“I don’t understand. What suspicions? What has my family done?”
“No one understands chaos, Thomas,” continued Regan. “It’s crucial you talk to absolutely no one about any recent events. Not even to your father. Especially not your father. It’s best right about now just to play ignorant.
Jim added “You don’t want to be responsible for getting your family attacked by dangerous thugs, now do you?”
“No! Of course I don’t, but…! How...?”
“This city is a powder keg right now, Thomas. It’s a very dangerous place. All it will take is just one single match to set it off. Just go back to school as if all is well and normal, and we’ll assign a secret police detail to keep watch over your folks in your absence. Your discretion is the one and only thing that will keep them safe, son. It’s all up to you now I’m afraid.”
“But…!” Thomas was befuddled.
“Do as we say. Good afternoon now,” Regan said.
Regan and Sullivan turned and walked away leaving Thomas Banta entirely befuddled. The doctor's son watched as the patrol wagon disappeared down the street. He paced the porch for some time afterward, frightened, confused and distressed.
◆◆◆
Aboard the speeding rail car Fingy and his wife sat bolt upright as it rocked back and forth on its way to Detroit. Fingy checked his pocket watch obsessively and cursed himself. Dr. Banta fretted anxiously. The sedative had little effect. The train slowed, then stopped. The conductor yelled, “St. Thomas, Ontario! St. Thomas! Five minutes!”
“Damn it to hell!” fumed Fingy. “Every time this buggerin’ train stops I wanna get out and push it meself!”
“Please, Jim,” placated Mary. “We’re almost halfway there. Making yourself sick isn’t going to help your son. The train can’t travel any faster than it’s trying to.
“I beg you for your son’s sake, Jim, remain calm,” counseled Dr. Banta.
Fingy peered out the window, his reflection mirrored the deep torment in his face. A messenger climbed aboard and walked down the aisle, calling out.
“Mr. Conners! Telegram for Mr. William J. Conners!”
Fingy’s heart began to race.
“Boy! Here boy! Right here!”
Fingy grabbed the telegram and ripped it open. As he read, his face collapsed with grief.
“Oh! Oh my God, no! No, no, no!” he howled.
Fingy’s wife Mary grasped the telegram as Fingy sobbed. Anguish contorting her face, she absorbed the unacceptable news.
◆◆◆
Right before midnight the train pulled into Detroit. The Conners were in shock, their movements lethargic, their hearts broken. Dr. Banta maintained a close watch over them.
The party boarded a hired automobile. Fingy demanded the driver race along, but the terrible road was punishing to both automobile and passengers. Fingy wouldn’t back off. He called the chauffeur names. He threatened and insulted him. He argued with him continually. At one point halfway there the infuriated driver finally slammed on the brakes. The occupants went flying. Mary shrieked. Before Fingy could lose his temper, the driver exited the auto, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and ordered, “Out! Now! Everybody!”
Fingy was stunned. He began to holler. The driver put a stop to it.
“Lissen here, you fat-ass red-faced nobody. How’s about I dump you ‘n’ yer fancy friends right here in the dirt and yous can walk the rest o’ the way? ”
Dr. Banta melted into his seat in apprehension over the consequence of Fingy’s insane demands. What if the driver pulls out a knife? the doctor wondered. After all, Fingy’s pushed this poor man to his limit. It’s pitch black. Here we are in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, and we’ve not passed even one single wagon or automobile on the road.
Banta grew quite fearful.
Fingy was infuriated at being told what to do by someone no better than a servant, but wizened up and kept his mouth shut.
“All right,” he said.
The chauffeur glared.
“And?”
Fingy couldn’t believe the driver’s nerve.
“And?” the driver repeated, loudly.
“And—I’m sorry,” said Fingy.
The driver slammed the door shut, walked around to the driver’s side and got in. He released the brake and put the car in gear. They proceeded only a few hundred yards in total silence when suddenly the driver stopped again.
“What now?”Fingy scowled.
The man put his hand out.
“I’ll be collectin’ my fare at this point since I don’t trust that ye’ll be payin’ me, old man.” He held out his palm. There was silence all around. They were deep in the countryside. The only sound was crickets. The only light, fireflies. The driver nodded confidently in impending victory. Fingy evaluated the situation, then newly becalmed, took out his wallet.
“Well, yous got me over a barrel there, fella. Here ye go. There’s a little somethin’ extra in there fer yerself as well,” Fingy stated in atonement. “Our poor boy’s dead at that school. We’re tryin’ to get to ‘im fast as we can. Do your best if ye will. Please.”
Fingy respected the man’s audacity. He admired the driver’s use of his power just at the precise moment to his best advantage as he held them captive, helpless and emotionally bereft.
It was a tactic right out of his own rule book.
They then proceeded on in total silence as quickly as it was safe to do so.
Upon arrival Fingy pounded on General Wheeler’s residence door. Hearing the driver preparing to pull away he turned and hollered “Wait for us there and I’ll triple yer fare.”
The driver turned off his engine, reclined, put his cap over his face and took a snooze.
Inside, Wheeler had heard the auto pull up. The General carefully prepared himself before finally opening the door, switching on the lights and pretending to be shocked at seeing the drained and frantic party standing there.
“Mr. and Mrs. Conners! Dr. Banta! Oh my goodness! Why, I was told you had turned back to Buffalo after receiving my telegram at St. Thomas! We’ve already sent your dear Peter to the Crowley Undertakers’ establishment in Buffalo!
Fingy exploded.
“What? Who told yous to do any such fool thing! You fool! We spent near seven hours on that goddamned train! My wife’s been prostrated wit’ grief!”
“I am so very sorry, sir!” cried the General in his best imitation of a sincere apology. “Honestly Mr. Conners, I thought I was doing the proper thing! The kind and Christian thing! All of us here, we wanted your dear Peter to be home with his loving family as soon as humanly possible!”
Fingy looked ready to start turning over furniture in a rage. As she held him in check Mary demanded “Where’s our son Thomas Jordan, General?”
“Why, he’s in bed asleep, ma’am,” responded the General.
“Well get him up, you nincompoop!” cried Fingy. “We’re taking him back home with us.”
“And my son Thomas. Bring him as well!” commanded the doctor.
“Yes, yes. Of course!”
The General ran out the door and across campus to wake the boys. When he entered their room he gasped seeing Banta’s bed empty. Aggressively he shook awake the heavily-sleeping Jordan.
“Jordan! Where the hell’s Banta? Jordan! Wake up! Goddamn it!” he demanded.
Jordan roused groggily.
“Uh, well, I, uh, I think,” Jordan struggled to become coherent. “I think maybe he got on the train at the depot with Peter, sir. He told me he wasn’t going to let Pete ride all the way home in a dirty baggage car by himself.”
“You knew about this Jordan—and you kept it from me? I ought to whip your hind end right here and now! Get your goddamn clothes on! Your parents are in my parlor waiting.”
“My parents? Here?”
As he dragged Jordan across campus to his residence the General suddenly became unnerved that the whole plan might now be compromis
ed. He worried that Dr. Banta was certain to question Jordan upon hearing the news of his missing son. He halted and grabbed Jordan threateningly by the collar. He shook him forcefully. “Jordan, I ought to cancel your graduation! I ought to tear your diploma into a million pieces, shove them up your ass and expel you right here and now! You can just forget about university as far as I’m concerned!”
“Jesus no!” Jordan protested in a panic. “I’m sorry General! Honest! I tried to stop him! Oh, please! Don’t ruin my future, please sir! My stepfather will kill me!”
“You listen to me Jordan, and listen well! I forbid you to tell your parents anything of the details about Banta, do you understand me? You just tell them that you heard a rumor that Banta took a train to Buffalo. That’s all. No details. You know nothing about it, understand? Remember—at any time in the future I can contact whatever university might be foolish enough to accept you and advise them to kick you out on purely moral grounds—and we both know what I’m talking about here!”
“General! No! I promise!”
“I absolutely will not personally suffer trouble because of your irresponsible shenanigans—and Banta’s. Do you hear me? I will not stand for you two bringing shame on this Academy! You say the wrong thing and you can kiss Yale goodbye —forever.”
Jordan nodded vigorously. “Ye-yes sir, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die!”
“Yes! Let’s just hope it doesn’t have to come to that,” threatened the General.
Thank God we’re at the end of their senior year, Wheeler thought to himself.
◆◆◆
At the Detroit depot the driver unloaded the party’s small bags and carried them inside. He had demanded his triple fare at the outset of the return trip. When he turned to leave Fingy caught the man’s arm. He handed him his business card. The man looked at it. Not many people put their photographs on their business card, he thought to himself, but Mister, with a face like yours it takes a hell of a lot of brass.
“Gimme a call if yer ever in Buffalo,” said Fingy. “I might be able to use a man like yous.”
◆◆◆
The Buffalo-bound rail car gently rocked back and forth as first light colored the horizon pink. First class accommodations had been entirely sold out. The Conners were forced to sleep upright in their seats surrounded by common strangers. Mary Conners double checked to make sure Fingy was asleep. He was snoring quietly. She rose from her place and crossed the aisle. She whispered to her son.
“Thomas! Wake up. Shh!”
He startled. “What—what’s wrong Mother?”
“Thomas, your stepfather’s finally asleep. Listen to me now. This is your chance to win your rightful place by his side, now that Peter’s gone.”
“Ma! Pete’s not even in his grave yet!”
“Exactly! Your stepfather needs you more than ever now in this, his hour of grief! Now is your time to shine Thomas, in this moment of crisis! You must strike while the iron is hot!”
“Mother, please. You can’t be serious!”
“I’m dead serious, Thomas! Do you think we’d have all that we do today had I hesitated pursuing your stepfather? Why, only hours after his first wife died, I was there with food and a shoulder to cry on! He was a broken man. A new widower, hurting and vulnerable. In need of kindness, of someone who he could lean on in his time of grief. So I became that someone, Thomas. Now it’s your turn. You need to win his heart, just as I did. Peter’s gone, son. Nothing will change that. Your stepfather needs you now.
“If Pete couldn’t live up to his expectations, how can I possibly?”
“All those plans he had for Peter, they can be yours now! You can do it!” she encouraged.
“But he doesn’t even like me, Mother!”
“Oh, of course he does, son!”
“No he don’t! Pete told me so. And anyway, he never had to tell me because I already knew. He only tolerates us kids because of you. He doesn’t like any of us Jordans.”
“Oh, I don’t accept that! But if you believe it, Thomas, then it’s up to you to change it. It’s understandable that you’ve felt intimidated by him. You always depended on Peter to be the bulwark between you and his father. But that only prevented you and your stepfather from ever getting to really know each other. You need to ingratiate yourself to him now. I’ve done my part these past years. But I won’t be around forever. You need to think about that. You need to think about your future. You must step into Peter’s shoes before someone else does—like that Banta boy!”
Thomas thought about it a few moments.
“Perhaps you’re right, Mother. Pop does seem to favor Banta over me.”
“Yes, I am right. Now, when he stirs from his sleep, you go to him. Tell him how grieved you are. Offer your service. Above all, pledge your loyalty. Loyalty means everything to him.”
◆◆◆
The next afternoon Fingy stood over Peter’s body at the Crowley’s mortuary. The combination of grief and lack of sleep had made him loopy. Dan and Tom Crowley nervously tried to read his expression.
“Why’s he all blue?” leered Fingy.
Conners leaned forward and first opened Peter’s left eye, then the right, and inspected. He appeared he might suspect something.
“Uh, well, with pneumonia, Mr. Conners, the patient is not able to get enough oxygen,” Tom Crowley explained, “and that causes a bluish tint in the skin to develop.”
Emotionless, Fingy stared at Peter for a long while, causing the Crowleys to become unnerved.
“Well,” he finally said, “get rid of it. Do your best work. Pink him up. He needs to look as good as yous can make ‘im, for his sisters’ sake.”
◆◆◆
Concurrently, Bishop Quigley entered his Delaware Avenue residence, surprised to see Detective Jim Sullivan sitting in his vestibule with a bruised and battered young man, cap in hand. Quigley looked around for his housekeeper. She was not present.
“Uh. Hello Detective. May I help you?”
Jim nodded for Jimmy Murphy to speak.
“Bishop sir, Your Excellency, my name’s Jimmie Murphy,” he said breathlessly. “You might remember me and my family from St. Bridget’s. I need to confess somethin’. Somethin’ awful.”
“I do remember you, Jimmie. I heard about the shameful murder of your brother. My condolences, young man. But, why are you here? Father Finn would surely be able to hear your confession at St. Bridget’s.”
“Bishop, what I got to confess has got to remain a secret if I’m to continue walkin’ this earth. If my family is to be allowed to go on breathin’. We know ye despise Fingy Conners as much as us. So, yer the only one I can trust.”
Quigley calculated the gravity in Jimmie’s demeanor. His eyes met the detective’s affirming gaze. Quigley motioned toward the chapel next door.
“Go over to the chapel and wait for me, Jimmie. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Thank you Bishop!”
Jimmie took his cap, raised his aching body from the chair, and limped out the door.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” said Sullivan as he followed Jimmie out. Quigley nodded. Sullivan and Murphy walked together down the veranda steps.
“Thanks Detective,” said Murphy apologetically. “Ye ain’t got to wait around here fer me. I’ll be okay.”
Sullivan paused and followed Murphy with his eyes as he headed to the chapel next door. Just then Fingy passed by in his automobile. He recognized unionizer Jimmie Murphy appearing glaringly out of place in laborers’ garb there on tony Delaware Ave. and wondered what the hell he was doing there with Jim Sullivan.
◆◆◆
“And that’s the whole story Mary Ann, in all it’s terrible truth,” coughed Paddy Murphy. His hacking went on for a good minute and a half before he was back in control. Outside, the wind had picked up. It rocked the house, the jolting and the boards’ creaking adding an ominous tenor to the sordid tale. Blackie’s tortured whinnying went unheard in the howling gale.
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Murphy finally caught his breath. “I regret what I done… most o’ the time, anyway, because I know it shoulda been Fingy Conners himself what we done in. But if we killed him, his sufferin’ woulda ended right then and there. Since I had to live from that cursed day forward with the sorrow and hatred of him stealin’ me boy from me, I wanted him to suffer the exact same.”
Her now-pale face was blank for all of Paddy Murphy’s searching to determine what she might be thinking. He had alleviated his guilt somewhat, but it was the innocent Mary Ann O’Rourke who now had to take up the heavy cross.
“So, ye see, the real story differs extremely from the one Fingy tells, the stories that was printed in the newspapers, the stories everybody’s been told and takes as the truth. But ye can’t tell nobody, Mary Ann. I’ll be gone soon, but me kids…I’m afeared fer me kids.”
Mary Ann wished he hadn’t told her, wished she hadn’t been willing to listen, wished he hadn’t burdened her with such a ghastly revelation. She had quite enough piled on her poor sick shoulders already as it was.
Ruth’s Mother
◆◆◆
After finally hearing Ruth’s story it all began to make sense at long last.
Normally it was Hannah who poured out all manner of expositions about which Ruth expressed her various musings and comments. Some of her friend’s examinations were of great value but at any rate all were worth considering. Now it was Hannah’s turn to listen.
“My mother worked in a house of prostitution on lower Michigan Street, near the bridge, and I grew up there with her in that same house,” she began.
“My dear darling father Lawrence McGowan, my mother claimed, had been killed in the Civil War. Like so many wives, children and old mothers of soldiers who perished in that terrible conflict, she was left alone and destitute. She maintained that her only choice at that time to keep herself and her baby from starving was to enter that profession.
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