Tell Them I'll Be There (15 page)

Without Ripley, Tony O'Reilly had no real defence. ‘What does it mean?' Tim asked, dreading the answer.

‘First degree murder,' Casey said. ‘It's the chair.'

Tim was appalled. He turned to Father Pat. ‘We've got to do something, Father. He's just a kid.'

‘Tony O'Reilly is eighteen years old,' Casey said. ‘And killing people is not a good idea, especially now. Mayor's determined to clean up the city and he's getting really tough.'

‘We have to go and see him, appeal to him,' Tim said earnestly. ‘We can't let this happen.'

‘Jimmy Walker is on a roll just now,' Father Pat said. ‘Everybody likes what he's doing – everybody except the criminals.'

‘Tony's not a criminal,' Tim said.

‘According to the police he is,' Casey said. ‘They've charged him.'

‘So what can we do, Dennis?' Father Pat asked.

‘Find Martin Ripley, I guess.'

But the only person who knew where Martin Ripley was hiding was Jimmy Pickles and Pickles was in trouble with his boss. Vin O'Hara's puffy, self-indulgent face was flushed with rage. ‘You were supposed to handle things,' he roared and he threw a glass vase at Pickles' head. The vase hit the door behind him and shattered, shards of glass flying off. He had seen O'Hara like this many times but the anger had never been directed at him. Now that it was he did the only thing he knew might calm his crazy boss. He stood quite still, his head down, saying nothing and taking it all. 

‘I've never been arrested in my life until now,' O'Hara raged. He had not, in fact, been arrested. He had been asked to call in at the precinct to answer a few questions. His name had been mentioned, he was told, so it had to be followed up. It was just routine.

‘And
who
,' he demanded of Pickles, ‘mentioned my name?'

‘I suppose it was the kid they're holding,' Pickles said meekly.

‘You suppose? You don't
know
?'

‘Yeah, boss. Sure I do. Look, let me take care of this. There won't be any more trouble. I promise.'

‘Kid is saying I ordered him to shoot that sonofabitch Devlin.'

‘Nobody believes that. He ain't one of us anyway. I don't know where he got your name. But for some reason he fingered you and the cops have to follow it up.'

‘I don't want my good name coming up again, OK?'

‘Sure. Sure, boss. Let me deal with it. Please.'

O'Hara was mopping beads of sweat from his brow with his big pink handkerchief. He poured a glass of water from a jug in his office ice box and popped a couple of pills in his mouth. He had been advised to watch his blood pressure, but now and then he went out of control. He confronted Pickles once again,
glowering
down at him. ‘Last chance, Jimmy. I'm warning you. Last chance.'

‘Sure, boss. When have I ever let you down?'

O'Hara's pained expression was evaporating slowly as his fury cooled down. ‘All right,' he said and he put both arms around a relieved Pickles and gave him a bear hug. ‘All right.'

Pickles was furious now, furious with himself. He had chosen this new kid – Marty Rip they called him – for the job. He wanted to see what the kid was made of, blood him so to speak. But the crazy kid had taken his two sidekicks along. He wasn't supposed to do that. He was supposed to do the job alone. He was supposed to meet Devlin, kill him and get lost. Fast. Five-minute job, that was all it was. Nobody else around. Maybe he should have made that clear at the outset, Pickles conceded. Maybe it was partly his fault. Kid was showing off no doubt to his pals. It was just inexperience. More than one 
killer is always trouble, he told himself. The best jobs are done alone.

According to Tony O'Reilly, this Martin Ripley had joined the O'Hara gang and he and Declan O'Connor were hoping to join, too. Martin Ripley's orders, Tony told the police, came through a man called Pickles and this had resulted in Jimmy Pickles being called in for interview. Well, it should be fairly easy now, Pickles decided. They had taken care of the one called O'Connor. All they had to do was take care of Ripley.

Martin Ripley was scared, running scared. He was in trouble for taking O'Reilly and Declan along. That was just bravado, stupid. He realized that now. Declan had seen it all. He had tried to keep Declan with him but the crazy kid had run off. He was in trouble over that, too. Losing the kid. But what scared him most was the way they dealt with Declan. It was in all the newspapers. They strangled him and threw him on the rail track.

Jimmy Pickles had been furious with him. He had given him a wad of notes and told him to go to this place, the Poplar Hotel in Trenton. Ripley had never been to Trenton but he went by train and he soon found the hotel. It was a
cheap-looking
joint with a lot of people – business types and travelling salesmen – coming and going. He was to stay there until he was contacted. Stay in the hotel, lie low for a while. Meals in his room. Keep to himself. No visitors. And no hookers! Just as soon as things quietened down he would be told what to do next. He would not be safe, Pickles warned him, until they fried O'Reilly.

Ripley was standing by the window in the hotel room, watching people go by. The hotel was in the centre of town and the early evening was the worst. Young people going out, meeting friends, out for a good time. And here he was, cooped up in this dump. He was going slowly crazy. Why couldn't he call a hooker? What harm would it do? But he knew he had better not. The look of barely controlled fury in Jimmy Pickles' eyes told him that. All right, he acknowledged, so it was a mistake, a big mistake to take them along. Although, if he 
hadn't, the cops might have got him instead. It could have been him, not O'Reilly, facing the chair.

Bluey knew the Poplar Hotel. The boss had used it before for some guy who was lying low. He pulled into the gas station on the toll road, squinted at the number and the name on the piece of paper Jimmy Pickles had given him and rang the hotel.

‘Sammy.' he told the desk clerk. ‘Tell him it's Sammy.'

Martin Ripley had been told to expect a call from someone called Sammy. He took the call with a sense of relief. Maybe the waiting was over at last and he could get out of here.

‘There's this park with these big gates,' a gruff voice told him. ‘Just by the hotel. Wait there. Ten-thirty. I'll pick you up, OK? Make sure there's nothing left in the room with your name on it case someone goes snooping around. And pay your bill. You're moving out.'

‘Sure will,' Ripley said, eager to get going. He had booked in under a false name and there was nothing there to identify him. He had not received any post and there was only the one phone call. But it was not the kind of hotel where they asked too many questions anyway.

He took a last look round, checked out and found the entrance to the park with the tall wrought-iron gates in less than a minute. Almost at once a black sedan drew alongside, the passenger door opened and the man called Bluey said, ‘Get in.'

‘So what's new? What's been happening?' he asked, as soon as he was seated and the car moved off. He recognized the big dark hulk of the driver as the man who usually accompanied Jimmy Pickles. He had never actually spoken to him before. He had always been a kind of sinister, threatening presence, hovering behind his boss. But Ripley wanted to talk to someone now, anyone, even the less than friendly Bluey. The only person he had spoken to these last few days was the guy who brought him room service. But Bluey was not exactly responsive and Ripley soon realized he was talking to himself. They had been driving for over half an hour, leaving the city behind, when he asked at last, ‘Where are we going?' 

‘A place where you'll have no worries,' Bluey told him in his slow, ponderous monotone.

Ripley looked out uneasily at the road ahead. It was quiet now, moonlit from time to time as the dark clouds moved on. There were no other cars, no trucks, and the only sound was the steady purr of the motor.

Bluey drew the car to a halt. ‘What's that noise?'

Ripley frowned. ‘I can't hear nothing.'

‘Better take a look,' Bluey mumbled and he got out of the car, went to the front and raised the hood. His hands hidden now he pulled on a pair of skin-tight surgical gloves. ‘Hey, kid,' he called. ‘Come here. Take a look at this.'

Ripley came forward and looked in. ‘What? I can't see nothing.'

From behind him Bluey placed his big hands around Ripley's neck and held him in a vice-like grip. Ripley's eyes bulged as the pressure increased. Bluey had done this several times and he enjoyed it. He enjoyed feeling the life slowly drain from his victim's body, leaving it limp, lifeless. He drew Ripley back, dropped the hood into place, lifted his body as if it was a
life-size
doll and put it in the trunk.

Less than a mile down the road he turned off to where a van was partially hidden from view. A torch flashed twice and two men came forward. They lifted Ripley's body from the trunk and threw it in the van. One of the men smirked at Bluey. ‘This guy's still warm.'

Bluey just grinned and drove off, his part of the job done.

It was a convenient arrangement. Vin O'Hara had
connections
in Trenton where they had a highly efficient method of disposing of potentially incriminating corpses. The Dog Patrol Unit was on the streets daily, collecting stray dogs, mostly mongrels, of which there were many. If no one claimed the dog or no suitable home could be found the dog was put down and cremated along with an assortment of rodents at the City Council incinerator.

A member of the council staff with links to a local crime lord would, from time to time, in order to reduce the ‘back-log', the 
superintendent was told, work a late shift all alone and collect a generous pay-off from his gangland friend for doing a little more than disposing of dogs.

That night, Martin Ripley would burn and be gone forever along with a number of other unwanted animals.

‘H
AVE YOU HEARD
of a man called Vincent O'Hara?' Dan asked.

Harry glanced at him sharply, sharply enough for Dan to look surprised. ‘I've heard of him,' Harry said quietly. ‘Most people have. He's not a friend of yours?'

‘I've never met him,' Dan said.

Lois looked up from her desk. ‘He's a crook, Mr Dolan. A big-time mobster. A racketeer. Not a nice fella.'

‘All right, Lois,' Harry said.

‘Well, actually,' Dan said, ‘I thought he was a kind of showman.'

‘He is,' Harry said. ‘He owns nightclubs and speakeasies and dance halls and things. He's even got his fingers in Broadway.'

‘And he's a crook,' Lois insisted.

Dan laughed. ‘My brother's working for him. He's a singer.'

‘Not
Michael
Dolan.' Lois was excited. ‘Michael Dolan is your brother? Wow! I hear he's a great singer. And if he's as good as people are saying he is, he can't miss with Vincent O'Hara.'

‘You've heard of him?' Dan was intrigued.

‘You should take a walk to the corner of West 44
^th
and Ninth Avenue, Mr Dolan. There's a big poster there saying: Michael Dolan, everybody's favourite singer.'

‘I've seen one or two posters,' Harry said to confirm this. ‘And it's true, if anyone can help him get to the top O'Hara can.'

‘He's all over the place,' Lois went on. ‘Saturday night he was with the band at the Alhambra. And later on he was at the Black 
Cat on Tenth. My boyfriend says he'll take me there but I'll bet it's too expensive.'

Dan was surprised. This was rapid progress. Better check on his little brother, he thought with a smile, and he decided to call a family conference. Check on Tim, too. It would soon be Christmas anyway and it was time they arranged something about that.

It was less than a week since he casually mentioned to Joe Baker that he was looking for a place to live nearer the office so he was surprised when a prospectus and some keys appeared on his desk.

‘Check it out,' Baker said. ‘See what you think. The firm will pay the deposit and you should manage the rent OK. Especially if you get a raise.'

It was a two-bed apartment in an end block on West 59
^th
Street. It was on the fringe of what was known as Hell's Kitchen, but it was quieter and more elegant than lower down. Dan liked it at once. It was far better than he had expected, but his problem now was his landlady. Peg O'Malley had grown fond of her young lodger. She treated him well and he knew she would want him to stay. In the short time he had lived there he had become fond of her, too, and he wished things could have been different for her. Running a
lodging-house
with no family of her own and, as far as he knew, no close friends was not exactly a wonderful life. She was
forty-two
and still a good-looking woman. It was none of his business, of course, but he wished she would dress herself up a bit sometimes and go out more, maybe go some place where she would meet a good man who would take care of her. Dan laughed at himself. It was nothing at all to do with him. Peg was her own woman and she would do what she wanted. For all he knew she might be perfectly happy. But he didn't think so. Anyway, he acknowledged, what worried him most was having to tell her he was moving out.

‘Ah, Danny boy,' she said when he told her. ‘I don't want you to leave but I always knew you would. And soon. You look too much of a city gent to be living around here, in Mrs O'Malley's 
flophouse, so you do. The big wide world is calling and you have to go.'

‘This is not a flophouse,' he told her sternly, ‘and you know it.'

‘It's not the Waldorf, either,' she said. ‘No, you have success written all over you. You're going places, Dan. And so is that Michael. He's everybody's favourite singer. It says so on a poster down on Atlantic Avenue.'

‘I must go and hear him,' Dan said with a laugh. ‘He was never
my
favourite singer. I was always telling him to shut up.'

‘Well, listen,' she said. ‘If you're moving out we'll have to have a little farewell party, so we will. And it can be this Saturday. Few drinks here at home. What do you say?'

‘Mrs O'Malley,' Dan said, ‘have you not heard of Prohibition, the Eighteenth Amendment, the Volstead Act?'

‘I have, too,' she said, ‘and I've seen the drunks on a Saturday night. So you'll not be talking to me about Prohibition.'

‘I promised Tim I'd call and see him on Saturday night.'

She looked at him as if this was a feeble excuse. ‘That the priest?' she said. ‘We'll, I'm sure he won't be staying out all night painting the town. We'll have a little drink when you come in.'

That Saturday evening Dan met Tim in town and took him for a meal. The swank restaurant Dan had in mind stopped them at the door. Tim was dressed all in black as he usually was these days, but no clerical collar. The man on the door said he couldn't let Tim in without a tie so they were out on the
sidewalk
. As resourceful as ever Dan stopped a young man who was passing and offered him a dollar for his necktie. The young man summed up the situation at once and said, ‘Five. It's yours for five.'

Tim pulled Dan away. ‘Leave it, Dan. We can go to that Italian place on 28
^th
, see our waiter friend.'

Dan had noticed Tim was unusually quiet, withdrawn even. ‘So,' he said, ‘I'll be calling you “Father” soon.'

‘I don't know, Dan,' Tim said. ‘Maybe. But there's a long way to go yet and, sometimes, I'm not sure.' He faced his brother earnestly. ‘Things happen that can sort of stop me in my tracks.' 

‘What sort of things?'

Tim told him about Tony O'Reilly, about little Frankie, Declan O'Connor and the missing Ripley. ‘Everything is stacked against Tony O'Reilly,' he said, ‘and if we don't find this Martin Ripley he could be sent to the electric chair.'

‘It won't come to that,' Dan said confidently.

‘That's what I thought,' Tim told him, ‘but Tony's lawyer says it's looking more and more likely.'

‘What about Father Pat? He must know this kid O'Reilly and his family if they're from his parish. What does he say?'

‘Not much up to now. But I'm pretty sure this boy is
innocent
. I just feel the Church should be doing more. I think we should at least go and see the mayor, or even the governor.'

‘Not both,' Dan advised. ‘One of them yes, but they probably wouldn't work together. If there's any political mileage in this and you can get
one
of them to take it up – fine. I'd try Jimmy Walker first, then if there's nothing doing try the governor.'

He drew Tim to a halt on the darkening street. Going down Ninth Avenue they had come to a corner where a newly pasted poster with a list of coming attractions at a night club called The Black Cat had caught his attention. Top of the bill was the name Michael Dolan and the boast: Everybody's favourite singer. They gazed with a mixture of amusement and pride. Then they both laughed aloud, genuinely thrilled at Michael's rapid progress.

At the Italian restaurant there was no problem about ties and the same waiter served them. ‘I think I should thank you on behalf of my brother,' Dan told him.

‘Oh, yeah?' the waiter said politely.

‘Yeah,' Dan said. ‘I was in here with my brother, not this one, my other brother. He's a singer and he was looking for work. Do you remember? You told him to try the Irish Club.'

The waiter's face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Oh sure. I remember. But there were three of you.'

‘That's right,' Dan said. ‘My brother Michael and his pal Nathan, the piano player. Anyway, they did all right. They got a job at the Irish Club and they've gone on from there.' 

‘Good. That's great. So he's doing all right?'

‘He's doing fine,' Dan said. He wanted to ask if the waiter had heard of him, but he didn't want to embarrass the man.

Tim didn't hesitate. ‘His name's Michael Dolan,' he said. ‘Posters going up all over the place.' He laughed. ‘Famous overnight.'

‘The Irish boy? You're not … he's not this Dolan? Michael Dolan? The girls are going crazy over him.'

‘That's what we're worried about,' Dan said.

‘He should go a long way,' the waiter said. ‘Good-looking boy.'

‘Don't tell him,' Tim said with a laugh.

‘He's really going places,' the waiter said enthusiastically. ‘I ain't heard him yet. But my sister and her husband went to this place in the Village and they said he was great.'

Later, when they were walking back to the church house where Tim was living, Dan mentioned Vincent O'Hara. According to Tim, Tony O'Reilly and his pals were doing a job for O'Hara when Ripley pulled out this gun and shot someone. The police questioned O'Hara but he said he knew nothing about it and he had never heard of Tony O'Reilly. That was the story.

‘And now,' Dan said with a frown, ‘it looks as if our Michael is working for O'Hara.'

‘Trouble is,' Tim said, ‘they tell me O'Hara is pure evil, a ruthless killer. Cross him and he wouldn't think twice. Crazy, by all accounts.'

It was eleven o'clock when Dan climbed in a cab. He wanted to get back to Brooklyn before midnight when the cab fares doubled. And anyway, if Peg O'Malley was having a party in his honour he ought to be there. They would have to meet up with Michael soon, Tim said as they parted. Time they found out what he was up to and what he knew of Vincent O'Hara.

The party had already started. Friends and neighbours, most of them quite a lot older than Dan, filled the place with Irish accents. One woman was singing loudly
Come back, Paddy Reilly, to Ballyjamesduff
and never getting any further. Yet 
another asked Dan at every opportunity if he had ever been to Skibbereen. An old lady, whose hat had been knocked sideways, was making a face every time she took a sip of the unlabelled gin. But it didn't stop her drinking the stuff. And nearly everyone was inebriated, Dan noted with a smile. It was almost two o'clock in the morning when the last guest left and he started to help Peg O'Malley clear up.

‘Ah, you can leave all that,' she said, as Dan went round picking up empty glasses, and she sank to the sofa. ‘Come here and sit beside me.'

Her blue eyes were sparkling and she looked as though she had enjoyed herself but compared to her guests she was
relatively
sober. ‘You're not a drinker, Daniel,' she said.

‘Only in moderation,' he told her.

‘Most of the young fellas coming over get drunk out of their skull Saturdays. Work all week and drink all Saturday.'

‘I know,' Dan said, ‘but not me. And not Tim. We've seen what the drink can do to people. Our Uncle Patrick drank himself to death. And his father was just the same.'

‘And what about Michael?'

‘We have to watch him sometimes.'

She snuggled up close. ‘Put your arm around me,' she said.

He put his arm around her shoulders and she turned towards him and kissed him on the lips. He smiled down at her as she curled up beside him. ‘Have you had a lot to drink?'

‘No,' she said, ‘and I do know what I'm doing.'

‘Oh yeah?' he said. ‘And what
are
you doing?'

‘I'm losing you. My best boy. So I'm seducing you. I want you to take me to bed – tonight. Just this once.'

Michael was a natural showman and with every engagement he was getting better. The Wednesday evening following the Friday night party at O'Hara's he was singing with the dance band at the Alhambra. The crowd loved him. When he sang a jazzy number he whipped them into a frenzy. When he sang a slow number the spooning couples slowed down and hovered around the stage. 

‘You got to enjoy it,' Joe Bononi told him. ‘When you enjoy it the audience enjoys it.' And Michael was loving every minute.

Nathan was waiting as he came off the stage. ‘Guy here wants to talk to you,' he said. ‘Name of Al Marco. He's in the passage.'

‘Who is he?' Michael asked.

‘Reckons he's an agent. He says he's with the Jean Goldkette Organization in Detroit. They send bands out on tour. He says right now they're looking for a couple of singers. Boy and girl. I thought you and Annie might be interested.'

‘In touring? The main action is here, Nathan. You know that.'

‘Yeah,' Nathan agreed. ‘But I'd listen to what he has to say. Can't do any harm.'

A small, bird-like man, he wore a heavy black moustache that was too big for his pale, creased face. He was dressed in a black overcoat and a black trilby hat. Looks more like an undertaker than a talent spotter, was Michael's first impression, as he went down the passage that led to the tiny dressing room he shared with the twelve-piece orchestra.

‘Hey, Michael Dolan!' the man called by way of greeting and he came forward, hand outstretched, his face shrouded in clouds of smoke from a cigarette that seemed to be welded to his lower lip. ‘Al Marco from Detroit. I represent Jean Goldkette and I have to tell you we're putting together a really great band. The very best musicians. Jazz, swing. And we need a couple of ballad singers – boy and a girl. It's a touring band with great prospects.'

Michael smiled and nodded politely but showed little interest.

‘Band is almost in place. Guy called Glen Gray running things.'

‘I don't know anyone in Detroit, Mr Marco,' Michael told him. ‘And I'm OK here for now. Plenty of work.'

‘Yeah, well, this is different,' Marco said. ‘They start with a tour of the Midwest. But before that they got a recording date. Their stuff is going to be out in all the music shops. Swingin' on one side for the fellas, ballads on the other for the girls. I reckon the girls'll go crazy for the records if you're doing the vocals.'