Tell Them I'll Be There (12 page)

Vin O'Hara's town house was a well-kept brownstone at the better end of Bedford Street. Bluey parked outside and stayed in the car. Pickles led Michael and Nathan up the steps, through the open door and down the hallway. There was a bar in the living room and three of O'Hara's men were sitting around, drinks in hand. They sat up straight when Pickles appeared.

‘Wait here,' he told Michael and Nathan. He went back down the hallway, knocking lightly on a door on the right before going inside. Almost at once he reappeared and gestured for Michael to join him.

O'Hara was sitting behind a large desk in the gloom of the late afternoon. The only light came from a shaded desk lamp that threw a bright little circle on the papers before him. From what Michael could make out the office was furnished with dark heavy furniture, dark-brown sofas, floor-to-ceiling,
heavy-looking
brocade curtains and an ornate drinks cabinet.

He couldn't see O'Hara clearly but he had the impression of a man who was overweight, heavy-looking, but bear-shaped with narrow, rounded shoulders. He also appeared
heavy-jowled
with small eyes and fleshy, cherub's lips. Quite ugly, in fact. But Michael was only interested in what work he might have to offer.

‘This is the kid, boss,' Jimmy Pickles said, with a nod at Michael.

‘Leave us,' O'Hara said and Michael thought he caught even in those two simple words the hint of an Irish brogue.

Pickles withdrew at once and Michael was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the darkened room.

‘Close the door, son,' O'Hara said, ‘and come and sit down.'

Michael closed the door and sat on an upright chair, facing him.

‘You sing good,' O'Hara said.

Michael nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘So where are you from?'

‘Little place just south of Dublin,' Michael said. 

‘Ah now, myself I'm from County Armagh, so I am. Heartland of the resistance.' He laughed and started to sing in a hoarse, wheezing voice. ‘
O Paddy dear, now did ye hear the news that's goin' roun
'…'

Michael laughed and joined in and for a moment they were linked like a couple of rebel soldiers ready to fight for the cause. Abruptly O'Hara asked, ‘And how's your mother?'

Michael was surprised. ‘She's fine, as far as I know. I mean, she was upset when we left but she didn't try to stop us.'

He nodded. ‘You and your brother?'

‘No, sir.' Michael thought he had better explain. ‘Nathan, the boy who plays piano, he's not my brother. He's a friend, came over with us on the boat. We call ourselves the Dolan Brothers. It was Nathan's idea. His name is O'Shaughnessy. He reckons that's a bit too long to go up in lights.'

‘Sure an' I know
he's
not your brother. Your brother's a priest.'

‘Going to be,' Michael said, again surprised. ‘Tim's waiting to go to the seminary. Working with a priest called Father Pat just now.'

O'Hara nodded. ‘I know Father Pat.'

‘There's three of us. Me, Tim and Dan.'

‘Oh? And what does Dan do?'

‘He's working in Wall Street. He's going to be a stockbroker.'

‘Is he, be God? Bigger crooks than us that lot.' O'Hara leaned forward into the light from the desk lamp and for the first time Michael saw his face clearly, the pink bloated cheeks, the small eyes with the disconcerting cast. ‘Who's he with?'

‘Man called Joe Baker. I thinks it's Joe Baker Associates.'

‘Is that right?' O'Hara seemed impressed. ‘Well listen, Michael, I heard you the other night at that shithouse in the village. I'd say you can do better than that. We can find you some work.'

‘Yeah?' Michael's expression said it all. ‘That's just what we need right now, Mr O'Hara. We'll work hard, sir. We got lots of stuff.'

‘Well, don't tell me. Tell Jimmy. He'll put you right.'

‘Mr Pickles?' 

‘Yeah, yeah. Jimmy.' O'Hara seemed to withdraw into his high-backed leather chair as if submerging in the mist of some private world. Softly he said, ‘You write to your ma?'

Michael nodded dutifully.

‘I lost my ma just a week ago. Lovely lady, so she was. The only person in this lousy world …' His voice trailed.

Michael remained silent, not knowing what to say.

‘One day she's fine,' O'Hara said quietly. ‘Next day she's gone.'

A silence descended on the darkened room and for the first time Michael noticed the flowers in the window bay. It was like sitting in a chapel of rest. Maybe they haven't had the funeral yet, he thought. He sat still, scared to look round in case the old lady was laid out in her box. He could just make out O'Hara's eyes now as they glistened in the dark. He seemed to be crying.

‘Sing it,' O'Hara said.

‘Sir?' Michael was startled.

‘That song. Y'know, I lost the sunshine….'

Michael stood up. He peered at O'Hara uncertainly.

O'Hara seemed to give a brisk nod. ‘Sing it.'

Standing in front of his shadowy audience of one, Michael began to sing.

He sang with feeling, thinking this might be O'Hara's idea of an audition. O'Hara's head went back and his eyes closed and when Michael came to the end he opened his eyes. ‘Again,' he said. ‘Sing it again.'

Michael sang it again and this time, at the end, there was silence. ‘Mr O'Hara,' he ventured, after a moment, ‘are you all right?'

O'Hara was perfectly still, his eyes closed.

‘Mr O'Hara?' Michael said softly and he moved a little nearer.

Then suddenly O'Hara sat up straight and startled him. ‘Get out!' he bellowed, erupting violently. ‘Go on, damn you! Get out!'

Jimmy Pickles hurried in and bundled Michael out and into the hallway. ‘It's OK,' Pickles said. ‘Go get a drink.' 

Pickles pushed Michael down the corridor and went back into the darkened room. Puzzled and bemused, Michael found Nathan was standing with a drink in his hand with O'Hara's men chuckling at his jokes about his fellow countrymen.

‘Hey, Michael!' Nathan said. ‘It's OK to tell jokes about the Irish as long as you're Irish. That right, fellas?' The heavies rocked to and fro, laughing as if this, too, was a joke. Quietly, to Michael, he murmured, ‘What's going on?'

Michael shrugged. ‘You tell me.'

The parish church was old. It had been there since the 1840s. It was constructed of wood originally and though much of it had been rebuilt, the west wing, the side most exposed to the Hudson, was desperately in need of repair. The contractor for building maintenance throughout the diocese had made a report a year ago and the news was not good. Not only did the roof and the west wall need replacing, there were the early signs of termites in the timber. The estimated cost of repair ran to several thousand dollars of which the diocese could only fund around fifty per cent.

‘We're going to have to find the rest, Timothy,' Father Pat said.

‘From where? Not from the parish surely. Our people haven't got any money.' They were silent for a moment then Tim said jokingly, ‘Maybe we should get Tony O'Reilly's pals to help out.'

‘Those boys have got more chance than we have,' Father Pat said.

He sat down on a low bench, his flowing cassock sweeping the gravel path as he drew Tim down beside him. ‘Tell me some good news. How did you get on today?'

Tim told him about Mrs O'Reilly and her landlord, about an old man whose wife they buried a month ago and who was still so distraught he was contemplating suicide. ‘I had to sit with him for over an hour,' he said.

‘All in a day's work,' Father Pat said. ‘What else?'

Tim told him about Tony O'Reilly and Martin Ripley and Declan. They were dressed in the kind of clothes nobody else 
around there could possibly afford. And Marty Rip was driving a brand new car.

‘Envious?' Father Pat teased him. ‘Like to join 'em?'

‘I would not,' Tim said with conviction. ‘But I'd like to know where the money comes from.'

‘Well,' Father Pat said in a drawn out sigh, ‘it's always been the same around here. Ever since I've been here anyway. There's always been a gang with a big boss. And it's always our own people. The Irish gangs have ruled the Lower West Side for the past sixty years. Police, politicians, even the coastguard – all sewn up. You get to know all the big shots in this job. One guy I knew well was Big Bill Dwyer. He had a fleet of trucks hidden away right across the West Side. He was running booze from all over the place. Europe, Canada and, like I said, border patrols, coastguards, all on the payroll. He was just an ordinary working fellow 'til the Volstead Act. You know, that crazy law created more criminals than the IRS. Anyway, they caught up with him in the end. Got two years. Out after twelve months for good behaviour.'

‘I hear he went legit,' Tim said.

‘Yeah,' Father Pat said drily. ‘He fixes fights and hockey games for a living. Trouble is, what we got now is ten times worse. A crazy killer, calls himself The Englishman. Reckons he's from Yorkshire, England. He's killed more men than died in the last war. Got sent down when he was still a kid. Twenty years in Sing Sing. Served about half and now he's out, back to his old tricks. But he has better cover this time. He bought this night spot called the Club de Luxe, bought it from the boxer Jack Johnson. I hear he smartened it up. Made it a
whites
only
club and he brings in all the top black entertainers. Ellington is the resident band.'

‘It's a
whites
only
club with black entertainers?
Why
?'

‘I told you, he's mad. They're all mad. Anyway, he's got
nightclubs
all over the place but he's still a killer underneath.'

‘And he's the big boss now?'

‘Until someone fills him full of lead, as they say.' Father Pat was quiet for a moment then he said, ‘Termites. People like him 
are like termites gnawing away at the very fabric of the Church. We have to eliminate them. But don't ask me how.'

‘You think Tony O'Reilly and those boys are involved with this Englishman?'

‘Not directly. He splits his territory into sections. Divide and rule, I suppose. The madman running our patch is an oddball, a lapsed Catholic. Lapsed brain, too, if you ask me. Fellow called Vincent O'Hara. Lives on Bedford Street. You're sure to come across him sooner or later.'

Tim nodded. ‘Oh, Father, before I forget. I promised young Francis – you know, Tony O'Reilly's kid brother? – I promised I'd mention to you he wants us to call him Frank or Frankie in future. He thinks Francis is too sissy.'

‘Does he now? Wait 'til I tell St Francis.'

‘It seems to mean a lot to him, Father.'

‘Tell him if he turns up for altar duty on Sunday I'll call him anything he likes.' Father Pat looked at Tim sideways. ‘And, by the way, a message from the bishop and I'm not sure if it's good news or bad.'

Tim waited.

‘They're not quite ready for you yet at the seminary. Or maybe you're not quite ready for them. They want you to wait a while. Maybe next year. The bishop wants you to stay here for now, keep an eye on me, make sure I don't get myself a gun and blow everybody's brains out – including my own. God knows, I feel like doing just that sometimes.'

Tim had mixed feelings. He was not really disappointed. He wanted to join the seminary, prepare for his ordination, of course he did. But he felt he had become involved here. The people of the parish were important to him. The unorthodox Father Pat was important to him. And there seemed to be so much to do, though he was not sure what or where to start.

P
ENN STATION. IT
was Dan's second venture into this magical place but his first chance to appreciate the high vaulted ceiling, the enormous classical columns. It was a colossus, more like an old world cathedral than a railway station and he was entranced. The first time he came here Caitlin was his main concern then he was rushing off to say goodbye to Tim at St Patrick's. Now he had time to stand and stare. Twenty minutes, anyway, before his train was due out. And there was something romantic, he felt, about a railway station, especially one as big and as grand as this.

He had read about the great steam engines traversing
continents
, the magnificent railways constructed by the British Raj and until now most of his knowledge had come from books, books from the travelling library that arrived in the village in an old bus once a month. He would tell the library lady what kind of book he wanted and on her next visit she would nearly always have something for him. In the village he had become known as the boy with a book mainly because once when a cousin he had never met arrived and went looking for him Uncle Pat told him to, ‘Look for the boy with a book.'

It was not that he was a brilliant scholar or anything like that. In school he was usually engrossed in something other than what was under discussion, a dreamer with a thirst for knowledge. He was good at reading and writing but he was no good at all at what the teacher called 'Ritmatic. And this worried him a little in view of his job on Wall Street.

Now, at Penn Station, though he had been here only once 
before, he felt that he knew the place and it seemed somehow very special as people swirled around him. Anxious eyes peering at timetables. A slim black porter in a pillbox hat. Trolleys loaded with luggage. A beggar with a tin cup. Smoky, noisy, alive with arrivals and departures. Dan loved it and he had plenty of time, then he had no time at all.

He found an empty compartment, a seat by the window. He had only just made it and the train was already moving when a young woman and a small boy arrived. The woman, pretty in a demure way, smiled at him with a shy twitch of her lips and told the small boy to sit down and be quiet.

Dan watched the tracks as the train moved forward smoothly and slowly. Images gently glided by. Iron posts, high-wire cables, abandoned wagons, a railroad worker walking down the middle of a line. Then the train gathered speed, sped along unimpeded then slowed and came to a halt as a freight train clanked over the points then eased slowly past his window.

As the last of the linked freight wagons went gliding by the train set off again, slowly at first then picking up speed as if it was chasing lost time. Dan closed his eyes and for no obvious reason he thought of Paul Merrick. He liked Merrick. It was not just that he had found no reason to dislike him. Merrick seemed a genuinely nice fellow and this made Merrick's clear alienation from Joe Baker all the more puzzling.

When he was in the mood Merrick could be good company and Dan looked forward to their occasional drinks after work, though he sometimes had to endure Merrick's forthright advice. ‘You look intelligent,' he told Dan, ‘and this is an advantage. If you are not sure what is going on, you must say nothing. Just look intelligent. And – how do they say it? – always keep the cards close to the chest.'

It was all a bit patronizing, the time served soldier talking to the rookie. But Dan knew it was well meant.

He must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes the young woman and the boy had gone and he was alone. He looked anxiously at his watch but there was still an hour to go. 

Again his thoughts turned to Merrick. What was it with him and Joe Baker? Something must have happened between them. They were partners once or, at least, close associates. Now all that was over. Something Paul had done? Double-crossed on a deal? He didn't think so. He trusted Merrick. He had no reason not to. Yet Merrick's own, rather stark maxim was, ‘Do not trust any man in business.'

There was a restaurant car but Dan wasn't hungry. He stayed in his seat. Not bored. Not restless. An empty carriage on a rhythmically moving train is a great place to think, he decided, a great place to take stock. He thought of Tim in his colourful vestments and with a white collar, baptizing babies, solemnizing marriages. Tim holding a golden chalice high before a large congregation then handing out the Blessed Sacrament. And Michael with that endearing Irish grin, full of the Blarney, charming his audience with ballads and Nathan making them laugh with his Irish jokes. Tim and Michael had gone in very different directions. Although, the thought occurred to him, maybe not. They were each in their own kind of show business, Tim with his vow of poverty and service, Michael with his quest for fame and fortune.

And what of himself? Dan knew now that what he wanted was money. Not as an end in itself but as the means to an end. Hard cash in the bank, solid investments. He knew what it was like to be poor, to live from week to week on a paltry hand-out called wages, to be a wage slave. He wanted to be rich enough to be independent, indebted to no man. He had seen the men at the Stock Exchange in their smart suits sporting the silver spoons they had been handed at birth. This was supposed to be the land of the free, equal opportunities for all, yet there was a class system here just as there was at home.

It was built on old money and no matter how wealthy a man might become certain doors would always be closed to him. The only entry to the periphery was through the marriage stakes. It was like a horse race in which only a very few unknown runners are allowed to enter. But none of this concerned Dan. Financial independence, the freedom to choose – these were his aims now. 

He stood up, a little stiff from sitting so long, as the train hissed and puffed into his station. His hotel was close by. It was a quiet commercial hotel and it was called exactly that, The Commercial Hotel. His room was small, over-furnished with two time-worn armchairs, an old bedstead and a large wardrobe. Incongruously, a dead spider was trapped and preserved behind the glass of one of the nondescript pictures that adorned the walls. But otherwise the room was clean and probably comfortable and he would only be there for one night. The bathroom was down the hall. Dan freshened up and went to work at once, his appointment for three o'clock.

‘A cab?' the tall, thin, rather imperious lady at the reception desk asked severely. ‘Where to?'

‘The boxmakers,' he said. ‘The company that makes boxes.'

She peered at him over her spectacles. ‘Which one?'

‘You mean there's more than one?'

‘Sure. There's the Davis plant and there's the new one out on the 'pike. Fox Boxes, something like that.'

‘Yes,' Dan said. ‘That's the one. I didn't know this other place – Davis? – made boxes.'

‘They didn't until this Fox started up. But they do now.'

‘Competition, huh?'

The lady frowned. ‘Old man Davis owns just about
everything
in this town, including this place.' She waved a hand to indicate the hotel. ‘Start a new business and sooner or later he'll run you out.'

‘Doesn't sound like a very nice fellow,' Dan said mildly.

‘He ain't. Reckons this town is his territory. Davis family owned everything here from way back. Don't take kindly to upstarts.'

‘But Fox specialize in boxes. They're nationwide. Every state in the union. Surely they get all the business.'

‘Nah. Davis'll lose money just to bankrupt 'em.' She peered at Dan through her ornate spectacles. She had lost her polished veneer now and, clearly bearing some private grudge, she added, ‘Kinda shit he is.'

Dan swallowed, surprised. ‘I see. It still doesn't seem right 
though. I thought Fox were providing employment for local people.'

‘They were,' she said. ‘But that don't bother Mr High and Mighty Davis. Fox laid off half its workers Friday.'

‘Will Davis take them on?'

‘Nah. He reckons they been disloyal. They're black-listed.' Again she peered at him. ‘You thinking of taking a job with this Fox? If so, I'd think again. Sure as hell they ain't going to last.' She looked at him quizzically. ‘Still want that cab?'

Dan had a half-hour wait for the cab and when it came he noted the circular logo stencilled on the doors.
Davis Cabs
. He chose to sit up front with the driver. ‘Davis Cabs?' he queried. ‘Sounds like this Davis owns just about everything around here.'

‘Just about,' the cab driver confirmed. ‘You official?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘You come to wind up this place?'

‘Wind it up? Why, no. Fox is a good business.'

‘Oh yeah? It's dead on its feet, washed up. Everyone knows that. Old man Davis killed it off.'

‘I heard about this Davis,' Dan said. ‘He's your boss, right?'

‘He owns the cab company. He's everybody's boss in this town.'

‘Isn't it time somebody fought back? I mean, Fox is just trying to run a legitimate business, make a profit, provide employment.'

The driver glanced sideways at him. ‘That's true. But around these parts it ain't allowed.'

The Fox plant was housed in a long, low building that had once been part of an army compound. On the facing wall a large sign announced
FOX BOXES
and there was an arrow pointing to the reception office. There was plenty of space around the building but a roadster and a couple of trucks were the only vehicles on view and the place didn't exactly appear to be a hive of activity. It was too quiet and there didn't seem to be anyone about. Maybe they've already closed down, Dan thought for a second. Then, as the cab drew in, a man of about forty came from the office. 

‘Want me to wait?' the driver asked, as Dan was paying him off.

But the man from the office put out a hand and with a big smile said, ‘Mr Dolan, I presume.' To the cab driver he said tersely, ‘I'll see this gentleman gets back to town.'

The cab moved off and the man introduced himself. His name was Hugo Fox, owner and managing director of the Fox Company. Mr Dolan had arrived at a difficult time but, of course, he was very welcome. The order book was full, Fox said, as he ushered Dan into his office, and the product was in great demand.

‘Maybe we should take a quick look around,' Dan suggested. ‘Then we can come back and talk. I'd like to know what we're talking about, Mr Fox.'

‘Oh sure,' Fox said at once. ‘Sure you would.'

He led Dan down a narrow passage into a long corridor with a brick wall on the right and windows into several bays along the left. The workshop seemed to be divided into these bays and Dan could see into each one from the corridor. In the first bay large sheets of cardboard were stacked high. In the second there were three long tables covered in equal lengths of board and a cutting machine that was not in operation. In the third, feeding the sheets of board to a new-looking machine that folded and turned out the finished product was a man in blue overalls. A conveyor delivered the flat packs to the fourth bay where two men were stamping them and packing them into large cartons.

No girl on reception, no secretary, just three men. No trucks waiting to be loaded, no drivers ready to race to the railyard or hit the highway. Nothing much. Fox led Dan back along the corridor to the first bay and through to a similar set up beyond. There was the same machinery, the tables ready and waiting but there were no workers. Nothing at all going on here.

In silence and in single file Dan and Fox trooped back to the office. Fox began talking, explaining, even before they sat down. ‘I know it seems pretty quiet right now. But we just need to get this order out of the way.'

‘Only three men?' Dan said. 

‘Well, that's all it takes for this particular order. But when we're going full blast I bring everybody in. Both sides full. Eight bays buzzing away. Great sound!'

Dan nodded, unconvinced. ‘What about the work-force?'

‘Well, they're mostly casual. But I can call them up at any time. There's a lot of unemployment.'

‘When you have no work you lay them off?'

‘It's not that. We got the work. Look at the order book.'

Dan listened politely. He liked Hugo Fox. He was so
desperately
earnest, so obviously eager to assure him he had a good product, a good set-up, the will to succeed. But the place had an aura of defeat. The quiet corridor, the silent telephone. It seemed more like a failed business closing down than a thriving business bursting to expand.

Dan smiled pleasantly. ‘Mr Fox,' he said, ‘can we be absolutely frank here? I can see you have the orders. But you have not been paid yet for the work you have done. And you have not paid your suppliers. You are short of cash. That's why you have come to us.'

Fox nodded, looking down at his desk.

‘It's not just that you need money for expansion, you
actually
need money to carry on. Is that not the position we are in here?'

Fox looked up at him. This young fellow with the pleasant, slightly Irish brogue, was quite a lot younger than himself, but he seemed someone he could talk to, man to man, and he was obviously no fool. Maybe it would be better to level with him. ‘You're right,' he said. ‘I need the money to carry on. I've got the work and there's plenty more. I can get the workers, they're ready and waiting, but I need a backer. It would be a great shame to let this opportunity go, Mr Dolan. This business has great potential.'

‘But this fellow Davis is making things tough,' Dan said.

Fox was taken aback slightly. ‘You've done your homework.'

‘It's my job,' Dan said mildly.

He nodded. ‘OK. Davis is a tyrant with a big ego. But we can fight him. I know we can. I sank all my savings into this game, 
Mr Dolan. I'm not going to let him win. The Davis family run more or less everything around here, but that's not going to stop me. They make it tough and they fight dirty. Well, so will I.'