Rackets, page 8
Mike drove in silence for a minute. Traffic was brisk, the sun high. Punchy turned on the radio to snap the quiet. Vinny from Bayside lambasted the latest Jets trade in an angry outer-borough snarl. Punchy needed noise in his life. He sometimes figured he must have gotten the extra talking gene his brother missed out on. The guy could go a week on about a word a day.
“He gonna get jammed up?”
“Not arrested. I doubt that. I’ll lay heavy that he’s down the road, though. This mayor, you know his crime fighter thing. Not the kinda guy wants to be seen playing favorites, something like this. He cuts his losses, ’cause with him loyalty is a one-way street. Running in his direction.”
More silence. “You do anything on this?”
Punchy knew that had to hurt. His brother was not the kind to ask for favors. Some donkey pride bullshit he had thankfully missed out on. Punchy had helped pay for Jimmy’s college and grad school and he knew that burned Mike up. It had seemed natural for him to help out. Childless, Punchy was glad to pay for Jimmy. He would have gone for the whole nut in a heartbeat, but the kid wanted to work his way through. He was, after all, his father’s son.
“Honest? I don’t know. Can’t save that job, maybe we can get him put somewhere else. A good spot in one of the agencies. I got a guy in Sanitation, another in Housing. Let the kid ride it out.” Punchy had to be careful. Frankie Keefe was someone he did a lot of business with. He did not want to piss off the animals.
Mike shook his head. “What he gets, hanging around with that crowd.”
Punchy wondered what he meant by that. Republicans? They pulled up to his building.
“You expect him to sit up there for thirty-five years and retire on a civil service pension? The kid’s a comer, Mike, he’s smart, he got himself a good education, and he can handle himself. It’s a rare combination. You should be proud of him.”
“Get out. I got things to do.”
Punchy slid over and opened the door. “You know, only in an Irish family can the guy who goes out and hustles, makes his way in the world—becomes a millionaire—only in an Irish family can he be the black sheep. It ain’t my fault you stayed in Inwood, Mike. And it ain’t Jimmy’s neither. Thanks for the lift.”
He started to get out of the car, but Mike grabbed his arm. Punchy, looked down at the hand, then back into his brother’s eyes.
“You know, your problem is that you think staying true to what you are means you’re a failure. I don’t have a problem with who I am. All your money, you’re still getting picked up off the street like a rum-dum.”
Punchy yanked his arm away. He got out of the car, leaned in, and said, “Always. You always gotta be the Mother Superior, the moral authority on everything. Least I know how to live, Mikey. Like I said, thanks for the ride.”
Mike just nodded. As the car pulled away, Punchy passed info his building pulling the blanket around him like a basket-case escapee out of Bellevue. Doormen stood with shit-eating grins. “Don’t gloat,” Punchy said. “It’ll cost you come Christmastime.”
It was not until later, after he’d quaffed a few stiff drinks and he went to shower and shave, that he noticed that the little guttersnipes, to add insult to injury, had shaved off his right eyebrow.
Mike Dolan had to chuckle as he watched his brother scurry into the side entrance of Trump Tower wrapped in a blanket. Mr. Big Shot High Finance. Not today, not remotely. Punchy looked like a peasant woman from the steppes. Until this morning, he had not heard from him in six months. Typical Punchy. He was a brother when he needed something. Mike pulled away and fought his way through tough midtown traffic.
He and Jimmy had played phone tag for the last two days. Mike had been painting a bookcase, half listening to the television as he worked, when he heard the announcer say, “Scuffle mars mayoral campaign,” and turned to see Jimmy standing over Keefe. He had laughed, then checked himself. It was something he had wanted to see for years. Keefe knocked on his thieving ass. But he did not believe in violence. Keefe was a man who settled grudges quickly and violently. A knot of fear had formed in his stomach.
He stopped at the corner of Fifty-seventh and Eighth Avenue. A man on Rollerblades passed in front of him wearing only a pair of tight tiger-striped shorts. Two elderly women pulled granny carts laden with groceries, straining from the loads. The light changed and he sped for the West Side Highway past tenements being remade as cramped, high-rent housing. He steered with his hands on his lap and dialed in a country station. Hank Williams sang of love and incarceration.
He had been pushing hard on Keefe with the election. Keefe, convinced of his own invulnerability, had more or less been ignoring him. Not so the last two days. As he made his rounds, Keefe’s goons harassed him. Every job he visited he was hassled about leaflet distribution, was met with hard stares and epithets. A hulking presence in his face.
The traffic was light up the West Side. The sun dazzled off the river. A large three-masted sailboat rode a stiff breeze beneath the silver-gray span of the George Washington Bridge. He parked on Seaman Avenue and walked down to Good Shepherd Church. He removed his Teamsters hat and made the sign of the cross as he stepped into the vestibule of the church. The heavy wooden doors closed be hind him with a soft thud and the street noise disappeared. Silence enveloped him. He made his way to the candles and lit an offering for the soul of his dead wife; then one each for his mother, father, and his dead brothers. The first two had died in Ireland as babies and were the catalyst for his family’s emigration to New York. His mother held the, guilt of the children’s passing to her last day, as if it were her fault. A deep sadness that might last a week would come over her like some weed and choke her until she pulled herself free of it. There were too many living children, too much toil, too many demands on her time and her hands. She raised six children.
His brother Raymond had died in the line of duty after stumbling on a bank robbery. He was a rookie cop. The year was 1965. Mike thought of Pius. Every time he looked at him he saw Raymond. The two of them, three years apart, looked more alike than any twins he had ever met. Even with all the weight he had gained, Punchy still favored Ray. He wondered why he was often so tough on his brother. For years he had resolved to make the effort to get closer, but he always put it off.
He knelt for a while in prayer, then just sat, taking in the vastness of this place. He had baptized all his children here, saw two of them married here, had sat while the priest swung the censer over his wife’s coffin. After the car accident that claimed her life he had an impulse to pull away from the Church, to blame his loss on an uncaring, cruel God. Instead, over the years, he found himself coming here more often, not so much for Mass, but to light candles or pray, and most important, just to sit and reflect, to enjoy the peace.
After a while he stood, made the sign of the cross again, and went back down the aisle and then through the door. Broadway was starting to quicken with rush-hour scramble. He crossed the avenue to Johnny Mac’s just as Last Stand Larry Sweeney pulled up on his bicycle. Sweeney’s ride looked like the one the Wicked Witch used in The Wizard of Oz. Flying from a dowel taped upright from his handlebar was the flag of the 7th Cavalry Regiment. As the neighborhood change had accelerated, with the Dominican population tripling in a couple of decades, Sweeney had come to identify more and more with the plight of Custer on that arid hill over a century before. He had even taken to growing his graying hair, or what was left of it, long. It flowed out from beneath a crusty New York Giants baseball cap. He had a weak chin and fierce blue eyes, the doughy splotched skin of a heavy beer drinker, and the stooped carriage of a man two decades older. He narrowed his eyes.
“You wasting your time praying again, Dolan?”
“Somebody has to say nice things about you, Larry.”
“Me?” Last Stand looked up and down the length of Broadway. “Look around you, Dolan. It’s too late for prayers. The end, as they say, is nigh.”
“Yeah, right. Let’s grab a stool, then. No better place to meet the Apocalypse.”
“After you.” Last Stand held the door open wide and they both entered the bar.
Seamus, the bartender, greeted Mike with a handshake. He nodded wearily at Sweeney. “Hey, Mike, how’s Jimmy? That mayor’s a hump anyways. Kid’s better off not associating with that crowd. Guy’s a ball-breaking bully, you ask me.” The bartender placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Yeah. I guess.” Last Stand had spied one of his K of C cohorts at the far end of the bar and slid down a few stools. Mike was not much in the mood for the man’s doom and gloom. He had his own problems to sort out. Before Sweeney’s Custer obsession his nickname had been Black Cloud.
“No shit.” Seamus stepped to the side so a Mexican bar back could dump a bucket of ice on the bottled beer. He leaned on the bar. “I’ll tell you what, though, Mike, he’s a good kid. I mean, look, he’s doing all right for himself, high-profile suit-and-tie job and all, but he comes in here it’s like he never left, you know. He always had a nice attitude, Jimmy. Not like some of these brainless wonders I got to deal with. Never gives you any ‘big shot, I’m with the Mayor crap,’ either. Nice attitude.” Seamus spun a swizzle stick in his mouth while he talked, his eyes constantly moving, even though the bar was slow. The man did not miss a movement. “Speaking of elections, how’s your thing going?”
Mike shrugged. “Good, you know. It’s picking up now. Making up flyers, calling guys.”
“Yeah? That’s a rough bunch, I hear. Why dontcha get the kid to help you with the campaign. That’s his business, right?”
Mike had thought about that before. Now, after the incident with Keefe, it would be a big problem. He would love to have Jimmy work with him. They used to spend a lot more time together when Jimmy was younger. But the last few years he seemed to see Jimmy less and less. The kid was out on his own and Mike was glad about that. Still, he was afraid their relationship was going to end up like the one he had with his father, one where it was too late by the time they realized they’d lost each other. It was so easy to let things slip away. Like, him and Punchy. Then all you’re left with is could-haves and should-haves and the dull ache of guilt and regret.
“You get too slick on these guys they get suspicious. They hate politicians on principle, and I don’t blame them for that. Old-fashioned works best. I try to get by some of the jobs, shake hands. Same thing outside the union meetings. Eye to eye.”
“I hear you. I’m surprised that guy ain’t been run out of the union by the Feds. As crooked as they come. I follow that in the papers, talk to guys come in here. I mean, if there is a cleanup going on, then come on, this is the guy that should be gone.”
“Not half as surprised as I am. Last ten years four, five hundred guys have been kicked but. Maybe five were actually as bad as this guy.”
“Some system. Like guys I know from the Javits and the fish market. The government comes in and says, oh, this is a Cosa Nostra thing, they clean house. All those guys, maybe five assholes, but hundreds lose their livelihood. In the end there ain’t a single indictment. Talk about throwing out the baby with the bathwater. You imagine they did that to some Wall Street company?”
“Never happen, Shamey. You know how much the government has spent out of the Teamster treasury?”
“I can imagine.”
“Seventy million dollars. That’s dues money from the rank and file. They come in: Hey, we’re here to save you. Then they bankrupt the union in a way no boatload of gangsters ever could have. I’ll tell you what. They gotta be pretty selective in who they’re tossing out, if a guy like Keefe, who’s the worst of the bad, a true degenerate, is still sitting there.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Believe you me, I was the happiest guy in the world when they first come in. I figured it was the end of a lot of bad things. Now I’m not so sure. Starting to look a lot like two evils to me. And I’m wondering which is the lesser.”
Seamus wheeled and moved down the bar to refill drinks. Sinatra came on the jukebox. Mike thought about his kids. The two older boys gone to the suburbs. Patrick a city cop who transferred to Suffolk County a few years ago. Now he was living in one of those developments built on an old potato field with an uptight wife who cared more about things than people. She had Patrick up to his ears in debt insisting on a new car every other year, Club Med every winter, overpriced furniture. It never stopped. He knew the kid never would have left the city if the choice was his to make. Kevin, a city firefighter, seemed to be the most content. Four-bedroom house in Rockland County, three sweet kids, and a nurse for a wife who had a great sense of humor. His daughter Meghan was happy and living in Jersey, although he thought she had married too young. She was always a great student but never went beyond high school. He thought that was a big mistake. But her husband was an accountant who took nice care of her. She made a point of stopping by weekly with the kids and a casserole. She had her mother’s Old World values.
He made a series of interlocking rings on the bar with his coffee mug. He took out a pen and laid it on the dark wood. Jimmy was certainly the brightest of his children, the most gifted. Anything he tried, he made look easy. He was always the ringleader, always able to charm his way out of a tight spot. He was the kind of person people in stinctively liked and trusted. Mike realized that came from the boy’s mother. Mike had been a little rough with the older boys and tried to make amends by being easy on Jimmy. He often wondered if maybe he had screwed his other kids up somehow with the discipline. He was only trying to raise them right, so they would have their heads on straight.
His election worried him. He took a pencil and, on the back of a bar napkin, scratched a list of business agents he thought might back him openly. Then listed those solid in Keefe’s camp. Three for, twelve against. Maybe he should lay off, drop out, take it easy, spend more time with his grandchildren. But he knew he wanted one last shot at that SOB Keefe. The man was everything in life he despised. Keefe was a leech who got fat off the blood of his membership, took payoffs for sweetheart deals with contractors, doled out big jobs to friends and relatives, played fast and loose with the benefit plans, and used threats and muscle to subdue opposition. To Mike there was nothing more despicable than a crooked union leader. Any boss or any union-busting lawyer was a better grade of human. With Keefe it was hereditary. His uncle had been a crook too and Mike had waged battles against him before he went to prison to die. Mike had always kept the ugly side from the family. Twice the elder Keefe’s thugs had beaten him so badly he ended up hospitalized. He created the fiction of an auto accident and a mugging. His wife and kids, he was confident, believed him.
The bar door opened and light spilled in, bright but without warmth. Spring was just days away. A crew of transit workers came in laughing and took the last of the barstools, heavy key rings jangling as they settled in. The Sinatra CD snagged and hiccuped until Seamus hit the reject button. Mike waved a fly away and ordered a chicken sandwich.
The membership was scared of Keefe and rightfully so. Mike did not blame them. You bitched about things, you found yourself out of work. And while actual violence was not common, it was very much a possibility. Nobody forgot the pictures of Sean Reilly, a dissident who had shot his mouth off once too often. He had been set aflame and hacked to death. The Post had run them on page three.
Mike had tried to take action. Last year he had visited the corruption officers at the International in Washington. They had received him warmly, assured him that their aims were the same, praised him for his courage. He went home and waited. And waited. He called Washington every few weeks. They never returned his calls. After eighteen months, he decided to run one last time.
He piled pickles on his sandwich and chewed it slowly. He wondered how badly Jimmy’s screwup was going to play out. He had always kept his family out of things. Now Jimmy had knocked Keefe on his ass, involving himself. Secretly, he was proud of his kid. Proud, and very worried.
Seamus came down, brandishing the coffeepot. “No, thanks, Shame. I’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
Jimmy let himself into his old building on Seaman Avenue. The lobby was wide and grandly tiled. The air was cool and lacking the usual stink of close living. A faux-crystal chandelier hung above and lit the room brightly. Straight ahead was an elevator and on either side were staircases that switchbacked their way up to the top floor. Like most of the buildings in the area, it had been built during the go-go twenties to entice the emerging middle class put of the tenements downtown. While much of the neighborhood was falling into disrepair, the buildings along this block still retained much of their Art Deco grandeur. The old Irish and Jewish families on this street were slower to leave and yuppies with some means, young couples with children, were moving in. Jimmy’s father kept the building spotless and well maintained.
Halfway across the lobby he was stopped by Mrs. McMartin. She had come down to retrieve the mail. She greeted Jimmy as if he still lived in the building and they met every day. In her hand was the day’s pile of junk flyers and notices, many of them written in Spanish. “You believe how late the mail comes these days? You remember, right? Used to be here nine in the morning. Now you’re lucky to get it by five at night. I guess nothing’s what it used to be.” She wore an old green dress that Jimmy would swear was the same one she’d worn when he was in about the third grade. Her hair was in curlers and covered by a net, as if she was getting ready to go out. But Jimmy knew that outside of church and the grocery, she had not been anywhere in a very long time. Her face was smooth and seemed remarkably untouched by time and heartache.
“It’s nice to see you Jimmy. Real nice. But what the heck are you doing smacking people at the Mayor’s house? You were raised better than that.”
Mr. McMartin had gone to Korea as a newlywed and ended up as a POW. The Communists treated him poorly. He went away a sweet, fresh neighborhood kid and came home with a bad stutter and a vicious whiskey habit. His wife pretended nothing had happened. Their quarrels were loud and legendary. Secrets were hard to keep in those old apartment buildings. Even sighs of resignation and disappointment were heard through the walls. Mr. McMartin had died when Jimmy was eight. Their children were living down South and out West, came home only rarely.
