Old Mr. Flood (4 page)

I wrote Mr. Flood that I would meet him at noon on Friday. I showed up in the combined lobby, barroom, and dining room of the Hartford exactly at noon on that day, but he wasn’t around. Three of the old men who live in the hotel were sitting on stools at one end of the bar. They had a map spread out and they were hunched over it, each with pencil, probably dividing up Europe to suit themselves. I knew one of them, to speak to, Mr. P. J. Mooney, who used to be part owner of a pair of
big harbor tugs, the
Nora T.
and the
Linda Lane
. He is a raucous old man with mournful eyes and a paunch so enormous that he says it embarrasses him. (Mr. Flood once told me that Mr. Mooney, who is a wrestling fan, has a recurring nightmare in which he becomes separated from his paunch, which assumes the shape of a headless wrestler and advances on him. They square off and then they lunge at each other and wrestle for what seems like hours to Mr. Mooney. “Some nights the paunch throws P. J.,” Mr. Flood said, “and some nights P. J. throws the paunch. I told P. J. he had a gold mine there. ‘Put that match on in Madison Square Garden,’ I said to him, ‘and you’ll go down in history, the both of you. Anyway,’ I said, ‘you shouldn’t fret so much about that paunch. In days to come, when you’re too old and feeble to get about at all, it’ll keep you company.’”) Gus Trein, the manager of the Hartford, was behind the bar, spelling the regular bartender, and he beckoned for me to come over. He seemed worried.

“Mr. Flood telephoned just now,” Mr. Trein said, “and asked me to tell you to step over to Tom Maggiani’s, the ship chandler on Dover Street. He’s
waiting for you over there. What in the world is he up to now?”

“All I know,” I said, “he invited me to come down and eat some black clams.”

Mr. Trein looked at me suspiciously. “Some what did you say?” he asked.

“Some black clams,” I said. “They discovered some black clams up in Rhode Island, and Mr. Flood ordered a bushel.”

Mr. Trein glanced knowingly at Mr. Mooney and said, “Did you hear that, P. J.?” Mr. Mooney nodded, and then he tapped his forehead with his index finger and described a circle in the air. I became uneasy. “How
is
Mr. Flood?” I asked.

Mr. Trein frowned. “To tell you the God’s green truth,” he said, “I’m worried about him. He acted real peculiar this morning, didn’t he, P. J.?”

“He did,” said Mr. Mooney. “He did, indeed. Black clams, be Jesus! That’s another delusion. The old boy’s out of his head, no doubt about it. When he came downstairs this morning, I was sitting over there reading the paper and I said to him, ‘Good morning, Old Man Flood. How you feeling? You look a bit pale.’ And he stood and stared at me like
he didn’t recognize me, like he was deathly afraid of me, and he shouted out, ‘Shut up, Old Scratch!’ Then he commenced to stomp around the lobby and shake his fist and carry on. ‘You got to put a stop to it!’ he yelled. ‘Coffins! Undertakers! Hearses! Funeral parlors! Cemeteries! Woodlawn! Cypress Hills! Fresh Pond Crematory! Calvary! Green-Wood! It starts the day off wrong! It’s more than one man can stand!’ That’s what he yelled, word for word. Then he got ahold of himself and his mind quit wandering and he looked me straight in the eye and cursed me for a damned old pot-gutted fool. ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d keep your trap shut when I come down in the morning, P. J.,’ he said to me, ‘you damned old pot-gutted fool.’ Then he walked about eight or nine feet out of his way and deliberately kicked a chair. I started to inquire what in hell was the matter, but he stomped right past me and went out the side door, mumbling to himself.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Trein, “he just probably got up on the wrong side. Either that or a hangover.”

Mr. Mooney snorted. “No, no, no, Gus,” he said. “I hate to say this, but Old Man Flood’s not long for
this world. It’s his time to go. I’ve had my eye on him lately. He’s failing, the poor man. He’s failing fast. He’ll drop off any day now.”

I was taken aback by this conversation. I decided that Mr. Flood’s gnawing fear of the hereafter had got the best of him and I made up my mind, with misgivings, that I would try to persuade him to go with me and have a talk with a doctor I know at Beekman Hospital, which is at Beekman and Water, on the rim of the fish-market district. I said goodbye to Mr. Trein and Mr. Mooney and started over to Maggiani’s. I was quite depressed.

MAGGIANI’S IS A FISHING-BOAT
chandlery. There are sixteen boats—ground-fish draggers and trawlers and sea-scallop dredges—that regularly make ten-day voyages from the Fulton Market piers to the banks in the Gulf of Maine, and Maggiani’s “grubs” seven of them; that is, it equips them with meat, groceries, and galley gear. The fishermen, most of whom are Scandinavians or Newfoundlanders, are clannish; they don’t mix much with the fishmongers and Maggiani’s is their favorite hangout in the
market. It is also one of Mr. Flood’s favorite hangouts. He sometimes behaves as if Maggiani had him on the payroll; he frequently answers the telephone and on busy days he pitches in and helps make up orders. It is hidden away in the rear half of the ground floor of a converted Revolutionary-period dwelling on Dover Street, a crooked alley that runs beneath the Brooklyn Bridge from Franklin Square to the river. This building is of a type that old-time Manhattan real-estate men call a humpback; it is box-square and three stories high, its tar-papered roof is as steep as an inverted V, it is made of salmon-colored bricks, and it looks proud and noble, ten time nobler than the Chrysler Building. There are several fine humpbacks in the market, a district that contains the oldest and the most patched-up commercial buildings in the city. Maggiani’s is poorly illuminated, it is as cool as a cellar in summer and as warm as a kitchen in winter, it smells garlicky, and it is a pleasant place in which to sit and doze. Up front, surrounded by a collection of slat-back chairs and up-ended boxes, is an oblong coal stove with a cooking hob on it. Nearby is a deal table on which are some packs of cards, an
accumulation of back numbers of the
Fishing Gazette
, and a greasy
World Almanac
, edition of 1936. There is a big brass spittoon. There is a cat hole in the door, and there are usually two or three burly fish-house cats roving about. Hanging on the walls are a lithograph of Franklin D. Roosevelt, a rusty swordfish harpoon, a photograph of the officers of the Fisherman’s Union of the Atlantic, a finger-smudged Coast and Geodetic chart of the Nantucket Shoals, an oar with a mermaid crudely carved on the blade, and a sign which says,
“LAUGH AND THE WORLD LAUGHS WITH YOU, WEEP AND YOU WEEP ALONE.”
In the middle of the tile floor, resting on its side and dominating the room, is a hogshead of molasses with
“EXTRA FANCY BARBADOS”
stencilled on the spigot end; fishing-boat cooks take along several gallons of high-grade molasses every voyage for flap-jacks and for beans and brown bread. On the days the boats are in, Maggiani’s is packed. On such days, Tommaso Maggiani, the proprietor, a Palermitano, puts complimentary platters of cheese, sliced onions, and salami under fly screens on the counter, and he keeps a pot of coffee on the hob, and the loafing fishermen get up from their
seats around the stove, yawn, and fix themselves snacks—what they call “mug-ups”—whenever the spirit moves them.

Mr. Flood was in Maggiani’s, standing with his back to the stove. He and Mr. Maggiani, who was snoring in a swivel chair with his heels on his roll-top desk, were the only people in the place. As soon as I got a good look at Mr. Flood, I felt relieved. His eyes were alert, his face was ruddy, his shoulders were erect, he was smoking a big cigar, and he shook hands vigorously. As usual, like a boss fishmonger, he had on rubber boots and a stiff straw hat with holes cut in it, and over his blue serge suit he wore a full-length white apron. He had two loaves of Italian bread, wrapped in a piece of newspaper, under his left arm. I asked him how he felt.

“Well,” he said, “there are days when I hate everybody in the world, fat, lean, and in between, and this started out to be one of those days, but I had a drop to drink, and now I love everybody.”

“Yes,” I said, “they told me up at the Hartford you didn’t feel so good this morning.”

Mr. Flood gave me a sharp look. “Were you talking to P. J. Mooney?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “I was.”

“I thought I could detect the track of his tongue,” said Mr. Flood. “What did he tell you?”

“He seemed worried about you.”

“What in hell did he tell you?”

“For one thing,” I said, “he believes those black clams you wrote about are a delusion. They’re not, are they?”

“Are you trying to insult me? What else did he tell you?”

“He said you were failing fast and that he expects you to drop off any day.”

Mr. Flood snickered. “Oh, he does, does he?” he said. “Oh, the fat old fool, the miserable, bilious old pot-gutted fool! He got my back up this morning. That’s why I brought my clams into here. If I took them up to the Hartford, like I planned, I’d be obliged to offer him some. I used to have a high regard for P. J. Mooney; knows quite a bit about striped-bass fishing, but he’s picked up a habit that’s so queer—well, it’s so queer, so ghouly, so disgusting, so low-down nasty that I don’t even like to talk about it. I’ll tell you about it later. Here, my boy, have a cigar.” He handed me a cigar. It was a
Bulldog Avenue, a perfecto cigar hand-rolled in Tampa that costs sixty-five cents apiece; he buys them by the box. He tossed his two loaves on the counter and went into Maggiani’s coldroom, a cubicle in back in which sides of beef are hung to age. In a few moments he came shuffling out with a bushel basket in his arms. The basket was heaped with little pitch-black clams. Grunting, he set it on the counter and tipped it and let about half the contents pour out, cornucopia fashion—an exuberance of clams. The noise awakened Mr. Maggiani, who shouted, “Stop! Stop! Don’t you mess up my counter. I just laid new oilcloth on that counter.” “Shut up, Tommy,” said Mr. Flood, “and go back to sleep.”

He strewed about two yards of the counter with clams, and then stepped back and looked at them gloatingly. They were so black they glinted, they were so plump they were almost globular, and they were beautiful. The lips of the shells were tightly shut, a sign of health and freshness—a clam out of water stays shut until it begins to die, and then the adductors, the two muscles that hold the shells together, relinquish their grip and the lips gape. In
Fulton Market and on the Boston Fish Pier, quahogs are graded in three sizes—Little Necks, cherrystones, and chowders. These black quahogs were Little Necks, about an inch and three quarters from hinge to lip, and they were as uniform as silver dollars. Mr. Flood got out a knife he carries in a belt holster, a kind of fish knife known as a gut-blade, and shucked a clam for me. The meat was a rosy yellow, a lovely color, the color of the flesh next to the stone of a freestone peach. Bay quahogs have splotches of yellow in some seasons, but, with the exception of the liver and the siphons, all of this clam was yellow—the foot, the muscles, the gills, the intestines, even the mantle. I ate the clam and found that it was as tender and sweet-meated as a Little Neck out of Great South Bay, the finest bay clam on the whole coast. Then I drank the juice from the cup of the shell. It was rich, invigorating, and free of grit, but, surprisingly, not as briny as the juice of a bay quahog; that was the only fault I could find with the
Arctica islandica
.

Mr. Maggiani came over with a tray on which he had put three tumblers, a carafe of water, and a fifth of Scotch about half full. “Clams don’t agree
with me,” he said, “but I think I’ll eat six or seven dozen, just to be sociable.” “Help yourself, Tommy,” said Mr. Flood. “That’s what they’re here for.” Mr. Maggiani fixed us each a drink. He poured an extra gollop in Mr. Flood’s tumbler and Mr. Flood smiled. “Old age hasn’t taught me a whole lot,” he said, “but it’s sure taught me the true value of a dollar, a kind word, and a drink of whiskey.” We had our drinks. Mr. Flood took six lemons and six limes from the pockets of his apron and halved them with his gut-blade to squeeze on the clams. Then he began slicing one of the Italian loaves. Mr. Flood will not eat factory-made American bread; he calls it gurry, a word applied by fishmongers to the waste that is left after a fish has been dressed. “I doubt a hog would eat it,” he says, “unless it was toasted and buttered and marmalade put on it and him about to perish to death.” Every other morning Mr. Flood walks up to Mrs. Palumbo’s
panetteria italiana
, a hole-in-the-wall bakery on Elizabeth Street, and buys a couple of loaves. He takes his meals in restaurants in the fish-market district—Sloppy Louie’s, the Hartford dining room, Sweet’s, and Libby’s —and he always brings his own bread.
Like most Sicilian neighborhood bakers, Mrs. Palumbo turns out loaves in a multitude of shapes, some of which are symbols that protect against the Evil Eye. The loaves that Mr. Flood had this day were long and whole-wheat and S-shaped and decorated with gashes.

Mr. Maggiani, watching Mr. Flood slice, said, “Hugh, do you know the name of that loaf?”

“I heard it once,” Mr. Flood said, “but it’s slipped my mind.”