Tell Them I'll Be There (25 page)

Nathan was delighted but then he thought again about the offer. ‘Twenty per cent? That's a big share, Dan. Only leaves me 
with eighty per cent and I do all the work.'

‘Well, right now you've got a hundred per cent of nothing.'

‘So what does it mean exactly?' Nathan was calculating the cost. ‘If I make fifty grand, he gets ten.'

‘But that's after you've paid yourself a salary and covered your costs. What have you got to lose?'

‘You're right,' Nathan said, ‘but what's he like to work for?'

‘He's OK,' Dan assured him. ‘He'll expect a financial report at the end of the year and maybe he'll have something to say. But you will own eighty per cent of the company remember.'

‘Yeah,' Nathan acknowledged. ‘What else did he say?'

‘Nothing much, except he likes your ideas about the
specialized
stuff. Italian songs. Jewish songs. Nostalgia must be pretty high right now with immigrant families, especially the older generation.' Dan smiled. ‘But it might be a while before you clear fifty grand.'

Tim was confused. Before he went home he was sure of who he was and what he wanted. Now he was not sure of anything. Maybe his mother's death was partly an act of God, designed to make him stop and think before he made an irrevocable
decision
. He sat in the empty church and gazed at the ornate altar. He looked around at the twelve stations of the cross. Was he being tested? Jesus was tested. St Peter was tested. Why shouldn't
he
be tested?

He could get up now, walk away. He could walk up to Hannigan's where he knew he could find a temporary bed. But that was silly, he told himself. He was just being melodramatic. He knew he could always sleep on Dan's floor. Dan would feed and clothe him, take care of him as he always had. But he was on his own now. He must make up his own mind on this. It was his decision, his alone. He went outside in search of Father Pat but Father Pat was not there. The only sound was the muffled, sporadic conversation of the workmen on the roof.

Tim knocked lightly on Father Pat's door and looked in. Father Pat was sitting by the window, his Bible open in his hand. For a moment Tim thought he had intruded on his daily 
meditation, but Father Pat looked over the tiny spectacles that were secured on one side by a thin twist of wire and beckoned him in.

A coal fire glowed red in the polished blackleaded grate. There was a sofa, a deep armchair, a sideboard with a
new-looking
radio, and a small bookcase the parishioners had bought for him to mark his twenty-fifth year at the church. There was a row of books on theology and pastoral work and several of the slim white diocesan newsletters that arrived every month. On the bottom row there were several cowboy books by Zane Grey and others.

‘Have you fed yourself today?' Father Pat asked.

‘Yeah, yeah, thank you, Father,' Tim said. ‘I've been with our Dan.'

‘Good boy Dan,' the priest said for no particular reason. ‘What does he have to say for himself?'

‘Nothing much,' Tim said. ‘I told him about O'Hara and the roof and he said you're right to take the money.'

Father Pat nodded.

‘And I should lay off O'Hara.'

‘And will you?'

Tim shrugged. ‘Maybe.'

‘You got other things to think about right now. That it? You're having doubts, so you are, and that's how it should be.' Father Pat put the bible down and looked at Tim searchingly. ‘You're having doubts about the priesthood.'

Tim nodded. ‘I don't know if I could ever be a good priest. I don't know if I've got what it takes.'

‘Oh, you got what it takes. It's whether it's what you really want.'

‘I don't know if I'm smart enough,' Tim said. ‘I make mistakes.'

‘Well now, that's a great start!' Father Pat smiled. ‘If you
actually
know
you make mistakes that's half the battle. Some people are never wrong. Some people think they're infallible. They think they're the Holy Father.'

Tim glanced at Father Pat quickly, looking for a hint of a 
smile. He could never tell what Father Pat was really thinking. At times he didn't seem like a priest at all. ‘Do you make mistakes?'

‘Oh sure,' Father Pat told him. ‘Sure I do. I made a pretty big mistake over Tony O'Reilly. But it's too late now.'

‘What did you do?'

‘I wrote that letter to the newspapers, didn't I? It was wrong. I shouldn't have done it.'

‘It was good. Sure you should have done it. Let everyone know what it was like, how awful it was.'

‘Let everyone know how awful it was? You mean, like Tony's ma and little Francis?'

Tim nodded, understanding.

‘I may be a priest, Tim, but I'm a man, too. Just a man. I get things wrong. Being a priest doesn't change that.'

They were silent for a moment then Father Pat said, ‘I don't know what happened when you went home. Something did for sure. But that's your business not mine. If you believe you're being tested then you probably are. We all get tested along the way. Some of us come through it, some of us don't. For some, what there is gets broken and can't be mended. For others, what there is gets broken but the break heals and what was broken is stronger than before.'

F
RIDO'S WAS A
small diner on the corner of Grove Street and Bedford. The correct pronunciation was
Freedo's
but the neighbourhood kids who terrorized the little Italian owner called it ‘Friedeggs'. Jimmy Pickles would arrive there most mornings for what he liked to call his brunch because that was what the nobs on Park Avenue called it. It came after the breakfast rush but before the lunchtime crush so he often had the place to himself.

This morning he ordered his usual ‘two fried sunny-up with a side of hash browns' but before he could sit down Frido himself came from the kitchen and handed him a piece of paper. ‘Hey, Jimmy,' he said. ‘Guy wants you to call this number.'

Jimmy Pickles knew the number well. He went into the booth and closed the door. ‘Pickles,' he said.

A low gruff voice. ‘Any of the boys with O'Hara?'

‘Should be at this time. Two, I guess.'

‘Tell 'em to get out of there fast. Then you go home and stay home. Now, OK? We'll be in touch. You got fifteen minutes.'

Pickles rushed from the booth. ‘Sorry, kid,' he told the
waitress
who was about to deliver his order and he raced along Bedford Street to O'Hara's place. Few people were about
mid-morning
and the house, too, was quiet. He went in silently and down the passage to the back room where two of the boys were lounging, one asleep, the other with his head in the
Daily News
.

‘Come on, fellas,' he said quietly. ‘You got to get out – fast.'

The sleeper came awake as the other asked, ‘What's going on?' 

‘If you want to live you got to leave now,' Pickles told him. ‘Go on, beat it. I'll be in touch.'

The two looked at each other then took off – fast. Pickles was about to follow when the door to O'Hara's ‘office' opened and O'Hara appeared.

‘Hey, Jimmy!' he said. ‘Come in here.'

He went back inside and Pickles followed dutifully as he always had.

O'Hara had an open suitcase on his desk, the door to the wall safe hung open and the safe looked empty. ‘I want you to go home, pack a bag and bring the car round. Fast as you can. You and me, we're going to take a little vacation.'

Pickles nodded. He was anxious to leave. Time was running out. ‘Sure, boss,' he said and he turned to go.

‘And Jimmy.' It was not a hot day but there were beads of perspiration, Pickles noticed, on O'Hara's forehead and upper lip. O'Hara looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes, OK?'

Again Pickles nodded and he turned and ran. But he didn't go home and he didn't pack a bag or bring the car around. He ran across the road and into a dressmaker's shop where he stood by the window with a good view of the house.

‘Can I help you, young man?' the elderly seamstress asked.

‘It's OK, ma'am,' he said apologetically.

She knew who he was. Most people in the neighbourhood knew who he was. Nervously she went back to her sewing but, her hands trembling, she couldn't pick up where she left off.

The boys had got the message and they had left the house in a hurry. Now he, too, had run away. Rats leaving a sinking ship came to mind, but Jimmy Pickles had no qualms about that. He knew his boss had something going with the stock market and he knew the big boss was involved. But O'Hara had never cut him in. If things had gone wrong – and he had heard the rumours – then maybe it was just as well.

Across the street a black Buick drew up by O'Hara's house. Two men in trilby hats and overcoats got out, leaving the driver with the engine running. They might have looked like a couple 
of businessmen but without making any attempt to conceal it one was carrying a Thompson sub-machine-gun.

Resolutely they walked up the steps and the first man kicked open the front door. O'Hara was in the hallway. He knew at once who they were and why they had come.

‘Hey, fellas,' he said desperately. He was holding a small case and he balanced this on one knee. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I know what this is all about but we can make a deal, can't we?' He opened the case slightly to show them it was packed with dollar bills then he closed the case up and held it out. ‘You boys can keep the dough yourselves. You can say you just missed me. I already left.'

The first man took the case and stood aside as the man with the machine-gun stepped forward. O'Hara's fleshy mouth dropped open and he turned and ran. He ran for the stairs but calmly the machine-gun was levelled and he was less than halfway up the stairway when the bullets ripped across his broad back. He turned to look at the gunman but then he fell, his large bulk crashing to the bottom step.

The man holding the case walked forward, turned O'Hara's body over with his foot and, to make absolutely certain took a .38 Smith & Wesson automatic pistol from inside his overcoat, aimed at O'Hara's forehead and pulled the trigger. Then, as quietly and as swiftly as they came, the two men left.

Jimmy Pickles heard the muffled sounds of gunshot and dashed from the dressmaker's shop. His instructions were to go home and stay there and he ran there now. He had only been home a few minutes when the same two men walked into his apartment.

He was scared now, not sure what would happen. ‘I got the message,' he said brightly. ‘I'm just waiting for Bluey.'

‘Bluey won't be coming,' one said. ‘We sent him to Trenton.'

‘And he won't be coming back,' the other told him quietly.

Jimmy was really scared now. Jimmy Pickles, whose true name was Pickering, had been recruited almost from school by O'Hara's predecessor, Patsy Doyle. It was Doyle who first called him Jimmy Pickles and the name had stuck. Then when the big 
boss was in hospital convalescing after someone took a shot at him, Doyle got a little too ambitious and made it plain he planned to take over. But the big boss recovered and Doyle was swiftly eliminated. Vin O'Hara took his place and he kept Pickles on. Pickles knew he had made many enemies during O'Hara's rein but O'Hara had been his insurance.

The first man was at the window. He was looking out across the dismal rooftops, but the second man had somehow got in behind Pickles where he deftly removed his Italian silk scarf, slipped it over Pickles' head and pulled it tight around his throat.

Pickles struggled madly for several seconds, his hands clawing at the scarf, but it was no good. The man's grip was too strong and the life slowly drained from Pickles' slight body. Calmly the strangler removed the scarf and put it back around his own neck. Then, as quietly as they came, the two killers left.

It was front page news.
GANGLAND KILLINGS! TOP GANG BOSS MOWN DOWN!
Cloth-capped newsboys waved special editions at passers-by. ‘Extra! Extra! Read all about it!'

Mrs O'Reilly nodded. But it was not, she said, going to bring her Tony back. Frankie punched the air in delight. The man was dead and no one, not a soul in the Irish community mourned his death.

At the church Tim Dolan held up the evening newspaper. ‘I hope you didn't have anything to do with this, Father,' he said with a grin.

‘The power of prayer,' Father Pat said.

It had worked perfectly but it was on Dan's conscience. He had made a phone call he knew might result in another man's death. That the man was evil and deserved to die was irrelevant. He just wished it could have happened in some other way, a way in which he, Dan Dolan, was not involved. But when he mentioned this to his boss all Baker said was, ‘World's a better place without O'Hara.'

‘The world is full of O'Haras,' Dan said. ‘Plenty more like him.' 

‘Oh, sure,' Baker agreed. ‘But he was
our
O'Hara.'

It was a quiet afternoon and for once they were in the office together. On Joe Baker's instructions Dan had come back from the Exchange earlier than usual. Apparently Baker was setting up some deal and he wanted Dan present.

Dan had noticed a change in his boss. It was gradual at first, now it had become more obvious. Not for the first time, Baker had decided not to go down to Wall Street. That morning he had remained in the office with a mumbled excuse about calls he needed to make. He had told Dan to go without him and report back, Dan guessed he was simply dodging the brisk walk down the avenue he had made for years without getting out of breath. Some days he seemed to struggle now to breathe and sometimes, though he thought no one noticed, he would hold on to the back of a chair for support.

Sitting behind his wide desk he picked up the paper Dan had brought in. ‘Gangland killing!' he read aloud and with an air of amusement. ‘The most feared gang boss in NY City was rubbed out today.' Baker laughed. ‘Most feared gang boss? Whoever wrote this stuff ain't met The Englishman.'

He looked at Dan over the top of the newspaper and Dan saw, in that instant, just how much he had aged these past two years.

‘Yeah, well,' Dan said, ‘I'm glad it's over.'

‘It ain't over yet,' Baker said. ‘I want you here at three.'

‘Fine,' Dan said. ‘Are we meeting someone?'

‘Yeah,' was all he would say.

Dan looked in Paul Merrick's office although he could see there was no one in. The glassed-in cubicle seemed abandoned. The desk was clear and there was nothing on top of the two filing cabinets. Paul was not the tidiest of men and his office was usually chaotic with letters and files all over the place. Dan stood in the doorway, looking back at Harry. ‘Where's Mr Merrick?'

Harry stood up and came forward with a frown. ‘I don't know, Mr Dolan. He's gone. Packed up this morning and left.'

‘Left? Did he leave a message, a phone number or anything?' 

Harry shook his head. ‘He didn't say much. I asked him if he was OK but he just said, “Goodbye, Harry. I'm through here”.'

Dan went down to the café round the corner, just off Madison. He looked in the back room, asked the girl behind the counter but she said she had been on all morning and Paul had not been in. He can't just walk out like that, Dan thought, a bit hurt and surprised Merrick had left without leaving him a note or anything.

He ordered a sandwich and a coffee and he made the coffee last until it was time to go back to the office. He wanted to be a little early in order to ask Baker if it was true Paul had left and if so why didn't he know about it.

Baker was still behind his desk and it didn't look as though he had moved since before lunch.

Dan sat at his desk in the corner as Baker studied yesterday's prices in the
Journal
. He sensed that Baker didn't want to talk, but he couldn't resist saying, ‘I see Paul Merrick has gone.'

‘Yeah,' Baker said.

‘He didn't say he was leaving, not to me anyway.'

‘He only heard this morning.' It occurred to Dan that Baker might be about to wind up the company, get rid of everybody, retire ‘for health reasons'. But Baker went on, ‘His three years were up. I was supposed to keep him on three years and I did.'

‘Did he have somewhere to go?'

‘I didn't ask,' Baker said.

There was a brisk knock at the door and Barbara Baker put her head round. ‘Dan, hi!' she said lightly, coming in.

Dan stood up instinctively.

‘Si' down,' Joe Baker said. ‘I want you to hear this.'

Dan sat down, curious now.

Barbara pulled up a chair. ‘What's goin' on?' she asked, a little unsure of herself. O'Hara's death had unnerved her. She had been involved with O'Hara since she was just seventeen when he offered to push her career in show business. It had soon become obvious she had no talent as a dancer or as anything else on stage but she was decorative and, though she had never got along with Jimmy Pickles, O'Hara had brought her in as a 
member of his gang. Now, since Baker's health had begun to deteriorate, O'Hara had been urging her to get him to marry her. We would then inherit his considerable loot, O'Hara had said. And he was right, she told herself. Joe couldn't have long to go. Though he had refused to discuss his illness with her it was obviously something serious. Now, with O'Hara gone, getting that ring on her finger was even more important.

Baker opened a drawer, drew out a banker's draft and handed it to her across the desk.

Barbara's mouth dropped open. ‘Fifty grand!'

‘For you,' Baker said.

Her eyes lit up. ‘Fifty grand? For me? What did I do to deserve this?' She made as if to go round the desk and embrace him but he waved her away, back to her seat.

‘You didn't do anything to deserve it,' he said coldly. ‘You
don't
deserve it. I'm giving it to you now so you can get lost, get out of my life and don't come back.'

‘What?' She looked back at Dan accusingly as if he had
something
to do with this. ‘What are you talking about?'

Baker regarded her with loathing. ‘You go home. You pack your bags and all that expensive junk you filled your wardrobes with, you get out of my house and you don't come back. I don't care where the hell you go but you stay away from me, my home, my office. I don't want to set eyes on you ever again. You got that?'

‘But—'

‘No buts. Just go. And you cash that within five days or it's dead. Understand? Now for the last time, get out!'

She stood tall, her face pale beneath her powder. She swung her silver fox fur around her neck and her lip curled. But before she could speak Baker thrust a business card at her across the desk, a card with the name and number of his lawyer.

‘You know Jim Paley,' he said. ‘If you have anything to say, say it to him. Now go, get out!'

Barbara turned on her heel and left, slamming the door.

Baker slumped forward in his chair as if relieved it was over, then he went into a bout of coughing.