13 Hangmen (21 page)

Finn glanced around the table, startled.

“Fear not,” Honey-Fitz said, chuckling. “Only half these guys are Beacon Hill politicians. The other half are Royal Rooters for the Boston Pilgrims. On game days we meet at a joint called Third Base at the ballpark. The rest of the time we meet here.”

Back in the kitchen, Jack confirmed that the former mayor wasn't entirely full of his so-called Fitzblarney. He had made it his mission to battle prejudice throughout his career. As a state senator Honey-Fitz had helped get Columbus Day declared a public holiday for the Italians. As a congressman he'd convinced President Grover Cleveland to veto a bill deporting any immigrant unable to read the U.S. Constitution.

“So why did he lose his last election for mayor?” Finn asked.

“Oh, he's not perfect by a long stretch,” Jack admitted. “He got himself into a lot of hot water creating government jobs for all his so-called dearos: tea warmers, tree climbers, rubber-boot repairmen, watchmen to supervise the watching of other watchmen. Boston will be ready for the likes of Honey-Fitz again only if he
can prove he's for reform. Which is why his big campaign promise is to bring Stevie Wallace and the Tailboard Thieves under control by New Year's Eve. Too bad he didn't stop by this morning, eh?”

Finn felt himself going red. Stevie Wallace was now using the attic of 13 Hangmen Court—the very house One-Eyed Jack had sold Mam—as his headquarters. To hide his shame, Finn hustled a tray laden with apple pie out to the saloon.

The conversation had turned serious. How
was
Honey-Fitz going to turn this campaign around? He was trailing Mayor George A. Hibbard substantially in the polls, and there was little over a week left until election day, after the New Year. Did he have a plan?

Honey-Fitz turned to Finn. “What do
you
think I should do?” The men around the table chuckled. “I'm serious,” Honey-Fitz said. “What does the man on the street say?”

Finn stopped serving pie. He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe you need a rallying song,” he said. “Like how the Royal Rooters sing ‘Tessie' at Pilgrims games.”

The table roared.

“Go on, then,” Honey-Fitz said. “Give us a song.”

“Me?” Finn said.

“Never let that stop you from helping a friend in need,” Honey-Fitz said.

The table chanted for Finn to give them a song.

Finn started to sing “Sweet Adeline,” a tune Mam sometimes hummed to herself while she was boiling up the cabbage for dinner. His voice cracked a couple of times—he really wasn't much of a crooner—but he didn't give up. The longer he sang, the more silent the room grew. Respectful. Thoughtful. Honey-Fitz himself joined Finn at the final chorus. The politician had an amazingly sweet tenor voice. By the end, there wasn't a dry eye. A cheer went up. Everyone ruffled Finn's hair and slapped his back, slipped him a nickel. The table began to chatter in earnest about how Honey-Fitz should get straight into his car and drive around to every Boston neighborhood, reminding voters how he was one of them, not just some stuffed shirt at city hall.

Honey-Fitz pulled Finn aside and asked him how he could return the favor.

“Recommend a good doctor,” Jack piped up from over Finn's shoulder. “The boy needs a physical examination.”

Honey-Fitz pulled a business card out of his pocket and scribbled a note on the back before handing it to Finn. His own doctor on Beacon Hill. If Finn handed Doc O'Leary this card, he'd put the exam on Honey-Fitz's account.

“But I'm fine!” Finn said. “Honest!”

“Can't very well have you falling asleep on the job,” Jack winked. “You better head on over there now, son. He might be closing early for Christmas.”

Finn returned to One-Eyed Jack's in a slight daze. It was the first time in his life he had ever been to a doctor's office. He hadn't been prepared for all the poking and prodding with scary metal instruments. But at least now he could name what he had: Narcolepsy. Cataleptic fits. No one knew what caused them, according to Doc O'Leary. He couldn't be woken from them. So far, there was no cure. Finn should get plenty of sleep at night and avoid stressful situations. And whenever he did topple over, his family and friends needed to move him out of harm's way. Apart from that, there wasn't much Finn could do—except take comfort in the fact that his condition put him in pretty good company. Harriet Tubman was narcoleptic. And Louis Braille. And Thomas Edison.

With all this occupying his thoughts, Finn was far from expecting what awaited him when he entered through the saloon doors: a cash register drawer gaping open, two empty whiskey bottles beside it, a half dozen shot glasses smashed on the floor—and Jack lying hog-tied and gagged in the sawdust behind the bar.

Finn cut Jack loose and helped him over to the nearest booth. Suddenly, Jack seemed very old and frail—smaller, even. He dashed to the kitchen for a damp dishrag to clean the nasty cut above Jack's good eye. Jack waved him away. “The Tailboard
Thieves decided to pay me another visit,” Jack said. “Turns out they had Christmas presents to buy and were a little short on cash.” Stevie Wallace had demanded Jack open his register for them. Jack refused. Stevie smacked Jack across the face, and then his younger brother, Frank, trussed him up. The rest of the Tailboard Thieves broke into the register and cleaned it out, then poured themselves a little holiday cheer, on the house—and onto Jack while he lay at their feet.

Finn hung his head in shame. “My brother Paddy wasn't with them, was he?” he asked. “He's a carrottop, like me.”

Jack nodded. “He didn't touch me, though. He just stood guard at the door.”

Finn didn't know what to do next. He had sworn on Paddy's ring to keep quiet about the Tailboard Thieves. Yet Jack was the only person who had ever taken his sleeping fits seriously enough to get him to a doctor. Hang on! He had only sworn not to tell Mam about the Tailboard Thieves. He wouldn't actually be breaking his promise by telling Jack. “They're meeting up in the attic of Number Thirteen,” Finn said. “It's where they now plan their heists. Paddy hates working for the Wallaces, but he doesn't see any way out. If only I could eavesdrop on them somehow. I'd tell Honey-Fitz all about their next caper—after warning Paddy to stay away—so he could catch them red-handed.”

“Maybe there
is
a way,” Jack said. “I lived up in that attic
myself when I was a runaway slave. I know of a secret place to hide. When are they meeting next?”

“Four o'clock,” Finn said.

“Mind the bar for me,” Jack said, hoisting himself to his feet. He winced and clutched his side. “Feels like a couple of cracked ribs,” he gasped. “You'd better walk me over to Number Thirteen, so I can lean on you a bit.”

At the front door of Finn's house, Jack grabbed hold of the knocker. (Finn had never noticed that it bore the same heart-and-hands design as the ring Paddy wore.) Jack splayed each wrought-iron hand—with a rusty squeal—away from the heart. Next he pulled the tarnished crown out of its resting place above the heart and inserted it into a slot below. Attached to the heart was the door rapper itself. Jack cranked this nine times to the right, wincing with each hard-won turn. Suddenly the iron heart popped entirely out of the knocker, revealing itself to be an odd sort of hook.

Jack rested his head against the door, teetering as though he might faint. “Feeling my age,” he said.

“Just tell me where that hiding place is,” Finn said. “You'll never make it up three flights of stairs in your condition.”

“Appreciate the offer,” Jack panted, pocketing the heart hook. “But I can't do that. I promised not to, on account of a Hagmann. One day you'll understand.” Jack asked Finn to head
back to the pub. Honey-Fitz would be turning up for his end-of-the-day pint of birch beer. (The former mayor was, in fact, a teetotaler.) Finn should ask Honey-Fitz to wait there till Jack got back. He should then hide behind the old oak in the middle of the court until he saw the Tailboard Thieves leave. That way he could help Jack back to the saloon as soon as he came out.

With that, Jack disappeared inside the house.

And not a moment too soon. Stevie Wallace and his gang rounded the corner of Charter Street and strode up Hangmen Court. Finn pressed his back against the door so they wouldn't notice the heart missing out of the middle of the knocker. Paddy scowled and told Finn to beat it. Wallace said the kid might as well stand guard—make himself useful—as long as he didn't fall asleep. The rest of the gang chuckled, then followed Wallace up the stairs, Paddy with them.

There was Honey-Fitz. Finn raced off to meet him at the front door of the pub. He ushered the politician inside, opened him a birch beer, and handed him the racing form. Finn needed to leave for a moment but would be back with news of the Tailboard Thieves' next heist. Honey-Fitz's face lit up. Finn wasn't pulling his leg, now? There was only a week left to make good on his campaign promise, and he was trailing worse than ever in the polls. Finn crossed his heart, then dashed over to the old oak.

Cedric Hagmann was already hiding behind it, holding a potted poinsettia.

“What are
you
doing here?” Finn said. “Why aren't you at the bank?”

“I was going to leave this on the stoop for your mother,” he said. “A surprise Christmas present. But I see she already has other admirers.”

“It's not what you think,” Finn said.

“Doesn't matter what I think,” Hagmann said. “What matters is what the police will think when I tell them Dolly McGinley is harboring known criminals.”

“She has no idea they're there,” Finn said. “She's at your house, cleaning it.”

“Your older brother certainly knows they're there,” Hagmann said. “And if she wants to keep him out of jail, she'll have to marry me to buy my silence.”

“But that's blackmail!” Finn said. “That's no way to win someone's love!”

“Who said anything about love?” Hagmann said, sneering. “I would do just about anything to get my hands on that house.”

“Why?” Finn said. “What do you want with another rundown old building? You live in a huge mansion!”

“Stupid little Mick,” Hagmann hissed. “You could never in a
thousand years imagine what sort of treasure lies hidden within those walls!”

Before Hagmann could elaborate, though, they heard Wallace and the gang laughing and stomping their way down to the front stoop of No. 13. Hagmann shoved the poinsettia into Finn's hands and strode quickly out of the court.

Finn hoofed it back to the stoop just as Wallace emerged from the front door. Now Finn
had
to help Honey-Fitz catch Stevie Wallace. Not only would it save Paddy from a life of crime, it would save Mam from the blackmailing clutches of Cedric Hagmann. Wallace did a double take at the poinsettia. “I was just having a pee behind the tree,” Finn said. “Look what I found.” Wallace laughed and flipped him a quarter. He advised his gang to get a move on; the caper they were about to pull would make them all rich as the Three Wise Men by dark. Panicked, Finn watched Paddy fall reluctantly into step behind the rest. How could he warn Paddy that he was headed straight into a trap, one that his own little brother was helping Honey-Fitz to set?

Finn gasped. He dropped the poinsettia. His eyes rolled back in his head. His arms and legs went rigid. He toppled to the sidewalk. Paddy dashed to his side. “Not again,” Wallace said. “Wake him up!” Paddy said he couldn't. There was nothing he could do until the fit passed. “Just leave him there,” Wallace said.
“The kid'll wake up eventually.” Paddy told Wallace he would carry Finn up to his room. He wasn't about to leave him alone in the street. Wallace would surely do the same for his own little brother, Frank. Wallace relented, saying Paddy knew where they were headed. The gang ambled up Hangmen Court without him.

Paddy slung Finn over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and toted him up the stoop. While Paddy fumbled with the lock, Finn opened his eyes a crack. To his relief, he spied Jack slipping out the kitchen door beneath the stoop. Jack pantomimed that he would wait until they were up in the attic before heading back to the pub to meet Honey-Fitz. But he looked terrible. His face had gone very gray, and it was covered in sweat. Finn vowed to check on him as soon as he could.

The moment Paddy laid Finn on the bed, Finn opened his eyes. He admitted to his brother that he had only been faking a sleeping fit. He'd seen no other way to save Paddy from getting arrested along with the other Tailboard Thieves when they were nabbed by the cops at their next heist.

“Who tipped the coppers off?” Paddy asked, alarmed.

What could Finn tell him without implicating Jack or his secret hiding place? “That snooty banker, Cedric Hagmann,” he lied. “I caught him spying on you guys from behind the old oak. He told me the cops knew all about your new hiding place. One of your own gang members is a secret stool pigeon.”