"Gyp knows where the Army intends to ship that ore,” I said to Frankie.
"Where would you be going with this?” he asked.
"Is the higher calling Bunny D'Oench answers to represented in the person of Des Morrissey's daughter Rose?"
He gave me an odd look. “Funny you'd know that,” he said.
"You're hand in glove with Gyp,” I said. “And more power to the both of you. I won't interfere. But leave Bunny D'Oench to me. D'ye take my meaning?"
"I do,” he said.
I let it go at that.
* * * *
Where did this leave me, you might well ask. I'd certainly gone beyond my mandate from Young Tim. I was working without portfolio. There was something unquiet about it, though. Nothing I could quite put my finger on, mind you, but a thing altogether disturbing. Too many anxious people in too much of a rush, and all of them eager to seem without haste. It smelled of fear, of stupid men in collusion, apprehensive and out of their depth.
I thought I understood Gyp O'Fearna's motivation. If the Mafia were crowding him, he'd turn to any port in a storm. But it was a mistake to turn too far left. Out in California, it had already taken a turn for the worse. There'd been an effort before the war to deport Harry Bridges, head of the West Coast CIO, as an undesirable alien—Bridges was Australian by birth—because of suspected Communist affiliations, and now the national leadership had stripped him of his union post.
There's a saying that when you sup with the Devil, you eat with a long spoon, but in and of itself, the fact that O'Fearna and the dock union were jumping from the frying pan into the fire was of little consequence to me, or so I thought. I was a good deal more interested in the suggestion that this man D'Oench was a political bedmate of Rose Morrissey's. Not that I was any expert on Communists, but it was my gut feeling that birds of a feather might very well nest together. I didn't know where this line of thought was taking me, and I let it flutter about.
The question Johnny Darling had raised was on my mind. How had Rose and Young Tim met?
Rose couldn't manage on her own, that was clear. Given her physical handicap, she'd need a helpmeet. I didn't feature her father squiring her to some assignation, or a gathering of the Party faithful, nor did Dermot quite fit the picture. Rose wouldn't want a chaperone who had designs of his own, peripheral and perhaps antagonistic to hers. Who would she call on?
Certain sure, there were young men aplenty who'd take up her baton, among the shifty boys her father commanded, but their loyalty would be to Des. She'd have to reach out beyond that immediate orbit so as not to have her secrets common knowledge, but I didn't imagine she'd go that far afield.
* * * *
Young Tim Hannah's meeting with Des and Rose Morrissey took place in neutral territory, or neutral territory of a sort, down in Little Italy at an Irish tap owned by one Timilty. Timilty was a Mick, but he had no traffic with the West Side mob or with Morrissey's bold Fenian ambitions. He paid protection to the Maranzano family, a Sicilian clan of the old school, who policed their neighborhood vigorously to discourage street crime and took the sensible approach that a small tithe on local merchants paid everybody a fair return.
It was early evening, not much past six o'clock, that magic hour in New York when the light turns watery and time stretches out. Kids were playing stickball on the street, with a tenement stairwell for home plate. Young shopgirls in cotton dresses were just getting home from work, their fathers and brothers out on the stoops in Guinea tees, having a beer before supper.
Des and his daughter turned up in a prewar Packard. They sat in back. Dermot was sitting shotgun. The car was driven by a lad who was certainly no chauffeur.
Dermot got out of the car first, scanning the street like the professional he was, and nodded courteously to me. The youngish-looking man got out and opened the back door of the Packard, letting Des out and then helping Rose across the seat. She managed to get out of the car rather gracefully, finding her feet and standing using a pair of braces. It reminded me again of Roosevelt.
She glanced at me and smiled. “This is a comforting scene, Mickey,” she said. “A sentimental choice."
"A stroll about the perimeter?” Dermot said to me.
We cased the joint together. I wasn't offended by his care or his suspicion. In his place, I would have done the same.
Of course, as Des had suggested, the presence of Rose was proof against perfidy. Dermot was simply doing his job. It did occur to me, though, that the Provisionals had not always been so finicky when it came to civilian casualties, collateral to a target of opportunity. They had a name for the slaughter of innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time, and perhaps the Londonderry boy was thinking along those lines.
In the event, he reported back to Des that it was safe for now, a respectable venue, and all the exits covered.
Young Tim had come to the door of the saloon. He and Des looked each other over with the belligerence of predators who've met accidentally at a water hole and scattered the available game. I thought Des Morrissey's hostility a little too studied, however, an actor overplaying an underwritten part.
Rose, on the other hand, gave her role the exact notes of a Catherine Cornell or the Lunts. She was chilly but without giving offense. Neither deferential, nor overtly rude. She had a kind of majestic impudence, and I found it enthralling.
I wasn't alone. She was playing to an audience of one. Dermot and I had faded back into the wallpaper, and Des himself seemed to realize he was no more than a secondary character—Claudius, not Hamlet.
Rose and Young Tim were the leads. It was a drama of their own making, and for all I knew, they'd rehearsed it beforehand.
"So, how do you suggest we begin?” she asked him.
"We began already with an invitation,” he said, showing her to a chair with a grave and somewhat awkward courtesy, hovering but not making actual physical contact, so she was free to use the support of his arm if she chose—which she was careful not to—and then he moved a quarter turn around the table, so he wouldn't be sitting opposite her. “You've done me the compliment of accepting.” He glanced up at Des, waiting for him to take his place.
Des sat down across from his daughter, so the Morrisseys were bracketing Young Tim when he took his own seat. It was an interesting arrangement, to separate Des and Rose, putting Young Tim something in the position of an adjudicator.
"Artful, that,” Dermot murmured to me, under his breath.
We'd placed ourselves far enough away for good manners but not out of hearing.
Des opened with belligerence. “Well, we've answered your summons,” he announced, settling his weight heavily and planting his elbows on the table. “What is it you hope to gain?"
Young Tim was at pains not to rise to the bait. “An accommodation,” he replied. He said this to Rose and not to her father. His tone of voice was frank, not insinuating.
The tavern owner, Timilty, appeared out of the shadows with a jug of Tullamore Dew and put it on the table. He set out a carafe of water and two tumblers, and then, after a moment's hesitation, a third glass for Rose. He retreated again, keeping his doubts to himself.
Young Tim poured a drop for each of the three of them, and offered the carafe of water to Rose. She declined, smiling, and raised her glass. She and Young Tim clicked rims.
Des looked on in astonishment. He'd all too obviously been blindsided and was trying to recover.
"What do you make of this charade?” I asked Dermot.
"I think Desmond Morrissey has realized, somewhat too late, that he's been outmaneuvered by the fires of youth,” he said.
"You knew,” I said.
"How not?"
"You approve?"
"It's not my place to sit in judgment,” he remarked.
"No, only to mete out sentence."
He looked at me sharply.
"And what of your masters?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “That's neither here nor there,” he said.
>
"Perhaps not,” I said, “but the Provisionals have certainly undertaken and then discarded many a marriage of convenience."
"And that's what you'd consider this?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of Sinn Fein accepting German money and guns during the last war,” I said.
"The first war, too, come to that."
"Which led me to another line of thought, namely, that your principals would take comfort from any available quarter."
"It's a line of thought that could lead you astray,” Dermot said, narrowing his eyes.
"I was wondering about Bunny D'Oench,” I said. “If he were able to broker this arrangement between Young Tim and Rose, might he not have brokered a further arrangement, which I'll not put into words?"
Dermot chose an indirect reply. “What kind of name is that for a grown man?” he asked.
"It's one of those nicknames that attach to you at college, or perhaps in boarding school,” I said.
"A totem of privilege,” he suggested.
"Dermot, old son, the children of privilege differ from the likes of you and me."
"In kind? I think not. Only in their condescension."
Frankie the Lie had characterized D'Oench much the same way, I recalled. Bunny was beginning to sound like somebody I'd sooner not encounter, but there was no help for it.
Young Tim was helping Rose Morrissey to her feet. Des kept his seat and his truculent expression, but he now knew himself for a man helpless in the grip of events. The conversation between Young Tim Hannah and his daughter had been delicate and oddly ceremonial, but there was no mistaking the intimacy they shared, one they were free to pursue in private or in public, as they thought best, without fear of intrusion.
"Des looks a beaten man,” I said to Dermot.
"As well he might."
"But you've already cast your lot with Rose,” I said.
"Des Morrissey's a creature of the past,” he said.
"Meaning that he's outlived his usefulness?"
"A habit of thought can become an impediment."
"Nursing old grievances? I thought Sinn Fein's strong suit had always been a careful misreading of history."
"It's the Irish disease,” Dermot said, smiling. “We forget everything but our injuries."
"Des Morrissey's unlikely to forgive or forget this injury, a life's work put aside for an expedient."
"Politics is expediency. Des understands his position."
"Does he, indeed? Does he understand yours?"
"He understands the need for discipline."
"You're a harder man than I took you for, Dermot."
"You're a hard man yourself, Mickey,” he said. “I respect you for it."
"I intended no compliment,” I told him.
He tipped his head. “I'll take what I can get,” he said.
You'll take whatever portion I mete out, I thought.
* * * *
What was I missing? Something obvious, although obviously not something readily apparent. In hindsight, of course, it was all too easily seen. We're often blind to what's before us.
I thought, of course, that I'd boxed the compass, that I'd at least reconnoitered the ground and seen where my advantage lay. I said nothing to Young Tim because his purpose and mine were at odds. He'd secured his standing with Rose Morrissey; my own thankless task was to save him from himself, if necessary.
But it wasn't to be.
I'm an early riser, and first thing next morning I was having corned beef hash with a couple of poached eggs on top at one of my usual haunts, the Greek's on Twelfth. It was just past five thirty, and the place was already crowded with dockworkers on their way to the shape-up, where the shop stewards made their picks for the upcoming day shift.
An odd buzz started up among the men, some news, a rumor, and the place got quiet as word went around, the usual rowdy talk stilled, conversations dropping to a murmur, all good humor suddenly absent. And the joint emptied out, not by twos and threes, but all at once, like a fire drill. I was sitting there by myself. Abandoned at the counter were unfinished mugs of coffee still steaming, plates of scrambled eggs and hash browns and bacon, French toast and sausages, bowls of hot cereal.
I left my breakfast and followed the crowd. There were more of them now, men from up and down the waterfront, silent, not jostling each other, moving steadily but without unseemly hurry, as if it were a procession. They led the way to Pier 86, and their uneasy silence was premonitory.
It was a cold morning, still only half lit, the promise of warmth, like the sun on the horizon just touching the far side of Manhattan. Here on the West Side by the Hudson we were in shadow. There was a breeze, brisk and raw, lifting a layer of fog off the water, and the river currents, dark and oily, sucked at the pilings.
The freighter from Abidjan was tilted down at the bow, her foredecks awash, listing some fifteen degrees to port. Only the thick hawsers kept her from turning turtle in the slip.
"Swamped,” a man near me said, not much above a whisper.
"Scuttled,” the man next to him said, even softer.
"Anybody aboard?” the first man asked, his voice husky.
"They say the night watch got off in time, but not the crew boss and his men. They were belowdecks."
He meant the longshoremen who worked the graveyard shift, preparing cargoes for off-load when daylight came. I understood the previous heavy silence. Not mournful, enraged. It could have been any of them. There was an undercurrent of angry muttering now, but there seemed to be no easy outlet for their anger. The MPs and their young officer looked nervous all the same. The crowd around them was in an ugly mood.
"Just like the damn Normandie,” somebody said.
Well, perhaps not just like, I thought. He was referring to the French luxury liner that had sunk a few slips north of this one while being converted to a troop ship early in the war. A fire broke out in the Grand Saloon, and the fireboats pumped so much water into the ship that it capsized. It was rumored at the time to be German sabotage, but in fact the Normandie arson had been ordered by the mob bosses as part of a daft scheme to get Lucky Luciano out of Dannemora, in exchange for Mafia muscle to police the New York harborfront while the war was on.
In the event, none of the men on the pier chalked today's sinking up to simple misadventure. Nor did I. And it was significant that the prevailing wisdom leaned toward sabotage or involvement by gangsters.
I spotted Frankie the Lie hovering on the periphery and made my way over to him. You could see from the look on his face there were a thousand pounds of cocoa at the bottom of the Hudson.
"Not the best night's work,” I murmured.
He shook his head sadly.
"I trust you didn't front Gyp the money,” I said.
"No, but I had customers already lined up,” he told me. “I mislike going back on a promised delivery."
"There'll be other cargoes for Gyp to steer your way."
He looked at me queerly. “You don't know the whole of it, do you?” he asked. Then he raised his chin toward the foundered freighter, as if to say, Look again.
And then I caught on. Gyp O'Fearna had been the night crew boss, and he'd drowned in the freighter's hold. I turned away from Frankie, and there behind me, not twenty feet back, was Dermot, the boy from Belfast, watching us with his languid smile and hooded eyes.
I stalked over to him. “What do you know of this?” I demanded. I was stifling no small fury of my own, but I had the wit to keep my voice down.
Dermot was startled by my vehemence. “Nothing,” he said.
"What are you doing here?"
He hesitated. “I thought it best that I kept an eye on you for a time,” he said, and I took it for the truth.
"You know a man named O'Fearna?” I asked him.
"No,” he said, “but him I've seen before.” He cut his eyes at Frankie the Lie. “Quinn, the man you were talking to."
"In the company of Bunny D'Oench?"
Dermot nodded.
"Frankie works the black market,” I told him. “He'd likely prove useful as a money man or to carry the odd message."
"This kind of job requires a division of labor."
"What kind of job?"
"The cargo was important enough for the Army to secure it,” Dermot said, nodding toward the MPs.
"It was a military consignment,” I said.
"Munitions?"
"Why would you ask?"
"The ruptured bow plates, below the waterline. They've buckled from the inside out, which suggests an explosive rise of pressure in the hold."
"You'd have experience,” I paused, “with this kind of job."
"I know how to sink a ship,” he said.
So would Gyp O'Fearna, I figured, but he'd know better than to drown himself doing it.
"If not ordnance, what? Diesel fuel's inert, but you'd get evaporation with aviation gasoline."
I told him what I remembered from the manifest.
He didn't ask how I'd come by it. “Bauxite, to produce aluminum,” he said. “Manganese dioxide's an alloying agent used for hardening bronze or steel."
I'd never have taken him for a chemist, Dermot, but he knew guns, and I should have realized he'd know incendiaries.
"Lithium chloride, now,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Lithium by itself doesn't occur in nature. It's an alkali, recovered from brine. Very high heat-transfer quality. Much the same chemical properties as sodium, which is to say that pure refined lithium reacts violently to immersion in water."
"And might the Army choose to conceal its nature by listing it on the cargo manifest as something less volatile?"
"It can't be exposed to the air,” Dermot said. “It would be transported in sealed containers. You'd have to open them up and uncover the contents."
"And conveniently forget to tell Gyp O'Fearna that when he opened the sea-cocks to flood the hold, the metal would burn, or boil, in contact with water."
"It gives off a sort of crimson light, I'm told,” he said.
"White-hot, it might stick to the skin, sulfurous, like jellied naphtha, what your boys used against the Japs in the Pacific."
I had a sudden unbidden picture of what it might have been like in the semidarkened cargo hold, the water coming in around the men's ankles, and then the abrupt, phosphorescent heat.
AHMM, June 2007 Page 10