Light of the Diddicoy (15 page)

And I'm unsure if I should hide under a table or sprint for the door where Lonergan stands uncaringly and at peace. The Swede and Connors continue at the extent of their lungs, straining to let loose their grievances as their heads turn a bloody hue in the excitement. Tommy Tuohey then runs into the room, pushing Lonergan out of the way and standing in a boxer's stance in front of Connors and Lovett and ready to throw until finally Dinny yells at the top of his lungs above every other voice and blasts down his fist on the desk, leaving a wound in it.

“You take your place!” He spits into the face of The Swede, pointing toward the window sill. “Pick up the chair!” he yells at Connors. “I won't have this old war between you two!”

And I have never seen Dinny lose his cool before this, but he is so alight that I believe for certain someone is going to get killed.

“I don' wanna hear a word from the either of yas!” Dinny says as they slowly back in to their places holding their stares on each other, The Swede and Connors. “Yas think ya can walk in and turn this place upside down? All we have here? No ya won't! Too many good men worked too hard to get us where we're at. Too many men died for ya small rivalries to disown it now!”

The Swede leans against the windowsill with his arms crossed and looking away. Non Connors sits down with Bill Lovett across Dinny's desk.

“G'on, Vincent,” Dinny says with a wave of his hand. “Go Tommy, downstairs.”

Slowly, Dinny walks around the side of his desk while looking back and forth at each man, then looks at The Swede. “Not a word!”

Sitting down, he looks across the desk, “Now, what ya find out about this I-talian feller, what is it? Majio?”

“Maschio,” Lovett returns, then remembers the beer he put on the floor by his feet, picks it up and takes a long slug from it. “Yeah well . . . You know Strickland? The pier house super down there?”

“Yeah.”

“I got 'em to talk.”

“Fookin' coward,” Connors mumbles.

“He's weak in the brain,” Lovett continues. “He tells me Maschio's been talkin' wit' Wolcott, but he ain' all that involved wit' Yale. Yale pays him, though. For information.”

“Information about what?”

“The ILA, the New York Dock Company and . . . the White Hand.”

“An' how long's Strickland known about this fookin' guy?” The Swede demands.

Dinny holds up his palm to The Swede, then looks to Bill. “How ya know what this Maschio looks like?”

Lovett finishes off the beer. “He's gotta white streak a hair over his forehead, like an albino thing in his hair. All black except that one white part.”

Dinny nods his head while thinking. “Thanks, Bill, that's damn good work.”

The Swede wrinkles his nose.

“Anythin' I can do for ya?”

“I need Darby Leighton,” Lovett says.

The Swede jumps in, “That scally's been eighty-sixt, y'ain't gonna . . .”

“Shaddup!” Dinny yells without looking at him. “I'm sending ya Mickey Kane, Bill. He's got plenty o' experience and he's a fighter.”

“I already got my second in command, Dinny. Non's my right-hand. I need another guy who's got more to 'em than Kane. Every day we fight. Every day them fookin' guineas jig in for a job or a whisper to the linemen or the pier houses, the captains or the stevedore companies. I need more muscle and more brains. Darby's all that an' more . . .”

“So why haven't ya called on The Swede, Bill? Or Vincent? Not once have y'asked me for help. Why don't ya let me help, Bill? That's what you pay me for.”

Bill doesn't answer and I see for the first time where the line is drawn; Dinny's extended hand for help, which, if accepted, means his power then takes its grip. At the same time, Bill's silent, distant plan to cut that hand off entirely. “Kane'll work out, I'll talk to 'em. He's my cousin and he's a ready scrapper, brisk fighter, that's for fair. He'll fight for ya and wit' ya. I seen 'em, Mickey Kane'll dig in wit' ya. Darby don' work here no more, and that's the end of it.”

Looking at Dinny, Lovett asks, “Why? What ya got against Darby Leighton?”

“I know he's a old friend o' your's, but I don' trust 'em.”

“Why?”

“I don' trust'em 'cause I don't.”

“That don't mean nothin'.”

The Swede almost says something, but Dinny raises a patient finger, silencing him.

“Are you makin' demands, Bill? You sayin' I don' know what I'm doin' here? Are ya? From you? The guy who shoots a man downstairs? For what? Pullin' a fookin' cat's tail? Brings the tunics in our home? Bill? Then shows up in the office wit' a beer in his hand?”

Bill stares at Dinny unapologetically. Not giving an inch.

“Ya wanna war wit' me? You sit in front o' me wit' a gun in ya belt. Ya wanna kill me? Do ya? G'ahead. Shoot me. What'll that do for ya? For us? All these men are gonna suddenly follow you around if I'm dead? Think so?”

Bill moved in his seat.

“Frankie Yale takes over Red Hook. Navy Street Gang takes over the Navy Yard, unions take the rest, and both you and me are dead. What else? I'll tell ya, every down-and-out Irish in these neighborhoods got nowhere to turn when they need help. When the breadwinner dies, or a child needs a meal 'cause he ain't eaten in three days. Who's gonna be there for them when they need it? Coal for a winter night? Who's gonna help them, the county? The state? Them goo-goo Protestants only wanna look like they care. The company they work for'll turn their back on'em, you know that. The union? No dues today, no help tomorrow. Even McCooey and his Madison Club captains'll be happy to hand over the waterfront to I-talians and Jews for the votes.”

Dinny left a silence after these words. Bill shifted his jaw in thought, but refused agreement.

“If there's anything we can agree on Bill, you'n me, it's that if we don' stick together, we're done. You know what ‘done' means, Bill?”

“Yeah.”

“Done means
done
,” Dinny says, gently tapping his desk with a fist while The Swede agrees. “We got things to straighten out down in Red Hook, Bill. Things we gotta work together on. Soon too,” then shifts the conversation. “Ya've known the Lonergan kid for a long time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lovett agrees, remembering Lonergan talking with Vincent in the doorway.

“What's the skinny?”

“He works the Sands Street station wit' his own boys, you know that. Cutpursin', pickin' pockets'n whatnot. His dad's . . . uh,” Lovett tilts his head. “Ya know what I mean? And his mother too . . . it's a burden, that family. He lives day by day, penny by penny, that kid. Why y'ask?”

After a silent moment between the two, Dinny looks over, “And his crew?”

“Good kids,” Lovett says. “Rookies is all. Bunch o' teenage grifters workin' the gimmick for Richie. Abe Harms is his best friend, he's loyal to Richie. Matty Martin's a follower. Tim Quilty's a follower, but a good boxer, and,” Lovett moves his eyes over to me, “You Garrity?”

Dinny looks over to me also, then back to Lovett. “Yeah, that's his name.”

Lovett smiles coolly, then speaks in my direction, “Petey Behan? Does'at ring a bell? Petey Behan?”

“I know him,” I say.

“He's still got ya coat.” Lovett laughs, though everyone else in the room is at a loss until Lovett explains, “They was stayin' in a building off Flatbush and Behan bulldozed ya kid's coat from 'em. Ya kid didn't even fight back,” Lovett kept laughing. Connors mumbles a laugh from behind.

Dinny hadn't heard this story. I never mentioned it to him. Embarrassed, I turn red with all the attention. I even feel as though I've let Dinny down somehow. It was true, I never fought back. I was too scared. I'd never fought anyone before. Dinny looks over to me trying to understand, then finding in my shame his answer. As they continue talking, I notice The Swede again turn around and look out the window. When I look, I notice a bunch of men filing out of the bar and into the alley where the Lonergan family waited below. Just then, Vincent Maher comes running in the room.

“Dinny, Red Donnelly, and the kid are gonna fight.”

“Lonergan?” Dinny sits up from his chair and looks out the window while Lovett and Connors do the same. “Wha' happened?”

“We was walking by, me and the kid, and Red cracked about how the kid showed up at the saloon wit' his mother. Some laughed, but the kid went cold on 'em. Then the kid challeng't him to say it again outside, and that's it.”

Dinny looks at Lovett, who raises his eyebrows. They both smile. Below, the excitement is becoming uncontrollable. I see someone get pushed who falls into a bunch of other men in the circle. This causes a wave of falling bodies and tantrums, which then turn into minor scraps. Tommy Tuohey is ready to fight any takers, and squares off against three of them. Chisel MaGuire has taken to standing on a box with a bunch of money in his hand. He calls out the line and tries to pencil down the names on a piece of paper while collecting bills. Donnelly looks sheepish as he stretches his arms out in front of him, his red head standing out among the crowd around him. He must have sixty pounds on the kid Lonergan. Across from him stands the skinny, slightly muscular opponent staring at Donnelly, who seems unaware of the bets and yelling around him. At the outside edge of the moving circle are Mary and Anna Lonergan, trying to gather the children before they get a good stomping from the fighting men. Still, two of the brood can't be found, though I could see them walking hopelessly on the other end of the rumpus.

“Eddie, you and The Swede go down there and run the line. Chisel calls the odds, but you need to hold the money,” Dinny says, pointing to Eddie, then looking at The Swede. “Make sure this goes right. The house gets ten percent. And don' let Chisel get no holder's fee. There ain' no such thing as a holder's fee. Tell 'em I said so!”

Down the stairs they go. A moment later and Lovett and Connors follow, after getting their envelopes, of course. With only myself, Dinny, and Vincent Maher left, we watch through the open window by Dinny's desk. Within the confusion, I notice Gilchrist left his pencil, so I take it and place it in my pocket slyly, like the bread I stole when hungry. I look over to Dinny, but he hadn't noticed.

“Who ya root'n for, kid?” Maher asks me lighting up a cigarette excitedly, then yells down to the circle. “Hey Lumpy, put me down a fiver on the punk!” Then looks back at me. “I seen it in his eyes when I gave'em the terms, Lonergan. Kid's got mean in'em.”

Dinny looks over to Maher when he heard him.

“With one leg though,” says I.

“Yeah, that's true about'em. Don' know, though. Kid's got the mean in him,” he said smiling and shaking his head.

“Dinny!” a smiling Chisel MaGuire calls up as the mob calms around him and listens. “Who's your money goin' for?”

The crowd has all stopped their tussling and looks up to us at the second floor completely quiet, waiting for Dinny's response. Leaning his head out the window Dinny yells down, “My money's on Red, but if the kid wins, I'll pay the openin' expenses for his ma's bike shop outta my own pocket plus three months' rent.”

I first hear the screams of Mary Lonergan, who almost collapses onto the ground when she hears Dinny Meehan announce it in front of the whole world to hear. As the rest of the crowd cheers, Richie looks over his shoulder and barely reacts to Dinny's railroading him as the circle starts to close in, becoming roudy in anticipation.

“Back-up-bhoys!” Tuohey yells from within.

And the The Swede along with Gibney the Lark, Big Dick and Philip Large make the circle bigger by pushing men backward. Standing tall above all the others, The Swede then saunters into the middle and warns every man not to push inward.

“Back-up-bhoys!” Tuohey says again.

Gibney, Big Dick, Large, and Tuohey spread their legs and arms out against the crowd and push back any time it surges. Gilchrist holds a wad of bills and furiously writes down the odds while Chisel barks the going rates. The odds are highly in the favor of Red Donnelly winning, though a few have put in a couple bucks on the kid since that's where the big money is.

I see Cinders Connolly in the crowd, and Bill Lovett and Non Connors there too. Dance Gillen is having the time of his life. There's immigrants from many countries among them too and then mixed in is the rest of the gang pushing their way to the circle for a better view. Harry Reynolds though, he had disappeared after getting his envelope.

Standing next to me, Vincent Maher is smiling away. He laughs at Chisel the chiseler, a man who was always in heaven when it came to a bet on two pugilists. I look over at Dinny, but he is staring down sternly at the events below.

After consulting with Gilchrist and The Swede that all bets are in, Chisel starts yelling into the air and twirling like a barker at a carnival, “May we have attention? May we have . . . Yes, And so here it is! Friends! A challenge!”

The crowd whoops and shoulders into one another.

“As ya know him!” Chisel continues. “He has tied down the shipyard territory for a good long spell with the reputation of thumpin' immigrants into shape and reportin' to the White Hand as was done by his own father in what we then called the great Irishtown! At six feet two, two hundred and fifteen pounds, I present Cute Charlie,
Reeeeeeeeeddd Dooooonneeeeeellyyyyyyyyy!
”

After some low applause and some comical boos, Chisel continues.

“His challenger, comin' in at the ass end of four-to-one odds! He is the one known as the leader of the Lonergan Crew that makes their home the underbelly of the Sands Street station, runnin' the gimmick as he knows how to. And other'n that, I don' know much more about'm other than he hails from Cath'rine Street across the bridges . . . at five feet, nine inches and weighin' in, oh I'd say somewhere around a measly one hundret and sixty pounds, I give you
Richiiiiiiiiieeee Loneeeeergaaaaaaan!
”