City of Dreams (37 page)

Again the cab arrived at eight o’clock, the launch puttered in, the great man rose beneath his umbrella and stepped onto the cab.

And Tim Riley swallowed his fear. Then he willed his knees to stop shaking and his legs to start moving, and as the cab rolled away, he ran.

He grabbed the left-side door, pulled it open, and threw himself inside.

Later, he would remember the horse’s hooves clopping on the cobblestones, the rocking motion, the smell of tobacco and leather. But at that moment, all he heard, felt, smelled, or saw was the presence of J. P. Morgan.

A huge white face—from which erupted a massive, bulbous, red nose—loomed above him. All else around the face—Morgan’s black hat and morning coat, the shadowed interior of the cab, the gray world outside—existed to frame that face and the angry black eyes aimed now at Tim Riley.

“Stop!” cried Morgan. “Smythe! Stop! Instantly!”

“Please, sir,” said Tim.

Morgan kicked him. “Get out. Get out or I’ll flay you.”

All in an instant, the cab stopped, the driver pulled open the door and grabbed Tim by the belt. “Get out, you little bastard.”

Tim did not have time to reflect on how badly this was going. As the driver pulled him out, he snatched the envelope from his pocket and threw it on the seat next to Morgan. A moment later, he landed in a puddle of water and horse piss.

“I ought to have you arrested,” cried the driver.

“Not today,” growled Morgan. “I’m in a hurry.”

As the cab clattered away, Tim saw Morgan pick up the envelope.

It was addressed to Mr. J. P. Morgan, Esq. Tim had added the esquire because he thought it sounded important. Inside was a 1780 bond and a letter:

Mr. Morgan
,

I am in possession of several of these. They may be of interest to yourself as a collector of historical treasures. If so, please contact me at 436 West Forty-eighth Street
.

Yours, Timothy Riley

T
IM
R
ILEY DID
not hear from J. P. Morgan that day or the day after. He thought about going back and jumping into the carriage again, but he expected that the left-side door would now be locked.

So he read. And he listened to his brother play the harmonica. And he went for his evening walks in the hopes that Doreen would join him again. But her father had heard about that sidewalk kiss, and he had informed Tim’s mother that any further liberties with his daughter would result in a busted head for her son.

Then Uncle Billy showed up again.

He had been to the barber, so his face shone like a polished apple. His hair was slick, and he didn’t smell of beer but of bay rum hair tonic.

After Billy had been on a toot for a while, he always awoke one morning and decided that he had been drunk long enough. He would clean himself up and get back to work—whatever it was—and then, about a month later, he would have a beer, and the next day he would have two beers, then three, and so on, until the cycle started again.

It had been easy for Billy to go on his toots when his brother-in-law held a job for him. But when he came to the door that afternoon, bearing a bunch of daisies, Tim wondered who had hired him now.

Billy grinned and handed the daisies to his sister.

She took them like a woman receiving a rent notice. “Where’d you get five cents to buy these? Didn’t you drink up all your money?”

“I drank most of it.” Billy smiled sheepishly. “But I got a job, too.”

“A job? Where? Jobs is hard to come by.”

“Now, sis, I know you won’t be too happy, but—”

“Mother of God . . . you didn’t take the job at McGillicuddy’s?”

“I went to two or three other places and they all said that with this panic thing, they got no work for a simple drinkin’ Irishman who don’t have no skills beyond brute strength and ignorance. So I took what I could get, all so’s I could give you this.” Billy offered her an envelope. “Call it a little advance.”

Mary looked at the envelope but did not take it.

Tim looked at Eddie, who had stopped playing his harmonica.

“If you’re workin’ for the McGillicuddys,” she said, “you ain’t welcome here.”

“What?” Uncle Billy ran through his series of expressions. “Not welcome? But I been tryin’ to tell you, they ain’t such bad fellers. Even Slick said it’s all bygones now.”

“Bygones my bottom.” Mary Riley grabbed a glass jar from the shelf. “I better go get some water for these flowers.” And she stomped out.

Tim asked his uncle, “So what do they want from you?”

“
Want
from me?”

“Every man always wants something. Figure out what it is and give it to him and he’ll be your friend for life. That’s what Boss Plunkitt says.”

“As a matter of fact”—Billy glanced over his shoulder to see if his sister was out of earshot—“Strong asked me again about the bonds. I told him what Plunkitt said. Strong said Plunkitt lies about everything, so he probably lied about that, and if we give him and Sunny Jim a look, they might be able to help us.”

A
FEW NIGHTS
later, Tim went out for his walk. But instead of heading for the river, he went over to Ninth Avenue and half a block south under the El until he came to the words
MCGILLICUDDY’S SALOON
painted across a plate glass window in gilded block letters. He peered in. The place was deep, but no wider than the flats directly above it. The long bar on the right faced the tables on the left. Sawdust covered the floor. Gaslights burned bright and yellow, but the shadows were dark in the corners. A sign hung above the bar:
THE IRISH NINERS POLITICAL CLUB SUPPORTS SUNNY JIM MAGUIRE
.

It was a quiet night. Two drinkers stood at the bar. Two or three more sat at a table in the back. Strong played solitaire at a side table, a coffee mug next to the cards, a leather blackjack next to the coffee.

Mother Mag worked behind the bar, in the place where Tim had expected to see Uncle Billy.

But Billy had other duties. He came staggering out of the shadows and set an armload of beer mugs on the bar. Then he picked up a rag, got down on his knees, and began polishing the brass foot rail.

Mother Mag leaned over and watched him for a moment. Then she snatched the rag and shook it in his face. Then she grabbed a broom and put it into his hands and gestured for him to sweep.

Tim felt something rise in his throat, a strange mix of embarrassment and pity. Billy wasn’t a bartender. He was just a janitor who cleaned the puke from the corners when the drunks threw up and emptied the spittoons in the street when they got full.

Billy began to sweep the sawdust, and Strong leaned back in his chair to watch, like a man enjoying a show.

So Uncle Billy was right, thought Tim. Those fellers had long memories. Kill the husband, then humiliate the brother. Victory for the McGillicuddys, even if it was six years coming.

As Billy carefully pushed the sawdust toward the front door, Tim turned to leave. He didn’t want Billy to see him, because it would be an embarrassment for them both. But he bumped right into Slick, who was striding along the sidewalk.

“Watch it, you little snot, or I’ll—” Slick’s eyes brightened. His breath was foul, and he sounded as if he had a bad cold, which came from the crushed sinuses beneath the mashed-in face, which had come courtesy of a six-pound hammer.

“Spyin’ in the windows, are you?” Slick slapped Tim across the face, grabbed him by the collar, pulled him inside. “Lookie here, boys. Look what the cat dragged in.”

All the faces turned. Uncle Billy’s turned red.

“You ain’t a cat.” Strong stood. “You’re a rat who been out sniffin’whores.”

Strong was bigger than Slick, smiled more, meant it less. That’s what Tim was thinking as he looked up into those small eyes.

“You need a job, kid?” Strong walked over and smiled down at Tim. “Like your uncle here?”

“No.”

“No,
sir
,” Strong snapped a hand and knocked Tim’s hat off. “Hey, Billy, tell him how good we been to you.”

“Oh, yeah, Strong, you been real nice. Real nice.”

“See that?” said Strong. “Real nice. We help them less fortunate than ourselves. Ain’t that right, Ma?”

“Shit, yeah,” said Mother Mag.

“Or maybe,” Strong looked into Timothy Riley’s eyes, “you
ain’t
less fortunate. Maybe you got some spring of money bubblin’ somewheres, even if you’re out of business and your old man’s swingin’ his six-pound hammer in the heavenly chorus.”

Billy stepped closer. “Now, Strong—”

“Shut the fuck up. If I want anything out of you, I’ll give you a spittoon to drink, just to see you puke.”

And Billy slipped back into the shadows.

“Now remember, kid”—Strong put an arm around Tim’s shoulder, as gentle as a father—“if we think there’s someone in our neighborhood who got their snout in somethin’ they ain’t sharin’, we might have to pay them a visit. So you watch what you’re spendin’, ’cause we’re watchin’ you.”

W
HEN
T
IM GOT
home, Dinny Boyle and a couple of his pals were passing a pint on the stoop.

Tim thought about going in by the back door, but they had seen him, so he put his head down and tried to walk past.

“Hey!” Dinny popped up in front of him. “You wonderin’ how come your brother ain’t down here, tootlin’ that fuckin’ harmonica?”

“No,” said Tim.

Dinny pulled the harmonica from his pocket. “Because I
took
it, that’s how come.”

Tim looked at the shining metal in Dinny’s hands. Tim’s father had given the harmonica to Eddie for his birthday.

“You want to know why I took it?” said Dinny.

“No.” Tim tried to step past.

“Because I think the Rileys is holdin’ out on the Dinny Boyle Association, which means they’re holdin’ out on Mr. Strong McGillicuddy, which means they’re holdin’ out on the folks who’ll elect Sunny Jim Maguire before long and take the fifteenth away from that limp old prick on the shoeshine throne.”

“How can we be holdin’ out,” asked Tim, “when we got nothin’ worth holdin’?”

“That ain’t what
I
hear, shitstain.” Dinny Boyle slapped Tim across the face.

Tim clenched his fists to fight back. He had taken all the slapping he could for one night. But one of the other boys grabbed his arm, and Dinny smashed him again. Tim saw stars and his right ear started to ring.

Then Dinny brought his boney, pimpled face close to Tim’s. “What I hear is that a big black box cab pulls up right in front of this buildin’ tonight, and a fancy feller steps out and asks, in a real snooty voice”—Dinny struck his nose into the air and talked through it—“‘Do you lads know if a Timothy Riley resides in this building?’”

“
Resides
,” said one of the others. “Snooty word for a snooty feller.”

“Real snooty,” said Dinny. “And when we say yeah, this fancy Dan nancyboy goes up to your flat, while the driver stays with the box cab so we don’t strip it bare.”

Tim was beginning to understand.

“Fancy Dans don’t come around here unless they’re handin’ out money to the poor unfortunates of Hell’s Kitchen.” Dinny trickled some whiskey onto the harmonica, then wiped it on his shirt, then tootled it a few times. “But after these guys leave, does anybody come down from your flat and give me my dues? Hell no.”

Tim looked at the harmonica. “So you took that?”

“Well, your brother come thumpin’ up the street from somewhere and starts playin’ under the song-girl’s window, like he’s sweet on her or somethin’.”

Tim looked up at the third-floor windows across the street.
Sweet on her?

“That’s against my rules. So I took his toy.” Dinny shoved the harmonica into his pocket. “You can get it back from Mr. Strong when you pay. I’m goin’ to tell him now about the fancy Dan.”

And that, thought Tim, would seal the fate of his family. If fancy Dan swells were visiting the Rileys, the McGillicuddys would be visiting soon after.

T
IM’S MOTHER AND
Eddie were sitting in the front room.

They had heard all the talk on the stoop.

Eddie had a black eye, courtesy of Dinny.

Their mother was wringing her hands, wiping them on her apron, wringing, wiping. When Tim walked into the flat, she pulled an envelope from the apron. “This is for you. A feller in a fine suit and goggle-eye glasses left it.”

Inside was a ten-dollar bill and a note:

I appreciate that you have offered an item. I enclose recompense. Should you come into any more of this sort, please contact me at number 23 Wall Street
.

J. P. Morgan
.

The mother read over her son’s shoulder. “J. P. Morgan? Glory be to God! He’s more important than Plunkitt himself. And ten dollars? Why?”

“I sold a bond. Morgan collects stuff. So he bought it. We have four more that I know of. But I don’t know where Pa hid the box. Do you?”

“No, darlin’. Your da loved to talk, but he sure could keep a secret.” She took the letter and the bill and went into the kitchen to hide them.

“A sawbuck,” whispered Eddie to Tim. “If that’s your plan, it ain’t enough to get us out of here. And once the McGillicuddys get wind of this J. P. Morgan stuff, they’ll be poundin’ on the door.”

“I know.”

“Only one thing to do.” Eddie took a furtive look into the kitchen, then pulled a bullet from his shirt pocket and held it up.

Tim shook his head. This was not a step he was ready to take. “If we can find the rest of the bonds, we can sell them to Morgan. If he give us ten dollars for every one, that would be two hundred dollars.”

“It ain’t enough.”

“It’ll have to be. I ain’t shootin’ anybody.”

T
HE
R
ILEY FAMILY
sat for the rest of evening in their steaming little flat.

Tim tried to read a copy of the
Times
that he had found on the street. His hands were so sweaty that the ink turned his fingertips black.