Shamrock Alley (35 page)

Mickey O’Shay stood above him, breathing heavily. His hands still balled into fists, blood smeared across the knuckles, they remained at rest in the position that had finally sent Dino “Smiles” Moratto to the floor.

Behind Mickey, a few guys in worsted coats and cargo pants—John Mavio among them—shifted uncomfortably, most of them silently hoping the fight was finally over. Set atop a small table across the room, a Sony radio was tuned to Sly and the Family Stone’s “Higher.”

Nobody moved. And for one brief moment, it seemed no one ever would.

Then something clicked behind Dino’s eyes—consciousness, perhaps—and he managed to roll over onto his left side, pressing his face into the syrupy pool of his own blood. He brought one hand up and pawed feebly at the air. There was something utterly pathetic about the action. He was like a wounded animal, ignorant of the events which had led him to such a state …

The room was dim and spacious with a low ceiling, directly beneath the floor of the Cloverleaf pub. Weekends, the room served as an underground sanctuary for professional gamblers engaging in business—cards, dice, whatever the trend. Sweaty, greasy fives and tens, twenties and fifties covered the stand of card tables on those nights. Fight nights, a small black-and-white television set was pulled from behind the bar and propped in a corner. Cigar smoke and cheap cologne circulated through the musty air, mingled with the voracious cheers of guileful street hustlers and fist-pumpers.

Dino shuffled across the floor, a rattle deep in his throat. His nose was still bleeding like a fountain, leaving behind a constellation of blood on the concrete floor.

“Funny-man,” Mickey O’Shay said, finally dropping his arms. Over the passage of several days, he had grown a small thatch of hair at his chin. At the moment, two bright red globules of Dino Moratto’s blood were suspended in the wiry hair. “You’re a real tough guy, Moratto, fuckin’ guinea bastard. You’re real tough with your nose busted open.”

The night started out like any other night with Mickey O’Shay: suffused in a bleak haze of pot smoke and alcohol. Mickey, John, and some nameless tagalong had dropped into the Cloverleaf well after dark. As usual, Mickey had gone straight for the restroom while John and the tagalong ordered themselves a beer. Mickey’s primary infatuation was with booze—lager, whiskey, bourbon, Irish cream, any goddamn thing he could get his mitts on. For the sheer grandiloquence of it, the animal had downed a shot glass full of lighter fluid the night before while John stood and watched. And he’d spent the rest of the evening vomiting on himself, his eyes no more vacant than they’d been at any other point during the day. Frequently, Mickey chose to augment his daily toxin intake by smoking several joints down to the roach. And when he felt like it, he’d snort a line or two of coke into each nostril with such enthusiasm one would assume the act provided for him some sort of sexual gratification.

When Mickey had returned from the restroom, his eyes were blistered and beaten. Though they’d just shared a lengthy conversation about Islanders hockey on the walk down the block to the Cloverleaf, Mickey pulled up a stool beside John and did not say a word to him. He motioned for a beer without speaking a word to the bartender, either. John, a quick study, knew better than to initiate a conversation. Mickey O’Shay was socially inept to the point of near retardation. No social graces whatsoever, he spoke when he felt like it and ignored everyone the rest of the time.

Some guys had been making noise at the other end of the bar, and John could tell they were beginning to irritate Mickey. Some loudmouth with a scar on his face began arm wrestling one of his buddies, and Mickey casually turned to watch the event. Drinking his beer in small sips with one elbow propped up on the bar, he could have been lulling himself to sleep. When the match was over and scar-face was deemed the victor, the crowd turned and marched down the small hallway that communicated with a declivity of cement steps which, in turn, led to the underground storage cellar cum gambling establishment.

Without saying a word, leaving his beer on the bar, Mickey had risen from his stool and affixed himself to the rear of the crowd. John, too, stood and followed Mickey and the rest of the men down the narrow hallway. The mob led them to the end of the hallway and through a small, trapdoor-like passageway cut into the floorboards.

Downstairs, the spacious underground bar stank of urine, alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke. The men milled around, talking in loud, booming voices, oblivious to Mickey, who remained leaning against the frame of the door at the bottom of the stairwell. He was like a ghost on a different plane—invisible almost to the point of nonexistence in this world.

Then, in what John would later recall as a confusing blur, things began to happen.

Dino Moratto, the victor of the arm wrestling match, started to shout something at some of the other men, smiling a disfigured smile. He moved to a small radio that sat on a table, turned it on, rolled through the stations.

For several moments, Mickey had remained brooding in the corner, unnoticed by Dino and his friends. The things that set Mickey off were not intelligent, calculable,
understandable
things: he was a firecracker that exploded at will and without provocation.

In a rush, Mickey had stormed Dino and slammed him in the face. The sudden burst of movement caused John to take a reflexive step backward, as it did most of the other spectators. Blood immediately ruptured from Dino’s nose. A second slug from Mickey, and it suddenly looked like a number of Dino Moratto’s friends would jump in … but then something
happened
. Somehow, by the grace of God, they must have caught the homicidal glint in Mickey O’Shay’s eyes, because everyone froze in mid-step. The color abruptly drained from their faces, their lungs at a standstill in their chests. The hammer of heartbeats filled the room.

“What—” Dino had managed, and was slugged again.

There was no real power behind Mickey’s punches—just a brutal, senseless ferocity. Most of the punches did not even connect, and he wound up boxing his opponent several times on the ears and cheekbones with the sides of his arms. Dino moaned, shuddered, attempted to defend himself … but it was a futile attempt. Mickey had hit him without notice, without warning, and was unrelenting.

Now, with Dino moaning and slobbering at his feet, Mickey ran his bloody fingers through his hair. In two steps, he closed the distance between him and the radio, picked it off the table, and smashed it on the floor.

Let this end here
, John thought. Mickey, as unpredictable as he was, might kill the bastard, might follow him and his friends out into the street and shoot them all. He was aware that any confrontation outside the bar or on the street would alert Kersh, who was sitting in his car and parked in an alley. If Kersh came over, things would go to hell. Fast.

End here
, John thought again.

Things didn’t end.

Mickey stalked over to where Dino Moratto lay. Behind him, Dino’s friends were slowly closing in. Despite Mickey’s reputation, they were no doubt planning to make a move, though they still hadn’t been able to work up the courage. Crouching on his haunches, Mickey reached out and tore the back pocket off Dino’s pants. He took Dino’s wallet, gutted it like a fish, and stuffed the few bills he found into his coat. Standing up, he dropped the wallet on top of Dino’s head. And giggled.

In the two weeks John had immersed himself in the hopeless and violent world of Mickey O’Shay, he had come to understand just what Mickey was: an enigma.
Understanding
Mickey was
not
understanding him. It was knowing that at any moment he might lean over and slap you contentedly on the back … or grab you around the neck with hooked fingers. No time spent undercover could have prepared him to deal with such an animal. And slowly, as the days crept by and he spent more and more time consorting with the boys of the West Side, the cloth began slipping from the painting, soon to expose the whole picture for what it was.

For the most part, Jimmy Kahn stayed out of the picture. He lived in a comfortable apartment on the Upper West Side, drove a Cadillac—was, in fact, the only one of the West Side boys who even possessed a driver’s license—and seemed to be the only one with any sense of ambition past the bottle. When he wasn’t around, which was quite often, his boy Mickey ran the streets in his absence, brutal and intimidating enough to fill in for an entire squad of Jimmy Kahns. And Detective Glumly had been right: everyone else was just a straphanger, a bullshit street punk who made some quick cash selling their muscle to Mickey and Jimmy’s endeavors.

And there were
plenty
of endeavors: extortion, robbery … they had their claws in a little bit of everything. They were not smart guys. More like rats, like piddling thieves. If they stumbled across a box of rosary beads, they would try to hock them. An abundance of anything, in their eyes, could yield some sort of profit. Yet despite their lack of a traditional business sense, which had propelled the Italian Mafia to the front pages, they were raking in the dough. Eavesdropping on cryptic conversations while hanging around Mickey, coupled with attaining information from the wire taps Roger Biddleman so enthusiastically employed, John found his mental picture of Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn gradually broadening. And so was the scope of their crimes.

They had a piece of the dock workers’ union, the factories, the canneries across the river. They had a piece of the theatrical union and were collecting big money from the Theater District. Even the limousine drivers whose job it was to chauffeur eminent performers, actors, and musicians to their respective engagements paid a kickback to the Irish boys of Hell’s Kitchen. Kings of the “no shows,” they would approach the foremen of local construction sites and demolition crews and suggest two or three of their boys be added to their payroll, showing up to the site only twice a month to collect their paychecks. Their names and reputations struck unmitigated fear in the hearts of anyone who knew of them. No one would say no to them, would stand in their way, would attempt to jerk them around. Mickey O’Shay and Jimmy Kahn were not window-breakers; you fucked with them, you’d better kill them.

Yet through all the wire taps and conversations overheard by John and the Secret Service, Jimmy Kahn remained elusive. He was always close by, but never actually on the scene. And although the West Side Boys spoke of him frequently—especially Mickey—it wasn’t enough for a court of law. By the end of two weeks, the Secret Service had enough burn on Mickey to lock him up for years … but not a single conclusive thing on Jimmy Kahn.

Upstairs, Mickey reclaimed his seat at the bar and finished his beer. He did not say a word. Dried blood matted his hair. Then, looking at them, he uttered, “Gotta take a whiz,” and stumbled into the bathroom.

Sometime later, Dino Moratto and his boys climbed up out of the basement and collected themselves around the bar. Dino now held a bloodied, wadded piece of newspaper to his nose, his eyes all funny.

When Mickey returned, the Irish lad did not even look in Dino’s direction. He simply sat himself back down on his bar stool and ordered another beer and a shot of Wild Turkey. Mickey never ordered for anyone else, no matter who was in his company. When he drank, he was utterly and completely alone, with the rest of the world shut down all around him.

The bartender placed Mickey’s drinks in front of him, then swung down to Dino Moratto’s end of the bar. Dino and his boys were settling up, half of them already to the door. John tensed, watching the slowness with which they moved. Even the eyes of the little tagalong beside him grew wide, unable to look away from the passing mob. Only Mickey did not budge, seeming not to notice. With one finger, he rubbed the bottom of his empty shot glass, then stuck it in his mouth.

“Jesus. The hell happened to you?” the bartender asked Dino as he moved through the crowd toward the door.

For a brief instant, Mickey
did
look up. His eyes locked with Dino’s in the mirror above the bar, the strength and intimidation of their individual glares incomparable: even Dino Moratto’s
eyes
were no match for Mickey’s.

Dino quickly looked away. “Nothing,” was all he said, and he and his crew slipped out into the night.

John knew, after spending roughly two weeks on and off with Mickey, that there was no way he would ever befriend Mickey. In the world of the street criminal, there were no such things as friends. They’d met in cars and in clubs, bars, and pizza joints throughout the West Side. Young Irish hoodlums filtered in and out of the group like flies buzzing a dung heap. He was spending all this time hoping for a morsel, working simply off the feeling that something might happen. In this time, there had been no transactions, no deals, with John’s intention being to alleviate some of Mickey’s distrust, thus achieving further access into the guy’s personal life. And, if possible, to Jimmy Kahn. From the onset, Kersh did not like the idea and did not want him pushing his undercover role any more than necessary. Kersh still thought fishing for information and asking too many questions were bad ideas. The Secret Service made a pact with the NYPD, motioning Roger Biddleman as ringleader, but John was making his own decisions. Similarly, Detective Dennis Glumly and the NYPD left it in John’s hands; they wanted guns from the Hell’s Kitchen boys to hopefully match ballistics with unsolved homicides, but knew he was at the helm. Moreover, the Secret Service wanted to flush out the counterfeit investigation, but would not push John. In fact, only two people were impatient about the operation.