Tell Them I'll Be There (22 page)

Dan Dolan was doubtful. He had wanted to beat O'Hara to a pulp, kill him even, and when he thought of Nathan, helpless in that hospital bed, he still did. But Baker had calmed him down.

‘What you plan to do,' he said, ‘is not very clever. It's not worthy of you. You can do better than that.'

Dan shook his head, murder in his heart.

‘Look at me,' Baker ordered. ‘You're not some crazy Irishman. You got to think this through. You go round there and if you get anywhere near O'Hara you kill him. How? With your bare hands? Have you got a gun, a knife, what? You got no chance. And even if you did somehow get to kill him, what would happen? There'd be a contract on your head. The lowlife of this town would be scrapping to get to you first. You wouldn't last the weekend.'

‘So I do nothing'?' Dan demanded. ‘Sit back and let him get away with it. That what you're saying?'

‘I'm saying you use your head. You don't win with a gun, you win with your brains. And anyway, he's not just yours. I want him, too.'

So Dan had listened and now here he was, walking up to O'Hara's brownstone on Bedford Street on a Sunday afternoon as if he was paying a social call. 

The door was opened, as expected, by one of O'Hara's henchmen. The man was dressed in a sober Sunday suit. He looked as though he'd just been to church and now he was expecting family visitors for lunch. Dan brushed passed him into the hallway with its garish pink wallpaper and yellowish oilclothed floor.

Jimmy Pickles was at the foot of the stairs, a glass in his hand. To his right in what would have been the living room in a normal set-up was a bar where three of O'Hara's men were sitting around, apparently half-asleep. Pickles looked up in surprise and said loudly to alert the three in the bar. ‘Mr Dolan! To what do we owe this pleasure?'

‘I'm here to see Mr O'Hara,' Dan said mildly.

‘Yeah?' With a flick of his head at the doorman, Pickles came forward. The doorman frisked Dan for concealed weapons and was satisfied. ‘Wait here,' Pickles told Dan as he knocked lightly at the door to the parlour, O'Hara's office, and went inside. Then, though not without a brief delay, he came back to usher Dan in.

O'Hara was seated, as usual, behind his desk in the semi-dark room and Dan wondered what sort of life this was. Sitting in a gloomy office with all visitors vetted and frisked and with one eye on security day and night didn't seem much fun. For all his power and alleged wealth, O'Hara was as trapped as anyone else.

Pickles hovered at the door as O'Hara stood up. O'Hara pointed to a chair and Pickles sat down. Hand extended O'Hara offered Dan a seat by the desk. Then he returned to his own chair, leaning into the light from the desk lamp. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Dolan?'

Dan found his next words difficult to say but he had
promised
Joe Baker he would go along with his plan. ‘I want to put things right between us, Mr O'Hara. I mean, you've won and well, OK, I have to accept that.'

O'Hara made an arch with his fingers. ‘Go on.'

‘Well, you showed what you could do to my brother. He stepped out of line and you ran him out of town. Now Michael 
was wrong to disappear like that. He owed you a lot. Not just in the way you smoothed his path as a singer, but financially, too. You must have paved his way with dollars. He couldn't have made it so fast without your help. You were good to him and the way he repaid you was wrong. But I'm asking you to stop hounding him, Mr O'Hara. His career as a performer is over. Surely that's enough. You don't have to find him and … and do whatever you plan to do with him.'

O'Hara remained silent, not giving anything away.

‘And then there's Nathan,' Dan went on. ‘Your boys beat him up pretty bad. He's in hospital right now and he'll be there for a long time. I went to see him and he swears he has no idea where my brother is. He says he would tell me if he did. So I'm hoping your boys will leave him alone.'

O'Hara's watery eyes never left Dan's. He was silent now for several seconds. Then he said, ‘I understand your concern for your brother and your friend, Mr Dolan, but I should tell you that neither I nor my boys admit to any responsibility for
whatever
happened to – what was his name? – Nathan. Nor do we admit to putting out what some people in the criminal
community
would call “a contract” on your brother's life. But if we did, if we were to admit responsibility for these despicable acts and promised to refrain from such activity in the future, what would be in it for us?'

Dan looked over his shoulder at Pickles, then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You know when I came to the club and you wanted me to help you place your bets on the stock market? Well, if I had your assurance you would call off the hunt for Michael I'd be willing to work for you in that sphere one hundred per cent.'

O'Hara sat back out of the light. ‘Interesting. Very
interesting
,' he said quietly. ‘An interesting proposition, Mr Dolan.' He was quiet for a moment as if turning the idea over in his mind. Then he said, ‘And how would we communicate? Through Barbara Baker?'

It was the clearest admission yet that Baker's wife was involved. 

‘Oh no,' Dan said emphatically. ‘Not Mrs Baker. I don't know why but Joe – I mean, Mr Baker – doesn't like me to have much contact with Mrs Baker.' He smiled wryly. ‘Maybe those rather compromising pictures in the newspapers have something to do with it. Better if we do this direct. Or, if you prefer, I could deal with Mr Pickles.'

O'Hara nodded and stood up, holding out a hand. ‘Fine, Mr Dolan,' he said with a smile. ‘It's a deal.'

Dan stood up, too, and shook the damp, clammy hand,
determined
not to cringe. ‘I don't think we should do the small day-to-day stuff, Mr O'Hara, or people might see me as some kind of financial adviser and that could cause problems on the floor of the Exchange and with Mr Baker. I would prefer to contact you only when the big boys get together to rig the market. It goes on from time to time and the really big money is made. This is what I'm offering. Inside information on the big stuff.'

‘Fine.' O'Hara was beaming now. ‘That's what we're after. Stay in touch with Jimmy. And if you need to see me at any time you only have to ask.'

‘And Michael?' Dan asked.

O'Hara smiled. ‘Michael who?'

T
IM LOOKED OVER
his shoulder as he left the village, knowing he was probably seeing it for the last time. There was nothing there for him now, nothing but memories and what remained of a girl, a girl whose lovely wistful face and trusting eyes were gone now. She was gone forever but not from him. Her searching look and the questions he had refused to face for far too long were still there and would always be there, ready to confront him in quiet moments. Kathleen, her hair blowing in the wind or framing her face in the driving rain, her thin cotton dress clinging to the contours of her body, would haunt him, stand before him from beyond the grave and ask him why. Why had he let her love him when he didn't love her? He didn't know why. Maybe it was because he
did
love her. Certainly he had come back aching to see her. He had come back for his mother's sake. But that was only part of it. He knew, if he was honest, he had wanted more than anything to see Kathleen. But he knew, too, that even when he arrived and was ready to face her he had no plan, nothing to offer. He was still confused, his true motive unrealized, and even if Kathleen had been alive he had no idea what he would have said to her.

Would he have held out his arms, renounced the Church, turned his back on the path smoothed out for him? Did his calling count for nothing? Was his vocation gone? Was it ever there? Or was it something others had ordained for him? He didn't know. All he knew was that this all-seeing God Almighty he worshipped had let him down, deserted him and left his head and his heart in turmoil. 

He had watched his native shoreline slowly recede, grow fainter, then indistinct and finally disappear in a damp mist that left his hair wet. Only the grey, swelling Atlantic remained. Next stop New York. He didn't know what he would do now in his adopted city. He didn't know what he would tell Father Pat. He was no longer sure of anything and his days at sea did little to help.

Going ashore as a bona fide passenger and not as an
immigrant
whose next stop was Ellis Island, Tim looked across at the hopefuls detained by a boatswain's rope. Just a few years ago he and his brothers had been like them and it was the same mix now. There were a few older people who had left everything behind to be with their families, but it was mainly young married couples and single men in search of a better future and a prosperity that eluded them at home. And there were children, children of all ages, wide-eyed and bewildered, unaware that
they
were the future and that most of the promises this new country made were made to them.

He walked off into a chilly but bright sunlight and at once the newspaper billboards caught his eye. Four posters in a row said the same thing:
DEATH PICTURE INSIDE! READ ALL ABOUT IT!
The partial headline he could see under the newsboy's arm read:
SING SING
. He bought a copy and opened it out as the disembarking passengers swirled about him.
RUTH DIES IN SING SING
.

The
Daily News
carried a picture of Ruth Snyder, the Brooklyn woman convicted with her boyfriend of murdering her husband. Somehow, by some means that could only have been devious, the man from the
News
had snapped a picture of Ruth Snyder in the electric chair. It was a scoop, a sensation, sordid and sickening. It was all of those things and it was
gruesome
, too, yet people were clamouring for copies. Tim was jostled, brushed aside, cursed, but he read on, eager now to rejoin the crusade circumstances had forced him to leave.

A
Daily News
reporter had smuggled a camera strapped to his leg into the death chamber and at the moment of Ruth Snyder's death had taken a surreptitious shot as she slumped forward in the chair. Printing a picture like this was disgusting, 
an insult to every decent human being, Tim told himself. But maybe some good would come of it. Maybe it would put an end to the mindless barbarity or, at least, force the authorities to reconsider.

On every page, it seemed, the paper was filled with righteous indignation at the inhuman killing of a woman in this manner at the same time celebrating its ‘world scoop'. A front-page comment condemned the use of the chair as ‘savage and archaic, an affront to civilization.' Not content with despatching a woman in this way, Tim read, our ‘
“guardians of Justice” sent three men to their deaths in one day
.'

According to the newspaper the so-called Death Row at Sing Sing had come to resemble a factory floor with an assembly line where prisoners were disposed of in threes. Lower down he read that a Father Patrick Costello had accused the State of
wholesale
murder when three men including one of his parishioners, a nineteen-year old boy, were executed within hours of each other. Furthermore, the priest had claimed, the boy, Anthony O'Reilly, was innocent.

Tim closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it. No date had been set for Tony when he left. It usually took a couple of months before any date was confirmed. But, as the paper hinted, Sing Sing had become a fast track conveyor belt. Three in one day and one an innocent boy. He knew he would be haunted now by the spectre of Tony O'Reilly, the boy he had truly believed would be spared, the boy whose sentence, he felt certain, would be commuted.

He was at the bus stop, waiting to go back to his temporary home at the parish church. His first instinct was to see Father Pat, hear what he had to say. But when the trolley came he changed his mind. Without knowing why he stayed on as far as Times Square.

He didn't want to see Father Pat just yet. He was not ready for him. He didn't want to think about Tony O'Reilly. He didn't want to think about Kathy. He didn't want to think about anything.

It was early evening but darkness was falling fast. Already the 
bright lights of the city were spread out before him. Nearby the green and blue neon of Hannigan's Irish Bar looked warm and inviting. He pushed open the door and was surprised to find the place empty. It was set out like a coffee shop with little bowls of sugar and place mats on the tables. Tim had planned to have a few drinks to help him forget and this was not what he expected. Then he remembered this was the United States and Prohibition.

A short fat man, black hair slicked down in thinning strips, a black walrus moustache and an apron from the waist down was behind the bar.

‘Well, hallo there?' he exclaimed genially as if surprised to see a customer and, with a nod at Tim's suitcase, ‘Leaving town?'

‘Just come back, so I have,' Tim said, matching the man's accent. ‘I've been home for a few days.'

‘Across the water?' he asked, placing a cup of coffee on the bar.

‘Across the water,' Tim confirmed. ‘We heard our Ma was ill, my brothers and me, so we decided one of us should go home.'

The barman was impressed, impressed probably that Tim could afford the fare. ‘That's good,' he said. ‘And how was the lady?'

‘She died before I got home.'

‘Ah now, that is a shame. And where is home? Dublin?'

‘Not far from Dublin.'

‘Now we're from Down and some us from Armagh,' he began and Tim felt obliged to listen and nod and look interested as the man went through his family history of the last fifty years. ‘Did you not want your coffee?' he asked at last.

‘I was looking for a bar, to tell you the truth,' Tim said. ‘But I forgot. They don't allow it over here.'

The barman looked at him closely for a moment then held out a hand. ‘Gerry McKenna.'

Tim shook his hand. ‘Timothy Dolan.'

‘Well now, Timothy,' he said. ‘You look to me like you're on the level.' He was taking off his apron. ‘Come along wit' me.'

Tim lifted his suitcase. ‘Could I leave this here?'

‘Sure you can.' McKenna put the suitcase behind his counter. 

They left Hannigan's Bar, turned off the square and went down a side street. Tim followed the rolling gait of his new found friend. It was much darker here but they had only gone a few yards when McKenna led him down some steep steps between two apartment buildings. He opened an outer door and led Tim down a flagged passage to where he knocked on another door. A grating appeared in the door at eye level and they were scrutinized from within.

‘Open up, for God's sake,' McKenna said impatiently and the door opened. ‘You'll get yourself a drink in here, Timothy, so you will. Enjoy the crack.'

Tim turned to thank him but McKenna had already gone. He followed the door opener to the end of another passage, wondering where he was being taken, but this time, as the next door opened, the level of noise hit him in the face. The place was tightly packed with people holding drinks chest high.

‘You'll get a drink at the bar if you can find it,' the door opener told him and returned to his job.

Tim edged his way gingerly through what was no doubt Hannigan's former clientele. Irish voices everywhere. A burly waiter ordered two swaying drunks to shut up and sit down or he would throw them out so they could fight in peace. Tim smiled. He liked the place already.

Clumsily he bumped into a raised arm, almost causing the owner to spill his precious drink. ‘I'm sorry,' he said at once. ‘I'm trying to find the bar.'

‘Follow me, laddie,' the man said, emptying his glass. ‘I'll show ye the best spot to get served and ye can buy me a drink.'

‘So I can,' Tim said with a laugh, following him through the crush.

He was a large man and he looked as though he was fond of his drink. He was from a village down in the south east not far from Skibbereen, he told Tim, and as they waited at the bar he started to sing. ‘
Ah, well I do remember the year of forty eight, we joined the boys of Erin's Isle to fight against the Fate. I was hunted in the mountains, a traitor to the Queen and that is why, my mother dear, I left ol' Skibbereen
.' 

‘Shut up, Murphy,' the bartender said, ‘you'll turn the stout sour.'

‘Yes,' Murphy said. ‘That's what we'll have. Two pints of the Murphy's, barman. Got to be Murphy's. Me gran'daddy started the brewery in 1848, so he did. Murphy's, the finest stout in the whole of Oireland.'

‘Well, if that's the truth,' the bartender said as he drew the pints, ‘your gran'daddy must have cut you off without a penny. You never have one when you come in here.' He put the pints on a ledge behind him. ‘And who'll be paying?'

‘Me, I guess.' Tim put his hand across the bar. ‘Timothy Dolan.'

‘Was him blew up the Post Office in O'Connell Street,' Murphy said.

‘And it was me won the Grand National, so it was,' the bartender said, shaking Tim's hand.

As they watched the stout settle in the time honoured fashion Tim had to smile. Draught stout! Prohibition? Then the moment the drinks were put before them Murphy took a long swig. ‘Now that's what I call stout,' he said, a line of froth on his upper lip.

Murphy was full of the blarney but for now Tim was happy in his company. He wanted to drown himself in the black stout and he was deaf to the tuneless singing and the
relentless
repartee of those around him. Two more pints and they were joined by a large blonde lady in a cheap-looking fur coat.

‘Matthew Murphy,' she said, slurring her words as if like most of those present she was already well into the drink. ‘You got this fine-looking young fella here and you have not the good manners to introduce me. What kind of friend are you?'

Murphy's eyes seemed out of focus. ‘A good friend,' he said and he nodded vaguely in Tim's direction. ‘A good friend to him.'

Ignoring the intended rebuff, the blonde lady thrust her large bosom between them and introduced herself. ‘Sophie,' she said and she offered Tim her chubby fingers. 

Light-headed and flamboyant now, Tim kissed the back of her hand. ‘Timothy Dolan, at your service, ma'am.'

‘Ooh!' she said suggestively. ‘I hope so. And I'll have a jar of the bathtub.'

Tim was quietly amused that he had been picked up so swiftly by a couple of drunks. It was what he needed, an hour or two of brainless banter. He had little idea of time and as the evening wore on others joined their party. Some stayed and some came and went and the only indication that the session was drawing to a close was the increasing number of slurred songs.

All three were wilting now. Tim's eyes were closing, the gin was dribbling down Sophie's chin and even Murphy looked as though he'd had enough.

‘And what will you do now you're back, Timothy lad?' Murphy asked, putting an arm around Tim's shoulder.

Tim swayed. ‘I'm to join the priesthood.'

‘You're to be a priest?' Murphy was astonished. ‘Lord God Almighty, Sophie!' he exclaimed. ‘We're drinking with a man from the Holy Roman Church. Wasn't I an altar boy myself?'

‘Get away with you,' Sophie said scornfully. ‘You wouldn't know one end of the church from the other.'

‘I was I tell you. Born and bred a Cat'lic, so I was. And you know what they say. Once a Cat'lic, always a Cat'lic.'

‘So you're having a last fling, Father?' Sophie asked. ‘Is that it? Well now, good for you. There'll be no more of this when you get yourself co-ordinated.'

‘
Ordained
,' Murphy corrected her disdainfully.

‘That's what I said,' Sophie challenged him.

‘Ah, there'll be plenty of this,' Murphy went on. ‘Every priest I ever knew was a drinker.' He laughed. ‘And that does for you, old girl. You cannot go to bed with a priest.'

‘He's not a priest yet,' Sophie said drunkenly. ‘I'll take you home, Timo … Timothy lad, and I'll show you what you'll be missing.'

‘If I thought it would save me from that,' Murphy said, ‘sure and I would take the collar meself.'