Tell Them I'll Be There (27 page)

B
EING A PARISH
priest was tough, Tim acknowledged, at least in a parish like this. And you had to admire Father Pat. His church had a brand new roof, the workmen had gone and so had Vincent O'Hara.

Tim was a lot clearer now on what he wanted. Maybe going home and discovering what had happened to Kathleen had been good for him. According to Father Pat some things are sent to test us. If that's so, Tim had said, it was a bit tough on Kathleen. But as always, Father Pat was ready with his answer. That young lady will walk straight into the house of the Lord. Why, she'll be as welcome as the flowers in May. Tim could only shake his head in wonder. Father Pat was no different to the nuns in primary school who told the wide-eyed infants in their charge not to be sad when a three-day-old baby died. That baby was very lucky, they said. His little soul would be as pure and as white as snow. He would walk straight into the Kingdom of Heaven, so he would.

A load of rubbish, Tim thought. Or maybe not. But whatever it was he wanted to be part of this world of service and
dedication
to the community Father Pat operated in. He had seen the frenzy of the stock market, the obsession with making money. It was not his world and, as he walked up the gradually darkening path to the church in the early evening, he paused briefly to listen to the choir practice. This was where he belonged. This was where he wanted to be. He was sure of that now.

‘What I want to know,' he told Father Pat later that night, ‘is where you get the money to help kids like Frankie O'Reilly. 
Do you have a private income or something? Or do you creep out at night and gamble on stocks and shares when no one's watching?'

Father Pat laughed and sat back in his armchair. The chair was so big and deep it made him look like a gnome, but it was the most comfortable chair in his sitting room. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Because I might want to be able to do the same one day.'

‘Well, there are several ways,' Father Pat said. ‘Sometimes I bribe the politicians into helping out, especially if they're from round here. I promise them my parishioners will vote for them
en masse
the next time they come up for election.'

‘You can't do that.'

‘I know, but they don't know I can't.'

Tim shook his head.

‘And there's always the fellas who have pulled themselves up out of the gutter. If they're from round here and they're doing all right professionally I can usually count on them for a little contribution.'

‘People you've helped in the past?' Tim asked.

He nodded. ‘Sometimes.'

‘Well, what about Dennis Casey? He said you wouldn't let him help, you would never accept money from him.'

‘Dennis is different. He's always stayed close to his roots. He set up his office here and he often does work for free. I'd never put the squeeze on Dennis.'

Tim looked at the priest thoughtfully and for a long moment. It was as though he wanted to say something but he didn't know how or where to begin.

Father Pat held his gaze then asked quietly, ‘Does this mean you're coming through your troubles, you're ready to go ahead?'

Tim nodded. ‘I think maybe I am, yes.'

‘You know you have to be absolutely sure it's what you want.'

‘I
am
sure, Father. It
is
what I want and it always will be now.' 

Father Pat hesitated, then he said, ‘Well, that's good. Because there's a place for you at the seminary. I got a call this morning.'

‘When?' Tim asked eagerly. ‘When do I go?'

‘September. If all goes well.'

Nathan's music company had got off to a good start, due mainly to the success of one record. The vaudeville entertainer, Sophie Tucker came from a Russian Jewish family and she'd had a huge hit with her recording of
My Yiddishe Momme
. It had proved surprisingly popular right across the various communities. Jewish, Italian, Irish, everyone was aware of it. Nathan had been quick to seize his opportunity. He had recruited a young Jewish singer with a fine voice to record the song in English on one side and Yiddish on the other. His sales across the Lower East Side and beyond had soared and the record had gradually become a big success with Jewish families nationwide.

He had called his record label Olde Favourites and the brand name was quickly established. Older people with fond memories of the parents and grandparents they had left behind enjoyed the nostalgia the music evoked. Nathan had high hopes now for his next project, an Irish tenor singing
The Mountains of Mourne
on one side and
The Rose of Tralee
on the other.

Anxious now to know what would happen to Joe Baker's stake in his company he called Dan to express his condolences and to ask tentatively how things were. Dan was unsure of himself as yet and he didn't want to make any decisions until he was ready and he knew what he was doing. ‘You want to know what happens now,' he said. It was a statement not a question. ‘Well, I'll tell you. Nothing happens now. Things go on as before. Keep finding hits like
Momma
, we might want to invest even more.' He had no grounds for saying this but he wanted everyone connected with the business to stay calm, give him time, because right now he was a little apprehensive, not knowing what might happen next. Perhaps after his meeting with Paley he would have a clearer view.

Paley's office was just a couple of blocks away on the fourth 
floor of a tall narrow building. Dan strolled there in the bright sunlight of that September afternoon. Not knowing what to expect, he had toyed with the idea of putting Paley off, telling him it was not convenient just then and making a date of his own choice. This Paley had given him no clue as to what he wanted and he objected to being summoned to his office as if he had been granted an audience with the Pope. But he knew it wasn't really like that. What concerned him were the many letters and documents he had signed and counter-signed at Pops' request and he was wondering what, if anything, he had let himself in for. For all he knew Pops might have run up huge debts that would wipe out the business and him with it, leaving him bankrupt for years to come.

Jim Paley was a tall slim Bostonian, his silver grey hair brushed back, his pencil moustache giving him an air of
distinction
. He showed Dan to a seat before his imposing desk and offered him coffee which Dan declined a little ungraciously. But as they talked Paley began to seem more like an amiable uncle than some hard-nosed businessman and Dan decided his earlier assessment had been wrong. Pops, he knew, had held Paley in high regard.

Paley opened a bulky file on his desk. ‘You know, he was very fond of you. He told me so.'

‘I was fond of him, sir. He gave me a job when I first arrived here and he treated me far better than I could have hoped for.'

‘Well, I have to tell you,' Paley said with a smile, ‘Joe Baker has treated you better than you could possibly imagine.'

Dan raised his eyebrows.

Paley picked up a sheet of vellum from the file. ‘This is the Last Will and Testament of Mr Josef Bakke.' He looked up at Dan. ‘It's very simple and straightforward.
I leave all my worldly goods and possessions to my good friend Daniel Dolan, signed Josef Baakke, September 1, 1929
.'

Dan looked worried, confused. ‘Mr Paley?'

‘Shall I read it again?'

‘No, no,' Dan said. ‘I just can't take it in.'

‘You were not expecting this?' 

Dan spread his hands helplessly. ‘It never occurred to me for a moment. I mean, why? Why would he do this?'

Paley laughed. ‘Well, he couldn't take it with him, he had no family and you were obviously his closest friend.'

Dan was still stunned by the news.

‘I understand this may well be a considerable surprise, even a shock for you. But you are a very wealthy young man. Joe Baker has left you several million dollars.'

‘Is there no one else?'

‘Absolutely no one. I dealt with Barbara what-was-her-name? She came to see me but she has no claim on Joe. He treated her very generously – which, as I told her, he had no need to do. But no, there are no beneficiaries other than yourself.' He laughed again and opened a side drawer. ‘You look as though you need a drink, son.'

On the Monday morning when the office reopened Dan called Harry and Lois together. He was not sure where things would go from here, he told them honestly, but the business would carry on. If they wanted to leave and find something that might seem more secure he would understand. But he hoped they would stay.

‘Will you take Mr Baker's seat on the Exchange?' Harry asked.

‘I hope so,' Dan said. ‘I have to go before the committee later this month.' He smiled. ‘So they can decide if I'm a gentleman, an honest upright citizen, or not. It's important to us. If they turn me down it would damage our investment business, but we would still have the commercial side. Lots of people out there looking for the capital to expand right now.'

‘Well, I wish you all the luck in the world, Mr Dolan,' Harry told him, ‘and I'd like to stay.'

‘Me too,' Lois said.

So that was settled. Dan planned to be down in Wall Street by ten o'clock, but first he asked Harry if he had any idea where Paul Merrick was living. Harry said Mr Merrick had phoned in with an address in the Village in case there was any post for him. 

Dan moved round the floor of the Exchange seeing and being seen. Michael Meehan and several other members offered friendly words of encouragement and he spent much of the morning smiling and shaking hands. Then, just before noon when things went a little quiet, he made his first move. He sold his company's entire holding in US Steel. It seemed an odd thing to do, even to him, US Steel had risen steadily all year and now in late September it was at an all time high. But this was Pops' instruction. Sell everything and do it quietly and discreetly.

‘US Steel got a long way to go yet, son,' a tall, thin man who was watching nearby told him. ‘Time's not right for selling.'

Dan smiled politely and moved away. He didn't want to get into a discussion just then and certainly not with this fellow about whom Pops had once warned him. In Pops' estimation the man was ‘not entirely trustworthy'.

‘Listen, maybe we can help.' The man had followed him. ‘Maybe you should join up with me and my partners. We'll put you right.'

Dan smiled again. ‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I'll bear that in mind.'

In the course of an hour he sold US Steel, General Motors and Westinghouse, all good solid investments, and just when people were beginning to notice he left.

That afternoon he went to the address in the village Harry had given him. But he was too late. Paul Merrick had moved on. Did he leave a forwarding address? he asked the tough-looking lady who ruled the rooming-house. Oh sure, she said and she squinted at a little red notebook in which she recorded her weekly rents. ‘Here it is,' she announced. ‘Place over in Brooklyn.'

Dan made a note of the address. ‘Why did he leave?' he asked. ‘Has he got a job over there? Or maybe it's cheaper than here.'

The landlady made a derisory noise in her throat. ‘If it's cheaper than here it must be quite a dump.'

It turned out to be a woodframe house in a long street of drab, nondescript houses. A wooden sign with the word 
ROOMS in faded white paint slanted sideways on a small patch of worn grass. Another landlady, tired-looking and bored. ‘Yeah, he's here,' she said, ‘for now. But he won't be next week if he don't pay up.'

She let Dan into a dim and narrow hallway and called up the stairs. ‘Hey, Merrick. You up there? You got a visitor.'

Paul Merrick appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked down at Dan, surprised to see him and embarrassed at his straitened circumstances. But then he called down, ‘Dan! Please come up.'

Dan looked to the landlady for permission but she shrugged and went off down the hallway. Merrick's room was small with a single bed against one wall, a battered desk, a dining chair and not much else. A grimy window looked out on to a few yards of unmade road, a row of neglected houses across the way and that was it.

Merrick offered Dan the only chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘You OK?' Dan asked.

Merrick shrugged.

‘Are you working?'

‘I am between jobs. I am like an actor. I'm resting,' he said grandly. Then, more seriously, he said, ‘I've tried a few things. But it's no good. I can't stay here. I have to move on.'

‘You through with the investment business?'

‘The investment business is through with me, Dan,' he said. ‘But I don't want that kind of work anyway. I never did. I've told you. I want to work in the movies. Talking pictures. I have enough for a train ticket West.' He looked at Dan frankly. ‘And I have to go. Begin at the beginning.'

‘Doing what?'

‘I dunno. Scene-shifting. Anything.'

‘What about your friends?'

‘Well, the last I heard they were doing fine. They don't need me. Unless I can find the money, of course.'

Dan stood up and went to the window. ‘You hear about Pops?' 

‘What did he do? Buy General Motors?'

‘He died,' Dan said. He turned to look at Merrick and saw that his reaction was genuine.

‘I'm sorry to hear that. Really,' he said. ‘I mean it. He was … well, he was a good man. A better man than me. What I did was wrong.' Then he asked, ‘Are you running the office?'

‘I guess so,' Dan said, a little sheepishly.

‘Well, you can do it, Dan. I'm sure of that. Just watch out for the people at the Exchange. Joe always said they were crooks – all of them.' He laughed. ‘But not him, of course.'