Light of the Diddicoy (14 page)

“Things?” Dinny asks while searching a drawer in his empty desk.

“Good,” Reynolds nods, folding his hands together and looking away.

“Anythin' I can do for ya?”

“Nah, I'm good,” Reynolds says with a bored stare, pretending to look out the window behind Dinny.

“Give 'em his money,” says Dinny.

“Lumpy!” The Swede startles Eddie Gilchrist again.

Cordially, Harry Reynolds again nods when handed his envelope. He quickly counts the money and while getting up, nods again, this time to The Swede, and was out the door and walking down the stairwell.

I look over at Maher who closes his eyes and shrugs his shoulders quietly by the door.

Before Dinny has a chance to call the next dockboss, a commotion outside comes to our ears. The Swede notices first and turns around to look down the open windows. As the others notice too, The Swede is opening a shudder and sticks his head out.

“What is it?”

I look over Gilchrist's shoulder as everyone in the room is moving to the windows to see what gives. Down in the alley and looking up to us is a middle-aged woman with a broken paving stone in her hand threatening us with her next move while a whole schoolyard full of children swarm around her.

“Put the rock down, woman,” The Swede instructs. “Ya can't throw this far up anyhow.”

“Divil I can't!” she scorns with legs apart under her wash dress in a daring stance. “I'll t'row it up at yer mug and make ye a grand improvement, ye oogly sonuva bitch, ye!”

I am watching her from above and even Gilchrist notices her, the half-Brooklyn, half-Irish accent billowing in anger upon the second floor, threatening us with stones and surrounded by shorn-headed, shoeless children in the alley. I look closer and recognize the scar as that of the woman from McGowan's wake, the one who stepped so oddly out of line and groped Ms. McGowan for attention. On the one side of her face there is a pale hue that of a terrible burn and on the same side as this is a large bald patch over a disfigured, crumpled ear. One eye is closed too, though I believe it is because she is aiming the paving stone at us. Winding it behind her head, it falls short and thumps off the wooden facade harmlessly.

“I'll get anodder fer ye!”

At her side and looking up at us is a flaxen-haired girl a bit younger than myself with a toddler on her hip. Hair falling over her soft shoulders elegantly and reaching behind toward a slightly curved and immature waist, I was taken by the natural beauty that was still growing in her. The skin on her arms is soft and I can only imagine the grace in her legs as they were covered by a drab, oversized dress missing one sleeve. Lacking in attention, I see that her allure and the finesse of the natural femininity in her is not to be spoiled by a childhood in peasantry. Not even by malnutrition and it is remarkable, this beauty, growing out of the darkness. Blossoming out in great color from the depths like a great remembrance of an ancient glory.

“That's Anna Lonergan,” Vincent says to me from the next window, pointing down at her with his paper cigarette.

“Who, the woman?”

“Not that ol' yoke,” says Vincent smiling. “The girl ya starin' at.”

“Oh, yeah,” I admit. “But she's just a wee lackeen.”

“Well, that ain' her moppet on'er hip.”

“But she's too young for . . .”

“Oh yeah? You wouldn' ride'er?”

I look down at her again, then back at him.

“Another year or two an' that tomato'll be ripe,” Vincent says bouncing his head up and down.

“Why's the woman so mad?”

“Ah, that's Mary Lonergan. That biddy ol' flab. Ol' Man Lonergan burnt her face off one time 'cause she's such a heckler. She comes here all the time askin' for favors. She wants her eldest son to open a bike shop, but of course she don' have the money for it. So she wants Dinny's help.”

I look down on her again; her peasant manners, her missing a front tooth, and the dirty hands from pulling up paving stones aimed at us. The Swede scowls and Vincent laughs cruelly.

“Dinny Meehan!” Mrs. Lonergan scolds. “Why won't ye let me climb up and spake at ye 'bout it.”

“No! Women! Allowed!” The Swede yells over her. “You and ya brood needa go for a long walk on a . . .”

“I'll sit on yer doorstep then!” She yells up. “The lot of us will, and we'll die starvin' ‘till ye come to yer senses, Dinny Meehan! And if ye let me starve to death on yer own doorstep, then the whole neighborhood'll look on ye badly, Dinny Meehan. I'm ready to die for it! I'll die on yer doorstep, how's that? Think I won't?”

Vincent snuffed through his nose in frustration at her, but when I look over to Dinny I see him smiling.

“She's gonna kill herself to make us look bad?” Vincent asks.

“It's an old tradition,” I say. “They call it the
troscadh
, it goes a long, long way back.” Dinny still smiling, tilts his head as he hears me speak.

“Let me son come an' spake of it then,” she demands, thickening the accent for the occasion. “What harm can a bhoy do ye's? I know ye let'em bhoys in thare, Oi've seen it! Let the bhoy come oop, Dinny. He's a good kid, so he is!”

“No kids either, woman,” The Swede bellows angrily. “Why don' ya take them scrounges, and ya'self too! Take'em home an' wash'em, ya ol' . . .”

“Send the boy up,” Dinny cups his hand over the side of his mouth, then sits calmly in his chair.

Gilchrist looks over to Dinny with an interested look. Vincent raises an eyebrow, squiggles his mouth.

“Dinny?” The Swede pleads. “Ya know who that kid is, he's the same griftin' punk of a . . .”

“I know who he is.”

I look over at Vincent, “Pegleg,” he whispers in my ear.

Dinny then waves for Vincent to let the kid in downstairs through the bar. As Vincent walks toward the door I look over at Dinny with a shock of hair falling to his temple, cut real close on the back and sides and sitting deep in his chair behind the desk. The muscles in his neck and shoulders are evident even as he is covered by a jacket and tie, but I see in him also that he has weaknesses uncommon from the others. He looks over at me with his green eyes concentrated on his occupation. Unaffected completely by my watching him or that he could in any way alter his approach because of it. It's somewhat difficult to explain, but Dinny Meehan knows that the world is not watching him. Knows the world doesn't care about him. Even disapproves of him. Still, it appears to me sitting next him, there are many men and families that rely on his hand and his maneuvering. The weaknesses that Dinny Meehan has are of a nature that men like The Swede are unaware exist, yet it is these weaknesses that summon the truest sense of honor I have yet to see among these men. The weakness of caring.

Upstairs a few minutes later and a wild-eyed, windswept, floppy-booted, dirty-blond-haired fifteen-year-old limps in the room like some forgotten, defective cur on a prison ship. Almost as skinny as myself, but with a much tougher look on his face. I immediately spot the fake half leg and foot. The nailed boot at the end of it looks empty for the fact that it's sunken in and bent upward at the toe. It drags behind him menacingly and the blank look in his eyes is a cold one. Very cold. His hands are dirty with grease from the sprockets of his trade and the grease has migrated to the side of his bone-cheeked face and along his ragged coat. His tie is fraying and leans to the left carelessly, but it's the eyes that stand out. A pair of mean things earned from beating the coinage out of drunkards and sleeping outside with the aching emptiness in his belly that causes it.

Dinny still sitting behind his desk, looks at the wild child in front of him. Then at Vincent.

“He's clean.”

“He's scum,” The Swede growls, his lip curling up on one side. “Trashy scum underbelly of the fookin' slums and the lowest . . .”

“That's good,” Dinny says, then looks upon the boy. “What brings ya to the headquarters o' the White Hand?”

Lonergan stares for a moment. Keeps staring. Doesn't answer and it seems a minute has passed in the quiet room when he finally mutters, “My Ma.”

“And all her other weans too,” The Swede admonishes.

Lonergan never breaks from the stare of Dinny and is then asked, “There somethin' ya want? Somethin' I can do for ya?”

“Nah.”

“Ya from Cath'rine Street, right?”

“Yeah.”

“John Lonergan's ya father?”

“Yeah.”

“Mary Lonergan's ya mother? Yakey Yake Brady's sister?”

Dinny nods his head back as if pointing down behind the windows at Mrs. Lonergan.

“Yeah.”

“Why ya in my neighborhood? Cath'rine Street's across the Manhatt'n Bridge.”

“I been livin' in Brooklyn since I'm six, on Johnson Street.”

The Swede jumps in, “Yeah, the Lonergans and the Lovetts. Two peas in a pod.”

“Ya family's close wit' the Lovetts, right?” Dinny asks interested.

“Kinda.”

“Ya know Bill Lovett works for me now? We ate up the Jay Street boys and good thing too. Might as well work together instead o' fightin' each other. A fellow Irish American ain't ya enemy, is it?”

“Nah.”

“Ya wanna work for me?”

“Nah,” without a sign of interest.

Dinny smiles, “I guess ya got ya own gang and ya own gimmicks, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“This our neighborhood,” The Swede demands. “Time'll come that ya'll pay tribute. Real soon too . . .”

“Hey?” Dinny asks the boy.

“Yeah.”

“Ya ever hear what a king lion does when he takes over a pride?”

“What's that. A pride,” he asks without the inflection of a question in his tone.

“A pride's a group o' female lions that're loyal to the king. Kinda like the businesses and the ships around here. Long-shoremen, they're my pride, dig?”

“Oh.”

“So, lemme ask y'again, Richie. . . Ya know what a male lion does when he takes over another male lion's pride?”

“What?”

“He eats the younglings.”

The room became quiet. The Swede crosses his spider arms. Vincent smiles from the side of his head and lowers his eyes. Lumpy isn't listening again. Dinny is relaxed. Leans on his elbows while pointing his attention at the boy.

“How'd ya know my name?” the boy asks.

The Swede jumps in again, “Ya think we don' know ya been jackrollin' sailors and beatin' on drunken laborers and holdin' up shops around here? Cutpursin' and pickin' pockets at Sands Street station? Eh, kid? You and ya cullies Abe Harms and Matty Martin and Petey Behan and Tim Quilty? Ya think we don' know everything? Everybody? Shit, Dinny, this fookin' guy thinks we's dumb, Dinny. Dumb like dumb. He ain't . . .”

“How ya gonna operate a business without knowing what the competitors're thinkin', Richie?” Dinny says.

Richie looks over at The Swede for a moment, then back at Dinny. His head tilts slightly to the side, then back and he lowers his eyes while his mouth remains open. This is his way of defense. I could tell this is his way of both calming himself down so he doesn't explode, and still looking mean at the same time.

“Ya don' wanna open a bike shop? Do ya Richie?” Dinny asks in a fatherly tone.

“My Ma wants me to.”

“Why don' ya open the shop and let ya Ma run it, then?”

“I don' have that kinda money.”

“What happen't wit' all that money ya got from the trolley company for the accident?” Dinny says, looking down toward Richie's leg.

Everyone knew that money, something close to $6,000, was spent by his fool father almost as soon as he took possession of it.

“Ya come work for me and I'll do ya Ma the favor.”

Lonergan stares at Dinny while The Swede stands up from the ledge apparently unaware that Dinny was interested in engulfing Lonergan's gang too.

“Eddie,” Dinny announces just before The Swede was about to start complaining. “Give the kid two hundret dollar. That should be enough, right, kid?”

“Keep the jack,” Lonergan says standing up.

“Vincent,” Dinny says. “Let the kid out, but give 'em the terms.”

“Right,” Vincent says, who then stands up in front of Richie and walks with him to the door.

“And tell Lovett to step away from the moanin' of Mick Gilligan and come up here,” Dinny gives an order, directing the last part to Richie Lonergan's back. “Bill Lovett! My dockboss!”

As Vincent opens the door I hear him whispering feverishly to Richie, then yell down to Tuohey to bring in Lovett. The door closes but I can still hear Maher talking. Asking questions and then coming to conclusions on his own without Richie's response. Only about five years older than Richie, Vincent advises and warns all in the same sentence, then laughs at his own jokes too.

Meanwhile, another brutal mug walks in the door. This time it's Bill Lovett who carries a full beer in his right hand. He walks in the room looking in a different direction, then sits his beer on the floor and folds his hands in his lap. Behind him is the scowl of the one known as Non Connors, Lovett's right-hand.

The Swede immediately starts in, “I don' know why ya let this fookin' yella-larrikin-spalpeen Connors enjoy the light o' day in this neighborhood . . .”

“Shut the fuck up,” Connors snarls. “Least I ain't fook't my own sister! Ya fookin' mongrel . . .”

I tilt my head at that accusation.

“Yeah?” The Swede says jumping toward him with his eyes popped open wide.

The room is quickly filled with the temper of wild dogs. Full grown males barking at one another's faces in warning while a few chairs fall to the ground behind. The Swede and Connors are screaming and Dinny gets between them. Vincent Maher comes flying in the door, a pistol hidden behind his hip at the end of his arm while Lonergan leans up against the frame in the background unaffected. Vincent grabs Connors's right wrist before a punch can be thrown and Dinny whispers up into the ear of The Swede. Bill Lovett then begins warning Vincent to let loose Connors's arm. Increasingly agitated, Lovett opens his jacket to reveal his own piece, “Let go of 'em! Let it go now!”