Tell Them I'll Be There (13 page)

‘In what ways do they make it tough?' Dan asked.

‘Right of way, access points. They make it difficult for my trucks to get out on the main routes. They blocked the entrance to the freight yard. One of their vehicles breaks down at the gate so we miss trains, that sort of thing. My post goes missing; my telephone line goes dead. I can't prove any of this is deliberate or that they are responsible. But we all know they are. With your backing we can kill them off once and for all. Together we can make it work. We can beat him. I know we can. All I'm asking is two fifty grand.'

‘And that would be just the beginning.'

‘But then you would see what a great business you were in and you would want to put in more.'

You had to admire his enthusiasm, Dan conceded, and he didn't doubt that Fox had the determination to make it work. ‘You need a partner, Mr Fox, a full time working partner. Not a company like ours. We would just provide the money for
expansion
. We don't get involved. You need a partner with money of his own to invest and a one hundred per cent commitment.'

Fox looked crestfallen and Dan felt genuinely sorry for him.

‘You could take Davis on as a partner,' he suggested
tentatively
.

Fox shook his head. ‘He'd take that and he'd put the money in. But I wouldn't be a partner. I'd he working for him.'

Dan was silent for a moment. He wanted to help. Fox was a genuine pioneer, ready to work and put his life into making his dream come true. He'd already put his own money in. But the odds were stacked against him.

‘Look,' Fox said, ‘you've seen all this in the worst possible light. The place is quiet for the moment. You need to see it when it's really buzzing. Why not take some time to think things over, Mr Dolan? How about I take you back into town then I pick you up later, about seven? Dinner on me and we can talk some more.' 

Dan smiled appreciatively. ‘Thank you, but I'd like to take a look around town tonight, get a feel of the place, maybe talk to some local people.'

‘That it then?'

‘No, no,' Dan said sincerely. ‘I agree. Lots of potential here.' He stood up to leave. ‘I'm sure of that and if you do beat this Davis there'll be a lot of people on your side. I'll go back, write my report for the boss and I promise it'll be fair. I'll give him the full picture.'

‘I've heard a lot about Joe Baker. What's he like?'

‘Tough, shrewd, but he likes a fight.'

Fox brightened a little as Dan held out a hand.

‘Whatever happens, Mr Dolan,' Fox said, ‘it's been a pleasure meeting you.'

‘Things are looking up,' Michael said, and they were. They had six weeks booked on the Vaudeville circuit with the promise of more and better bookings. Vin O'Hara had said Jimmy Pickles would look after them and he had. Early on he had introduced them to the agent, Joe Bononi, who represented most of the entertainers on the West Side and certainly all of the Irish acts.

‘Hey, Nathan,' Michael said. ‘Why do you suppose this Bononi is the top agent around here? He isn't even Irish.'

‘He's probably Paddy Baloney from Blarney. Everybody changes his name in America.'

‘Like you?' Michael said with a grin. ‘Nathan
O'Shaughnessy
.'

They were in high spirits. There were so many burlesque shows and vaudeville theatres – not to mention the dinner clubs – and Joe Bononi was the key to them all. With the right contacts the only way, it seemed, was up. Yet it was on their very first date, at a dinner club on 34
^th
Street, the fateful seeds of what lay ahead were sown.

T
HE DINNER CLUB
was several steps up in style and elegance from Arnie's in the village. Michael did a mixture of slow and upbeat songs, some of them new and just off the press. He was dedicated to the job and totally focused, always trying to gauge the mood of the audience, forever worrying about his performance, dancing on his toes, eager to get on again. Was his breathing right? Did that nuance actually work? Had he had to strain to make any of the high notes? Was he completely comfortable with the music? No matter how well his performance went, no matter how much the audience applauded, Michael was never satisfied.

Every table in the place was taken now and everyone was talking, laughing, not really paying much attention to the acts on stage. But there was a noticeable drop in the level of noise each time Michael stepped up to sing. He seemed to command most attention, he had noted, and engage his audience best when the lights were lowered and he sang a slow song like
Always
or
What'll I do
?

The raucous Charleston dancing, Black Bottom stomping, secret drinking masses apparently had a suppressed yearning for romance and an unabashed weakness for sentimental lyrics. But the surprise hit of that first evening was not the Dolan Brothers. A house chorus of eight gorgeous girls provided what Nathan called ‘the hip-hooray and ballyhoo' and it was when all eight were on stage and seven of them, arms outstretched, made a ballet-like withdrawal and left one girl alone, centre stage. The girl paused for a moment and most of the audience stopped talking and waited expectantly. 

She was slim like the rest of the girls. She'd had her black hair bobbed like the rest of the girls. She wore a coloured band around her head, a waistless dress fringed with tassles to just below her knee and flat shoes like the rest of the girls. But she was not like the rest of the girls. At least, Michael Dolan didn't think so.

Mascara seemed to enlarge her dark eyes and she wore a bright red lipstick. She sang in a childish, petulant voice that was somehow both amusing and provocative and the whole audience paused to listen as she stepped to and fro in the simple little dance that accompanied her words.

‘
He's got eyes of blue
,' she sang and each time, on the verge of what promised to be a suggestive line, she would go into a ‘
boop boop-a-do
' routine to replace the words. But in her voice and in the dance there could be no mistaking the meaning and every coy, bashful ‘
boop boop-a-do
' had the audience calling for more and roaring approval. It was the first time, Joe Bononi said later, anyone got a standing ovation in that place.

As she danced off, after several bows and little girl curtsies, the other girls took over with a faster version of the same song.

Michael Dolan was waiting to go on when the dark-haired girl passed by and bumped into him slightly in the narrow space provided. He saw then she was even prettier close up.

‘Hey!' he said spontaneously. ‘You were great!'

She looked back at him and smiled. ‘Well, thank you, sir.'

‘You could go a long way with that act.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't think so. It isn't mine.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Where have you been?' she asked in disbelief. ‘A girl called Helen Kane dreamed that one up. She's knocking 'em out on Broadway.'

Michael grinned. ‘I bet she's not as good as you.'

The girl smiled and turned away.

‘Wait,' he said. ‘What's your name?'

‘Why?' she asked, eyebrows raised. ‘Who wants to know?'

‘Me,' he said. ‘Michael Dolan.'

‘OK, Michael Dolan. It's Annie. My name's Annie. Now I've 
got to go. I've got to get changed. We're on again after you.'

Later that evening they literally bumped into each other a second time. ‘Hey!' Michael said, with a smile. ‘We can't go on bumping into each other like this.'

Annie stopped. ‘You were good,' she said. ‘I mean it. I think you have a great voice.'

‘Right.' Michael looked down at her. ‘And do I hear a
but
?'

‘But you're not the finished product. You still have a lot to learn.'

‘Oh, I know. I'm sure I can learn a lot from you older performers.'

‘What do you mean
older
performers?' she demanded. But she was not really offended. She was obviously no older than him, probably even younger.

‘Would you care to join us for supper, ma'am?' he asked hopefully.

She hesitated. ‘I can't. We're goin' to a party. The boss says so.'

‘And who's the boss?' Michael asked.

‘The only boss there is, of course. Mr O'Hara.'

Michael nodded, not knowing what to say.

‘I would like to talk to you though.'

‘You would?' he said, brightening.

‘Yeah,' she said seriously. ‘About your voice. Like I said, I think you have a great voice. But you need to sort one or two things out. I mean, take just now. In the slow numbers it was fine. Then when the tempo picks up you're not quite on the beat. Or maybe it's not your fault.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well,' she said tentatively, ‘I think the problem could be with your piano player. I think, maybe, he ain't good enough at this level and he sure ain't good enough for where you can go with a voice like that.'

One of the girls passed by. ‘Come on, Annie,' she said. She fluttered her eyelashes at Michael. ‘Great voice,' she said and she was gone, taking Annie with her.

Michael was left to ponder what Annie said. He knew what 
she meant about the faster numbers. There were times when they were not quite synchronized. Not too noticeable in a crowded room, but Michael had one eye on the up and coming record market. They couldn't get away with anything like that in a recording studio.

‘Everything OK?' Nathan asked, ‘She turn you down or something?'

‘No, no, nothing like that,' Michael said. ‘Let's eat.'

Father Pat handed Tim the evening 'paper:
GANGLAND KILLING. WEST SIDE KID ARRESTED.
Tim scanned the story swiftly. A man called Devlin had been shot dead in a warehouse just off Tenth Avenue. The police wanted to interview two men who had been seen, by several witnesses, to run from the building soon after the shot was heard. A third man, named as eighteen-year-old Anthony O'Reilly, had been arrested and was being held in custody.

‘We'd better get down there right away,' Father Pat said.

A small crowd, mainly women, had gathered on the steps and on the pavement in front of the house where the O'Reillys lived.

Father Pat, with Tim in tow, skirted the crowd. ‘What's going on, Ed?' he asked a fortyish, untidy-looking man in a shabby suit, a collar and tie and a lapel badge that read PRESS.

‘They reckon it's kids from round here,' Ed said. ‘Tony O'Reilly, Martin Ripley and that kid Declan. But we don't know for sure. I want to get a few words from O'Reilly's ma.'

‘Wait here,' Father Pat told Tim, and people moved aside to let him through. Two women who had taken it on themselves to bar the entrance to the house acknowledged him at once.

‘Doc's with her, Father,' one called, as he went in and up the stairs.

Tim turned to the reporter. ‘You sure it's Tony?'

‘Absolutely, and from what I hear it was him pulled the trigger.'

‘How is she?' Tim asked when Father Pat returned.

‘Shocked,' he said. ‘She doesn't know the full extent of it yet but, according to Officer Healey, Tony's in deep, deep trouble.' 

‘Where is Healey?' the reporter asked.

‘He'll be out in a minute,' Father Pat told him. To Tim he said, ‘Officer Healey is our neighbourhood cop.' To the reporter he said, ‘Who's handling it, Ed?'

‘Dennis,' the reporter said.

Dennis Casey was a young man who had hauled himself out of the gutter and landed on the right side of the law. Qualified as a lawyer, he was always ready to help and advise the less fortunate, especially people from his old neighbourhood. A good Catholic boy, Father Pat called him. They went straight to his office.

Casey had light-brown hair and brown eyes yet there was something distinctly Irish about him. Father Pat introduced Tim and Tim and Casey shook hands.

‘So what's the story?' Father Pat asked.

‘Looks bad for Tony O'Reilly, Father,' Casey said. ‘Seems the three of them – Tony, Martin Ripley and Declan O'Connor – went to this warehouse to deliver a message to this Devlin fellow.'

‘A message from who?' Father Pat asked.

‘Vincent O'Hara, according to Tony.'

‘You seen Tony?'

‘Yes, of course. Police are not too helpful right now. Mayor Walker is demanding a crackdown on organized criminals and the police commissioner is on his toes. Cops have clammed up and they're not saying much.'

‘The police commissioner is part of the problem,' Father Pat said.

Casey laughed. ‘You can't say things like that, Father.'

‘He's in O'Hara's pocket,' the priest said scornfully. ‘So what did Tony have to say for himself?'

‘He said they went off to meet this Devlin on the top floor. They were told that when they met, Devlin would say, “Where's the money?” Marty Rip, as they call him, was to say, “Mr O'Hara says there is no money. Not now, not ever.” Eamonn Devlin only got out of Sing Sing three days ago. He must have contacted O'Hara and set up this meeting right away. Far as I 
remember he went up the river for twenty. He did four but last Christmas new evidence came up. It proved he couldn't have done the job he was in for because he was robbing a bank in Queens at the time.

‘Anyway, the four years he'd been inside covered what he would have got for the robbery so they let him out. My guess is Vin O'Hara owed him money, but O'Hara thought he was in the clear because Devlin was away for twenty.'

‘So he sent these boys to start the war?'

‘Yes,' Casey said. ‘But, according to Tony, when Devlin says, “Where's the money?” Ripley doesn't say there isn't any. Instead he pulls out a .38 and shoots Devlin right between the eyes. But Devlin was not quite as stupid as O'Hara thought. He actually told the police he was going to this meeting to collect money he was owed and he thought he might need protection. So, when the shot was fired, Tony and Declan O'Connor were not expecting it and they were scared out of their wits. Seems to me Ripley had his orders but they were not in on it. Declan was keeping watch. The shot was fired, Declan shouted “Cops!” and Martin Ripley threw the gun to Tony. Tony caught the gun just as the cops burst in. Ripley and Declan made it down the back stairs and Tony was stuck there with his hands in the air and they were telling him to drop the gun or they'd blow him apart. Looks as though he was caught in the act, but he swears he didn't shoot anyone. Still with me?'

‘Just about,' Father Pat said.

Tim thought about Tony and Declan. They probably didn't figure in O'Hara's plans. They were surplus to requirements. Not Martin Ripley though. He was criminal material. ‘We must find Declan,' he said, speaking up for the first time. ‘He's not a bad lad. I'm sure we could get the truth out of him. We need to find where he's hiding.'

‘We sure need something,' Casey said. ‘Keep in touch, Father. Good to meet you, Tim.'

‘I'll go up and see her again,' Father Pat told Tim, as they walked back, ‘tell her Dennis is on the case.'

Tim nodded and Father Pat went up the steps to Mrs 
O'Reilly's place. Already, though he had no evidence and no good reason to believe Tony O'Reilly's story, Tim did believe him. Some people are just evil and some are not, he decided. Maybe that was not a very Christian conclusion, he
acknowledged
, but that was how he saw it just then. He was prepared to believe Martin Ripley was evil, one of the bad apples, like O'Hara, that contaminate the rest. But Tony O'Reilly wasn't. Neither was Declan O'Connor. They'd been caught up in the phoney glamour of O'Hara's world and now it looked as though Tony might have to pay the price. It doesn't bear thinking about, he told himself, but they have something called ‘the electric chair' here for murderers. It was a monstrous, barbaric practice. But that was what they did. They strapped people in a chair that was all wired up and electrocuted them.

At the corner of Tenth and 52
^nd
Street Tim saw Tony's little brother. Frankie was at the centre of a group of small boys. In their eyes he was the brother of a gangland hitman with the dubious respect that commanded. Tim quickened his pace but Frankie had seen him coming. He detached himself from the group and backed off, but Tim was not going to let him get away. ‘Hey, Frank! Frankie!'

The boy stopped reluctantly and waited for him to catch up as the others drifted away. ‘Bit off your home patch, eh Frank?'

‘I can't go near our place, Father.'

‘People want to talk to you?'

‘Yeah, that newspaper guy. Creeps like that.'

Tim noticed that Frankie had adopted the hunched shoulders pose of the tough guy and he was talking out of the side of his mouth like some mobster in one of the new gangster movies.

‘Father Pat's with your ma. Come on. I'll walk back with you.'

The boy lost his swagger. ‘What happens now, Father?'

‘Well, I don't believe Tony did this. He told Mr Casey he's innocent. He didn't do it, he says, and I believe him. But we're going to have to prove it.'

‘He
is
innocent!' Frankie said. ‘I know he is. It was Marty Rip shot that man. Declan told me.' 

‘You've seen Declan?'

‘Yeah,' the boy said. ‘He's hiding. I promised not to tell anyone, but I can tell you, can't I, Father? I mean, you won't tell anyone, will you? It's sort of like Confession. You're not allowed to say anything, are you?'