Light of the Diddicoy (16 page)

“Back-up-bhoys!”

Chisel speaks among the crowd, “One more minute to fight time fellers, ya got one minute to make ya wagerin's count. Who's gonna make it big today? Who's it gonna . . .”

Lonergan stands across from Red Donnelly with his legs opened and his fists closed. He seems impatient with the theatrics, and is ready for a fight. In the background I can hear his mother scream out loud, “My son!”

“Liam,” Dinny says calmly. “See how the kid's gotta look on'em?”

“I do.”

“That's a look,” Dinny nods.

Someone hands Red a whiskey and he shoots it down, spilling some of it on his shirt. Then he threw the glass into the air and bellows like a moose. Next thing I know, The Swede pushes Chisel out of the way and waves off all bets. Red and Lonergan begin to circle each other. And so starts the pavee bare-knucklers, as they call the men who settle horse-pricing feuds and family honor with their fists at the country fairs where I come from; the traveler community that fight each other in the country boreens in just the same way as they do here on the cobblestones of Brooklyn.

“Get-the-feck-back, ye-feckin'-sausage!” Tuohey yelps.

“Get back now!” Big Dick booms.

Watching each other's movements with their fists up over their faces, Red and Richie circle each other. The crowd seems familiar with the process of a spontaneous fight.

“See how Red's got both fists over his face and at the ready. Both at the same time? Bouncing on the balls o' his feets?” Dinny says to me.

“I do,” noticing Red's comfort in the fighting stance.

Red looks down at the empty shoe on the kid's leg and watches the limp. I can see he wants to take advantage of the weakness in his opponent. He then jumps toward Lonergan, only meaning to threaten him or see how his opponent's balance is when attacked. Richie stammers backward and his eyes light up in a sparked rage. Quickly moving in toward Red, closing in fast and cornering him, Lonergan takes a mighty swing right in front of John Gibney, who holds the crowd back. Though Lonergan misses, Red loses his balance from rushing out of the haymaker's way. Before Red can catch his own balance, Lonergan swings again and belts Red on the top of the head, then catches him in the face with a wild left.

It is the first time in a long while I hear the distinct sound of a fist landing on the face of a man. So discomforting, I tense up while next to me Vincent yells down. Again I hear the sound of animals, these human animals brawling for some sort of dominance or honor, respect like bullmales in the wild brawling for a mate in an art form of necessity and the ancient contest.

Taking the punch, Red then tries to grab and grapple but Lonergan pulls away in a crazed panic. He then throws three successive punches so quickly that Red doesn't have time to react other than raising his hands in the air to try and stop the flurry, hoping to catch Lonergan's swinging fists. Losing his balance again and falling into the crowd, Red doesn't know where Lonergan is as the circle disperses and realigns itself more into the Belgian brick road and rail tracks that curve around the corner of a building across the alley. Lonergan quickly stands over Red and hits him twice with the dull thud of fist on face again. So quick are Lonergan's swings that Red is soon only reacting to the pounding he receives. Again and again Red receives punches to the same side of his face while he is sprawled defenseless on the ground. His right arm now caught behind his back and his hands open, motionless. Even with Red completely unconscious, Lonergan swings harder and harder and keeps belting the man who sleeps on the concrete pavers inside the cheering fighter's circle.

Swooping in, The Swede picks up Lonergan who keeps swinging and kicking into the air maniacally. It must have taken a whole two minutes before Lonergan finally calms, swearing at The Swede and promising him death for holding him against his will. I look over at Dinny, though he doesn't much respond. Still though, I can see Lonergan has made his impression on him. Not only for winning, but for winning so quickly and so thoroughly.

“Fer Chrissake.” Vincent looks over at Dinny. “That kid can fight!”

Dinny nods, and that was how Richie Lonergan joined the White Hand Gang.

T
HE WINDOWS ARE SHUT
. T
HE NIGHT
is sighing and the soft sleepy sounds of L'il Dinny soothe me deeply. My teenage body far along at its midnight resting in the back room of the Warren Street apartment, I open my eyes. Sitting in a chair across from me is Dinny. I close my eyes out of laziness. Maybe trust. Open them again remembering him there, I sit up.

“What time . . .” I can tell it's not time to get up yet.

He doesn't answer and only looks at me in a calmed, serious stare.

“We'll talk in a couple of days. Go for a walk,” then stands up and leaves the room.

I roll around in bed the rest of the night. Thinking. Wondering if I'd done something wrong. Then feeling guilty for making myself so comfortable in another man's home. I was helpful to Sadie at times, but she could get on without me. I thought some more, fondly too of how I had spent that day with her and L'il Dinny as it was Easter Sunday and off to church we were on the trolleys to the Bridge District and St. Ann's. The boy had even fallen asleep on my lap during Mass and I not able to stand or kneel, which also makes me feel guilty since this is the day Jesus rose from the dead after the Jews persecuted Him and the Italians crucified Him, said Father Larkin in a big echo. And thankfully, I think, Jesus wasn't killed by the Italians in Brooklyn because someone would have to sew His arms and His legs and His head back on His body and fish Him out of the Gowanus first, but that's blasphemy to think like that, and also beside the point. I roll around some more in bed listening to L'il Dinny's cooing and feeling guilty, but I'm happy with Sadie. She makes me feel needed, but I know that my being there for her isn't a matter of necessity. Staring at the ceiling, I make excuses for myself for being so young, for being new to the country, for being without a family. But I know that being young, new to the country, and without family is no excuse in Brooklyn.

I reach over and pull the pencil I stole from Gilchrist out of my trouser pockets and look at it in the light coming from the moon outside the window. I look up at it as I lie. Roll it around in both hands, then put it in my right hand between my finger and thumb like some men hold a tool. In the air I write the words “Abraham Lincoln.” I don't know why. Maybe it's because I think of him as an educated man, since I don't know many. Or maybe because he fought for a freedom that caused him so much personal distress, which reminds me of my father who quietly longs and plots for my people's freedom, which causes his family distress. “Freedom causes distress,” I write in the air. “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd,” I write.

On the Tuesday after Easter, I help load an engineless cargo barge that'd been pulled into port over night off Columbia Street. I keep myself as quiet as the silent Harry Reynolds who whispers orders to his men. Chewing on a lot of things, I can barely smile at the jokes of Dance Gillen. The wind runs through my hair and for once I feel like all the other men that work on the waterfront: racked by worries. My muscles are beat too, I can feel them heavy on my chest and arms, my hands are straining and my back behind my shoulders are tightened up from lifting and carrying from train to barge all morning. It's about a ninety-pace walk from the ship to the pallets by the train car. In work like this, I always count the steps to avoid thinking about the tensing muscles, burning with weight.

Along the edge of the pier I can smell the weak coffee of tug drivers lined up in rows and mouthing paper bag lunches with their backs to us. Just south of us, pointing toward the sky on a thin island, the Statue of Liberty keeps still while hundreds of boats, ships, barges, tugs, and every sort floating vessel one can think of slowly scurries around her like ants at a spring picnic. The island of Manhattan seems years away from me as it stands in the north distance. I wonder if there are people like us in Manhattan, or is it all businessmen, patricians, and theater-goers. I hear stories about the place, but they only have me wondering more.

About halfway through the day, Reynolds calls upon me from the stern of the barge. I walk across the planks back onto the ship, meander around the lines of men carrying boxes, climb the hull ladder as nets are lifting up, and out the hatch until I make it to him up on the deck. As I walk toward him he is pointing down to Dance and gives an order without saying a word. Only with his finger pointing first at Dance, then to the weak spot in the line and Dance is ordered to patch it up with a threat or removal of the laggard. From above, Reynolds and I watch as Dance barks in the tired man's ear, who immediately steps it up.

As I approach, Reynolds huffs on an apple and wipes it on his jacket while slowly walking toward the bow. I follow.

“How goes it?” he asks as he pulls out a pocketknife and with calm coordination, splits the apple up without looking.

“I'm fine.”

Handing me a quarter of the apple with the same hand that holds the small blade, I thank him. Quietly, we reach the bow that stretches well beyond the floating pier. This is when Harry Reynolds told me about himself being adopted by Dinny as I am, welcomed into the Meehan brownstone.

“You're actually the third,” he says. “We didn't really know it was gonna be a tradition, but now since there's three of us . . . seems like a trend, eh?”

“Who was the second?”

He looks at me as if I should already know. “Maher.”

“Oh . . .That makes sense.”

“There's a lot o' pressure, ya know,” Harry says. “Times are changin' fast.”

“What do you mean?”

“The future isn't clear. Dinny knows this better'n anyone. There's pressure from all sides. We run things here. Have for a long time too. We've never been this organized before, but we've never had to be this organized either.”

I listen.

“Dinny's a good man,” he says with an admitted truth in his voice. “He brought us all together like we are today. It's all due to him. Hands down. It used to be a bunch o' wildmen that shook down the ships. But before they did that, they had to fight each other for the right to force tribute on the labormen. Before the dock company got so big, before the labor movement got big too, before the police or the papers ever cared, and before the Italians came. Dinny'll never tell you all this, but he knows it's true. You need to know it.” Harry looks at me, “He's been thinking about the future. Now that he's swallowin' the Lonergan crew and has Lovett holding off the I-talians down in Red Hook, he's thinking about his inner circle.”

“He wants to talk to me tonight.”

“Yeah? You know what you gotta do?”

I looked around thinking about it, but had no idea.

“I don't admire your situation, but ya gotta be prepared. My only family's been the nun that raised me at the boys' home, and Dinny. That's it. I can't put myself in your shoes, but I can help ya prepare.”

He puts a piece of apple in his mouth and pulls a nine-inch knife out of the inside of his trousers, flips it around in the air, and hands me the butt. I take the knife gently. Let it rest in my palm and wave the large blade, wielding it the only way I know. He shows me how to get the best power into a stroke by turning it around so the long blade points to the ground, hilt on the bottom of my fist. Then in a violent stroke, yank downward and across my hips. He shows me how to use momentum as force and if I were smart, I would plan on maiming my victim as seriously as possible with the first swipe. Having to rely on a second swipe to either defend myself or finish off a guy puts my safe returns at higher risk.

I look at Harry Reynolds and he notices that I am still wondering about the knife, why he is giving me a knife. Other than for general protection, I am unsure.

“You know what I'm talking about,” he assures.

I look down, not wanting to admit it.

“Your uncle's gonna have to be dealt with. He makes our way much more dangerous. Ever since Thos Carmody gave'em the reigns o' Red Hook, the laborers question us. Show up to work with weapons. Talkin' about organizin' strikes and the German plot . . . And under our noses. I know he's your uncle, he's family. I know ya don't hate him, but you can get close to him without him thinkin' we're after him. He don't know you're with us.”

My stomach turns. I look out onto the water.

“Ya not talkin',” Harry says out loud. “Look, if ya think ya can't do it, then ya need to come up with another plan. No one's gonna keep ya around without somethin' bein' done about Joe Garrity. You got another plan? Another place to live? To make a livin'?”

“I don't.”

“Dinny'll get ya mother and sisters here, but ya gotta do what's gotta be done. I'm not sayin' it's the right thing, but it's gotta be done. By you or somebody else. We gotta cut off the connection in Brooklyn between the ILA and this supposed plot.”

I sit on the railing of the barge and run my fingers through my hair, drop the knife. Close my eyes and cover my ears, move my head back and forth. I know that Harry Reynolds understands me, but I also know he is a pragmatist. At that moment I didn't know a lot about him, but I could tell that there was something between him and Dinny that didn't connect well. At the same time, Harry was loyal to the man who gave him a chance in life. The man who took him in his home, just as had been done for me. Reached out for us when we needed it the most. In that sense, Harry Reynolds's loyalty was in stone, and it made him a hard pragmatist.

“First things first, kid,” he said, making me stand and look him in the eye. “Ya got no honor. None earned at least . . . In other people's eyes. Petey Behan? He took it from ya and he owns it now. Dinny knows that and beyond anything . . . that's dangerous. This is a chance to get ya honor back. Ya gotta show'em all that ya honor ain' nothin' to fuck with. Nothin'. But ya gotta stop looking like ya scared all the time. Are ya scared?”

“Sometimes.”

“No matter, ya can be scared and not look it. Squeeze the knife in ya hand, then make yourself look mean. It's easy. Only thing is ya gotta remember to keep the face firm.”

I did what he said.

“That's good, now put the knife in ya trousers and keep the tough look on ya face.”

I did as I was told.

“Good,” Reynolds says laughing. “Now ya look tough. Think about that knife at ya side and keep yourself lookin' tough. When the deed is done, nobody crosses you. Nobody. Ever.”

“But . . .” I try and hand him back the knife.

He looks at me hard, then walks back toward the stern, “You're gonna need that yoke, now get back to work.”