Tell Them I'll Be There (16 page)

Michael was more than interested in the record deal.

‘Then when they come back, what do you think?' Marco was thrilled with his news. ‘They got
six
radio spots.'

The idea of touring didn't appeal to Michael but the recording contract and the radio shows were exactly what he wanted. Radio stations all over the country were playing dance music and regular record programmes were starting up every week. He shook hands with the smoke-enveloped Marco and said he would think it over.

Al Marco gave him a card with a Detroit telephone number. ‘Don't leave it too long, son,' he said. ‘Chance of a lifetime.'

When he told Joe Bononi of Marco's approach, Bononi was not pleased. ‘Sonofabitch,' he said. ‘Not supposed to do that. Supposed to come to me. Did you tell him you got an agent?'

‘No, I didn't,' Michael admitted. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't think.'

‘Well think next time,' Bononi ordered, as if chastising a child. ‘You're going to get all kinds of creeps coming round.'

Michael didn't say so but he didn't think Marco was a creep. The man was just doing his job and Michael didn't like Bononi's reaction. It was as if they owned him. He decided to hold on to the business card with the Detroit telephone number.

Friday night, Bononi told him, Mr O'Hara was coming to the Showcase. Michael would be at the Alhambra with the band until midnight. Then he had two spots at the Showcase, first around one, the second an hour later. Mr O'Hara was bringing a party of his friends. He would be accompanied, too, by some girl who was said to be eager to meet ‘the new singing
sensation
'.

When Michael arrived at the Showcase that Friday evening, Jimmy Pickles was waiting for him. ‘Boss is here,' he said, ‘and he wants you to put on a good show.'

‘I always put on a good show,' Michael said with a laugh.

‘Yeah well, he's got some big shots with him tonight and he wants them to have a good time. The Englishman and his boys. You heard of these guys?'

‘I think so,' Michael said. ‘Crooks aren't they? Mobsters.'

Pickles looked around in alarm. ‘Don't say that, you idiot.' 

‘Well, I heard this English guy was in Sing Sing or somewhere.'

Pickles put his face close to Michael's. ‘You're a singer, not a funny man. OK?'

‘OK, OK,' Michael said, backing off. ‘So who's this girl?'

‘She's Mr O'Hara's niece. He's very fond of her so you better treat her real nice.'

‘How?'

‘Well, she's only a kid. Can't you sing to her or something?'

‘Sing to her? How old is she exactly and what's her name?'

‘She's about seventeen and her name's Rose.'

The way it turned out O'Hara was more concerned about his main guest than he was about his bright-eyed niece. The man he clearly deferred to was the man they called The Englishman.

The Englishman was slim and wiry. He had black hair,
flattened
down and parted in the middle. He had blue, unblinking eyes, a beak-like nose and a pale face that rarely smiled or expressed any emotion. He had come to New York from England with his family, aged ten, to grow up in the cauldron of Hell's Kitchen.

In 1915 he was sentenced from ten to twenty years in Sing Sing. Out after serving less than eight he now had a piece of many, if not most, of the clubs and speakeasies on Manhattan Island. Michael didn't look at him directly, but he gained the distinct impression he was not a man to cross, an instinct confirmed when he heard The Englishman was also known as ‘The Killer'.

Michael's first three numbers had gone down reasonably well, but his audience, hunched over the tables in the darkened room, seemed more intent on their own affairs than listening to him. This was fine. He was tired and he would be glad when the night's show was over. But as he came out for the next set to a mild ripple of applause, Vin O'Hara beckoned him to come over. The piano player carried on tinkling his introduction as Michael walked over to O'Hara's table.

Always aware of how to please without appearing over
sycophantic
, Michael said respectfully, ‘You want me, boss?' 

O'Hara liked this and he stood up and slapped Michael on the back. ‘Mikey!' he said. ‘I want you to say hello to my special guest and very good friend, the chief himself.'

‘Pleased to meet you, sir,' Michael said, feeling like a hypocrite.

The Englishman was toying with a coffee spoon. He nodded once, his pale face unsmiling.

‘How about something for the boss, eh Mikey?' O'Hara said, giving Michael a problem. ‘Got a song for the head man?'

Michael got the message. O'Hara was desperately anxious to please this fellow. He nodded, backing away. ‘I'll do what I can.'

He walked back slowly to the small stage, trapped between these massive egos. Jimmy Pickles had warned him this might happen. If you have to sing for The Englishman, Pickles told him, make sure it's nothing too soppy and lay off the Blarney. He's
English
, OK? He's from Yorkshire and he's proud of it. And don't try any of that three-time loser crap, he warned. Mention of the stammer might not go down too good with a guy who did eight in Sing Sing.

Michael was left with few options but by the time he reached the piano he had an idea. There was a streetwise song about fellows who were always on the town and never seemed short of cash. He saluted the thugs at The Englishman's table to
indicate
this was for them and went into a song called Ace in the hole. Well before he reached the end he knew, from their
grinning
faces, it was a good choice. Even The Englishman almost cracked a smile. Michael milked the song mercilessly. He sang the last few lines twice and most of the audience, sensing there was a certain tension in the air, were quick to join in the
appreciative
outburst of applause.

O'Hara's niece was watching Michael's every move with rapt attention and, though Michael didn't realize it at the time, he had made one new fan who was about to cause him serious problems.

F
OR SOME REASON
– his own safety, perhaps – Tony O'Reilly was being held at the old Raymond Street Jail in Brooklyn. It was a dark, forbidding place with high walls and high corner turrets like some medieval house of correction. His cell was a small square with four bunks and like all the others it was fully occupied, many of the prisoners, like himself, awaiting trial.

The Tony O'Reilly who appeared now, handcuffed, in the bare, drab visitors' room shocked Father Pat and Tim Dolan. He looked pale, thinner and his shoulders sagged despondently. He looked scared, too, his dark-ringed, sunken eyes fearful as if he was wary of being attacked.

Father Pat glanced at Tim, his eyes registering his deep concern. He had kicked up a fuss when refused permission to see Tony and he had refused to leave. True, they had arrived unannounced and without an appointment but he had railed at the prison officer who refused them entry, demanded to see the warden or better still, he said, a telephone so he could ring his friend the mayor. He caused such a disturbance that a senior guard or someone in authority had finally relented. Even when admitted, with Tim in tow he had raged all along a corridor, ‘You cannot refuse a man permission to see his priest! Visiting hours or not!'

When the wan, diminished figure of Tony O'Reilly was brought in Father Pat calmed down. ‘Can you not leave us alone?' he asked.

But the prison officer delegated to keep a watchful eye and 
stand guard at the door shook his head. ‘It's not me, Father,' he said, full of apology. ‘It's orders. I
have
to stay.'

‘Well sit down, man,' Father Pat said, ‘make yourself less conspicuous.'

They faced Tony across a rough wooden table, Tony with his head down, not wanting to look at them, not wanting them, especially Tim, to see him like this.

‘How are you doing, son?' Father Pat asked.

Tony raised his head slightly but he didn't answer. He looked instead as though he was about to cry. Nobody spoke and the only sound in that bare, unpainted room was the relentless tick of the wall clock as the second's finger followed its prescribed route. To Father Pat he was the little O'Reilly boy who served at his altar before the bright lights of the city and the illusory promise of the criminal life led him up the wrong path.

Tim's heart went out to him. He really was like a frightened little kid and, watching him now, Tim was even more convinced of his innocence.

‘What's happening, Father?' Tony asked at last, his voice shaking. ‘When will I get out of here?'

‘We're doing our best,' Father Pat said. ‘You just have to hang on, keep your trust in God and pray we can get you through this.'

Tony looked at Tim Dolan, all self-respect gone. ‘I can't stand it,' he sobbed. ‘They're crazy, mad, the whole lot of them. I can't sleep. I
daren't
sleep. They … they won't let me alone.'

Tim nodded, not knowing what to say. There was nothing left of the cocky, confident young man about town who, just a couple of weeks ago in his snazzy new outfit, was inviting him to join him and his pals on a jaunt to Coney Island. Now one of those pals was dead, another was missing, hunted by the police, and he was incarcerated in this God-forsaken hell hole.

‘Have you seen your mother?' Father Pat asked.

Tony shook his head violently. ‘No! I don't want her to come. I don't want her to see me like this. Promise me you'll not let her come, Father.' He looked again at Tim. ‘You'll tell her I'm OK? I don't want her coming here.' 

Tim nodded. ‘Sure, Tony. We'll tell her.'

‘Is Frankie OK?' he asked pathetically.

‘He's worried about you, of course he is,' the priest said. ‘He wants to come but they won't let him. Partly because he's just a kid but also because he's a witness. You seen Dennis Casey yet?'

‘He's been here every other day,' Tony said. ‘It was looking OK, he said, until they found Declan. Well, that's down to O'Hara and that Jimmy Pickles. They're killers, Father. They killed Declan and they'll kill Ripley if they get their hands on him. I should never have got involved.' He glanced at Tim, aware of the irony. ‘I know. It's all my own fault, no less than I deserve.'

‘You don't deserve this,' Father Pat told him, ‘and you must not give up. Do you hear me? You mustn't even think about it.'

‘They won't kill Ripley,' Tim said with a confidence he didn't feel. ‘All Ripley has to do is lie low, hide away somewhere. Well, it's up to us to find him.'

‘You don't know what they're like,' Tony said bitterly. ‘If they think Ripley might squeal they'll make sure he doesn't.'

‘Let's not talk about this now,' Father Pat said, aware the officer sitting quietly by the door was trying to let him know it was time to go. ‘Let's talk about you for a minute. Can we bring you something? Books, a magazine? We can ask Dennis to bring something in.'

Tony's eyes were filling up again as he realized their time was up. ‘It's no good, Father. If I had anything they'd take it off me.'

‘Who'd take it off you? The guards?'

‘The guys in my cell. They're criminals, Father. Hard men. I'm not like them. I shouldn't be in here. I have to scream out at night for the guard. I have to fight them off but there's three of them. They're like animals …' His voice trailed. ‘I wish they'd get on with it, find me guilty. Anything's better than this. I'd rather be dead.'

‘I'll see the warden,' Father Pat promised, his indignation rising.

Tim was affected deeply by the desperation in Tony O'Reilly's eyes, his voice, his whole body. He didn't want to leave him here yet there was nothing he or Father Pat could do. 

Dennis Casey was doing what he could but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. Dennis had talked to Sam Leibowitz, a Manhattan defence attorney who was making a name for himself as a man who enjoyed taking on difficult cases. Leibowitz had conducted the defence of several high-profile clients with considerable success. But after studying all aspects of Tony's case Leibowitz, Dennis Casey had told Father Pat, was not optimistic. He simply repeated what they already knew. Even if Martin Ripley was found there was no proof he had even been present at the scene. All they had was the testimony of a ten-year-old boy, the testimony of the accused's little brother, a boy who may or may not be telling the truth, and even if Frankie
was
telling the truth, the only person who could corroborate his testimony was Declan O'Connor and Declan was dead.

‘We'll do everything we can to get you moved,' Tim
promised
. ‘We need to see the warden.' He turned to Father Pat. ‘This is crazy. Tony's not a criminal. He's not been convicted of anything and we
know
he's not guilty.'

‘All right, all right,' Father Pat said to calm him. ‘We'll do what we can, of course we will. But for now …' He turned to Tony. ‘For now, son, all you can do is pray. Nobody believes you did this. You have the whole parish behind you and, among other things, we're getting up a petition to the mayor. I'll take it to Jimmy Walker myself.' He reached across the table and put a hand on Tony's bowed head. ‘Bless you, my son. Have faith.'

The guard stood up. ‘No touching, Father. It's not allowed.'

‘Is that right?' Father Pat said scathingly.

The guard banged on the door and almost immediately two more guards appeared. ‘Time's up. Father,' one said. ‘Come on now.'

One on either side, they took hold of Tony O'Reilly and drew him to his feet.

‘Let the boy alone,' Father Pat said indignantly. ‘Sure and he's not going to run away.'

‘Time's up,' the guard repeated and Tony was led from the table, his eyes imploring them to do something soon. 

‘We'll do everything we can, Tony,' Tim told him.

‘We'll be back, son,' Father Pat promised.

Back at his church Father Pat went straight to the altar and knelt to pray and Tim joined him, questioning in spite of himself the value of this ritual. He couldn't help thinking it wasn't prayer Tony O'Reilly needed just then, it was positive action and the sooner the better. ‘Where's the justice, Father?' he asked later. ‘If there was any justice,' he said and what he really meant was the justice of the Almighty, ‘this rat Ripley would be found and dragged screaming into court.'

‘This rat Ripley,' Father Pat repeated, slowly and deliberately. ‘I'm afraid you don't know Martin Ripley, son.
I
do. And have I not failed him? It's my job to keep these boys out of trouble.'

‘But how could he do something like that and let Tony take the rap? Is he going to lie low until it's too late? See Tony go to the chair then get on with the rest of his life? What kind of man is he?'

‘I'll tell you what kind of man he is. Martin Ripley is a young man who had a rotten start in life. His father was no good, a petty thief who disappeared when he got Martin's mother in trouble. The poor girl was only seventeen and she walked the streets to feed herself and her baby. The vermin who lived off her filled her up with cheap booze until she didn't know what the hell she was doing and she became an alcoholic. She couldn't live without the stuff and in the end it killed her. But before that they took her little boy away and that only made things worse. They took Martin to the orphanage at Mount Loretto over on Staten Island and they managed to keep him there until he was old enough to run away. He went missing for a long time but then he showed up around here again and by then he'd learned how to take care of himself. That's what he's good at. Taking care of himself. And that is what he's doing right now. He ain't going to come forward and tell the cops, “Hey! You got the wrong man.” Oh no, not Martin. Martin Ripley knows only one number and that's number one. He has had to live that way.'

Tim was caught up in a mix of emotions. Everything was so 
much more complex than it appeared. ‘So what's going to happen, Father?'

‘Well, at the moment,' the priest said, ‘the inevitable is going to happen. Tony O'Reilly is going to the chair.'

The rise and rise of Michael Dolan seemed unstoppable, a showbiz phenomenon. The notable and the notorious were flocking nightly to the cabaret at the Showcase and it soon became necessary to turn those without the cachet of a big name or influence with the management away at the door. The Showcase had long been a cut above most of the night spots in midtown Manhattan but now it was the place to be and be seen, and this was undoubtedly due to the appeal of the new singing sensation, Michael Dolan.

On one memorable night ‘Mr Showbiz' himself, George M. Cohan, curious to know what was going on here, came in with a party of friends. Michael always seemed to be ready on these occasions and he delighted his much celebrated guest by opening his act with one of Cohan's best loved songs.
For it was Mary
, he sang. Now, as Michael broke into
Give my regards to Broadway
, Cohan actually stood up and danced a few steps in the way he had made famous. And when he joined Michael on stage they had the whole audience singing with them. George M. Cohan had been in the business for almost fifty years, most of that time at the top and though his star was fading in 1927 he was still revered by many as a true Irish New Yorker.

Another night the mayor himself, Mr Jimmy Walker, arrived with his girlfriend Betty Compton. Jimmy Walker was noted for his many affairs with dancers and show girls and now he had left his wife for this lady, yet such was his popularity in New York city that he was still well received wherever he went. A smart dresser and a flamboyant character he had in his younger days wanted to be a songwriter and the legacy of this period was just one song of note. Again Michael was prepared and with a majestic wave towards the honoured guest he went into the song, a song that was very popular in its day,
Will you love
 
me in December as you love me now in May?
The good-time mayor stood up and took a bow.

Vincent O'Hara owned a half share in the Showcase and the place was well protected from the incursions of other gangs by his boss, The Englishman, who owned the other half.

O'Hara was well aware that much of the club's recent success was due to Michael Dolan and his power to draw in and charm his audiences. He was also aware that Michael Dolan might be getting a little too big. He had to be tied down or shackled in some way. In Vin O'Hara's world contracts could be bought by force or intimidation or simply torn up and he felt he needed to tighten his grip on the boy. He began this process the night Dan was invited to be his ‘special' guest. Michael warned Dan to be on his guard. Whatever O'Hara wanted would be for his own benefit, nobody else's. But Dan had already guessed this.

It was a quiet night tonight, O'Hara told Dan when they were introduced, no big name celebrities, but it was also a ‘special' night. Not only was he getting the chance to meet Michael's ‘big shot broker' brother, it was his niece's eighteenth birthday. Dan bowed to the girl, who was pink cheeked with excitement, and wished her ‘Happy Birthday'.

She was a smallish girl with a kind of fresh-faced innocence, not yet tarnished by life in the city, her newly bobbed hair at odds with her country girl demeanour. Dan guessed she was not long ‘off the boat'. Nothing wrong with that, of course. She was young, she had her whole life ahead of her and he hoped her overbearing Uncle Vinnie would allow her to live it.

Her name, as Jimmy Pickles had said, was Rose. She had brought along a girlfriend to keep her company, a girl as enthralled as she was, and they were mesmerized by the line of scantily clad dancers who opened the show. These dancing girls, were not much older in years than Rose and her friend but they were veterans in the ways of the world. They had already performed two shows that evening and now, feeling dead on their feet, their job was to inject a little chorus-line glamour into what was really an intimate cabaret.