Exile on Bridge Street (9 page)

Tanner nods.

“Every man has a day to prove 'mself,” Tommy says to me. “The world demands it.”

Vincent unlocks the door and opens it for me. Down the stairs I walk, The Swede, Tommy Tuohey, Cinders Connolly, and Lumpy Gilchrist behind me. The first person I see is Paddy Keenan behind the bar as I enter the saloon below. He looks to me, tosses a towel in front of him at the bar where Ragtime Howard looks back over his shoulder. Beat McGarry, remembering things for future stories, as he loves to do, is smiling slyly as he sees the four of us descending. Like three broad-shouldered moose sipping from the river, Red Donnelly, Gibney The Lark, and Big Dick Morrissey look back too and so does the flat-faced Philip Large whose mouth is open in wonder.

Fear and anger rushing through me, I shoulder through a few immigrants and stand over the table that holds the beers of Petey Behan, Martin, Quilty, Harms, and their leader Richie Lonergan, who looks at me coldly as I stop.

“Behan,” says I.

He looks up from the side of his face as the men following me come to a stop above, Tommy's hand on my shoulder.

“Meet me outside.”

Chisel MaGuire appears of a sudden between us and blurts, “Finish ya drinks, boyos. We gotta challenge.”

“Hey hey,” I hear a whooping.

“Them kids?”

Behan looks away from me and picks up his beer, downs it. Stands up close to my face as tall as he can make himself and turns his back to me, walks to the door.

“Yeah. Yeah,” the men shout.

As we shuffle toward the rear room door in the traffic, I hear men speaking in languages excitedly. Outside, Richie pushes people out of the way so he can stand with the rest of us, though he hobbles and leans on Harms. It is drizzling, though the cold has mostly subsided from the snap that came round the day The White Hand took back control of the docks from the ILA and the Italians and the New York Dock Co. There is a freedom in the air that I hadn't felt since getting soused that night. A feeling that we had cleared the way and any disagreements now between us are no more than the faction fighting or the coming up of a man. It is our time and I can feel it and how we make things is our business—all the rest can watch and get out from the way.

I am surprisingly at ease and at the ready. Pushed up by the courage in my youth. I feel a comfort in it even, for I am not the only man throughout time that has his day of test. I am only one among many who seek dignity. Because although we bring our ways to the world, we lose them too. But were it not for men like Dinny Meehan, those old ways would not stand so tall above us, a hand on our shoulder. I feel myself gaining. I feel a power within me ascending to the fore. The child in me to the aft. And like the brave men of Dublin whose words cut open hearts . . . the men who write in blood as they stand proud against death just this week, I too stand with them ready to give my blood to sacrifice my childhood and walk among the other seers, the tribe of auguries and the unkempt visionaries that stride upon dirt paths with glinting weapons, protecting their families. A man among the sodality of men. Making survival out of this life that is after throwing difficulties in the path of us.

“When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd,” I mumble under my breath, still not knowing in the slightest who it was that wrote such wonderful words. Something so ancient and stirring, yet here I stand inside the fighter's circle with cobblestones beneath my feet, buildings above me in place of Ireland's green floor and trundling hills. I take off my coat and my tie and push back my hair, close my fists.

“We have here a challenge!” Chisel stands on a chair in the alley and points toward Petey as the onlookers lower their voices, the underpass of the Manhattan Bridge to our left, the rail yard at the end of Bridge Street in the foreground with Manhattan looking down to us. “One youngster who come up with the Lonergan crew, a Brooklyn-born boyo . . .”

The Swede kicks the chair from underneath Chisel, “We ain' barkin' t'day, get up'n fan the odds and shut ya hole.”

I see Richie Lonergan pointing and trying to speak with Lumpy, though The Swede has turned and is in the way, holding him back with one large paw on Richie's chest. I can't really hear him, but I believe Richie is claiming a percentage of the take if Petey wins. Harms is using his shoulders to press The Swede and offers supporting comments for Richie's claim. And Bill Lovett is casually peeling off bills with his legs open and speaking to Petey's ear, then handing a wad to Lumpy. Meanwhile, The Lark and Big Dick along with Red Donnelly, Cinders Connolly, and Philip Large have their arms spread out with their backs against the circle of yelping men to keep it wide enough for the two boys to fight.

“Back up.”

“Poe,” Tommy Tuohey yells in my ear. “Dis boyo'd like to get in close on ye, giver teek, mora less. Needa keep distance with long jabs from ye, hear it?”

“I do.”

“If'n when he gets in on ye close like, ye gotta puck yer way out, hear it?”

“I do.”

“Don' tangle too long on the inside. Dat's his game. Yer to keep a distance and pick off the fact he's got the short arms like.”

I look up and see Dinny and Tanner and Vincent in the shutter windows looking down on us. Vincent waves a fist at me and smiles as Dinny and Tanner stand behind him with their arms crossed, watching me.

From above I hear Vincent clapping and yelling and a few others as well are on my side, including Cinders Connolly, who yells and smiles at me while struggling to hold back men and next thing I know, Petey is walking toward me with his fists up, as I hadn't heard a bell or anything announcing our beginning. Closer he gets. Closer still until I can see the meat in his shoulders and his wide face. He tries cornering me, but I slip away, ducking from one of his swings. I lose my balance a bit and hear Tommy Tuohey yell something, but I can't hear it clearly.

I feel in me that I don't want to swing at him. That I don't have the anger in me to attack, so I bounce like I was taught and go from side to side, avoiding him as he bears down. His aggression makes me feel hunted and he yells something out to the fact that I was the one that challenged him and why am I running now? And then finally Petey puts his hands down and comes directly at me. As I jump out of the way, he grabs my shirt and yanks me back toward him and as my left shoulder bumps against his body, he swings up with a left and twice with sweeping right hands that catch me on the knuckles covering my face. The crowd roars and I see the veins in Lovett's neck pull up as he yells, Frankie Byrne and the Lonergan crew standing at his side.

My knuckles burn and I feel a small lump grow on the top of my head where he somehow clipped me as I back away, and before I can think about it much, someone from behind pushes me toward Petey, who is surprised and takes a wild swing that is partially blocked by my hands again.

“Stay away from 'em,” I hear Tuohey yell to me. “Jab jab.”

As Petey moves in again, I straighten my left arm as long as it will go and duck my head at the same time as the punch lands on his forehead. He quickly swings back again, but his arms aren't long enough to connect. I do it again and the onlookers jump up in excitement. One more time with the left jab and I follow it with a straight right that goes over his shoulder, and with all of my weight heading toward him and missing, he swings three and four times from my stomach to my chest and up to my mouth where his last one lands before I move away from him.

And that is what I need. The anger wells up when I realize yet again he had punched me in the mouth. He had kicked me by taking my coat last year during winter. Wore it as a prize for taking my honor and continues pushing me and pushing me until he had punched me in the mouth that very morning. My fists tighten.

“Yeah.” I hear Vincent yell from above.

“Dere he is! Get 'em, Poe.”

We close in on each other and I measure his head, leading with a right hand that must have missed. I chase after him until we meet in the center, chest to chest, swings on swings, some going over shoulders, others landing in ribs and still more popping on an ear and dotting an eye until I find myself on the ground looking up as the crowd jumps and pushes Red Donnelly aside above me. The Swede then attacks them, pushing them back.

“Get back.”

I feel a great winding in me that seems to suck all of my energy away. I can't catch my breath and struggle to my feet, panting and hurt, though I don't realize my nose is bleeding until it itches strangely and when I rub along the nostrils, find it wet and not in its normal shape. I feel death in me. Or a terrible fear. Defeat now taking the weight away from my anger, I now feel as though I stand against death and take one more deep breath and jump over Richie Lonergan's shoulder to get at Petey and grab ahold of his shirt collar and won't let go no matter how much Richie pulls at my hand.

“That's right, Liam.” I hear Vincent.

“Get 'em, boyo.” Tommy encourages. “Don' leggo o' dat feelin'.”

And with many men joining in the affray, I finally wheel Petey out of his celebration and sling him across the fighter's circle, tackle him while he is on one knee trying to get up. I punch and punch, but I am picked up high by The Swede and put on the other side of the circle while the others help Petey up.

“Fight like it's a fight, kid,” The Swede points and yells in my face. “A fight, not a tacklin' match.”

Again, I am overcome with wind in me and put my hands on my knees as The Swede tells me to go back at it. As Petey closes in, I keep my hands upon knees and watch him. He swings at me and I duck and the both of us tumble to the ground with my face in his chest and arms wrapped close around him so he can't get a clear punch to my face. Still though, I am so winded that I feel the quit in me. My muscles are strained to the limit and I shake in a strange, hungry feeling that comes over me, stealing away my courage.

Again The Swede is breaking us up and I can feel the paving stones scraping the skin off my left arm and shoulder, my head rolling on the ground too.

“Let go, kid,” The Swede yells, yanking at my arms.

“Let 'em go, kiddo,” I hear Tommy, at which time I immediately release my grip, then kick up my legs to push him away before he gets a free shot in.

“Stand up.”

My mouth by now is wide open, trying to catch my breath, while I feel my nose is plugged from the inside of it. The bottom part of my face entirely covered with blood. More of it dripping from my nose to the back of my throat, I spit a glob of it on the pavement and see for the first time my own blood in the mud, mixed with the rain water and the Belgian bricks and the yelling voices and the struggle of life on my shoulders. My thoughts pulse in an intensity with this realization, and so I put my fists above my face and walk to the center again as the crowd cheers on seeing the quit in me had not won over.

I remember again my length being a weapon and the moment Petey gets close, I snap his neck back with a quick left. Then again, while backing up into the mesh of men being held in check by the dockbosses. I know I can't do it again, so I wait for him to come closer again and hold my right hand in wait this time. When he fakes a swing, I throw the right as hard as I can, emptying out my energy, but I miss and as I stumble to gain my balance, I can feel the incredible shaking in my legs. Petey punches me across the cheek with an off-balance left and I let go of my own fists and grab at his shirt again, throwing him away from me, though he doesn't fall. Any break I get from his onslaught is a moment in heaven as gaining my breath becomes the most important thing. I find myself on the ground again with muffled cheers, sitting on my duff and looking up.

“Get up, Liam.” I hear someone yell.

“Get back in there.”

As I roll to one side to get myself up, I spit again and the blood I see with my eyes, mixed with the blood I taste again gives me some sort of energy that is not at all physical, but only the grind of emotion in a body completely evacuated of strength.

I swing weakly at Petey as he catches me in the ribs, then again on the top of my head as I try to duck. I push him away, but again he paws at me with a smacking sound to my lips and yet another thud comes to my head as I fall into the crowd, caught by Cinders Connolly with one hand before my face smacks into the cobbles.

From what I am told, I got up from the ground two more times after that only to get sat again. I did not lose consciousness entirely, though I can't quite recall all that happened afterward. Slowly coming back into reality, the men all have their arms around me as I sit at one of the immigrants' tables inside the Dock Loaders' Club. Even Chisel MaGuire shakes my hand with Tommy at one side, Cinders on the other and a tableful of whiskey shots bought for to celebrate a man's coming up.

“Looky dat nose on ye,” Paddy Keenan says. “All lamped up like.”

“Look like a monkey's bollocks,” Tommy smiles. “The brutality of it.”

“Gargle this down then,” Paddy says, handing me another shot. “No slap-arse farmer now, eh, kid?”

“He'll buck 'emself up and we'll keep werkin' on his scrap skills.”

After quite a bit more celebrating and drinking, Petey comes up and stands over me with Richie and Abe Harms and Matty and Timmy behind him.

“Good fight, Liam,” Petey says sternly, puts a hand out for shaking.

I reach up and shake it as hard as my beat muscles allow. My nose broken and I lost the fight, but my dignity intact. I feel a petting across the top of my head, then a pat on my shoulder. I look up and see Dinny Meehan there. At least I think it is Dinny. But it is not. It's Harry Reynolds instead, who, in the face looks quite a bit similar to Dinny.

“Ya comin' up,” Harry says. “It's the smart thing to do, considerin' the circumstances. Ya gotta be pragmatic in these hard times. Ya doin' well.”

“Harry? Did you see it? The fight? I thought you'd left.”