Tell Them I'll Be There (11 page)

They looked back, down the barrel of a handgun. The one without a gun stepped forward and gestured with his fingers. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘The money.'

‘What money?' Nathan asked.

The man looked back at his partner and jerked his head. The one with the gun took over and they heard a click. ‘Where do you want it?' he asked. ‘Arm? Leg?'

‘Give him the money, Nathan,' Michael said.

Reluctantly Nathan put his hand in his pocket, wishing he had a gun, and drew out the three twenty-dollar bills they had just been paid. ‘This ain't right,' he said. ‘We had to work for this.'

‘Look at us,' the first man said. ‘We're crying.'

The man with the gun snatched the notes. ‘Now on your way.'

Nathan hesitated, furious at the loss of their hard-earned cash.

‘OK, so where do you want it?' the man asked again. ‘Arm? Leg? How about in the balls?'

‘Come on,' Michael said. ‘We can't win.'

Father Pat was expecting a representative of the bishop on one of his quarterly, sometimes half-yearly, visits. He didn't want Tim around because Tim might be one of the items up for discussion. He was as forthright as ever. ‘I want you to get lost this afternoon, son,' he said. ‘The bishop's man is coming and he might want to know how you're doing.'

‘Right,' Tim said. He was already planning to call on Dan or Michael, or maybe both.

‘So I want you to go around the parish in the usual way. Look in on the school, look at the diary, see who's sick. And don't come back until after five.'

Tim nodded and that was why he was walking rather aimlessly towards Tenth Avenue. By the railway sidings he saw Francis, Tony O'Reilly's kid brother. Francis was trundling his trolley on one of his foraging expeditions. 

‘Hey, Francis!' Tim called. ‘How are you doing?'

Francis waited as Tim came over. A group of children, all girls, had formed a circle in the road and one girl in the middle was skipping as two girls swung a rope. Tim hurried round them to catch up with the boy.

‘How's your ma?' he asked.

‘She's OK,' Francis said. ‘Fine now.'

‘Now?' Tim queried. ‘Something happen?'

‘Oh sure,' the boy said. ‘Somebody leaned on the landlord.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Some guys told the landlord to lay off her, quit asking for more rent.'

‘Yeah?' Tim was genuinely interested. ‘Who was it?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘Some pals of Tony, I think.' He looked worried now, as if he had said too much. ‘Hey, I don't know who it was. Just some guys.'

Tim nodded. ‘Don't worry. I won't tell anyone.'

‘See you, Father,' the boy said. ‘I mean, well, y'know …'

‘Yeah,' Tim said and, as the boy turned to go on his way, he added, ‘Call me “Father” if it's easier.'

The boy came back. ‘Hey, Father. I want to ask you
something
.'

Tim nodded. ‘Go ahead.'

‘Will you do me a favour?'

‘If I can,' he said. ‘Sure.'

‘Will you tell Father Pat folks round here don't call me Francis?'

Tim smiled. ‘What do they call you?'

‘Frankie,' he said. ‘I don't mind Frank. But I don't want Francis. It's kind of sissy.'

‘OK, I'll tell him.' This was obviously a matter of some concern to the boy. ‘I'll tell him tonight.' Tim raised a hand. ‘See you, Frankie.'

The boy's round face broke out in a big smile as he turned to tow his coal wagon. ‘Gee thanks, Father. I won't forget this.'

Along the street one or two of the older residents nodded at Tim or murmured hello. Already he was recognized as Father 
Pat's protégé, the new sidekick for the uncompromising priest. Tim decided to call on Mrs O'Reilly. The place still looked neglected – no sign of a new housekeeper's handiwork – but when he knocked on Mrs O'Reilly's door she greeted him with a smile and invited him in.

‘Father Pat's busy today, Mrs O'Reilly. Visit from the bishop's man.'

‘So you have to patrol the parish.'

‘Something like that,' Tim said.

She seemed much more relaxed than the last time and she seemed to want to talk. She asked him about the old country, his family and how was his mother. When he mentioned he had two brothers she wanted to know what they were doing. Dan was working on Wall Street and Michael was trying to make his way as a singer. A singer? She made a face. ‘The music business is mixed up with criminal gangs,' she said. ‘And they are nearly all Irish, so they are. Fellows like that Vincent O'Hara.'

‘He's a good lad, our Michael,' Tim said loyally. ‘But I'll warn him.'

‘You tell him from me. The music business is full of crooks. But then so is Wall Street.' She laughed. ‘Whole country's crooked.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because if alcohol is prohibited, how come we got so many drunks?'

Tim nodded in agreement. ‘I guess you're right, Mrs O'Reilly. So how about that landlord of yours? Still giving you trouble?'

‘Nah,' she said. ‘He's OK now.'

Tim had done his rounds, chatted briefly to a few
parishioners
and looked in at the pool hall. He was hoping to run into Tony O'Reilly, but Tony was not in or around any of his usual haunts. He started to walk back to the church and then he saw him. Tony was sitting on a bench outside a soda fountain. He looked like a carefree young man-about-town in baggy flannels, a white shirt, lovat pullover and two-tone shoes, a navy-blue blazer with silver buttons over his arm.

‘Hello there,' Tim said. ‘Mind if I sit down?' 

‘Free country,' Tony responded, but not in an unfriendly way.

‘You're looking pretty snappy, if you don't mind me saying so.'

Two girls passing by glanced at them shyly and one ventured, ‘Hi, Tony.'

‘Hello. gorgeous,' he said, revelling in his youthful good looks. He glanced at Tim. ‘See what you're missing, holy man?'

‘I saw your mother today. You took care of that landlord.'

‘She tell you that?'

‘No, but somebody took care of him and if you didn't do it someone did it for you.' Tim waited but Tony made no comment. ‘Dangerous game. The way I hear it, nobody does anything for nothing. Sooner or later you're going to have to return the favour.'

It was then that Tony erupted. ‘None of your business, right? You keep your nose out, OK? Or it might just get flattened.'

‘I'm not a priest yet, Tony. Never dodged a fight in my life.'

‘Look, I don't want to fall out with you. Just stay away from me. Go preach to those sad bastards who keep you in business.'

‘And what sad bastards are those?'

‘Mugs around here got a houseful of kids 'cos that's what the Church wants. Poor suckers who work day and night to pay through the nose for Easter clothes so's their kids can traipse round the streets after parasites like you with your stupid banners and statues. Church don't pay the rent when some poor guy gets sick and he can't work. Who takes care of 'em then? Not you.'

‘Sorry you feel like that.'

‘What do you expect? You drag little kids to church. You make 'em confess their sins. What sins? Poor little sods are seven years old. What sins have
they
committed? You brainwash 'em at seven years of age so as they're scared of you. And they're scared for the rest of their lives. Well, not me, holy man. I ain't stupid.'

‘OK,' Tim said mildly. ‘It's just that I care about you. The Church cares about you.'

‘Don't give me that. Father Pat's the church around here. He
didn't go round and beat up the landlord when Ma told him what was going on. He was useless. All he could say was, “Your Tony's mixing with the wrong crowd”. Well, it was the wrong crowd that sorted things out and that's why Ma's got a smile back on her face.'

‘He just doesn't want to read about you in the
Daily News
with a bullet in the back of your head.'

The children playing in the road were running to the
sidewalks
, clearing the way as a smart new Model A Roadster with the top down appeared, its three horns playing a jaunty greeting. Martin Ripley was driving with Declan at his side. The children laughed and raced in its wake, enchanted by Marty Rip's new toy.

Martin Ripley and Declan, like Tony O'Reilly, were dressed in the kind of fashionable clothes most young men who lived on the Lower West Side couldn't afford.

Tony stood up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. ‘Be seeing you,' he said with a smile. Then, as he climbed into the jump seat he looked back and called, ‘Why not come with us, holy man? Take the rest of the day off. Coney Island. See the girls.'

Declan curved the shape of a girl with his hands. ‘Lots of girls.'

Marty Rip said something Tim couldn't catch, Tony and Declan laughed, then the roadster roared into action and sped away to the cheers of the children.

An elderly man in a drab jacket and a collarless shirt stopped by the bench to watch them go. ‘Up to no good those three,' he said, shaking his head. ‘Car like that cost about four hundred. Where do kids like them get that kinda money?'

D
AN DIDN'T HAVE
long to wait for his first assignment. A company in a small town near Baltimore had come to Joe Baker's attention. They were making collapsible cardboard boxes for industry, Joe told him. Easy to produce, easy to assemble, easy to transport. The potential was
enormous
, but Baker had heard the company was in need of an urgent injection of cash. Dan's brief was to ‘go down there, see the operation first hand and report back'.

Joe Baker gave Dan his initial instructions on the morning stride down Madison. The man he was to see was called Fox. Joe Baker had never met the man but he had ‘checked him out', as he put it. Fox was around forty, he'd had a varied career, mainly in sales, but no great managerial experience. By the end of the afternoon Dan had all the details Joe could give him and he was ready to set off early the next morning.

That evening Dan was the last to leave or so he thought. Harry and Lois had gone and Barbara Baker had arrived to whisk Joe away to the Plaza for dinner. He had been neglecting her, she complained. ‘See you when you get back, son,' Baker called as they left. ‘Should only take a couple of days.'

Dan checked he had everything. Rail tickets, reservation at some hotel called The Commercial, his file on Fox Boxes. Then, ready to leave, he was surprised to see Paul Merrick was still at his desk in the glassed-in office. He knocked lightly and put his head round the door. ‘Know where we can get a drink?'

Merrick looked up. He had been poring over what looked like a movie magazine. His eyes and his expression seemed for 
a moment as though he was far away. Then he came back. ‘I do,' he said.

Just off Madison, Merrick led Dan down some steps to a little café called Joey's. ‘Not one of Baker's?' Dan asked.

‘Could be,' Merrick said, and ushered him into a back room.

Dan wanted to know why there was this frosty feeling between Merrick and Joe Baker, had it always been that way or was it an association that had soured? He looked around. The bar was only about half full. Elegantly furnished with oak panelling and ceiling fans and subdued lighting, there was a men only feel about the place. Men in business suits with an hour to kill before their train was due, or maybe not eager to get home yet anyway. Who knows what a person's motives are for hanging around a bar after work? Dan paid for the drinks and handed Merrick his glass, but there wasn't really room to stand at the bar.

‘Over here,' Merrick said, and he led the way to a corner table. ‘So. What do you think?' he asked when they were seated.

‘About what?'

‘About the job, about America, about everything,' Merrick said, clearly trying to be friendly now.

Dan was trying to place his voice. He had an English name but it was not an English accent. Middle European. Hungarian, maybe. Or something like that, he guessed.

‘About everything?' he said. ‘Well, certainly, everything is one heck of a puzzle to me at the moment. About America? Well, I just can't imagine what it must be like. Looking at a map it's just so … so
big
. New York is about all I can take in right now.'

‘And the job?'

‘Scares me,' Dan admitted. ‘Every time he takes me down to Wall Street I try to remember what I learned yesterday and I find I didn't learn anything. I don't
know
anything. I need to make a start.'

‘I would say you made a good start,' Merrick said quietly. ‘You say you know nothing. Not everyone can do this. When you say to yourself you know nothing, you are OK.'

They talked about the job Dan had been given and Merrick 
told him what to look for. ‘They want your money,' he said. ‘You must remember that. They tell you what they believe you want to hear. But they don't always tell you the truth. You can listen, but you don't have to believe everything they tell you. You find out the truth, the way things really are, in your own way.'

‘And how do I do that?'

‘Talk to the workers, listen to what they say. Ask the people no one ever asks.'

Merrick seemed genuinely willing to help and answer his questions and Dan was grateful. They were only there for a
half-hour
but he felt it was the most profitable half-hour he had spent since joining Joe Baker Associates. Then, after a couple of drinks, as they were leaving, he ventured, ‘Can I ask you
something
? Straight answer?'

‘Certainly,' Merrick said.

‘Why does Joe Baker care about me?'

Merrick drained his glass. ‘He doesn't care about you. He wants to
change
you, to make you like himself. Then, when he's done that, he will care about you. He's tried it before and it hasn't worked out. The men he chose were either too clever or too stupid. If you like the work and you like the money you have to accept this.' He smiled. ‘The scientists call it “cloning”.' He laughed. ‘If you don't mind being cloned you'll be OK.' He leaned forward now and said quietly, ‘Mr Baker thinks he has found a simple country boy from Ireland. I think perhaps in you he is mistaken.'

On the trolley back to Mrs O'Malley's Dan was pondering all this when a young fellow in a cloth cap and overalls caked in dried mud from the knees down came aboard, sat beside him and pulled out a copy of the
Daily News
. The headline screamed
STOCK PRICES THROUGH THE ROOF! WALL STREET BONANZA
!

The young man, who was no more than twenty, his face as yet unworn and unlined by age and his daily manual toil, grinned at Dan. ‘Stock market gone crazy. Stocks going through the roof.' He showed Dan the headline. ‘Everybody's buying. Can't lose. Time to get in on the act, I guess.'

‘OK if you have the money,' Dan responded. 

The young man regarded him frankly. ‘You should be OK,' he said, noting Dan's suit, his collar and tie. ‘Work in the City?'

Dan didn't know it but this meant Wall Street. ‘Yeah,' he said.

‘You do!' the young man's eyes lit up. ‘Then what's to buy? What's the hot ticket right now? I got a few bucks put aside.'

Dan was suddenly alarmed, anxious not to mislead him. ‘Oh, I don't know. I'm sort of new to all this.'

‘Come on,' the young man urged. ‘You must know
something
. Give us a break. What's everybody buying?'

‘Well,' Dan said reluctantly, ‘Radio, I guess. Radio stock is on the up and going higher.'

‘Yeah? Radio, huh? Sounds good.' The young man stood up. ‘This is my stop. Well listen, thanks for that. I'm getting married soon. Few dollars more will be great. See you around. I'll look out for you.'

Dan nodded and smiled uneasily as the young man swung from the trolley, raising a hand in gratitude. He felt even more uneasy when he heard a much older man in the seat behind murmur to the lady beside him, presumably his wife, ‘Radio. He said Radio.'

Inadvertently he had become one of Mike Meehan's salesmen, pitching for Radio. The fact was, stocks and bonds were the newest craze and everyone was on their trail as they gave off the scent of easy money. But Dan Dolan was not
qualified
to offer investment advice. He was not even sure it was
good
advice. Feeling chastened, he resolved to keep his lips sealed and his amateur predictions to himself in future.

But the young man's eager quest for tips and scraps of ‘inside' information was simply a manifestation of the popular hysteria. A wave of euphoria, it seemed, was carrying people, ordinary people, into the strange new world of stocks and bonds. They couldn't lose, they told each other. It was the surest thing since night followed day. People wanted in and the salutary warning signpost with the message that investments could go down as well as up had been trampled underfoot.

Ted Lewis was asking if everyone was happy. Eddie Cantor was making whoopee. Al Jolson was crying for his mammy. A young lady called Helen Kane was stealing the show with her
boop-boop
-a-do version of
I wanna be loved by you
. And Michael and Nathan were back plugging songs for Mr Levi. All they had was the Friday night job at the Irish Club. They needed to make some money fast.

Three o'clock in the afternoon and Twenty-eighth Street was quieter than usual. Things would improve later, probably around six when the office workers and the girls from the clothing factories were making their way home. Most of the time it was the girls who bought the sheet music. The boys might sing snatches of the latest song but they wouldn't buy a copy. Not unless they were aspiring crooners. The girls were more sentimental and the songs were mainly sentimental that year. Songs like
Someone to watch over me, Among my souvenirs, Melancholy Baby, Tea for Two
– songs Michael loved to sing. He had this gnawing ambition now. He wanted his name up there in lights with the top entertainers. He was going to take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island, too. He was going to take the whole country – by storm.

Nathan was playing his way briskly through
Tea for Two
for the third or fourth time when Mr Levi appeared in his shop doorway. ‘You,' he said, pointing a finger. ‘Why aren't you singing?'

‘There's no one to sing to,' Michael complained helplessly.

‘Sing!' Mr Levi ordered, and he turned to go back inside. But then a black sedan pulled in close by and two men got out. One was just another gorilla with bulging shoulders and dead eyes under a Derby hat. The other was short with a big overcoat and a thin face rendered almost comic under a hat that looked two sizes too big.

‘All right, boys,' the short man said. ‘You're coming with us.'

‘To where?' Michael asked.

‘Get in the car,' was all he would say.

Mr Levi, jacketless and in shirtsleeves, held his hands out humbly and with excessive deference. ‘Mr Pickles.' 

The short man said, ‘It's all right, Sol. They won't be long. And I'll see they get back here.' He looked at Michael and Nathan who were still standing by the piano. ‘Get in the car,' he repeated testily. ‘A piano player with no fingers is no good to anyone and a canary with it's throat cut can't sing.'

Michael and Nathan looked at each other and decided to get in the car. ‘What do you want us for?' Michael asked.

The gorilla was in the driving seat. Pickles swung in beside him and looked back at his captives. ‘Boss got a job for you.'

‘The boss?' Michael said. ‘And who might that be?'

‘The only boss there is around here. Vin O'Hara. Mr O'Hara was at Arnie's Sunday night. Must have seen something in you bums.'

‘Well, listen,' Nathan said. ‘We need to know what kind of job you got in mind. We ain't working in a dump like that no more.'

Pickles laughed shortly. ‘You don't work where the boss sends you, you don't work at all. Simple as that.'

‘You mean he owns that dump?' Nathan asked.

‘Arnie's? Nah, he was just visiting. He didn't like what he saw, but if he takes it over everything will change. Anyway, you did all right so what's your problem? You got paid, didn't you?'

‘Oh sure,' Nathan said. ‘We got paid. We got rolled, too.'

Pickles looked back with a grin. ‘You did?'

‘The Greek pays us off, we walk home and two guys follow us with a gun. Goodbye dough and two nights' work.'

‘Hey, Bluey,' Pickles said to the gorilla. ‘Do you hear this?'

Bluey's shoulders were shaking as he drove along. They seemed to think Nathan's story was hilarious.

‘Glad you think it's funny,' Michael said.

‘Why, it's the oldest trick in the hook, you dumb bastards,' Pickles said, still laughing. ‘The Greek pays you off, two of his boys come after you, he gets his money back.'

‘Well, we might be paying him a call,' Nathan threatened.

‘No need,' Pickles said. ‘Bluey.'

Bluey nodded and drove to the Village. He pulled up outside
Arnie's. The place was closed and shuttered in the quiet, sleepy afternoon. No one about. Pickles hammered on the door.

After a while there was the sound of bolts being slid back and the voice of the Greek club owner. ‘OK, OK! Wait-a, can't you?' He peered round the door and immediately his attitude changed. He drew the door open wide. ‘Mr Pickles! Nize to see you. Come in.'

‘It's not a social call,' Pickles said. He looked back and signalled that Nathan and Michael should join him.

The Greek saw them and seemed to withdraw within himself as if to hide from their hostile stares. He led them down a dingy corridor to a room with no windows, a pile of showbiz
magazines
on top of a filing cabinet and a desk overflowing with assorted papers.

‘These boys,' Pickles said, wasting no time. ‘You owe them.' He looked back at Nathan. ‘How much was it?'

‘Sixty,' Nathan said.

‘I pay them already,' the Greek protested.

‘And you took it back. Now come on. We don't want to do you over but we will.' Pickles smiled. ‘Then we'll close down the club.'

The Greek was shaking. He opened a deep drawer in the desk, took out a metal box and unlocked it with an unsteady hand.

‘Eighty bucks,' Pickles said.

The Greek looked up meekly. ‘He said sixty.'

‘And I said eighty.'

Nathan's eyes lit up as the Greek counted out four
twenty-dollar
bills and handed them over. Pickles gave the Greek one back. ‘Make this two tens.'

The Greek changed the twenty for two tens.

‘Thank you,' Pickles said and he led the way out to where Bluey was waiting and keeping watch. All four climbed back in the car.

Pickles handed Nathan three twenties, gave Bluey a ten and put the other ten in his top pocket. He smiled sweetly at Nathan. ‘Our expenses,' he explained. The whole operation had 
taken less than ten minutes. ‘Now you're going to meet the boss.'