by E. R. FALLON
“I’m sorry you’re leaving so soon.”
“I just finished meeting with Max, and I have to go to the bank before it closes.” He didn’t really have to go to the bank but it gave him an excuse to leave. He got up, and the bell which hung from the top of the door chimed as he left.
Tom wasn’t a Northerner like Colin and Sean, but he’d given Colin his start in the business, and when Colin first joined the Woodlawn gang on the side, he knew it meant a betrayal of Tom’s trust. Yet those guilty feelings had diminished over time. Catherine had forced him to remember them.
Colin didn’t make it to the meeting with Sean that evening. He didn’t want to return to the pub. He had to think about things for a while and try to soothe his conscience. In the end he told McCarthy he was ill with a fever. He had to make it sound contagious because Sean detested germs and was paranoid about catching illnesses.
“Don’t come,” he told Colin over the telephone. “Don’t come around again until you’re well.”
Four weeks later Tom’s condition had deteriorated. Tom’s doctor hadn’t given him more than a few months to live.
From his bed Tom would give Colin the look a proud father might give his son and shame would overcome Colin in such a way that he could hardly look at the old man.
“Colin,” Tom would say as Colin sat at his bedside. “Help my cousin. Don’t let McCarthy take the Bowery from us.”
Colin would sometimes nod after Tom spoke, but other times he’d say, “I will, Tom. I will.”
Sometimes he didn’t know what to say so he’d close his eyes and pretend to be nodding off. If Tom said his name over and over, trying to awake him then he would ‘wake’. Tom would repeat what he’d said and Colin would agree.
“We’ll take care of Jack O’Clery,” Sean McCarthy said to Colin on a rainy afternoon one week later.
He did ‘take care of ’ Jack. Two days later O’Clery was found strangled in his bed at his Bowery home. The week after Jack O’Clery’s death Sean McCarthy asked Colin to knock off Little Bill. McCarthy’s goal was to quickly disperse the Salthill gang. Tom was nearly gone, and there were only a few members left to block McCarthy from taking control of the Lower East Side. Sean wanted Little Bill and a few other men cleared out so that when Tom died he’d be able to take over Tom’s rackets and smoothly absorb them into his own without a battle. If Tom’s high-ranking men were still around after his death, one of them might try to take over Tom’s position and resist the assimilation.
Colin didn’t know how he felt at first. After all, he considered Little Bill a friend and knew his family. But then he figured Bill’s death would further establish his professional relationship with Sean. It would be a good way to show his devotion to the Northern guys.
“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Sean asked Colin in his office above the pub. “This guy is a friend of yours, isn’t that correct?”
“He isn’t a Northerner. And work is work,” Colin said with confidence.
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” But from the tone of Sean’s voice Colin could tell he would be more than disappointed if he didn’t.
“I want to.”
“Good. That’s what I assumed.” Sean sounded pleased.
“How’s Catherine?” Colin hadn’t asked Sean about her since that first time.
Sean frowned. “Why?”
“I was just wondering how she and her daughter are doing now that they’re back in New York.”
“They’re doing fine. I’m taking care of them.”
“Are they living with you and your wife?” Colin had never met Mrs. McCarthy, but from what he’d heard she was an older version of Catherine.
“No. Cathy’s staying somewhere else. She’s seeing this fellow. She and Violet moved in with him. I don’t care for him much but she seems to. I will say that he treats both of them with respect. She’s a grown woman with a child, so I can’t tell her what to do even though I give her money. The fellow is a poor bastard. He’s a struggling actor. But I guess it’s fine because he makes her happy. And I never thought I’d see her happy after her husband died.”
“I’m glad to hear she’s doing well,” Colin said politely. Internally, he fumed at the fact that McCarthy would rather have his daughter be with a poor actor instead of him.
Sean cleared his throat, as if to stop his sentiment. Then he was back to business. “The Little Bill situation needs to be resolved two weeks from today.” His eyes lit up as he looked Colin over. “I’m going to buy you a couple of new suits. I don’t like the one you’re always wearing.”
The light-colored suit Colin had on was his favorite but he nodded and smiled.
“Is McPhalen dead yet?” McCarthy asked him on his way out the door. “I thought he only had a few months?”
Colin stopped in his tracks and didn’t turn to look at Sean. “He was better for a while, but not anymore,” he whispered.
Colin didn’t stay long enough to find out whether the news delighted Sean. He didn’t want to know, because seeing Sean’s delight would have made him feel terrible.
Tom on his deathbed was like a dying king. People came to his brownstone house from all over the Bowery, and even beyond, to pay their respects to him. They’d make baked goods and hot food dishes for his family. They’d bring these along with flowers, Mass cards, and bottles of Jameson they couldn’t really afford.
They felt that they owed him, for whatever help he might have been to them throughout the course of their challenging immigrant lives. For whatever rent or bail money he’d loaned to them or their loved ones, and overlooked when they never paid him back. For however he’d avenged them, their wives, husbands, children, or friends when they’d suffered an injustice. For whatever ways he made them feel safer, while at the same time subtly keeping them in their place.
It was no surprise to Colin that when he arrived to pay his respects, having received a phone call from Tom’s wife saying her husband was nearing the end, he found a long line of visitors outside the ornate house.
Tom’s wife noticed him standing in line outside and asked everyone else to step aside so he could enter.
“Colin.” She embraced him.
“Mrs. McPhalen.” He’d always addressed her formally.
He accepted the large, warm woman’s embrace. He had avoided thinking about the upcoming killing of Little Bill and what it would mean for the future of Tom’s empire, but now he couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed. He liked Mrs. McPhalen. She was a good woman. She had shown him nothing but kindness, and now he was going to destroy her husband’s legacy, betraying him in the worst way after she watched her husband, the love of her life, die.
“How are you?” Colin asked.
Her tired green eyes filled with tears. “I’m going to miss him so much.”
Colin looked into her eyes and nodded. He did know something about loss. Then he wished he hadn’t looked at her eyes, because she grabbed him for another embrace and sobbed on his shoulder. Colin rubbed her back to calm her.
“Bill’s already here. Come inside.” Mrs. McPhalen dried her eyes and gestured to the hallway. “Joseph will be visiting later.”
Colin wondered if Joseph would be bringing the wife she disliked.
He followed the stout Mrs. McPhalen through the doorway into the living room where Little Bill slept on the couch. The shrine to Errol was still there. There were many empty glasses on the coffee table. He wouldn’t be seeing Bill today though he would kill him soon.
Colin looked at the portraits and photographs on the walls of the McPhalens’ living room. He had never really noticed them until now. For all of those occasions that he had been inside Tom’s house over the years, he had never paid much attention to the photographs. He focused on them now because he needed to concentrate on something other than Tom’s impending death and Little Bill’s as well, a death he would cause.
There were a few old-fashioned images of Tom in his youth on the w
alls. It was strange to witness the old and dying Tom as a young man. There was no hint of the man Tom would become. Tom, with apple cheeks and a charismatic toothy smile as a boy, and a headful of hair and swaggering confidence as a young man, a cigarette hanging from his grinning lips. Then there was determination and an unapologetic smile in a photograph of Tom taken from behind inescapable prison walls.
Colin stopped in the doorway of Tom’s room.
Mrs. McPhalen touched his arm and said, “He wants to see you.” Colin entered the bedroom slowly. The room smelled of illness, as hospitals often do. The bitter smell of the fluids on the sheets mixed with astringent disinfectants that did little to hide the fetid odors, made him choke. Tom rested in his bed under blankets. To say he looked like a ghost wouldn’t have been an exaggeration. His complexion blended into the white pillow.
Tom coughed up something foul and struggled to sit up when Colin approached his bedside.
“It’s all right, Mr. McPhalen, you don’t have to sit for me.” Colin found a handkerchief on the bedside table and tried to wipe the old man’s mouth, but he grabbed the handkerchief from Colin.
Tom cleaned his mouth and smiled at Colin’s formality. “How are you?” Colin asked.
“Me? I’m wonderful.” Tom chuckled, his voice heavy with mucus. “And stop whispering. You don’t have to speak to me like I’m an old woman. And don’t call me Mr. McPhalen.”
Colin smiled genuinely at Tom. He was surprised at his boss’s cheerful disposition despite his fragile demeanor.
Tom put the handkerchief down. “Come closer, I want to have a good look at you.”
Colin moved a little closer.
“What are you, afraid?” Tom laughed. Colin stepped next to the bed.
“You’re all grown up, Colin O’Brien. And maybe this is the first time I’ve seen it clearly. You’re almost an old man yourself.”
Without hesitation, Colin knelt down at Tom’s bedside. Despite the brutal acts Tom had sometimes directed Colin to commit, he had never feared Tom the way he feared Sean McCarthy because Tom had always seemed somewhat human. Colin trusted Max, but sometimes Sean reminded him a little too much of the loan shark who had pushed his father over the edge. Sometimes Colin reminded himself a little too much of the same man.
“You have come far, Colin. You’ve done a good job, a very good job. I’m as proud of you as I would be of a son. You are like a son to me, and I want you to know that even after I go, there will always be a place for you in my family.”
Colin had a difficult time looking Tom in the eye, but he managed to thank him. He appreciated Tom’s sentiment but wondered why he hadn’t been chosen to lead. Colin contemplated what Max had told him about Colin’s Northern heritage standing in the way.
Tom took Colin’s hand with his cold one. “About Jack, I think Little Bill is betraying me. You must kill him for me.”
Colin remained silent.
“You’ll do this one last thing for me, won’t you?” Tom said.
Colin didn’t know whether to grin or cringe at the irony. He nodded.
“And always remember,” Tom said, patting his hand, “who gave you your start in this business.”
Colin wasn’t sure why Tom had said that. He wasn’t sure if Tom knew his loyalty was dissipating. And why, if he did think Colin was straying, had he asked him for that lethal favor?
Colin thought about Tom’s words even after he’d left Tom’s deathbed. He walked out of Tom’s spotless house into the tainted streets of downtown Manhattan with the hope that maybe everything would turn out to be for the best.
A few days later Tom had died and Sheila was suddenly back at Colin’s door. Soon he’d be expected to get rid of Little Bill.
Sheila showed up at his prized apartment on the Lower West Side early one dreary Wednesday morning. Colin wasn’t out of bed when she came, and Sheila didn’t seem to care that she might wake him up from a peaceful slumber when she knocked on his front door and shouted.
“Colin? Honey? Are you in there? I know you’re in there. It’s me. Let me inside.”
He didn’t have to ask who ‘me’ was. As soon as he heard the knocking and shouting he knew who it was. No one else knocked like that at this hour without any care about disturbing the neighbors, except for maybe Tom. But Tom had died the night before so it couldn’t be him. In Colin’s world it was rare for a man to not die at the hands of another.
Colin considered not answering the door and ignoring Sheila. But she wouldn’t leave until he made an appearance and his neighbors would despise him if he didn’t stop the noise soon. The building wasn’t a tenement and the other residents tolerated very little. He groaned as he rose.
Colin put his pants on and walked out of the bedroom. He answered the door shirtless. “How did you get into the building?”
Sheila frowned. “One of your neighbors let me in as he was leaving.” She smiled as she stared at his bare chest. “You’re looking good.”
He knew he’d lost weight, but he had no woman to admire that achievement. He looked her over. She seemed plumper and healthy. “You look good also. What happened to you?”
“I’m well now. I’ve been well for months. Oh, Colin, it’s been a long time, too long.”
He nodded. It had been months since he last saw her. She seemed better, but he was cautious. “What do you want, Sheila? Do you need something?”
“What do I want? I’m at your door so I must want money, right?” Her face flushed.
“Sheila,” he pleaded.
“Do you know what your problem is? You don’t know how to communicate with women when they expect more from you than furs and jewelry.”
He was too tired to defend himself so he invited her inside.
Sheila frowned as if she was deciding whether she liked his response, but after a moment she entered, removed her raincoat, and made herself at home.
He stared at her suitcase. “You know you can’t stay here.”
“I’m not here to bother you,” she said.
Sheila sat down on his new couch and draped her coat over the armrest. “Nice sofa. But you should really get your act together and get yourself a better place. This one isn’t that great.” She glanced around his apartment with her alluring dark eyes. “With the money you’re making, you could do much better now. You need at least two bedrooms. And you should consider getting a television. My friend has one and it’s fantastic.”
“This apartment is perfect for a bachelor. I’ll think about getting a television.”
She turned to look at him, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and leaning against the doorframe. “You never will.”
Colin chuckled and shook his head.
She glared at him. “I’d be more than happy to leave if you want me to, but then we can’t, you know…” She dragged her tongue across her lips.
And then he felt her feminine presence. It felt good to have a woman in the apartment again. He hadn’t brought a girl home for months. And she was a beautiful woman, with her radiant hair and intriguing eyes, her softness, and the sweet smell of her perfume. He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her, and then bring her to his bed and make love to her. Then he remembered how much trouble she’d been in the past and it turned him off.
“We can’t… Where have you been living?” he said.
“With a friend. A female friend. She’s the one who has the television. Boy, am I going to miss that thing.”
“Why? You’ll see it when you go back.”
Sheila didn’t reply, and that worried Colin. How long did she plan to stay at his home? In prison, Colin had never been alone, and when he was released it had a strange effect on him. He enjoyed being alone. That made living with someone difficult.
“Do you have any soda to drink?” she asked.
Colin got the feeling she wasn’t interested in leaving regardless of what she’d said. She knew he never kept soda in his ice box and would have to go out and buy her a few bottles.
> “Soda? At this hour? Sheila, are you planning something? I don’t keep money in the house anymore.”
A couple of months ago he’d found her in a poor condition outside his building again, and because it was cold outside he invited her inside his apartment against his better judgement so she could shower, eat, and rest for a while. They’d ended up making love. He’d fallen asleep and when he awoke, he discovered she was gone and that she’d stolen from him.
Sheila frowned. “No. I’m thirsty.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“No, I want pop. Please?” She batted her long eyelashes. “You know where you can get my favorite.”
“All right,” Colin grumbled. “It’s raining outside, but I’ll go out and get you some. But don’t steal anything.”
Sheila held up her hands. “Don’t worry. I don’t do that anymore. Besides, you have nothing I can steal, right?” She winked. “It looks like it stopped raining.” She peered out his window.
Colin put on a shirt and shoes. He looked around for his wallet and found it on the end-table by the door.
Sheila surprised him with a hug. “Thanks. You’re the best.” She put her long arms around his waist.
He protested a little but he liked having her arms around him, her warm body so close to his. So he allowed her to embrace him for a minute, and then he made his way out of her arms. She sighed, and he could tell she was disappointed and had expected something more in exchange.
“I’ll be back soon.”
He left his apartment feeling uncertain. What exactly had that embrace meant? Were they back together? Was he okay with that? He hadn’t left anything valuable in the apartment that she could take, as she had done before on his ‘soda runs’ for her. She’d steal his belongings and pawn them to buy morphine. He’d buy them back a day later if he could. She had said she was well, and with her radiant appearance she looked healthy; but with Sheila he could never be quite sure. Sometimes she looked well even when she wasn’t. When he’d left he had taken his gold watch and his gun with him as well, the only things that were of monetary value to him in his home. The bundles of hundred dollar bills Sean McCarthy had given to him as payments, or money he was holding for McCarthy, he kept in a safe deposit box in a posh foreign bank on Fifth Avenue that didn’t question their customers’ business ethics. Even his father’s accordion he kept hidden under his bed.
