by Sean Desmond
God, I missed this place. How did I become some sort of out-of-town asshole? Pat blamed airline deregulation, which had hit in 1978, sending everything straight to hell. The unions became greedy, the management more so. Losses were cut, profits dwindled, the stock price yo-yoed, and American hubbed itself in North Texas, relocating the Malones from the Bronx to Dallas in the summer of 1982.
All morning had been cost-cutting reports and budget run-throughs. Markets were shaky again, ridership was down despite a host of up indicators, and then 3Q came in down 11 percent, 18 percent off capacity, and up 4.3 percent on expenses. That required the Pharaoh Crandall—a nickname Pat had coined with his coworkers—to convene the entire pyramid-building enterprise and figure out how to correct before the holidays and make the numbers “fly right.”
Reilly placed a fresh vodka on ice in front of Pat, with a napkin of three cents’ worth of olives, skewered by a tiny red sword to hilt and tang. It was a martini if you counted thinking about France as the vermouth. Pat took a long swig of relief. Sweeney’s had somehow kept the compressor going on its antediluvian ice machine, which spat out the good oval chips Pat liked to crack against his molars.
The final meeting of the day was to preset strategy for dealing with (i.e., piano-wiring) the unions. The contracts were all in order, but the mechanics were the next ones out, and they were part of the Transport Workers Union, and that meant AFL-CIO and Crandall’s nemesis Lane Kirkland, and that meant hostage and holler tactics. Unbothered to look up, Crandall fired questions into the blue folder of Pat’s report. How many mechanics on disability? Overall liabilities are totaled on lines F and G? So what does AMR owe the pension in the next eighteen months? Break this out for over forty, and then over fifty, what’s that? Twenty-two percent of the cohort? And where does it factor the ’88 and ’89 cost-of-living adjustments? Finally he took off his glasses and held them up to the fluorescents and blew at the dust and smudges.
“So the number I need is at what age—if we bought out everyone—can I knock the teeth out of Kirkland’s jaw and divide the younger membership against the executive council?”
Pat slurped rather than sipped his drink. The Pharaoh Crandall relished this kind of corporate warfare. But gut too hard and what’s left? Pat worried. A bunch of junior mechanics, aging planes in disrepair traveling at five hundred miles an hour, horrific accidents, NTSB investigations, FAA penalties, and then bankrupting insurance premiums. But despite being chief actuary to the airline, Pat couldn’t bottom-line in his reports to Crandall the causation and cost of sticking it to the pinkos at the AFL-CIO.
“Pat, how’s Texas treating you? Did you buy any horses?” From the other side of the bar Reilly grinned like a joker, a cigarette pursed at his lips.
“I traded all my horses.”
“To the Injuns?”
“Something like that.”
Pat slid his empty rocks glass six inches toward his bartender.
“Good luck with this, Paddy.” Reilly poured Smirnoff heavy over the old ice and knocked on this third drink.
Pat gasped a bit at the strength of the martini. It was that ecstatic moment a drinker seeks, like the pins and needles after a sneeze, followed by a warm shudder.
Five years since Pat had left New York and the city did seem different. Sweeney’s was still hunkered down on the east side of Third Avenue between Thirty-Eighth and Thirty-Ninth, a half-out-of-the-way spot from the arteries that coursed toward Grand Central. No frills, just bottles and chasers, and a cast of shirtsleeves from the offices of the Daily News, Mobil Oil, and the Con Ed plant tucked behind Tudor City. It also drew the brass from Engine 21 and the scrubs from Bellevue (minus butterfly nets, as Reilly always joked). Plenty of Bronx and Queens Irish on turvy wooden stools below the typical bric-a-brac of Yankees pennants and road signs from County Monaghan.
Despite the familiar buzz of the barflies at Sweeney’s, New York was invariably alien when you came back as a visitor. Pat couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the city didn’t allow for something; it was flowing too fast, and when you got out of the slipstream of it, you were gone.
Pat took another gulp of poteen and tapped the bar with his ring finger, shave and a haircut. Where to go with Billy boy? His cousin had wanted Pat to train up to Katonah. To hell with jackassing all that way. Besides, Pat could still expense a strip and potato. Pharaoh Crandall hasn’t crimped the expense accounts . . . yet. Another swig and rattle of the ice and the glow was full-on. Pat stood to stretch and hit the john. He took one hitched step, and there it was: numbness all down the leg. Give it a minute.
“I thought that was you, Paddy boy!” It was Richie DeNuccio, from Cardinal Hayes High School. Now Sergeant DeNuccio in his patrol blues.
“Holy shit, Richie, how are you?” Pat awkwardly braced against the bar and threw an arm around him.
“Fuckin’ sixes and sevens, Paddy. Where you been?” Richie had a cop’s squint that made you feel like a perp. He had a beer gut, no surprise, and looked fat faced from his desk job but overall pretty hearty—not too far gone from the pulling guard for Hayes’s varsity. “Didn’t you move to Texas?”
“That’s the story the Feds have me telling.”
“Jesus Christ. Cowboy Malone on the range.”
“How’s the finest?”
“Hanging in . . .” Richie guzzled a Löwenbräu and waved at his lieutenant and a couple of patrolmen to rack the pool table and start without him. “Hanging in by a thread. I’m about to retire. They wanted to switch me out from operations downtown back up to Webster Avenue. I said go fuck yourself. I know all the criminals in the North Bronx, and they ain’t going nowhere. I’m done, fully vested. And my pal Vinnie—you know Vincent Intondi? Went to Bergen Catholic and used to crawl around this hole-in-the-wall?—well, he’s on Nixon’s detail in Saddle River and thinks he can get me in there.”
Pat let go of the bar, his leg still unresponsive, and lurched toward Richie, who put a hand up to catch him.
“Whoa, cowboy. You all right?”
“Sorry, leg fell asleep.”
Pat was half in the bag, and Richie gave himself a quick hook and made like he was catching the next train to Fordham Road.
“You’re a good man, Malone—like Gary Cooper heading out to the territories. Reilly, what the fuck was the name of that movie?”
“Sound of Music?”
“No, asshole, the one where he’s the hanging judge?”
“Pride of the Yankees?” The regulars howled at that one.
“Such a cocksucker, this one. Good to see you, Paddy. Take care.” And with that Richie turned tail to the front of the bar.
Pat faked a smile and tried to shake the sleep out of his left leg.
“Riles, while you’re in the neighborhood.”
“Gotcha, sir.” And he lifted the Smirnoff out of the well again.
Jesus—Richie the cop is well past his twenty-and-out. Pat hobbled to the bathroom and took a piss and then returned to his dark corner. The bar was starting to fill in, and Pat realized his glow was gone. He needed to slow down, but that thought seemed to make him drink twice as fast. Pat hoisted himself back onto his stool as Reilly lit another cigarette and parked it in an ashtray below the bar. “You okay over there?”
“Just tired, stiff legs.”
“Stretch it out, Malone. And let me know when to call the ambulance.”
Pat poured the vodka into his thoughts. Forget the ambulance, call the hearse. It had started with a hitch in his step, which he chalked up to a childhood injury, a busted play at the stoop. That became tendinitis from jogging. Well, maybe it was arthritis, which his mother, Hannah, had. But in the past two years his left leg had gotten worse, not just stiff but aching, sometimes numb or tingly, and it didn’t move right, always behind the rest of his stride, never catching up. Then, three months ago, Pat first heard the term “multiple sc
lerosis.”
The day before his meetings at American, he had gone to his old doctor, Hugh MacNeill, another Hayes classmate, who had a good general practice going on East Eighty-Fourth balancing the sensitive humors of the upper class. It was to get a second—no, third—opinion on his MS diagnosis, but he wanted the no-bullshit version, which he got as soon as MacNeill saw his recent history.
“Pat, I could charge your insurance a bunch of money running tests to confirm it, but this Dr. Landis has done them, and these scans . . .” MacNeill sucked on his cheek. Not good. “Rather than poke and prod you to find out what we know, I think we should talk about how to deal with this.”
Pat tried to let the bluntness of that pass by, but his chin sank into his chest. He got mad at himself for that: What were you hoping for?
“You have a chronic disease, and no one can tell how it will progress. The mystery here is that MS treats everyone different. You have to take care of yourself and get stronger. You’re losing weight; you got to drink less, a glass or two of wine at most. You never smoked, right, Pat?”
“Never.”
“That’s great, no nicotine. And you’re already doing PT with bikes and weights. Keep at that. You have to build up the muscles and the nerves that go with them. And there’s diet—cut the caffeine, cut the fat, cut the salt. Vegetables, greens, more chicken and fish, less red meat.”
“Already on that one, doc.” Pat thought of all the flavorless, skinless chicken breasts his wife, Anne, had stacked in the freezer. Miserable.
“Attaboy. So, Pat, I’ll be honest—this condition will frustrate you. Some days it will flare up and you will think you’re a cripple. And then a few days where it goes away. You need to be ready for that. I’m not trying to give you false hope, but the right outlook and regimen can add years to your life. This is not great news, but it’s not a death sentence. It’s a fight against decline.”
Pat stood again. The feeling in his leg was returning. He took five quick, hinky steps to the pay phone at the back of Sweeney’s. Reilly in his absence freshened his drink. Pat plunked down on the bench and fished in his pockets for a quarter. Billy worked for Ma Bell, now called NYNEX, and Pat pulled the number for his Wall Street office from the blue pages.
“The homecoming of Patrick Francis Fitzgerald Aloysius Xavier Malone.” Billy sounded ready to ring the bell, and Pat felt mortified. “What do you say, boyo?”
“Bill, I’m so sorry, but they’re riding us tonight.”
“Ah, that’s awful. Where you calling from?”
“Uh, I’m at Sweeney’s, a few of us stepped out for a beer before we head back into a night session.”
“Okay . . .”
“Sorry, Bill, dinner’s out. I’m stuck with a bunch of Chicken Littles here. The fare wars and all that—and we’re running around like chickens without heads.”
“That’s a lot of chickens. You okay, Pat? You sound . . . tired.”
Bill knew, and Pat knew he knew.
“I’ll be fine, I’m tired of this crap with chickenshit management.” He followed that one with a hollow laugh. “Sorry. But we’ll prevail. Listen, I’ll be back up soon enough, and we’ll get together. I want to hear how Billy’s doing. What’s he playing these days?”
“He’s fierce at field hockey. The Villanova coach came up to scout—”
“What the hell is field hockey?” Too sharp, off-key. Get off the phone, Malone.
“It’s like hurling—remember when Uncle Aiden would play hurling up at Iona?”
“Ah, so sticks and drinking, then. Followed by beatings, no doubt.”
“Not quite, cuz. How’s Anne and Dan?”
“The queen and the prince live life without surcease, sir.” Christ, I sound unfunny. “Listen, I’m sorry, give my love to Josephine.”
“I will. Too bad you have to work. But, Pat, do me a favor.” Here it comes. “Before you go back to the office. Get some food, maybe a coffee.”
“I hear you, but I’m fine. Tab is closed.”
“Fair enough. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Bye, Billy boy.”
Pat stumbled off the bench and took to his glass. The conversation had brought him back toward sober thoughts he didn’t want. One more with Reilly and kaput. One more, if you didn’t count doubles, which Pat didn’t. He didn’t need to be lurching around with Bill, who would ask, then get, the MS story, and ruin dinner feeling sorry for him and asking a bunch of fallback questions. Where are you with Dan’s college fund? What’s in the bank, and what’s left on the house? What is Anne going to do? Pat stared down at his lap and stretched each leg. They both felt fine now, limber even. Pat swizzled and swallowed. What you can’t feel can’t hurt you, right? Pat raised his head and peered at the liquor bottles in their rows. Reilly had one eye on him, the other on the cable channel for Yonkers. Harness racing and one cigarette after the next. Riles is, what, five years younger than me? Pat looked down the bar at the regulars. Every single one on the downhill. Christ.
Pat paid his tab and threw a ten-dollar tip on the bar. Reilly deserved more, but he had to keep a few bills for the hotel and the airport taxi. Okay, time to depart. He was on the first flight out of LGA tomorrow.
“Thanks, Riles, good to see you.”
“My pleasure—one last cover of the ice?”
“Sure, but then I’m off to the Russian front.”
Reilly poured him a half to a whole. “Can I get you a taxi, Pat?”
“I’m good—hotel is down the street.” Pat shot the last drink down like medicine. “You’re a good citizen.”
His legs were cooperating for the moment, and Pat hit Third Avenue with slow, smooth steps. Pink and orange light snuck between the cracks of the midtown canyon, and Pat looked to his watch. Seven thirty? Jesus, it’s so late all of a sudden. He kept steady toward Forty-Second Street, trying not to brood. Why cancel on Bill? It would have been fine, could have hashed things out. But he couldn’t take that look of pity, and Bill would try to disguise it and be calm and sympathetic, and that was worse.
Annoyed, Pat threw up his hand in a gesture that looked like he was talking to himself. He half-realized this, if no one else did, and scanned the crowds rushing toward the trains. He developed a theory as he looked at face after face—Everyone lost right there, just behind their eyes, everyone in their own world.
Pat walked west on Forty-Second Street, his limp returning. Left, right, shuffle, come on, left. He returned to thinking about the passersby ducking through traffic. All of them alone up here.
This time he muttered “up here” aloud and raised a spastic left hand to his temple. Everyone up here in their own heads, unaware of what’s going on around them. Pat looked to the chevron at the top of the Chrysler Building, an indifferent beacon, the office lights blazing below. And I’m the only one who notices this. It’s because I’m sick. I’m sick, but I can see it. He picked up his pace as best he could and continued on. He needed to eat but kept thinking he was on to something. Some truth about people, the city, and himself. He reached the northeast corner of the public library and looked up at the marble columns streaked with soot. Here’s something they built. Something built by men who saw past the rush and left their mark. They were here and they laid their temples out in stone.
Pat kept walking toward the lights of Times Square. Eat and go to bed. But he had other things in mind. One or two more drinks and the glow might return. Or maybe it would be better than the glow, it would be a clear nothing. He would see this dirty city for all it truly had become. He reached a corner and stood under the unnatural gleam of a giant Panasonic sign. There’s Lindy’s—go in quick and get a sandwich. Nah, not hungry. He continued west, unnerved by all the commuters, the swarm toward the Port Authority, that toilet bowl that flushed buses under the Hudson. Pat took a breath and kept moving. The old limestone buildings, the Times, the Paramount, en
tombed in neon billboards, the present soldered onto the molars of the past. It was stupid to go farther west—All peep shows and muggers—so he turned north and thought about HoJo or maybe Nedick’s. But those places, this whole area, were infested with crazies. The traffic coursed down Broadway, like blood cells feeding a tumor, and he cut back onto Forty-Fourth Street. It was still there. Tir na Nog. A ridiculous run-down dive, like a splinter stuck between office towers. Pat couldn’t remember whom he used to meet there, but what bar in midtown didn’t cast a dim recollection now?
Tir na Nog—It might have been Hannegan’s back then—was near empty, sunk in uremic light. Pat almost backed out but was soon on a stool facing bottles in front of a mirror. On the TV the local weather guy was pointing to a satellite shot of a tropical depression forming southeast of the Dominican Republic. It was forecast to become the fastest-moving hurricane since the Yankee Clipper in 1938. Pat wanted a Bushmills, but the bartender looked like a Fenian, so he ordered a Tullamore, and drank a toast to the storms of his youth.
* * *
“Hold it steady.”
Pat’s mother, Hannah, chewed on two box nails while trying to hammer the one between her fingers and thumb. Galloping past the Jersey shore, the storm was still south of the Bronx and the city, and they were boarding up the windows to the Malone grocery on the corner of 135th Street and Willis Avenue. Each swing of the hammer summoned Hannah’s anger and annoyance. Pat’s father had been missing since ten in the morning. “Off to the bank” was the excuse, but the bank, the whole neighborhood, was now shuttered, with no sign of Jack.
