Tell Them I'll Be There (8 page)

Michael and Nathan were in shirtsleeves, no jackets, and it was Dan who felt conspicuous. It was early evening and if the restaurant had a smart clientele they hadn't arrived yet. He
loosened
his silk tie.

‘So what's going on, big brother?' Michael asked with a laugh.

Dan told them about Joe Baker's offer of a job and how Barbara helped to kit him out. But he had no idea what kind of job it was.

‘Twenty-five a week?' Nathan said. ‘Who cares what kind of job?'

Michael grinned. ‘This Barbara will show him soon enough.'

‘How about you?' Dan asked, ignoring Michael's innuendo. ‘You won't be going back to selling Mr Levi's sheet music.'

‘Yeah, we will,' Michael said. ‘That way we can learn all the new songs as they come out. We're going to do clubs and bars and we're going to be bang up to date.'

‘And have you any jobs lined up?' Dan asked.

‘Not yet,' Nathan said. ‘We thought we'd do the rounds tonight.'

‘We're just going to go in these places and ask,' Michael said.

‘Well, suppose someone offers you a date,' Dan said. ‘Do you have enough songs?'

Michael and Nathan looked at each other.

‘Well,' Nathan said, ‘we're sort of working on that. We got about a dozen.' He pulled several sheets from the carrier bag he used as a music case.

Dan looked them over. They were all new, only just published.
Everybody loves my baby, Miss Annabel Lee, Maybe
.

‘I like this one best,' Michael said and he started to sing.

Dan and Nathan looked around. An elderly couple in a corner looked across and smiled. Then the waiter came over. ‘Sorry, fellas,' he said. ‘Got no licence for singing.' He saw the sheet music. ‘You guys in the business?'

‘Well, er …' Michael hesitated.

‘They're pretty good,' Dan said. ‘Looking for jobs right now. They're new to the game, just starting out.' 

The waiter looked at Dan's jacket and tie. ‘You their agent?'

Dan laughed. ‘No, this is my brother and his pal. I'm just visiting.'

‘Guy comes in here,' he said. ‘Joe Bononi. He's an agent. Maybe get you started. Hangs out in the bookies on 29
^th
every morning.'

‘That's real nice of you,' Michael said. ‘You're a pal.'

The waiter went off, nodding and smiling. He seemed genuinely pleased to be of help. Then he came back. ‘I was thinking,' he said. ‘You guys is Irish, right? Well how about the Irish Club? They got music every night. Corner of Tenth and 38
^th
or 39
^th
. I ain't sure.'

Michael and Nathan lost no time. They left the restaurant well fed for once and parted company with Dan at the corner of 28
^th
Street and Fifth Avenue. It was quite a walk to Tenth and they couldn't help noticing how the streets gradually changed from upmarket chic to downmarket squalor.

A white-haired man with black bushy eyebrows stopped them at the door. ‘Ain't seen you two before.' His voice was New York streetwise with an Irish overlay. ‘You guys members?'

‘Members of the Irish race, so we are,' Michael said.

‘We're here for an audition,' Nathan lied. He looked at Michael. ‘What was the name of the guy we're supposed to ask for?'

‘I dunno,' Michael said. ‘You did all that.'

The white-haired man wasn't helping.

‘He's the club secretary, I think,' Nathan said tentatively.

‘Donnelly,' the man said. ‘Jim Donnelly.'

‘That's him,' Nathan said. ‘Can we come in?'

‘Wait here.' He put his head round the door, spoke to someone inside then, as two middle-aged couples arrived, he said brusquely to Nathan and Michael, ‘Stand aside. You're gettin' in the way.'

Donnelly was a big man with an overhanging stomach and an air of authority. ‘What do you want?'

‘We want to sing for you, Mr Donnelly,' Nathan said.

Donnelly looked them over. ‘Where you from?'

‘Near Dublin,' Michael said. ‘Place called—'

Donnelly eyed them suspiciously, ‘You're just off the boat?'

‘Yes, sir,' Nathan said. ‘We need to earn some money fast.'

‘Is that so?' Donnelly said. ‘We'll there's plenty of work in the building trade.'

Nathan and Michael stayed in the entrance, eyes downcast.

‘Where's this Miller guy?' Donnelly asked the white-haired man. ‘He's late. Shoulda been here half an hour ago. Let me know if he shows up.' He turned to Nathan and Michael. ‘I thought I told you two …' Then he changed his mind. ‘No, wait a minute. What can you do?'

‘We're a double act, Mr Donnelly,' Nathan said. ‘I play piano and sing a bit. But Mikey is the real singer. He's the best.'

‘You got music and everything?'

‘Oh sure.' Nathan held up his carrier bag.

‘They're gettin' a bit restless in there,' Donnelly told the man on the door as if still undecided and seeking support. ‘You know what they're like.' Then he became a true fellow countryman, a much gentler person. ‘Listen, lads.' He put his big arm around Nathan's shoulder, ‘Looks as though this shitface comic could let me down. He might still show up. But until then I want you to keep 'em quiet in there.
Entertain
'em. Can you do that?'

‘Sure, Mr Donnelly,' they said together. ‘Sure we can.'

‘Well, get in there. Sing three songs, OK? Then take a break. And if I give you the nod sing three more.'

The club concert room looked enormous and every table was taken. Waiters in green jackets seemed to waltz and pirouette through narrow spaces in a mixture of bright and darkened lights and for a moment, through the dense fog of cigarette smoke, they couldn't see the stage. A little leprechaun of a man came over, eyes twinkling. ‘This way, boys. Follow me.'

An elderly lady at the piano picked up her cigarette and left the stage with a coy smile at Michael. ‘Let's hear it, big boy.'

As Nathan and Michael turned the piano and brought it forward the level of noise barely dropped. Michael stepped up to the microphone. ‘Hello,' he said quietly and there was a ripple of laughter from one or two tables near the front. 

The little man took the microphone. ‘All right, everybody. Come on now. Will you be quiet and settle down? We have a brand new act for you tonight. Straight from top billing in the old country. Ya gonna love these two. All the way from Dublin, The Dolan Boys!'

Michael looked at Nathan.

‘They wanted a name,' Nathan whispered apologetically. Nathan, whose name was O'Shaughnessy. ‘It was the best I could do. And Mikey, don't sing into the microphone. Sing across it.'

Michael stepped forward. He couldn't make out any faces, just a vast shadowy tableau. ‘We'd like to start with a song we know you're going to like, folks,' he heard himself say.
You brought a new kind of love to me
.

The first three songs went down reasonably well. There was a ripple of applause after each one and, though he couldn't see deep into the audience Michael sensed there were several
appreciative
nods. Michael had the kind of voice and range that could rise above the noise and he grew in confidence, eager for the next set of three.

Between sets the little man sat them at a small table near the stage, the table reserved for the missing comedian. ‘A fast one, then a slow one, then another fast one. OK? Jim wants you on again.'

Michael and Nathan exchanged glances. It was only nine o'clock and they had just two sets of three left. But there was nothing for it. They would have to do as Donnelly said and go on again.

‘Try to spin it out,' Nathan whispered.

A man near the front was waving his arms and shouting abuse at the people at his table as Michael took the microphone. ‘Come on, pal,' Michael called. ‘Settle down. We're here to have a good time.'

‘Who asked you?' the man cried.

Michael appealed to those in the man's party. ‘What's going on there? Time he was back in his cage?'

There was laughter and an appreciative cheer and the shadowy figure sat down. The next three songs went even better 
than the first and all the way Michael and Nathan were
interacting
and learning fast how to charm the audience, Nathan holding their attention with jokes and anecdotes between songs. ‘We're coming over on the boat, so we are,' he said, ‘and this guy says to me …'

Even so when their repertoire finally ran out it was still only 10.30 and Mr Donnelly's shiny red face was beaming, the missing comic forgotten. He held his glass high in salute and made it clear that he and the audience wanted more.

‘What are we going to do?' Nathan asked. ‘Play the first set again?'

‘We can't do that,' Michael said.

The leprechaun reappeared. ‘Come on now, fellas. Jim wants you up there. You're doing great.'

Michael took the microphone and the noise level dropped in expectation. But he had no songs left and he'd run out of jokes. His best option was to say goodnight and retire gracefully but he knew that Donnelly would not be happy with that and they hadn't been paid yet. Then inspiration struck. High above the entrance at the back of the hall a large green shamrock carved in bas-relief adorned the once white, tobacco-stained wall. This was an Irish Club. Of course it was. He looked back at Nathan and mouthed the words, ‘Follow me.'

‘Can we have the lights turned up?' he asked over the
microphone
. ‘I want to see who's not singing.'

There was a slight pause then lights came on down both sides of the hall. He could see their faces now. Then, softly at first, he began to sing: ‘
There's a tear in your eye, and I'm wondering why
…' And when he came to the chorus he led the whole hall into a heartfelt rendition of
When Irish Eyes are smiling
.

Prohibition or no Prohibition, it was as if half the audience was inebriated. Michael had his lead and he knew exactly what to do. As the cheers and the applause died down he asked, ‘Is there anyone here from the west of the old country?'

Several hands went up at a long table and around the hall a number of hands waved. ‘Well now,' he said, ‘this'll bring the tears to your eyes, so it will.' And he launched into Galway Bay. 
They listened enraptured and joined in with spirit when invited.
The Mountains of Mourne
and
The Rose of Tralee
followed and when he sang
Phil the Fluter's Ball
the place erupted. Nathan started it. The pace was too fast for him to follow on the piano but not to be outdone he stood up and danced a jig and this was the signal for three or four ladies who, it was said, ought to have known better, to join in.

When Jim Donnelly at last called a halt the boys were ‘stars', an instant hit, at least in the Irish Club. ‘A grand old hooley,' Donnelly declared, ‘but what it was in aid of I have no idea.'

‘Sure and it was to celebrate our arrival in the New World, sir,' Michael told him, waiting for him to offer payment.

Nathan was not so shy. ‘It's fifty, sir,' he said confidently.

‘Fifty what?' Donnelly asked.

‘Fifty dollars.'

Donnelly laughed. ‘Fifteen more like. That's what we pay, take it or leave it.'

‘Fifteen?' Nathan looked affronted.

‘Listen,' Donnelly said reasonably, ‘if you're going to do this that's what to expect. You did well, but you're a couple of kids. You're just learners and fifteen's what I'd have paid the comic.'

‘But there's two of us,' Nathan protested.

‘All right,' he said at last. ‘Twenty. And I'll book you Fridays.'

‘You will?' Michael was delighted. ‘
Every
Friday? Well, that's great! We can get all the new songs as they come out and all the old favourites and we can always finish with a bit of the Irish.'

He nodded. ‘That's up to you but if you're no good you're out. Now come on, get yourselves home. I have to lock up.'

‘One thing I don't get,' Nathan said. ‘How come they all seemed sort of merry as the night wore on.'

Donnelly laughed and tapped his nose.

‘I thought this was a dry town, Mr Donnelly. No booze.'

‘And so it is,' he said as he paid them off and ushered them on their way. ‘See you Friday. Seven thirty and don't you forget it.'

They discovered later that nearly all the men had a hip flask and the ladies brought their supplies well concealed in the
fashionable
 
underarm bags most of them carried. It also helped that the three police officers who patrolled the nearby streets were Irish and all three were members of the club.

I
T WAS A
small parish, home to second and third generation Irish immigrant families. In the beginning, almost without exception, they had come through Ellis Island with little to offer except, in most cases, a will to succeed.

Inevitably the impact on the younger generation of the glare and glamour of the New World was causing problems. Working girls were willing to contribute some of their hard-earned
sweatshop
wages to the family budget but not all of it. And they now wanted freedom, the freedom to spend money on clothes and make-up, the freedom to go out with boys and not always
Irish
boys. The newly street-wise young men were ready and waiting.

Often an older brother would be called upon to accompany a younger sister to the ice-cream parlor where she might meet her friends, usually her workmates. But by 9.30 she must be home, back in the safe custody of her family. On no account must she allow herself to be drawn into the wicked world of the ten-cent dance hall, even though on three evenings each week ‘ladies' were admitted free.

Many a brother would make a deal with his sister and arrange to meet her at a given hour, see her safely home then resume his own interrupted night out. It was not uncommon to see a brother storm into the local dance hall and drag his
indignant
charge from the arms of some would-be Casanova. Often, not surprisingly, this would result in raised fists and a scuffle and all three being thrown out by uncompromising bouncers. But the times were changing and there was little the
black-shawled
matriarchs could do about it. Many a bewildered 
father, torn between laying down the law as his wife demanded and not wanting to alienate his daughter, wayward or not, would seek refuge in the bar at the corner.

The parish priest, Father Costello, didn't discuss any of this with Tim. In a couple of months or so, the time-served priest decided, Timothy Dolan would become a seminarian. He could spend his time here on the front line. We can see what kind of a boy he is, see what he's made of, see if he learns anything before he leaves.

Pat Costello was born in Beacon, New York. His parents had come from County Mayo and they had never really settled. But Pat had known from an early age that he wanted to be a priest and he had set his heart on working with the poor Irish families on the Lower West Side. It had not been easy but now after forty years he was known well beyond the parish as a man who could be trusted, a man who really did care about his parishioners. As a young man serving with an older parish priest he had been known to all as Father Pat not Father Costello and he still was.

Tim, wary of him at first and his sometimes sharp tongue, soon came to like and respect him. When he saw first hand how people in the parish responded to Father Pat he decided this was the kind of place where he wanted to work and he wanted to get involved. He didn't have long to wait. Almost every day Father Pat was out visiting people in their homes or at the shops or in the RC school, even calling in at the local bars. Now he took his new acolyte with him.

This is Tim, he would say without further explanation and men and women alike would nod respectfully, taking in Tim's black jacket, his black trousers and black collarless shirt, but there were no questions, no explanations needed. Not until a small boy sitting on the stoop of the run-down brownstone where he lived with his family and eight other families addressed Tim as ‘Father'.

‘I'm not a priest,' Tim said apologetically.

‘He's just Tim,' Father Pat said. ‘Can't call him Father yet. He has to learn the job first.'

‘That why he ain't wearing the collar?' 

Father Pat smiled. ‘That's it, Francis. Is Ma home?'

Francis nodded. ‘Bad mood though.'

Tim followed the stooping priest up the steep steps. The door to the tenement block was open. It was always open, night or day. There was dust and dirt in dark corners. Dimly lit stairs, a single gaslight the only guide. The scent of stray cats twitched Tim's nose. To his right he caught a glimpse through an open door of a bleak interior, bare floors, an old lady, head covered by a black shawl, eyes closed in a battered armchair.

Father Pat knocked on a door that, after a while, was opened by a tired-looking woman, drably dressed in a full-length black shift, a small square of shawl about her shoulders. She looked at the priest, her face without expression, then she turned and went back inside, leaving the door open for him to follow.

‘What's the problem, Mary?' the priest asked quietly.

‘Everything. This place. This stinking …' She threw her arms up in the air as if she was carrying the weight of the world and she just wanted to be rid of it.

Tim looked around, a little surprised by the freshly painted walls and the sparsely furnished but neat and clean living room, such a contrast to the rest of the place. As Father Pat explained later most of the tenement blocks had a housekeeper who was responsible for keeping the hallway and the common areas in reasonable condition. This was usually one of the women who lived there. She would do the job in exchange for paying less rent and it was up to her to ensure the place was well kept and, in most cases, to collect the rent and pay the landlord.

The housekeeper had the power to recommend eviction and if a resident behaved badly, or caused problems for the rest of the tenants, or failed to pay the rent in good time she could, and sometimes did, have them thrown out. If it was just about the rent the housekeeper might persuade the landlord it was a temporary problem and the tenant might be given a little more time to pay. But it was not uncommon to see some unfortunate woman, her children and her few belongings at her feet, out in the street. Sometimes, too, tenants in arrears would move out of 
their own accord, usually at night, to another district. This was known as ‘jumping the rent' or ‘doing a moonlight'.

It so happened that the housekeeper of Mrs O'Reilly's block had fallen out with the landlord. At the end of the month she had absconded with most of the rent she'd collected. Nobody's sympathy was with the landlord. Without exception landlords were reviled as ‘leeches' and ‘bloodsuckers'. But so far the
landlord
had failed to replace her and the common areas – stairs, landings, the water closet – had rapidly deteriorated.

Though she hated the thought of having to keep the public areas, especially the water closet, clean, Mary O'Reilly had considered applying for the housekeeper's job herself if only for the reduction in rent this would bring. She had lost her husband to the tuberculosis that terrorized the Lower West Side and her eldest son, Tony, now seventeen, was proving unwilling to help out with the family budget.

As a homeworker sewing and finishing garments for the clothing factory on Mott Street, Mary could earn at most just a few dollars a week and she had herself and Francis to feed and clothe. She didn't know where Tony was all day, or what he was getting into, and she was worried he might be mixing with the wrong people. Father Pat said he would see what he could do.

As they left the tenement block Francis was mobilizing what he called his ‘truck', a cardboard box on wheels. He did a regular tour, scouring the ground around the railyards for pieces of coal and sometimes filling his truck from an unattended open wagon. It wasn't exactly stealing, Father Pat told Tim. It was more an economic necessity. Most of the kids did it.

‘Hey, Francis,' Father Pat called. ‘Where does your Tony hang out these days?'

Francis seemed reluctant to talk. ‘I dunno, Father.'

‘Sure you do,' the priest insisted. ‘Come on, who's he with?'

‘He's usually with Marty Rip and Declan down the pool hall.'

Father Pat nodded and left the boy with his usual parting shot, ‘Take care of your ma, son. She's the only ma you got.'

The landlord wanted Mary O'Reilly out, Father Pat told Tim. When her husband died he had guessed correctly she would 
have trouble paying the rent. Since then he had twice put her rent up. The first time he called he advised her to take in a lodger. But she didn't want to bring a stranger into her home though she knew many of her neighbours did. Lodgers take over the place, she had been told. They expect the best room and an evening meal and for just a few dollars a month.

Mary's son, Tony, had come home one night with two large cans of paint. Fallen off the back of a lorry, he said with a grin. Mary had painted the two biggest rooms herself in bright fresh colours and she thought the landlord would be pleased. Still without a housekeeper and still collecting the rent himself he was impressed with the newly painted walls. But instead of congratulating her he said the apartment was now worth more than the others. He would have to put her rent up again.

Father Pat told Tim he had called on the landlord on behalf of several tenants who had appealed to him but he had met with complete indifference and a refusal to even discuss the matter.

‘The man's a complete asshole,' the priest said, startling Tim.

Dan arrived early that first morning, long before Joe Baker. He went through to the general office and into Mr Baker's private office. He looked at what was on Baker's desk but there was no note or instruction for him. He went to the window. It was not yet nine o'clock and the pavements of Madison Avenue were flooded with office workers and others, most of them hurrying to their work. They were like columns of ants, passing in
opposite
directions, halting at the roadside, crossing in unison.

The door opened behind him and a tall, slim man in a
business
suit looked in. He had dark hair and a neat black moustache like the smooth-looking leading men in the new movies. He was not exactly handsome but he wasn't ugly either.

‘We better get you a seat outside,' he said with a faintly unfriendly air. And then, pointedly, he added, ‘This is Mr Baker's office.'

Dan remained seated. ‘Thank you,' he said, ‘but if you don't mind I'll wait here until Mr Baker arrives.' He smiled pleasantly. ‘Mr…?' 

‘Merrick. Paul Merrick.'

Since becoming a traveller, Dan had taken to observing people and guessing their nationality. Ellis Island had been a revelation. Italians, Russians, Middle Europeans – an education in itself. Paul Merrick, he thought. He was used to the imperious ways of the English landowning bosses back home, but this fellow with the English-sounding name was not like them. There was something about him that was definitely not English, Dan decided. But he was to learn that many people coming to a new life in America, for a variety of reasons, changed their names.

‘And what do you call yourself?' Merrick asked.

Dan smiled and stood up. ‘What I've always called myself,' he said and he extended a hand. ‘Dolan. Dan to my friends.'

A frown crossed Merrick's brow fleetingly. He had expected a not so bright ‘Mick'. He ignored the outstretched hand but bowed his head slightly. ‘Mr Dolan.'

The door closed behind him and Dan sat down again. Perhaps Merrick didn't want him here. Well, if so, that was too bad. As far as Dan knew, Joe Baker was the boss.

The door opened again and the stenographer backed into the room, struggling to hold up one end of a narrow desk. On the other end was the older man he had seen earlier.

Dan went at once to help. ‘Dan,' he said, holding up the desk with one hand and offering the other. ‘Dan Dolan.'

The girl shook his hand quickly and, slightly flushed, said, ‘Lois. I'm Lois.'

‘Nice to meet you, Lois,' Dan said, as they set the desk down. ‘I look forward to working with you.'

‘Harry,' the older man said. ‘I'm in charge of the general office.'

‘No, you ain't,' the stenographer said. ‘He's just a clerk, Mr Dolan. He's not in charge of anything.'

Dan shook the man's hand. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, Harry.'

Harry was a short stout man with a bald head. He was wearing a red bow tie, a check shirt and glasses that glinted and flashed in the sunlight from the tall office windows. ‘Mr Baker said you were to have a desk in his office.' 

‘Did he say where?'

‘Well, I think he meant over here in the corner.'

‘Fine,' Dan said, pushing the desk as far into the corner as it would go. ‘Do you think I could get a chair of some kind?'

‘Oh sure,' Harry said, flustered now as if the oversight was entirely his. ‘Right away.'

‘I love your voice,' Lois said coyly. ‘It's nice.'

‘It's just Irish,' Dan said with a smile.

‘Yeah,' she said, ‘but not like
some
Irish.'

Lois retreated and Harry returned with an office chair. Dan asked him to wait as the door closed on Lois. ‘As you can see,' he said, ‘I'm, new to all this. What's going on here, Harry?'

Harry looked at him blankly. ‘Far as I know, you'll be working with Mr Baker.'

‘Doing what? I don't even know what Mr Baker does.'

Harry didn't look surprised. ‘No,' he said, ‘they never do. Mr Baker likes to start them from scratch.'

‘Start who from scratch? Who are
they
?'

Harry looked worried. ‘Listen, Mr Dolan,' he said, ‘I think you should wait until Mr Baker comes in. He'll explain
everything
.'

‘You don't want to help me out here, Harry?'

‘It's not that. I just don't want to get into trouble. I mean, it's nothing to do with me.'

Dan nodded. ‘OK. I understand. But tell me this. What kind of business are we in? And is it legal?'

Harry looked offended. ‘Oh yes, of course. It's absolutely legal.'

‘So what do we do?'

‘Mr Baker is a stock operator.'

‘And what the hell is a stock operator?'

‘Mr Baker will explain. He'll be pleased if you know nothing. The less you know the better. He'll want to teach you the
business
from the start. He always wants someone with no preconceived ideas.'