13 Hangmen (14 page)

Surprisingly, Finn didn't get angry. He looked up from his paper and started to laugh. “If it isn't Solly Weinberg,” he said.

Solly nodded, mystified. Why would Finn know his name?

“Your thirteenth birthday must be coming up.”

“It's today,” Solly said.

“Time flies,” Finn said, shaking his head. “Tell your mam she can pay me the rest when she's ready.”

“I—I don't understand,” Solly stammered. “Why the change of heart?”

“I
haven't
forgotten,” Finn said. “I lived over at Number Thirteen myself when I was your age—back when the North End was still known as Little Dublin. I slept up in the attic, just like you. And I wanted to play ball for the Sox, just like you, back when they were still called the Pilgrims. Hadn't you better be getting to bar mitzvah practice?”

Solly nodded. How did Finn know all this?

“Well, off you get, then. You don't want to make the rabbi angry, or he won't let you plant that tree tonight.”

Solly turned to leave, utterly baffled. It was as though this young Irishman could read his mind. On his way out, he nearly collided with Chester Hagmann, who was just swinging through the saloon doors. What was
he
doing here? Hagmann was the owner of Purity, a factory behind the synagogue that distilled molasses into fuel for munitions. He was also Finn McGinley's rival slumlord in the North End—owner, in fact, of No. 15 next door. Everyone knew the two men couldn't stand each other.

Solly stooped and pretended to tie his shoe so he could eavesdrop.

“Where's the rent on my tank?” Hagmann said to Finn. “It's two weeks late.”

“You've got some nerve,” Finn said. “Every drop of molasses in it is worthless, now the armistice has been signed and the demand for munitions has vanished.
You
won't even buy the stuff off me, and the tank is sitting in your yard.”

“Not my problem,” Hagmann said. “Next time read the
Globe
instead of the racing form before making an investment.” He pulled a document out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid it in front of Finn. “It's a deed transfer. You know very well you can clear your debt with a single signature.”

“I won't sell you Number Thirteen and that's final,” Finn said.

“We'll see about that,” Hagmann said, repocketing the document. “You have until the end of the day to pay up—or else.” He strode out of the pub.

Solly thought it best to follow.

Except that Finn's body went completely rigid. His eyes rolled back in his head. He flopped face-first onto the zinc countertop. Solly raced over. Was the Irishman dead? No, he was still breathing. What was more, his eyes were darting back and forth beneath their lids. Solly tried to shake Finn awake. He merely shuddered and mumbled as though he were dreaming. Solly wasn't sure what to do next—fetch a doctor?

Finn sat bolt upright. “Where's Hagmann?”

“Gone,” Solly said.

“Did he see me keel over?”

“I don't think so,” Solly said.

“Close call,” Finn said. “I made a pact with a bunch of childhood buddies, see, never to sell Number Thirteen to a Hagmann. And I'm a man of my word.”

“Are you OK?” Solly said.

“Fit as a fiddle,” Finn said. He could plainly see, though, that Solly wasn't so sure. “I just fall asleep sometimes, all of a sudden like.” Finn explained the technical name for it was narcolepsy. He'd been having sleeping fits ever since he was a boy. Doctors all told him the same thing: it was hereditary, there was no way to wake him, there was no cure. The fits were brought on by stress, Finn said. And he was under a great deal of that at the moment. A few of his recent ventures hadn't panned out. Plus he'd had a couple of unlucky afternoons at the track.

Solly didn't know how to respond. Why would Finn—a complete stranger—be telling
him
all this?

“Lucky for me, I have a plan,” Finn said, winking. He tapped the
Globe
's front-page headline:
Congress to Ratify Prohibition Tomorrow.
“Because as a matter of fact, I
do
read more than the racing form.”

Before Finn could elaborate, another man strode into the bar.
Solly recognized him immediately. Frank Wallace, leader of the notorious Gustin Gang—the Irish mob that now terrorized all the Jewish business owners of the North End.

“Surprised you're not taking one of your little naps,” Wallace said, grinning and slapping Finn on the back. He turned to Solly. “I've known this guy since he was your age. Always sleeping on the job.”

“I've got a little business proposition for you, Frank,” Finn said.

“Was a time you were too good for the Wallaces,” Frank said.

“Times have changed,” Finn said.

Wallace jerked his thumb at Solly. “Who's the kid?”

“My new errand boy,” Finn said, flashing Solly a grin. “He's OK.”

New errand boy? Since when?

“Well, spit it out,” Wallace said. “I ain't got all day.”

“When Prohibition gets ratified by Congress tomorrow, it'll be illegal to make or sell another drop of booze after exactly one year's time,” Finn said.

“So?” Wallace said.

“So you should buy up every drop of the molasses I've got stored in a tank over at Purity and turn it into cheap rum. You'll make a fortune over the next twelve months. I'd even consider
reopening One-Eyed Jack's and letting you sell it here—for a small taste of the profits, of course.”

“I'm listening,” Wallace said. He perched on a bar stool while Finn gave him the particulars: how much molasses was actually in the tank, what sort of discount Finn would be willing to offer the Wallaces per gallon, who in the North End would have the equipment to distill it. Frank pulled out his wallet and handed Finn a wad of cash. Would this do as a down payment? Finn counted it out. Yup, that'd do nicely. The two men shook. Wallace departed, whistling.

Finn looked surprisingly sad. “That was a bitter pill to swallow,” he said to Solly. “When I was your age, I secretly helped Boston's future mayor put Frank Wallace's brother Stevie behind bars—back when the Gustin Gang was still known as the Tailboard Thieves. But I've
got
to pay Hagmann before the end of the day.”

“What's this about being your new errand boy?” Solly said.

Finn pulled a small duffel bag out from behind the bar. He stuffed the cash into it. He slid the duffel across the countertop to Solly.

“Make this one delivery on your way over to the synagogue, and your mother can consider last month's rent fully paid,” Finn said. “Whaddya say?”

Solly waited in a chair outside Chester Hagmann's office. His stomach had been growling since he'd gotten to Purity; the entire factory smelled like homemade cookies. And lunch was still a long way off. He checked his pocket watch again. He was late for bar mitzvah practice. And Finn was right: he
didn't
want to make Rabbi Zuckerman angry. Not only was today Solly's birthday—the fourteenth day of Shevat, 5679, by the Jewish calendar—tomorrow was the holiday Tu B'Shevat, the New Year for Trees. Which is why the rabbi had picked Solly especially to plant a sapling in the synagogue's front garden at tonight's sunset ceremony.

How had Finn known that?

Hagmann's secretary told Solly to step inside. Solly found the factory's owner behind a gigantic oak desk at the far end of a long, wood-paneled room.

“You again!” Hagmann frowned.

“Special delivery from Finn McGinley,” Solly said, setting the duffel on his blotter. “Should be all there.” He turned to leave.

Hagmann told him to take a seat. He didn't trust Finn McGinley any more than he trusted a Jew-boy. He would need to count out every penny. Reluctantly, Solly perched on the edge of a chair and watched while Hagmann sorted bills into piles.
“McGinley is only delaying the inevitable,” Hagmann muttered. “It's just a matter of time before he loses everything at Suffolk Downs—including Thirteen Hangmen Court.”

For some reason, Hagmann's smugness got Solly's goat.

“I wouldn't count on it,” Solly blurted. “As soon as Congress ratifies Prohibition tomorrow, Finn will be rolling in dough.”

“What makes you think that?” Hagmann said.

“He just sold every drop of his molasses to Frank Wallace,” Solly said. “He's going to turn it into cheap rum and sell it. Finn's going to reopen One-Eyed Jack's.”

A slow, hideous grin spread across Hagmann's face, one that gave Solly a chill. “All's well that ends well, I guess,” he said. “The rent's all here. You can go.”

Solly made his way through a forest of rusty holding tanks in Purity's yard. The synagogue was just over the fence. He felt a sudden pang of guilt. Though Finn hadn't explicitly told Solly to keep his plan a secret, it certainly wasn't Solly's place to blab it to Hagmann. Especially not after Finn had given Mameh a break on the rent. Why couldn't he ever keep his big mouth shut? He saw no other choice but to return to Finn's office after bar mitzvah practice and confess what he'd done. Hopefully Finn would still be there—though he wasn't looking forward to how the Irishman might react.

Some birthday this was turning out to be!

Finn was still there.

But so was Chester Hagmann. And he was once again setting that deed transfer in front of Finn to sign.

“Didn't Solly deliver the duffel bag?” Finn said.

“He did,” Hagmann said.

“Then I should be all paid up,” Finn said.

“You are. That's not why you're going to sign Number Thirteen over to me.”

“So why would I do that?”

“Consider it a fair trade for my help out of your current dilemma,” Hagmann said.

“What dilemma?” Finn said.

“When I suggested you read the
Globe,
I meant beyond the headlines,” Hagmann sneered. “As soon as Prohibition becomes law, only
existing
rum producers will have a year to phase out their operations. It will become a federal crime for anyone new, like Frank Wallace, to make rum—or for you to reopen this bar.”

Finn went very pale.

“So I'd say your dilemma is fairly obvious,” Hagmann continued. “If you tell Wallace the molasses he just bought is worthless, you're likely to find yourself in a pair of cement shoes at the bottom of the Charles. If you don't tell him—and
he blithely starts making rum—I'll be forced to inform the authorities, seeing how the holding tank is actually mine and I wouldn't want to be implicated, whereupon you'll both likely end up behind bars. You could, of course, give Wallace his money back. Except that it's now sitting in my bank account. Lucky for you, it's the exact amount I'm willing to pay for Thirteen Hangmen Court.” Hagmann handed Finn the fountain pen out of his pocket.

“Who told you about my deal with Wallace?” Finn said.

Hagmann pointed over to Solly.

Finn's eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped the pen. His arms and legs went completely rigid. He flopped face-first onto the bar.

“What's wrong with him?” Hagmann said, alarmed.

“It's a sleeping fit,” Solly said.

“Well wake him up!” Hagmann said.

“I can't,” Solly said. “No one can. He told me it's a rare condition. It's brought on by stressful situations. Who knows when he'll wake up?”

Hagmann tugged the deed transfer out from under Finn's nose. He wiped off the drool, then tucked it back into his pocket. “Tell him to bring me the deed to Number Thirteen by the end of the day, or else.” He turned to leave.

“You're nothing but a dirty double-crosser!” Solly shouted.

“Do you think a little double-crossing would stop me?” Hagmann laughed. “My family has been waiting for
generations
to get back what is rightfully ours. I suppose I have you to thank for making that possible.” He strode out.