“There!” boomed Murphy in a unexpectedly robust voice.
“What do ye mean, ‘There!’, Paddy? Old Hop Sullivan probably got money fer sayin’ that, knowin’ that slippery scoundrel like I do. Don’t you believe him fer a Murphy second. Neither him nor that crooked copper brother of his. I had to sue both o’ them after old Halloran died, did ye know that? That’s right! I broke my back takin’ care of that awful stepfather of theirs during his illness—and once that damnable Halloran had at longlast blessed this earth with his passing them two scoundrels tried to get away with not payin’ me! Can ye believe it? I sued ‘em, and won $570.00! Did you know that? I did! I pity their wives—much as I don’t care a whit fer either of ‘em.”
“Well, they both been good to me, the alderman and his brother,” Murphy said as he took back his newspaper. “They always kept me secrets. Never told nobody.”
Mrs. O’Rourke was suddenly intrigued.
“What secrets would those be now, Patrick?”
Patrick Murphy sat silently staring at the floor for a few seconds as he pondered whether to tell her or not.
“Ye know better’n anyone, Mary Ann, that I ain’t long fer this here world.”
“Oh, pshaw, Paddy. Ye’ll be with us for a long while yet.”
“No, no I won’t. An’ I done but one terrible thing in me life, Mary Ann. One. An’ I done it on me own, and I know I gotta make things right with God before I pass.”
“Oh my! Are ye askin’ me to run an’ get Father Lynch, Paddy dear?”
“No—not yet anyways. But ye’ve been so good to me Mary Ann, carin’ fer me like I was yer own family. Me stomach is tied in knots, holdin’ in me secret all these years. I think that’s what started this cancer growin’ in me gut in the first place, holdin’ in this terrible deed I done. I got to say it out loud. I got to tell somebody the whole story, just to get it out. Will ye listen to me Mary Ann? Will ye listen, and keep me secret fer me when I’m gone? Because if it ever gets out, there’ll be bloody hell to pay. There ain’t no end time to Fingy Conners’ wrath. I fear fer me kids, and fer their kids.”
Her curiosity was by now tainted with fear. She’d never been asked to keep a confidence that might result in somebody getting killed.
Hesitatingly Mary Ann O’Rourke quietly said, “All right Paddy. I’ll keep yer secret. To the grave, I will, and long after. That’s a promise.”
Murphy recalled it from the beginning:
◆◆◆
Peter Newell Conners, son of Fingy Conners, running down field for all he was worth, the pigskin tucked under his arm, was determined to reach the end zone despite the huge human obstacle awaiting him aimed to side swipe him full force. He foolishly believed he might just knock the giant aside with only his dogged momentum if the angle were right. But when it came, the collision felt like hitting a stone wall. He rolled around in pain on the grass, yelping as Banta and Jordan raced toward him.
“Baby fall down go boom, Petie?” laughed Banta.
“Help me up, help me up,” Peter exclaimed. “Ouch, ouch…”
They carefully pulled him off the ground.
“Can you put weight on it, Pete? Where does it hurt?” asked Jordan.
“It’s my knee this time, damn it.”
The Two Toms, Pete’s best friend Tom Banta, son of the esteemed Buffalo physician, and Pete’s stepbrother Tom Jordan, son of Mary Jordan, Fingy Conners’ second wife, each lent a strong shoulder. Peter hopped over to the bench between them. Before sitting he again cautiously tried putting weight on the injured leg.
“Oh. Okay. Not bad! Least I know it ain’t broke.”
The school doctor was summoned. On arrival, seeing it was the son of the infamous Fingy Conners who’d been hurt, Dr. Huxley went into full panic.
“How does it feel, Cadet Conners?” inquired the doc anxiously as he poked around the knee area with his wrinkled fingers.
This poor old codger must be sixty if he’s a day, thought Peter. “Um…it’s not too bad really, Doc. Here. Let me up.”
Banta and Jordan lent him a hand. Once on his feet, Peter began to walk around, limping more out of prudence than pain.
“Hey, it’s all right! Thought for sure I must’ve broke something.”
“Well,” scowled Doc Huxley, “just to be safe you’re coming back to the infirmary with me so I can examine it thoroughly.”
“No, Doc. Look. See? I’m okay.” Peter put weight on it again to confirm his self-diagnosis.
“Regardless Conners, I’m taking you back so I can have a proper look. You two give him a hand.”
Off he went between the two Toms to the school infirmary. He sloughed off their help as he propped himself onto the examining table.
“See? Told you,” Pete again assured.
After examining the leg, gently twisting and bending, probing and poking, Dr. Huxley pronounced Peter Conners “relatively unscathed.”
“However,” he stated, “we can’t take any chances. I think it best you spend the weekend here in the infirmary. It does seem a bit tender and swollen. Best you keep off it for the weekend. You don’t want anything interfering with that inevitable professional football career, now do you Peter?” he chuckled facetiously.
Huxley’s laugh sounded more like he was gargling with phlegm rather than chuckling, the sound barely escaping his tobacco-ravaged throat. The Murad Turkish cigarettes he chain smoked were taking their toll.
“I’m fine Doc. Hurts barely at all. I can walk on it fine, I’m telling you.”
Peter hopped up and strode around the room almost as normal. General Wheeler rushed into the room all a-flutter just then and observed the goings-on.
“Regardless, Peter. We all know what your father will want. I must telephone him at once,” proclaimed the General.
Peter rolled his eyes. The general picked up the telephone from the side table, removed the ear-piece and clicked the hook a few times to summon the operator.
“Yes operator. Get me the Courier newspaper in Buffalo—William J. Conners.”
“Yes sir. I’ll ring you back as soon as I get a line through,” she answered.
The General hung up and ordered Banta and Jordan out.
“You two go on over to Conners’ room and bring back his books and papers so he can study. And a couple changes of civilian clothing. You know what he needs.”
Once the boys left the room he took a more serious tone as he addressed Peter.
“Cadet Conners, I need you to understand that the health and well being of all our students is of the highest priority here at Orchard Lake Military Academy. I know you believe that we are more cautious with you than some of the other boys, but your father is a very important supporter of our school, for which we are very grateful. We owe him the greatest…”
The telephone rang and Wheeler picked up the receiver.
“General Harris Wheeler speaking.”
“I have your party in Buffalo on the line sir,” the operator intoned. “Go ahead.”
The General cleared his throat.
“Hello, Mr. Conners? This is General Wheeler in Orchard Lake, at the Michigan Military Academy.”
Fingy sat at his desk piled high with papers, folders, ledgers, competitors’ newspapers and a framed comical photograph of his major rival, supposed teetotaler E. H. Butler of the Buffalo Evening News, pictured drunk at a banquet.
“Somethin’ wrong with my boy there, Wheeler?”
“I’m calling simply as a formality to inform you that your son Peter has sustained a very minor football injury. I can assure you that it’s not…”
“What the hell? What happened? How is he?” Fingy interrupted.
“He’s fine Mr. Conners! It’s just a minor sprain of the knee. The academy’s physician wants him to stay off it for a few days and remain in the infirmary so he can keep a close eye over him.”
“You listen to me Wheeler! If anyt’ing happens to my boy—anyt’ing at all, I’ll have yer head! The plans I go
t fer him are bigger ‘n anyt’ing yous at yer uppity school there would understand, so you best make sure he don’t so much as leave his bed til he’s all healed up! I won’t stand fer it!”
“Yes Mr. Conners, certainly! I assure you that your son is in the very best of hands!”
The doctor took the phone from Wheeler as the two Toms entered the room with Peter’s schoolbooks, a pile of paperwork from his desk, and a satchel containing street clothes, underwear and a sweater.
“Mr. Conners, this is Dr. Huxley speaking. I want to assure you personally that it’s only a mild sprain, not at all serious. I just felt it best to err on the side of caution and confine Peter to bed for the weekend. Peter’s right here. I’ll let him tell you himself.”
Peter grabbed the phone from the doctor. The men took the cue and left the room to give Pete privacy, pulling Banta and Jordan out with them. As Tom Banta was led away the two friends’ eyes met and rolled in unison.
“Hiya Pop! I’m perfectly well. Really. They’re just scared of you. Can’t you tell?” Peter laughed. “Their voices go up a full octave whenever…”
“Peter! What in hell happened there? Who done this to yous?”
“I tried to tell you, Pop! There are some regular Hackenschmidts and Sandows here on the football squad! If I didn’t know better I’d swear you sent over a couple your biggest longshoremen as ringers just to stir things up ‘round here a bit.”
“You just do exactly what that doc tells ye to do and heal proper, Petie! I already got one limpin’ fool I gotta keep a close watch over. Don’t need no other. Yous listenin’ to me?”
“I hear you Pop,” Peter chuckled. “But honest, I can walk on it perfectly fine, even now. It’s just bruised a little. It’s football, after all. They’re making a big hullabaloo over nothing!”
“No arguments, Petie. You just do what the doctor tells ye. Didja get that hierarchical outline I had White mail yous?”
Peter unenthusiastically lifted a blue folder from the pile that Banta had placed on his night table. It was titled “Outline of Hierarchy as Pertains to the Newspapers of William J. Conners.” He’d dreaded opening it, dry facts and vexing figures being his academic downfall, so he never did—he was too engrossed in reading Stevenson and Twain. He craved travel and adventure. He wanted to sail the Pacific and scale Mauna Loa and eat fresh pineapples and write stories about it. The weight of his father’s expectations made his head spin.
“Yes. I have it right here, Pops.”
“All right. Now ye got plenty o’ time on yer hands to memorize it. No more excuses. No more foolin’ around. Ye gotta learn how this all works, Petie. Fer our future, the family’s, yers ‘n’ mine. And the company’s. Yer graduatin’ in a few weeks. Time to buckle down. Call White if ye got questions.”
Peter sighed and went silent for some few moments.
“Petie? You still there?”
“Yes. I’m here. All right, Pops. I will. I still say you worry about me too much.”
“If you’re really worried about me worryin’ about yous too much, Petie,” he blustered, “then do what I tell ye!”
“Yes sir. But I just wish you’d realize I’m grown up, Pop. I can make my own decisions. It’s my leg after all, and it’s fine. Really it is. No need to stay in bed for days on end!”
“Petie, I know what it feels like to be chompin’ at the bit like a racehorse waitin’ for the gates to spring open. But yer not like all them other boys there at that school. Their Pops ain’t got half a dozen thrivin’ businesses just waitin’ fer their sons to come in get their hands dirty. You do! There’s the newspapers and the shipping company and the…”
His stomach tightening, Peter’s mind drifted away as his father ran down the long list of obligations he’d created for him. His whole life had been all planned out irregardless of his wishes. Peter’s troubled face revealed the dread, the heavy burden of his father’s daunting prospects.
“But…but what if it turns out I’m no good at all this stuff, Pops? I’m never gonna be another you. Nobody could be. You’re one of a kind. You grew up hungry, having nothing. You had to fight in the streets for whatever little you could get. But me, I grew up with everything, Pops. I’ve never been in a real fight or missed a meal in my life. I don’t even know what hunger feels like.”
Fingy had reached the end of his infamously limited patience.
“We’ll talk about all this over the summer, Peter!” he growled. “I gotta go now. You just do what I’m tellin’ ye. Yer old man knows what’s best—but you mighta already learnt that.”
“If you say so, Pops. All right. Give Mary a kiss for me.”
Fingy had already hung up abruptly without uttering a goodbye.
“Pop. Pop? You still there? Pop?”
Receiving dead silence in response, Peter shook his head and sighed. Then he clicked the ear-piece receiver a few times to summon the operator.
“Long Distance? Get me Frontier 0043 in Buffalo. Miss Barbara Butler.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll ring you back when I get a line through.”
Peter rifled through the satchel to see if he had enough clothes. He’d get by. He changed out of his football clothes and checked for his keys, pocketbook and pocket watch. They were all there. He sat on the bed and waited. Ten minutes later the phone rang. He quickly picked up.
“I have your party in Buffalo on the line sir. Go ahead.”
“Barbara? Is that you?”
“Oh, Peter darling! Yes. It’s me. I miss you so much! I’m just counting the days until summer when we’ll be able to see each other whenever we want.”
“You’ll have to speak up, honey. I can’t hear you. Can you hear me?”
“Yes Peter. I can hear you fine.”
“Babs, they expect me to stay cooped up here in bed for the next four days all because of little more than a bruised knee from playing football.”
“Oh! Are you all right Peter? Are you hurt? What can I do?”
Dr. Huxley returned to the infirmary and saw Peter on his feet, arranging things in his valise.
“Cadet Conners, what do you think…”
Peter mimed the “shhh” signal, reached into his pocketbook, extracted a fifty dollar bill and tucked it into Huxley’s vest pocket with a conspiratorial wink. Hardly pausing, the doctor nodded his agreement, turned, and left the room.
“No, I’m fine Barbara. Listen, sweetie. They’ve excused me from all my classes until Monday, even though I’m perfectly able. I truly am.” He lowered his voice. “So I was thinking of sneaking away from here and coming home to see my best girl. Honestly, I’ll go insane if I have to lay in bed for four days straight!”
“Oh, Peter! That would be wonderful! Can you do that? What will your father say?
“Nothin’, because nobody’s gonna tell him! Honestly, Babs, the old man expects me to follow orders even when they make no sense, but I swear, my brain’s already reeling from the mere prospect of it. You know me. I can’t stand being bored. Doc Huxley knows full well there’s nothin’ really wrong with me. They’re just being ridiculous. You know…because they’re so intimidated by my Pop!”
“Well, who wouldn’t be, Petie? He’s positively frightful!”
They both laughed.
“Oh Babs! He likes you. I can tell.”
“Hmm, that’s doubtful,” she retorted. “I am my father’s daughter after all. And he certainly wouldn’t like me if he found out about the truth of us.”
“I miss you so much, Babs! Can you meet my train at the depot?”
“Oh yes, of course! When does the engine arrive?”
“Tomorrow morning. I get in at seven.”
Yes of course! I’ll be waiting on the platform! Oh, I’m so excited, Peter!”
“Babs, you’ll have to make up some excuse to tell your mother so you can be absent unnoticed. Can’t you say you’re going up to Toronto to go shopping with Elizabeth or something?”
“Yes. Lizzie will vouch for me, espe
cially after what happened last New Year’s Eve. She owes me one.”
Peter laughed.
“Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten about that scandal! Listen, Honey. I’ve got something very important to ask you when I get there.”
“Oh, Peter! What? Don’t tease! Tell me.”
“You’ll find out! Just be patient, all right?”
“Oh, I guess. Whatever you say.”
“Bye for now, sweetheart.”
“All right, bye, darling! I’ll see you in the morning!”
Peter then clicked the receiver once again to summon the operator, and arrange a taxi to meet him on Orchard Lake Rd. just the other side of Pine Lake Ave. He replaced the ear-piece on its hook and took a final inventory of his bag, itemizing out loud: “Pocketbook, spectacles, pocket watch, money, keys…”
The infirmary was well removed from all the other primary buildings on the pine-wooded campus; the dorms, the dining hall, the gym, the Quartermaster’s Residence. It stood isolated for quarantine reasons. Assured that he had all he needed he sneaked out, walking in a zig-zag pattern toward Orchard Lake Rd. amidst the camouflage of the towering pines to ensure he wouldn’t be spotted.
At two minutes past seven, as the early morning sun streaked into the depot through thick billowing coal smoke, Peter hopped off the train before it had fully stopped and ran to his waiting Barbara. The young lovers, ecstatic to see each other, struggled to disguise their emotions in public.
Peter’s father and Barbara’s father were direct competitors as well as sworn enemies. Conners’ Buffalo Courier and Butler’s Buffalo Evening News went head to head in a daily sniping battle for their share of readers and political influence. Fingy took every opportunity to go after Butler. Recently he’d shamed him for his having put under arrest an orphaned newsboy for refusing to carry the Evening News.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 42