“It has been a long time, Declan.”
Declan’s glance took in his son and then me. “Patrizio was a friend of the Irish here in the older days, sort of a bridge between the two, em —”
“Immigrant communities?” Brennan offered.
A dark-haired Italian beauty appeared at our table in black tie, size six, with a bottle of Jameson’s, and menus tucked under her arm. She looked like a dancer. “Good evening, Mr. Corialli. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Yes. Thank you, Angela. Bring two bottles of the Pio Cesare Barolo I have set aside. We’ll look over the specials.” She favoured us with a dazzling smile and went for the wine.
“What do you do, Brennan? Did you follow your father into business?”
“I’m a man of the cloth, Patrizio.”
“Benissimo.
I congratulate you, Declan. I alas have no sons in the church.”
“Is this your club, Patrizio?” I asked him.
“No, my nephew owns it in partnership with two other men. It is almost like the old days when we were over in the East Fifties. Giorgio has captured the feel of the old club very beautifully.”
Angela came with the wine and took our orders. Pavarotti ended his set. Declan and Patrizio chatted — uneasily, I thought — about old times and old timers. I started to say something to Brennan but the activity on the stage had caught his attention. Or so it seemed from a slight widening of his black eyes; otherwise there was no change in his expression. I looked over and saw the members of a brass band picking up their instruments. They were all women and they all had on spike heels, black silk panties, dinner jackets, brightly-coloured cummerbunds, black ties and no shirts. The band master was a very tall, Nordic blonde with a domineering manner. She tapped her baton and the band began with a rousing version of “In the Mood.” They played passably well. I mentally thanked fate for plunking me into a seat where I could
view the stage without having to wrench myself around. Though I noticed that Brennan and Declan managed to catch some of the show without completely turning their backs on the rest of the table.
Corialli said: “Not the most appropriate entertainment for a man of your profession, Padre.”
“It’s true,” Brennan replied, “that I’m a choral director, but I enjoy something a little brassier once in a while.”
Corialli smiled and raised his glass slightly in Brennan’s direction. Our dinner was sumptuous. I ordered seafood linguine expecting the usual mix of scallops and shrimp I would have been served at home; here, the ocean tossed up octopus and starfish along with other less recognizable denizens of the deep. I took the cannoli for dessert. Cigars were offered at the end of the meal, and Corialli, Declan and Brennan fired them up.
The band brought the tempo down with “Moonlight Serenade.” Corialli nodded in their direction. “We have a history of high-quality talent here. Female talent. Those were glorious years for the female voice. The songs of the forties and fifties, even the thirties. Our little Evie met with great success, did she not, Declan?”
“Mmm,” Declan agreed.
“She is here in New York, performing somewhere. Such a voice, such a presence. Evie always wore a white dress when she sang, and a white flower — I don’t think it was a gardenia! — in her yellow hair,” he informed us. “Did you know her well when she was with us, Declan? Was it not you who arranged for her debut out in —”
“I hardly knew her,” Declan interrupted. “If I gave her career a boost it was off the cuff, but I’m happy to hear it.”
When the girls in the band took a break, the room was quiet and Declan leaned over to Corialli. “There was an attempt on my life last week, as you may have heard.” Corialli nodded, and Declan continued with considerable understatement: “I’m asking myself who might have been behind it.”
“You have some possibilities in mind?” Corialli asked.
Declan glanced sideways at his son and turned back to Corialli. “I may have offended someone in your, em, family a few years back.”
“Back when my brother was head of the family. Long time ago, Declan.”
“Indeed it was.”
Corialli turned to the silent man at his side. “Mr. Burke stepped on our toes once, long ago. But Mr. Burke made it up to us later. Go talk to Alfredo and find out whether there was a misunderstanding.” Corialli turned again to Declan. “I do not see why this unfortunate matter would come back to haunt any of us after so many years.”
Brennan certainly looked haunted, as we waited for the valet to bring our car around. Declan was taking no questions on the drive home.
†
Brennan moved across the river to his parents’ house in Queens the next day. For my part, I decided it was time to rent a car. I was spending so much time across the river that it made sense to have my own transportation. So I arranged for a vehicle and was assured the hotel provided valet parking. My son gave me a bit of a rough time for acquiring a vehicle on his last day in the city; to compensate, I promised Tom he could take the wheel for a while once we got out of Manhattan. The four of us headed to the suburbs for a tour. We made our way north through the Bronx to Westchester County, through Yonkers up to Tarrytown, then across the county to Long Island Sound. Tom took over the driving. He chafed at the bit when his mother and I insisted on a leisurely pace so we could admire the stately old houses in Larchmont and the boats in Mamaroneck. We stuffed ourselves with seafood and made our way back to Manhattan. We stopped at the hotel, collected Tom’s luggage, and drove him to the airport for his flight to Halifax. We assured him he would be loved and missed, then we laid on the instructions. Call us often, eat properly, don’t drink, and remember: your home on Dresden Row is not a frat house. No parties. Right. I remembered when my brother and I had the house to ourselves; I kept that to myself.
†
The next morning I got a call from Brennan. “Progress. We’ve found Mary Sodano.”
“Great. How did we do that?”
“Terry’s son and my sister Brigid did some digging. Best of all we have a day, a month and a year. The marriage records show that Gianni Sodano and Mary Desmond were married July 12, 1952. And, by the way, Brigid’s working through the Murphys in the phone book. The only Cathal she came up with was somebody’s little boy. But there were a lot who didn’t answer so she’ll keep at it. Back to the Sodanos, Saint Brigid made a few calls and charmed some information out of them. I don’t know what line she fed them but she learned that, although Mary and Gianni are away in Italy, Mary’s younger sister Beth is in town. And we now have her address.”
“And we’re going to materialize on her doorstep behind a big bouquet of roses, right?”
“Something like that.”
“So we know the big piss-up occurred in July 1952. Desmond hitting the booze, aided and abetted perhaps by your father.”
“If a boozer can be said to need assistance.”
“All right. So what do we say to Beth Desmond?”
“We’ll think of something.”
So that afternoon, Brennan and I were at the door of a boxy brick apartment building in Richmond Hill South, a working class area of Queens. It was a damp, windy day and I wished I had worn more than my Sunday go-to-meetin’ suit. Beth Desmond Dowd answered our ring at one-thirty. She was an overweight and harried-looking woman in her middle fifties.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dowd. I’m Brennan Burke and this is Montague Collins. We’re wondering if you can help us. We’re trying to find a gentleman by the name of Barry McDermot. He was a member of Saint Finnian’s parish back in the fifties and sixties. We’ve been asking around and we understand he was a friend of your father. We haven’t had any luck so far and we’re wondering if you might remember something that could put us on the right track.”
“McDermot, you say? Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Perhaps you’ll recall the names of some of your father’s acquaintances from those days, and we’ll get a lead from that.”
She looked us over and decided we were low risk. Must have been the Mormon suits. “Come in then. I’ll see what I can do.”
She led us to the living room of her ground-floor apartment. Every item had its place, and that place was at right angles to something else. A two-seater couch was flanked by two arm chairs at ninety-degree angles. The seating arrangement faced a mantelpiece with the fireplace bricked up. Magazines were lined up at each end of a veneered coffee table.
We sat, like twin suitors, on the tiny couch. I felt I should be twirling a hat in my hand.
“Tea?”
“Lovely. Thank you,” Brennan replied with courtesy.
We were silent while Beth worked in the kitchen. She returned and poured us tea in dainty china cups. She set down a plate of Bourbon chocolate biscuits on the coffee table, six in all.
“Barry McDermot. I don’t remember anyone by that name. Barry Casey I remember. He used to come around when I was little.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Dowd,” I began.
“Beth,” she said.
“Beth. Is your father still —”
“Alive? I wouldn’t know. Though they do say alcohol is a preservative. He may be pickled somewhere.”
“You lost touch with your dad, then.”
“He’s the one who lost touch. With reality and with us. I haven’t seen him since the late 1950s. Neither has anyone else in the family. But I did hear of a sighting maybe ten years ago. In a Salvation Army shelter for indigenous, no, what is it? Indigent? Indigent men. We were all indigent in this family, after our main breadwinner hit bottom. Oh, well. We did manage to get by. In a way.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Beth, what a shame,” Brennan put in. “Had he been troubled by alcoholism all through your childhood?”
“My older sister tells me he was drunk nearly all the time when we were really young. During my formative years he was great. Sober, funny, responsible, hard-working. A man who loved to read. He was a great one for reciting poetry. Who was it, Keats? Was he Irish, or — who’s the other guy?”
“Yeats?” Brennan supplied. “Yeah. Apparently they called Dad ‘the professor’ at work. Wonder what they’d call him now.”
“Where was it your father worked, Beth?” I asked.
“When he worked, he was a port watchman on the Brooklyn waterfront. But he lost that job. Not surprisingly.”
“For drinking, you mean?”
“Chances are. But I think something happened. I don’t know what. My sister got married and by the time the bills came in, the ‘professor’ was out of a job. I remember my mother begging him to go and ask for his job back so they could pay the family bills. I kept hoping she would shut up because Mary and Gianni were coming in the front door; I was mortified that Gianni might hear. Mom was saying: ‘There are drunks on the payroll all over this city, but you can’t expect to get a job anywhere after that.’ Whatever ‘that’ meant. I’m not sure. It was a long time ago. I tuned them out after that. And then he was gone. Poor Mom. She should have been glad to get rid of him, but she just wasn’t the same after he finally vamoosed. What a shrew she turned into. I’m sorry to be rambling on like this. You were asking about other friends of his. I’m sure we didn’t know most of them, probably just other drunks. I remember Mr. Casey, nice man. I think he was from the church too. Ted O’Neill and his wife. They had eleven kids. Who else?”
“Did he ever mention a Cathal Murphy?” She shook her head. “Declan Burke?”
“I don’t remember that name. Is he a relative of yours, Brennan?”
“My father. But he hasn’t been able to help us.”
“My mother might have known, but she died years ago. I haven’t been of much use. But if I think of anyone who may be able to help, I’ll call. Where can I reach you?”
“I’m at the Park Central Hotel. Collins. We appreciate your time, Beth. Thanks.”
We went over what we had heard as we drove back to Sunnyside. Worked on the waterfront and lost his job as the result of an incident in the summer of 1952.
†
Patrick was at the house when we got there, so we filled him in on our chat with Beth Dowd. For some unvoiced, communal reason we
had all eschewed the harder stuff and were sitting in the family room drinking ginger ale. Brennan was puffing on a cigarette.
“Well,” Patrick was saying, “maybe Beth has given us something to go on but it would be helpful to get some firsthand information about our father’s activities back then. If only —”
“We did meet one of his old cronies,” Brennan told him. “You haven’t heard about our night at the White Gardenia. Ever hear of Patrizio ‘Paddy’ Corialli?”
“Sounds familiar. Known to the authorities, is that the man?”
“I’d say so. Our da had some sort of association with Corialli —”
“No!” Patrick interrupted.
“Yes. Spent time at his club. And Declan put a foot wrong with ‘the family’ somehow.”
“I wonder if they sent someone around to straighten your father out. That could explain why a man showed up the time —” I was about to make reference to Sandra’s story about a man who accused Declan of something. Theft? Whatever the case, it wasn’t up to me to let Patrick in on the ill-fated night at the opera. He shot me a curious look, but waited for me to continue. “Didn’t Corialli say Declan had made up for whatever he’d done?”
“At someone else’s expense, perhaps,” Patrick suggested.
“Who knows?” Brennan said. “We don’t have enough information.”
“Did any other names come up, anyone we can track down?” Patrick asked.
Brennan shook his head. I thought back over the conversation. “The only name that came up was some blonde siren who sang at the place. What was it, Brennan, Edie? Evie, I think.”
“What was the story on her?”
“Nothing, really. Just that she had a great voice and was a looker.”
“I wonder if she’d have anything to add. She might at least be able to give us some names of people Declan knew at that club,” Patrick mused.
“I doubt it,” his brother answered. “She would have been singing, not eavesdropping. And we don’t know who she is anyway. It was decades ago.”
“Corialli did say she’s in New York for a concert, or a tour or
something,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, well —”
“Wouldn’t it be grand,” I said, in a bad brogue, “if yer oul da himself would display for us the renowned Celtic gift for storytelling and give it to us from start to finish. Save us from havin’ to suss out all these witnesses to the life of the man when he’s right here among us himself, God save him.”