Tell Them I'll Be There (14 page)

‘Only if it's in Tony's best interests,' Tim said.

They walked on in silence until Tim said gently, ‘So what did Declan say exactly?'

‘He said they were sent to meet this guy at the warehouse and give him a message. But when they get there Marty Rip pulls out this gun and shoots the guy. Then he throws the gun to Tony and just then the cops arrive.'

‘And Declan said this?'

‘Yeah. He said it wasn't Tony shot the guy. He was there and he saw it all. It was Marty Rip, definite.'

‘So where did you see Declan, Frankie? He's our answer.'

‘It was down at the yards. He was hiding in a wagon. He said he'd got to get away. People are after him.'

‘So can you take me to him?'

‘He ain't there, Father. He gave me a nickel and he asked me to get him some water and something to eat. Then when I went back he wasn't there. He told me he was going to hop one of the big freights. They come through real slow down there. He said he wanted to get to Philadelphia, anywhere, away from here.'

‘Do you think someone might have seen you coming or going?'

‘Nah, I don't think so. It's pretty quiet, especially afternoons.' The boy gave Tim a sidelong glance. ‘That's when I go there. If those guards is around they're probably sleeping.'

‘I think we should write this down, Frankie,' Tim said. ‘You'll need to make a statement for Mr Casey.'

‘Aw, I don't know, Father,' the boy said.

‘You want to help Tony, don't you? We've got to find Declan, make him tell what he knows. Marty Rip isn't going to help us.'

It was in the
Daily News
two days later. The badly mangled body of a Declan O'Connor, one of the two men police wanted to interview about the shooting at the warehouse on Tenth 
Avenue, was found on a rail line near the 30
^th
Street freight terminal. At first, a police spokesman told the
News
, it was thought the man had simply been hit by a train. Officers now believe he was strangled and his body was thrown on the track.

In the beginning Dan was unsure of himself. He knew almost nothing about the stock market. Now he was more confident. There didn't seem much to it. It was simply a kind of ‘respectable' gambling. When he asked Joe Baker questions Joe would merely shrug and say, ‘You'll soon figure it out.' Paul Merrick was more helpful. Early on he had patiently explained fundamentals such as the difference between a bull market and a bear market.

‘Basically,' he said, ‘bulls are optimists and bears are pessimists. Bulls believe prices will go up, bears believe prices will go down. When the vast majority of investors are on a buying spree it's a bull market and right now we are on the biggest buying spree in history.'

Perhaps it was the Irish connection and the fact that Dan Dolan was quiet, diffident and respectful, not in the least a noisy boastful Irishman that endeared him to Michael Meehan, but the older man approved of Joe Baker's new apprentice and said so. Dan quietly went out of his way to get to know Meehan's young assistant and he learned in a roundabout way that Joe Baker had three seats on the Exchange. Apparently to own one of these was the ultimate goal and Paul Merrick had been expected to take one but he hadn't. It may simply have been the cost, Dan guessed. A seat had to be bought and the price was currently around $100,000. Dan's confidante said it wasn't that. Merrick had been like a partner to Mr Baker, but something had happened and he'd been frozen out.

Mike Meehan was a specialist in Radio Corporation of America stock. If an investor wanted to buy Radio stock – the big seller at that time with one in three households in the country owning a radio – he would do it through a broker who would contact a member of the Exchange who would go to Meehan at Post 12. 

Watching for significant changes in the day's trading could be a tedious job. Business could only be done between the opening gong and the closing gong, a large brass bell that everyone obeyed, and already Dan found he was relieved when the bell rang at the day's end. The business of the Exchange seemed little different to the gambling on the horses that went on at home and he had never found that exciting or even interesting. He would probably have a small bet on the Gold Cup at Cheltenham the same as most people in the village. But it was a once a year thing. Here the men in their business suits, some with black jackets and striped trousers, and always with a carnation or at least a fresh flower in their buttonholes, would stand around, apparently doing nothing but swap jokes. Even Joe Baker bought a flower each morning from the old lady with the flower stall on the corner of 42
^nd
Street. Still, he told himself, it was better than labouring in the streets, digging up the road as so many of his countrymen did.

He had been back almost a week now but Joe Baker had not mentioned his trip. Then at the lunch counter he suddenly said, without expression, ‘Read your report.'

Dan waited. He had spent two evenings going over all aspects of Fox Boxes. He'd been given a printed list to cover – strengths, weaknesses, prospects for the future – and the most difficult section to fill in he found was the last: Recommendation.

What could he say? He liked Fox. He could see what the man was up against and he felt very strongly about the kind of stifling stranglehold people like this Davis had on local
enterprise
. But could he really recommend investment? Probably not. Yet he felt that Fox was a genuine pioneer, willing to work hard himself, a man who would be a good employer, an honest man. He decided to write: Would like to discuss.

‘So you want to discuss the future of Fox Boxes?'

‘Well,' Dan said soberly, ‘I don't think they have a future, I spent the afternoon with Mr Fox and that night I talked to some of his workers in a couple of bars. I got a feel of things from other people, too, and I have to say, without a really big
investment
, he's on a loser. What he's asking for would just be the 
start. Trouble is, Fox is a good man. I'd like us to help him but I guess we can't. This Davis is too powerful.'

‘Good,' Baker said. ‘You got that right. Fox has been fighting a losing battle for the last two years He's got no chance.'

‘You knew that?'

‘Oh sure. I got the full picture when he first contacted me.'

‘In that case, why send me down there?'

‘I wanted to know if you would get the full picture.'

Dan remained silent.

‘It's not a waste of time, son. You did a pretty good job. But one thing you didn't do.'

‘What's that?'

‘You didn't check out this Davis, see how solid he is. He could be in the same boat as Fox.'

Dan shook his head. ‘No, no. I checked on the properties he owns, the companies he runs, his family background. He's from what we used to call in Ireland
old
money. He's rich all right.'

Baker nodded approvingly. ‘Correct, but you should have put all that in your report.'

‘Too bad we can't take him on,' Dan said.

‘First rule,' Baker said. ‘Listen to your head not your heart. I'll write to Fox, give him a gentle no. From what you say he sounds the kind of man who'll soon be back on his feet. He'll be OK.'

‘I hope so,' Dan said.

‘Something else I want to sort out,' Baker said. ‘You can't go on calling me Mr Baker, Dan. Too formal.'

‘I don't mind.'

‘Well, I do. You got a choice. You can either call me Joe, like everyone else, except Barbara that is. Or you can call me Pops. Barbara calls me Pops.'

Paul Merrick had warned Dan about this. He will give you a choice, Paul said in his precise English, and he would like you to choose Pops. He is always saying we are a family at Joe Baker Associates and I suppose with Pops he is the head of the family. ‘I got it wrong,' Paul added. ‘I chose Joe.'

Dan pretended to give it some thought. ‘Well,' he said at last. ‘Joe seems a bit disrespectful somehow. I mean, you're my boss. 
I owe you a lot. I think I'd like to call you Pops, if you don't mind.'

Joe Baker's wizened face, wreathed in a wrinkled smile, told him he had chosen right. ‘Then Pops it is.'

‘And to mark the occasion,' Dan suggested, ‘perhaps you will allow me to pay for our lunch.'

‘That's another thing,' Baker said. ‘How are you for money, Dan? Do I pay you enough?'

‘I'm OK. I reckon I'm doing all right for someone just off the boat.'

‘Don't put yourself down. You learn fast and you've learned a lot these past few months. I'm sure you know what to buy and when, but you haven't bought any stock.'

‘I bought lots of stock. You give me orders every day.'

‘I mean, you haven't bought any for yourself.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't do that. You might not approve.' He laughed. ‘In any case, if I was risking my own money I'd consult you first. And also, right now I'm saving what I can to find a place in town. I'm still living in Brooklyn. It'd be a lot easier if I was over here. I'd like to be nearer the office.'

Back at the Exchange Joe Baker joined a group of his cronies and Dan went back to his post but not before he had paused to confront himself in the great mirror in the reception hall. ‘Uncle Sam is turning you into one hell of a creep, Dan Dolan,' he told his amused eyes. Then he laughed.
Pops
Baker! What would Dad make of that?

That evening when he got back to the office he wanted to see Paul Merrick, arrange to go for a quick drink. He wanted to tell him he was right. He had been given a choice. There was no sign of Merrick, but Baker's wife Barbara was sitting on Baker's desk.

Dan was in an ebullient mood. ‘Do you realize, madam, you are sitting on the very site where momentous decisions are made, the very spot where letters of national importance are written. This is no seat for a lady, no matter how elegant and curvaceous.'

Barbara gave him a long, sensual look. ‘Elegant and
curvaceous
, I like that. Is that how you see me, Daniel?' 

Dan was sorry already. ‘I think you are a very elegant lady, yes.'

‘And curvaceous?'

He laughed. ‘All right, yes. Now Pops is with Mr Meehan. Maybe he wasn't expecting you.'

‘Pops, huh?' She raised her eyebrows. ‘You joined the family. Well, I'd say that calls for a celebration. You must take Mama for a little drink.'

‘I can't, Barbara,' Dan said, suddenly serious. ‘Got to get going.'

‘Pops would expect you to take care of me,' she said petulantly. ‘One little drink. Come on. What do you say?'

‘Drinking alcohol is prohibited, Mrs Baker.'

‘Well, we'll have coffee like everyone else. And a dry martini.'

There was no escape as she led the way downstairs.

Out on Madison she drew a second glance more than once and Dan noticed, not for the first time, she really was a
good-looking
woman. The illicit bar where he normally went with Merrick was the only one he knew that was near enough and classy enough.

On the way in they met Paul Merrick on his way out. ‘Hello,' he said pleasantly. ‘I was just about to leave.'

‘Good,' Barbara said coolly.

Merrick bowed stiffly.

‘Nice fellow,' Dan said, when he had gone.

‘Mm,' Barbara murmured.

On the nod of the manager they went through to the inner room. It was filled with the usual after office crowd and again Barbara drew appreciative glances as they found a corner table.

‘What is it with Paul?' Dan asked, determined to find out.

‘How do you mean?' she asked.

‘Well, I can't help noticing there's something not exactly friendly between him and Pops. And now you treat him the same way. They must have been on good terms once. So what happened?'

‘Leave it, Dan,' she said and she wouldn't be drawn. 

T
HE AGENT
, Joe Bononi, pulled up in his 1927 Roadster. Michael was singing
Someone to watch over me
and Nathan was at Mr Levi's moveable piano. ‘Hey!' he cried. ‘What are you doing?'

Michael walked over to the car. ‘Mr Bononi!'

‘You don't sing for free on the street.'

‘We're helping Mr Levi out,' Michael said. ‘Gives us a chance to go through his new stock. He's got some great new sheets.'

‘No more singing for free. You understand?' Bononi jerked his head in Nathan's direction. ‘OK for him, but not for you.'

Michael frowned. ‘Why is that?'

‘We don't need him no more. He ain't good enough.'

‘Hey, now!' Michael said. ‘Nathan's my partner. We're a double.'

‘Not any more,' Bononi said. ‘We talk about this another time. Not now. Mr O'Hara wants you to sing Friday at his house.'

‘We're working Friday. The Showcase. You booked us in there.'

‘I'm talking about later. After the show. We'll send a car to pick you up. Mr O'Hara is having a party. He wants you there.'

‘OK, fine. What about Nathan?'

‘He can come, too.'

‘No, no. I mean, he's always been with me. He knows the act.'

‘Not now, eh? We do this later.'

‘What can I tell him? He's nowhere to go.'

‘Tell him nothing yet. We do this later. OK?' 

Michael frowned as Bononi drove off. He was right, of course. Michael had realized this now. Nathan was all right for the bars and sing-alongs, but he was not really good enough for the big time. Annie had noticed it in the fast numbers. But Michael had noticed it now in the slower numbers, too. Listening to Jolson at a matinee performance on Broadway he felt the pianist was fantastic. And he'd gone along with Annie to hear Helen Kane. In her slow numbers like That's my weakness now and I wanna be loved the back up and the beat from her piano player were perfect. And there was the guy who played piano with Louis Armstrong. Earl Hines! Nathan was not in that league, nowhere near. But he was not going to say so. Nathan was his pal.

After their appearance at the Showcase on the Friday night a car was waiting, as promised, to take them to O'Hara's house. Michael had arranged to meet Annie but had to call it off. His boss wanted him at a party, he explained. Annie smiled and said OK without telling him that all the girls from her show, including her, had to be there, too.

The party at O'Hara's was held in a surprisingly large converted basement. Thirty or more people were already there when Michael and Nathan arrived. They were sitting at tables or standing around in little groups and everyone seemed to have a drink. A bartender in a short white jacket was behind a curved bar in one corner and a waiter was going around with a heavily laden tray. A young black man was playing piano unobtrusively with a quietly bouncing beat.

A floppy-haired young man with a handheld microphone seemed to be the Master of Ceremonies. ‘We got a song now from a lovely little lady,' he announced. ‘
I'm nobody's sweetheart
, she says, and we all know that ain't true. She's everybody's sweetheart. Annie?'

Michael looked up quickly. He hadn't realized she was there. He shook his head at her reprovingly and she winked back at him before going into an upbeat version of her song. Annie could sing, no doubt about that, but the piano player was amazing, pushing the beat along, making the whole room 
swing. Several of the watchers went into a spontaneous Charleston, arms raised in response to the music, until Annie and the piano player bounced to a breathtaking end and the audience erupted in cheers and applause.

Annie replaced the microphone and kissed the piano player lightly on the cheek, bringing a frown of disapproval here and there. Even here there were some who thought the black man should not be encouraged. But the thought didn't even occur to Annie. For Annie, a piano player was a piano player and this boy was brilliant.

She came over to Michael and he lifted a drink for her from a passing tray. ‘So you have to sing for your supper,' he said with a grin.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘Same as you.'

‘Some pianist,' Nathan said admiringly.

Annie glanced at Michael and Michael could only nod his head in agreement. Michael had been studying those present. A number of girls looked too young to be there, flushed with excitement and banned gin. Older men, late thirties or early forties, some in their fifties even. And many with the look of hardened criminals, no nonsense ‘enforcers' with notoriously short fuses. These were Vincent O'Hara's friends or, at least, his associates and Michael knew, if he wanted to succeed in show business, he was going to have to get along with these people. They had the entrée to the big time, the classy theatre clubs that were springing up all over town, the new venues, the new
openings
for ambitious young entertainers. They had the power to push a talented newcomer all the way to the top.

‘You thinking what I'm thinking?' Nathan asked.

Michael grinned and nodded. ‘They all look as though they've been inside, or that's where they're going.'

At Mr Levi's music store they had found a number of new songs, among them one or two Al Jolson had introduced on Broadway. One in particular had intrigued them. It was about a ‘three-time loser', as criminals who were going to jail for a third and lengthy time, twenty years or more or maybe life, were called. In the Al Jolson song the doomed man is trying to say 
goodbye to his little boy, trying to explain gently that Daddy was going away for a long time and he wanted the boy to grow up into someone far better than he had ever been. It was a real tearjerker, sentimental and sad at the same time, and Michael, as mischievous as ever, wanted to lay it on thick with this mob.

The party had settled back into its talk and sporadic laughter after the high spirits of Annie's song and after a while the
self-styled
MC came over to Michael. ‘Hey, Mikey!' he exclaimed with an expansive grin and an arm around Michael's shoulder though he and Michael had never met. ‘Jimmy says you're going to sing for us.'

‘Sure,' Michael said and Annie squeezed his arm.

Nathan handed him the sheet music and Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘He can play it,' Nathan said. ‘Looks like he's the house piano player.'

Michael went over to the piano. ‘It's a bit slow,' he said
apologetically
.

‘Dat's OK,' the piano player said, glancing at the sheet. He looked up at Michael with a slow, knowing smile. ‘You sure you wanna do this?'

‘Why not?' Michael said, with a grin.

He laughed and tinkled a few notes of introduction. ‘Lets's go, man.'

‘Hi, everybody,' Michael said into the microphone. ‘I'm Michael Dolan. You can catch my act any night next week at the Showcase.'

‘Cut the crap!' someone called good-humouredly.

‘No advertising, Michael!' Jimmy Pickles shouted from the back. ‘You don't have to tell everyone you're at the Showcase all next week with two shows Wednesday and Saturday.'

Everybody laughed and someone called, ‘We'll be here 'til next week if he doesn't get going.'

Michael held up his hands. ‘I was looking through some of the new tunes coming up right now,' he said as the piano played softly behind him, ‘and I came across this little beauty. It's about a guy who's going up the river for a very long stretch and he's trying to say goodbye to his little boy.' 

He looked back at the piano player, then he went into the song. The audience listened with rapt attention as the gentle words unfolded. Then, when he came to the line, ‘
And if someday you should be, On some new daddy's knee
,' there was an audible sob from a table nearby.

Michael had the audience of hard men spellbound and when he came to the end there was a moment's silence. Then Vin O'Hara, standing by the bar, broke the spell. ‘Good lad, Mikey!' he called and the audience erupted in applause.

A large, bleary-eyed fellow with a bulging waistline left his table and came over. He grabbed Michael by the arm. ‘You made me cry, you Mick prick!'

‘Hey!' Michael was incensed. ‘Nobody calls me that.'

The diminutive Nathan stepped between them, then Jimmy Pickles, who was not much bigger than Nathan, took over. ‘Go and sit down, Joe,' he told the big man. ‘You've had enough booze for one night.' To Michael he said, ‘It's his idea of a compliment. He's as Irish as you are.' Then he whispered in Michael's ear as if this knowledge was worth imparting, ‘He runs the Cabaret Club on 43
^rd
.' To the piano player he said, ‘Come on, Lou. Play!' To Michael, ‘Sing something else.'

Michael spoke quietly to the piano player then, as the party settled down, they went into a swinging version of
Somebody stole my gal
. An understanding, a true rapport, had developed between them and Michael was enjoying singing with him. Lou was in a class of his own.

Luis, Luis without the O, as Joe Bononi explained, had come to New York from Chicago. Already he had played with some of the biggest names in Chicago jazz. He was sure to make it big here. ‘But you can forget about teaming up with him,' Bononi said. ‘Luis has his own plans.'

The thought had crossed Michael's mind. He had enjoyed Luis' back-up. It was so different to singing with Nathan and he knew now people were right. Nathan did OK, but he was just knocking out the beat. Luis provided a whole new dimension, a framework for a variety of subtle yet unobtrusive little phrases and grace notes. The difference was, he supposed, that Luis was 
a natural, a born musician, and Nathan was just a barroom piano player.

Later, when it was time to go, O'Hara came over. With his big fleshy smile he took Michael by the lapels of his coat and drew him close. ‘We're going places, Mikey boy. You and me, we're going right to the top.'

‘I hope so, Mr O'Hara,' Michael said.

O'Hara patted Michael's face, grabbed his lapels again and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘The sky's the limit, son.'

Michael nodded and smiled gratefully, backing away. The man was crazy. He was convinced of that but if he could open doors then so be it. Might as well stay with him.

He turned away as O'Hara went back to his main guests and his men closed in automatically around their boss. But there was no escape yet. ‘Hey, Mike!' O'Hara called and he came over a second time. ‘I meant to ask you, how's that brother of yours doing? The big shot on Wall Street. I'd like to meet him.'

‘Sure, Mr O'Hara,' Michael said. ‘But I wouldn't say he was a big shot. He just works there.'

‘If he works for Joe Baker he must know something.'

Michael was puzzled. Why would O'Hara want to meet Dan? He looked for and found Annie. Had she seen Nathan?

‘Nathan went home,' she told him. ‘He said you would want to walk me home.'

‘Was he all right?'

‘I don't know. He seemed sort of quiet. I think maybe the piano player got to him. He knows he was outclassed.'

‘Luis would outclass most piano players,' Michael said.

‘So are you going to walk me home, Mr Crooner? Because if you are you better understand it's three o'clock in the morning and I am going straight to bed – on my own.'

Annie was staying with the rest of the showgirls at a rooming-house called the Lennox. They strolled up Seventh Avenue, hand in hand, under a starlit sky. Even at that time, the middle of the night, there were people about. Girls with cloche hats, clutching fur collars. Young men in racoon coats and 
fedoras. Everybody talking loudly, calling from group to group with no respect for the stillness of the night.

Nineteen twenty-seven was drawing to a close and they were riding on a giant roller coaster, holding on as the stock market climbed higher and higher and screaming in a wild delight as they cashed in their gains and splashed them around, dollar bills floating down like dissolving snowflakes. They felt rich, they
were
rich, richer than most of them had ever been.

‘We can make it here, Annie.' Michael was flushed with his part in the evening's entertainment. ‘You and me, we're going places.'

‘You are, you mean,' Annie said. ‘With Vinnie O'Hara behind you, you can reach for one of those stars. Make it your own.'

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘And wherever I go I want to take you with me.'

Annie smiled up at him. She knew he meant what he said. At that moment, anyway. But she knew, too, he would do better on his own. At least, until he made his mark. It was a tough
business
and those who made it to the top rarely carried passengers.

He was dancing along on the balls of his feet, like a boxer in training. ‘I want to dance, Annie. Maybe you could teach me.'

‘You want to do high kicks in a chorus line?'

‘You know what I mean. Basic steps. Tap dancing. Charleston. Just imagine – if I was in a movie I might have to dance.'

The loss of Declan O'Connor was a major blow to Tony O'Reilly and his case. Only Tony's little brother, Frankie, could add anything and there was no proof Frankie had seen or spoken to Declan.

Dennis Casey was not optimistic. The police had interviewed Vin O'Hara and he had denied ever having met Eamonn Devlin, the man shot dead. Tony, when interviewed, admitted he had never met O'Hara. He knew the man by sight but that was all. His connection, he said, was with Martin Ripley and Ripley's boss, a man called Jimmy Pickles.

Pickles was well-known to the police. He was also well primed on police procedures. Yes, he admitted, he knew this 
Martin Ripley but he had only seen him once or twice, usually when Ripley was hanging around the pool hall, hoping to take some poor sucker for a ride. From what he had heard, Ripley was pretty good with the cue. This kid Tony O'Reilly, he said, he didn't know, he had never met him. If he was one of Ripley's pals he might have seen him, too, at the pool hall. But he didn't know O'Reilly and he'd never had any dealings with either of them, Ripley or O'Reilly. As far as he was concerned they were kids. Lots of kids hung around the pool hall.