Tell Them I'll Be There (9 page)

‘I don't have any ideas, preconceived or otherwise,' Dan said. ‘So what about Mr Merrick? Is he Mr Baker's partner?' 

‘Oh no,' Harry said quickly. ‘I'm sure he'd like to be. No wait, I shouldn't have said that. He's a sort of speculator, too.'

The telephone on Baker's desk came to Harry's rescue. He picked it up and as he did so the door opened and Joe Baker came in. ‘Yes, sir,' Harry said into the phone, ‘Mr Baker is here now.' He handed the receiver to Baker. ‘Mr Meehan.'

Joe Baker nodded at Dan and Harry went out. ‘Michael, hi!' he said. ‘What? Down three points? No. Far too soon. Wait a while. It'll turn around. Sure I'm sure. Leave it for now.'

He put the phone down. ‘Dan!' he said with a big smile, his hand extended. ‘Welcome to my world.'

J
OE BAKER'S WORLD
revolved around Wall Street and Broad Street in Manhattan Island's Financial District. This was where the money markets operated: the New York Stock Exchange, the New York Curb Market. There were brokerage houses on every street and at 23 Wall Street the offices of the powerful banking company J.P. Morgan.

After sipping coffee and making several brief telephone calls Joe turned his attention to Dan Dolan. ‘You're coming out with me this morning, son. I want you to stick by me, see everything, hear everything, say nothing. OK? Any questions, you save 'em and you only ask what you want to know when we're alone.'

Joe Baker, small and slightly built, walked with brisk, short steps and Dan had to hurry to keep up as they set off down Madison to 42
^nd
Street then by cab to the Financial District. In his head Dan could hear Michael again and the sheer
exuberance
of his
Give my regards to Broadway
. Joe Baker glanced up at him, sensing his enthusiasm. ‘Great city, eh, son? This is where it all happens.' Then, as the cab turned into Wall Street, he added, ‘And this is the money-go-round.

‘In the old days,' Joe went on to explain, ‘trading stock was done out in the streets. These guys, the traders, would stand under the lamp-posts and along the curbs on Broad Street and Wall Street. Nowadays trading is done on the floor of the Exchange. It begins and ends when the bell rings. Trading can only be done between those bells. OK?'

Dan was fascinated. So this was where the money was! All day millions of dollars were traded at posts on the Exchange 
floor. But only, he soon discovered, Stock Exchange members could do business here. The members were traders. They bought and sold stocks for themselves. Or they were brokers who bought and sold stocks for their customers.

Joe Baker bought and sold stocks for himself and once they were inside the Exchange it seemed to Dan that his boss knew everyone and everyone knew him. The first of Joe's friends they encountered was a man Joe had spoken to that morning on the office telephone. Dan read the name of the member at Post 12: Michael J. Meehan.

It turned out that Michael J. Meehan was a Stock Exchange celebrity, well known throughout the New York financial world as a smart operator. He was around forty years old, the son of Irish parents who came to the United States at the beginning of the century. He'd had little formal education but he was a natural born salesman and he had got where he was with his ability to charm and impress.

Meehan had started out as a cigar salesman before becoming the manager of an agency selling tickets for Broadway shows. At the ticket agency he concentrated on his better off clients and always ensured they had excellent seats. In return he would sometimes receive stock-market tips. He was doing all right at the time but the more he learned about the stock market the more he became convinced he could do better than spend his days selling theatre tickets. Taking the plunge he went into
business
on his own and, after a difficult start, he steadily built a thriving business. After only two years he could afford to buy himself a seat on the prestigious New York Stock Exchange for $90,000.

Joe Baker and Meehan shook hands warmly but Meehan merely glanced at Dan. Another of Joe's protégés, he guessed. Always on the look-out for the one true kid he could trust and teach the business and no doubt, eventually, leave his fortune. And that was some fortune. Joe Baker was one of the richest men in the city. But, apart from Barbara, he had no one, no family of his own, and as Michael Meehan's wife said, ‘Poor ol' Joe, always looking for the son he never had.' 

Standing up at the lunch counter on the corner of Broad Street and Pine, Joe Baker and Dan had coffee and sandwiches in a ten-minute break, then they were back at the Exchange. By 4.30 they were walking back up Madison, Joe as brisk as ever, Dan's head awash with new faces, new scenes, the Exchange floor, trading posts, numbers chalked up on blackboards, numbers, numbers and more numbers. But he was excited, too, excited at the prospect of learning the job, of making an
impression
and maybe, too, of making a fortune,
his
fortune.

Dan had never valued money for its own sake. He came from a background of a sometimes dire poverty. His family were poor but they didn't worry about it. So were most of their relatives and friends. Now, with a privileged glimpse of what seemed untold wealth with millions of dollars changing hands by the minute, ambition stirred in his previously unambitious soul.

Back at the office he faced Joe Baker across the big desk. Joe waited until Lois had delivered their late afternoon coffee and they were alone. ‘So,' he said. ‘First day. How did it go?'

‘Absolutely fascinating,' Dan said truthfully.

‘You learn anything?'

Dan nodded. ‘I think so.'

Baker raised his eyebrows expectantly.

‘I think we should be holding Radio shares,' Dan said
seriously
.

Baker laughed. ‘Why? Because Mike Meehan is a super salesman? That guy could sell fur coats in the desert.'

‘No, sir. It's not that.'

‘You trust him because he's Irish.'

‘No,' Dan said with a laugh ‘I think we should buy into Radio shares, lots of them, because every household in the country wants a radio. More than that. Every household in the country
needs
a radio. The demand is there and it can only increase.'

Baker nodded. ‘Correct. But you can relax, son. We already hold Radio shares. Lots of 'em.'

The Irish Club was full as usual that Friday evening, the third Friday of Michael and Nathan's regular bookings. The Dolan's, 
as they were now known, had just come off stage after their first set of three numbers, just sat down at the small table reserved for them, when a man they had never seen before approached.

‘Hi!' he said. ‘Can I sit down?'

Michael shrugged. ‘Sure,' he said.

The man was short, thick-set with a squashed face and several chins. He didn't look or sound Irish. Italian, Michael guessed.

‘Well listen, fellas,' he said, immediately leaning forward as he sat down, ‘I've got a proposition for you. We've been hearing good things about you two. How you pull in the customers, give the people what they want.'

‘We do our best,' Michael said.

‘Well, I mean look at this place,' he said. ‘They were lined up outside but they had to close the door. The joint was full.'

‘How come they let
you
in?' Nathan asked bluntly.

‘I'm a booker,' the man said. He took out a printed card and handed it to Michael. ‘They got to let me in.'

According to the card he was a licensed booking agent and he was authorized to book concert and variety artists and artistes in the state of New York.

‘You don't have an agent,' he said, ‘so I came to you direct.'

‘You seem to know a lot about us,' Nathan said.

‘I do,' he said, ‘and take it from me you need an agent. Guy who'll take good care of you. I don't do that. I work for the clubs and theatres.'

‘You know a good agent?' Michael asked.

‘Joe Bononi. Tell him I sent you.'

‘Yeah,' Nathan said. ‘We heard of him.'

‘Well anyway, like I said, you got this place buzzing.'

‘Oh, I don't think that's because of us,' Michael said with a laugh. ‘This place is buzzing every Friday night.'

‘That's not true,' Nathan said, throwing Michael a withering look. ‘They couldn't drag people in here before we came.'

‘Well anyway,' the man said, ‘there's this place on Canal Street. Arnie's. They have shows like this every night of the week. I'd like to book you in there. Just a couple of dates at first. See how it goes.' 

‘Oh great!' Michael said. ‘What do you say, Nathan?'

‘Yeah, fine,' Nathan said, less enthusiastically. ‘If we're free, that is. When did you have in mind?'

‘Next Saturday and Sunday. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow week.'

‘Is it Irish?' Michael asked. ‘I mean, what are the people like?'

‘It's not like this,' the man said. ‘It's not an
Irish
club. They get all sorts of people in there. Tell you the truth, it's a bit rough. Tough guys with their molls. But you'd be fine.'

‘What would they want exactly? We do a lot of Irish here.'

That's OK,' Nathan came in. ‘We get all the new songs just as soon as they come out.'

‘Well, fine,' the man said. ‘One or two Irish is OK. Italian, too, if you can. Y'know, what's-her-name from sunny Italy. That kind o' thing.' He leaned forward. ‘They're funny these guys. They may be tough, but they sure like soppy songs. Y'know, about your mother or your daddy left home when you were a kid, that kind of crap.' He laughed and his squashed face looked even more squashed. ‘It cracks 'em up, the crazy bastards.'

Michael grinned. ‘Daddy, you've been a mother to me.'

‘Yeah,' the man agreed. ‘That sort of stuff.'

‘We'll be fine,' Nathan said. ‘So how much? We get fifty here.'

The man regarded him coolly. ‘You get twenty here.'

‘This is Irish,' Nathan continued unabashed. ‘It's kinda family. Outside of here we want the going rate. Fifty for the two of us.'

‘Twenty five,' the man said.

‘Nothing doing,' Nathan said.

‘Fifty five for two nights.'

‘Sixty,' Nathan said.

The man leaned forward, hand extended. ‘Done,' he confirmed. And then: ‘You should be an agent. You'd do all right.'

The pool hall was on Thirty-first Street and, according to Father Pat, it was a den of iniquity. He walked in, passed the
glass-fronted 
cashier's desk, ignoring the large notice ordering members to sign in. Tim Dolan followed.

Father Pat looked along the two rows of tables. Cue in hand, a man at the first table, his tie loosened at his open-necked shirt, his hat on the back of his head, eyed Father Pat with an air of amusement and undisguised contempt.

‘Something bothering you, rat-face?' Father Pat asked.

Here we go, thought Tim. But the man walked away and round the table, intent on taking his next shot.

Tony O'Reilly was leaning back against the wall four tables down.

According to another notice displayed on both sides of the long room gambling was strictly prohibited yet there was a little pile of money on a window ledge.

‘Good morning, boys,' Father Pat said expansively to Tony and the two friends he was with. ‘Shouldn't you all be at work?'

‘Shouldn't you, Father?' the one called Declan asked with a cheeky grin and they all laughed, including Father Pat.

Declan was a short, wiry young man with a shock of thick black unruly hair and a pock-marked face. Holding his cue upright like a paddle in a punt, he rocked to and fro, enjoying his joke. Marty Rip, ignoring the priest's arrival, carried on assessing the shot he was about to make. He was three or four years older than Tony and Declan, Tim noted, and better dressed in a smart jacket and a polka-dot bow tie.

‘What in God's name are you doing here, Tony?' Father Pat asked, forthright as ever. ‘There's no future in this.'

Tony shrugged, embarrassed by the priest's presence. He was a good-looking boy, blue-eyed with light-brown hair and, despite the tough stance he affected there was something angelic about him.

‘We've been to see your ma,' Father Pat told him. ‘She's having a rough time. That leech of a landlord is sucking her dry. Keeps on putting up the rent. She needs you, Tony. Do you want to see her out on the street? She needs you working, son, not wasting your time in this shit-hole.'

Tim didn't flinch. He was getting used to Father Pat's colourful use of language. 

‘I'll see to it,' Tony said.

‘You'll get a job, help her out?'

‘I said I'll see to it, Father, and I will.'

‘Do me a favour, Tony?' Father Pat asked. ‘Five minutes?'

‘What do you want, Father?' Tony asked, impatient now.

‘I just want to talk to you. But not here. Five minutes?'

Tony looked at Declan and Marty Rip, shrugged helplessly and followed Father Pat and Tim out to the street.

‘Thanks,' the priest said when they were outside. ‘I just want to say this, Tony. I care about you. Your ma cares about you. She hasn't had things easy this last couple of years. You know that and she doesn't need any more trouble. The thought of you hanging around with those two in there worries her and so it should. Declan is just a silly lad. But this Martin Ripley is trouble and it's pretty obvious where he's heading.'

‘Yeah?' Tony said tolerantly. ‘And where would that be?'

‘It's either six feet under or Sing Sing. That's not for you. You're a smart boy. You have a future. They haven't. I can help. I can get you a job.'

Tony laughed. ‘Doing what? Laying sleepers on the railroad?' He turned away then he looked back. ‘I'm OK, Father. I told you. I'll see Ma and I'll sort things out. Now, please, leave me alone.' And before Father Pat could say another word he walked back into the pool hall.

‘Come on,' Father Pat told Tim, ‘we're gonna pay a visit.'

The block where Declan O'Connor's family lived was in a short alley close to the freight yard. On the way Father Pat told Tim that at one time Declan's father regularly beat up his wife. He was warned, first by Father Pat then, when the police
department
failed to act, by three or four brawny parishioners. He had been subdued for a while but the word was that he was at it again. Mrs O'Connor had turned up at Mass first with an ugly bruise on her forehead, which she tried to hide by combing her hair forward, then with a badly blackened eye.