black Pierce Arrow to get it started. Pop sped off in a cloud of choking smoke, shouting, “Come right home from school! Remember Paulie’s birthday party’s tonight!” He came within a hair of clipping the Hamburg Street trolley.

  “Say! Watch where yer goin’ there, conductor!” he shouted. “What an imbecile,” he muttered under his breath.

  Thomas returned inside to gather his school things, anxious about the approaching end of a marvelous time in his life. He was concerned about what lay ahead. He was his graduating class’ vice president at St. Joseph’s Academy. There was no doubt that he would soon be sorely missing the place and the fellowship there. On one hand he was grieving about the looming prospect of leaving all his lads. At the same time he was excited to get out into the world and begin making his mark.

  He had worked for Pop since he was eleven, more or less, learning the ice business. A couple months back when he was at the icehouse at Tifft farm he was left in charge when yet another fire broke out. Thomas formed a bucket brigade and the team at Sullivan Ice Co. successfully kept the blaze confined until the fire department arrived and doused it good and done. Thomas, always dependable, reliable, proved once again that he was his father’s son, and in most every way, the apple of his eye.

  ◆◆◆

  Alderman JP Sullivan shook hands with Police Chief Regan outside the rectory of Our Lady Of Perpetual Help Church. They had just finished a meeting with Fathers Lynch and Blakeley concerning plans for the upcoming church picnic. As the most prominent members of the parish and friends since childhood they always co-chaired the annual event. If there was one thing that JP was both good at and happy to take on, it was the planning of a celebration of any sort.

  With the powerful advantage of having both the chief of police and the city’s most scheming alderman working in tandem, calling upon both friend and adversary for favors and goods, the O.L.P.H. Summer Picnic had mushroomed in scope and blossomed in attendance every succeeding year since they had teamed up.

  Father Blakely was the celebrant of O.L.P.H.’s daily seven o’ clock evening Mass. As soon as the Chief and the Alderman wrapped up their meeting he began getting ready for the service. The altar boys arrived early and began laying out the priest’s vestments. Police Chief Regan would have preferred to head home at this point but he still had some odds and ends to tie up. JP returned to his house on Hamburg Street to put his tired feet up on a stool at No. 12.

  Next door at No. 16, startled in the middle of his sorting the mail, Detective Jim Sullivan’s heart suddenly quickened—as if after the kind of day he’d had tracking down and arresting thieves who’d unloaded their ill-gotten loot in the city’s pawn shops wasn’t excitement enough. He had turned 53 in March. He felt quite young and spry yet, despite not being able to chase after suspects the way he used to. The return address on the envelope began with the heading S. Clemens.

  It couldn’t be! He tore open the envelope.

  Dear Jim,

  My old friends at the Buffalo Express s
till send me the newspaper from time to time and I have been getting a good laugh reading the adventures of the Wild Irish lad Dinny McCleary.”

  Jim Sullivan’s face erupted in a wide smile.

  “I immediately thought of you when I first read how Dinny was collaring the Judge on Hamburg Street, and I mentioned to the editor that I had an old friend named Jim Sullivan who had lived on Hamburg Street. He told me I wasn’t allowed to divulge any part of his revelation upon penalty of death. He claimed the Dinny McCleary series was penned by a particular Buffalo police detective.

  I nearly swallowed my teeth, and asked, you can’t mean Jim Sullivan? He replied, “The same.”

  He said you have spent the better part of your adult life routing criminals. About that I am quite proud, but knowing you as I do, I am not in the least bit surprised.

  I am not proud of myself, however, for departing Buffalo all those many years ago so quickly like some lily-livered coward. I still feel tinges of regret for my failure to bid a proper goodbye to my young good friend.

  Thirty summers and more have gone by since then. With each passing year it becomes increasingly apparent that I have developed the deplorable habit of losing those who have meant the world to me. As a sorry consequence of this, in my old age I find myself recalling individuals from my past who have brought me joy but to whom I was a damned skinflint in returning it. And you Jim, I regretfully admit, are one of these.

  Forgive me.

  Mark Twain wants you to know that he is a great admirer of the chaotic musings of Dinny McCleary.

  Your friend,

  Sam Clemens.”

  Jim teared up.

  He would like to say he hadn’t thought about Sam Clemens in years, but that would be ridiculous, he being world famous and all. Even if Sam hadn’t become so well known he would still be remembered throughout all the years for being like a father when Jim needed one most in his life. And he had loved telling his Sam Clemens stories, slightly embellished, to the lads down at the Precinct and station houses well beyond. They had always been thoroughly impressed to learn that when the great Mark Twain himself resided in Buffalo, Jim Sullivan was his friend and confidante.

  Even President Teddy Roosevelt himself had pricked up his ears during that awful time following the assassination. He had overheard one of the security officers assigned to him, Detective Jim Sullivan, point out Mark Twain’s house across the street to his partner. They were standing out front of the Wilcox Mansion where Roosevelt was making small talk with Ansley Wilcox and others the day before his inauguration there.

  The new President addressed him.

  “Did I hear you just say, detective, that as a boy you would visit Mark Twain there at his home?” bellowed Teddy, fascinated.

  “Well, yes, Mr. President,” replied Jim. “When I was a young man I used to work for Mr. Clemens right over there at that house every Saturday for two years and more.”

  Teddy beamed at him. “Bully for you!” he grinned widely. “Bully!”

  ◆◆◆

  “What’s wrong?” asked his Hannah, as she noticed his eyes glisten.

  “Nothing wrong, Hannah—look here. I got a letter from Sam Clemens.”

  “What?!” Jim Jr., overhearing, screamed. “You got a letter from Mark Twain himself? Let me read it, Pop!”

  Jim tucked the two sheets back into their envelope, then into his breast pocket, and smiled at Junior. “Maybe another time, Junior.”

  Before the Express lads had spilled the beans to Sam Clemens it was Hannah alone who knew that Jim Sullivan was writing now and then for the paper under the pseudonym Dinny McCleary. Even the alderman wasn’t aware.

  As Jim sat there in the kitchen on that beautiful warm June evening sipping a well-earned beer and reminiscing, the lowering sun’s rays filled the room. He’d just set his mind to reliving the olden days at the Clemens’ Delaware Avenue home when abruptly the house leaped up beneath him. Windows shattered. The echoing report of a massive explosion slammed across Lake Erie.

  ◆◆◆

  The Bechtel brothers, George and Pete from Sandusky St. and their pal Frankie Foucha from Mackinaw St. were making the most of the lengthening days immediately preceding the summer equinox. The boys walked straight down Katherine St. toward the lowering sun from the Bechtel house at No. 245 Sandusky, headed for the entertaining environs of the sprawling Union Furnace property, located directly across Hamburg street from the Sullivan brothers’ houses. As most boys do in the First Ward, they gravitated toward the river, the canals or the docks when looking for an adventure or a way to pass their time. The boys brought their .22 caliber rifle with them to shoot starlings, carp, or tin cans at Farmer’s Point, as the tract on the river side of the Furnace company buildings was known.

  The Union Furnace property was capacious. Unique in its tear-drop shape, it was surrounded almost completely by a U-shaped bend in the Buffalo River. Ruined by seventy five years of heavy industry, the property consisted of a conglomeration of working factory buildings, towering iron hoists, storage barns, mountains of discarded slag from ironworks manufacture, massive relics of retired furnaces from the Civil war era built with gargantuan blocks reminiscent of those of the pyramids of Egypt, a few brave trees yet clinging to survival, and piles and piles of worthless discards.

  At 7:45 p.m., having run out of things to do, the boys traced the curve of the river on foot, intending to go home. The sun’s last hour brightly lighting the landscape, sixteen year old Peter held possession of the gun.

  “How ‘bout I takes me a flyer at them there boxes?” said Pete, indicating a pile of wooden crates sitting isolated in the field about 500 feet away.

  “Better not,” advised his younger brother George. “No tellin’ what’s in ‘em or who might be workin’ in there behind ‘em we can’t see.”

  There were six crates stacked in a solitary pile, tempting them just east from where the boys stood, with nobody around, just begging to be shot at. Pete raised the rifle, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. Pete’s aim was true. All three youths were lifted six feet and more closer to heaven, then propelled through the air to land in a cumulative pile together entangled and stunned. The crates had contained three hundred sticks of dynamite.

  Father Blakely stood at the altar of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church in his gold and white vestments glad again that Lent was over. He always found that the dreary vestments worn during those 40 somber days had a lingering depressing effect on him that he had trouble shaking off. Jesus wasn’t the only one to feel resurrected come Easter morning, he always mused. He chanted the Agnus Dei happily, and was heartened to see nearly 200 people in the church, quite impressive for a weekday early evening. Supper dishes done, the devout women of the First Ward found solace and camaraderie at evening Mass. Many brought their children with them and together the voices of the women and children responded chime-like in turn to the officiant’s chants.

  Father Blakely made the sign of the cross, and in a loud clear voice said, “In nomine patris, et fili, et spiritu sancti...” when, Boom! The entire massive stone structure quaked, followed a second later by the crack of an enormous blast.

  Brilliant sun rays streamed horizontally through the west-facing stained glass windows arranged in a semicircle high above and behind the altar, causing a magical, glittering ethereal rainbow effect as the glass from the shattered skylight high above the vestibule showered down upon the altar, the altar boys, and Father Blakely like glittering gemstones.

  The quintessential picture of serenity, despite the screams of the women and children and the warm red trickling, Father Blakely didn’t move. Crimson blotches plopped onto the priest’s stunning silks hand sewn by Irish nuns in County Kildare.

  He raised his arms to the congregation and said, “Shhh” just as the last tinkles of falling glass were heard. All eyes were on him, mesmerized by the rivulets of blood running slowly from the top of his head and ears, down his face and neck.

  Quickly ord
er was restored as all looked to their spiritual leader in this, their time of trial, and their leader was, though wounded, calm. Father Blakely loudly and firmly said, “Go. Please leave the church by the door closest to you, and return home to make sure that your families are all right.”

  Neither of the altar boys had been hurt. Young Jerry Lacey grabbed the cloth from the altar that the priests utilize to dry the chalice after drinking from it, ran over to the holy water font, dipped it in, and ran back with the intention of placing it on Father Blakely’s head. But before Jerry could raise the cloth, the priest, dripping blood be damned, grabbed the boys and rushed headlong down the sacristy steps dragging both toward the exit.

  “Come on now laddies, let’s get the hell out of here. Yer parents will be worried fer ye.” Jerry laughed out loud that his priest said a word forbidden to him by his own mother.

  ◆◆◆

  Ed Moylan was walking the tracks of the Figure Eight roller coaster across Lake Erie from Buffalo at Crystal Beach, Ontario. He perused the midway from his high perch at the apex. To his right was the Aerial Swing Ride. The lawn there he noticed needed patching. Across the midway lay the Fun House, the entrance to which was a set of stairs that brought customers into the giant gaping mouth of the immense head of a creepy little boy. Although the intent of the artist was most likely the depiction of a child having riotous fun, the face struck Ed Moylan as sinister, reminding him of a boy he’d once taken to the lunatic asylum on Forest Avenue after discovering the child intentionally reclining across the tracks at Tifft Farm as a behemoth Lehigh Valley locomotive bore down upon him.

  The explosion at the Union Furnace facility had created an international sensation. Moylan, who was a detective on the Lehigh Valley railroad in Buffalo, and a Democratic leader in the city’s 11th ward, moonlighted every year as Chief Assistant Inspector at Crystal Beach, preparing the various rides at Canada’s famed amusement park for their summer opening, then going back and forth periodically throughout the warm season to make sure things were functioning properly.