The Yankee Club

by Michael Murphy

Laura covered her mouth. “Oh, Jake. You’ve been in a fight.”

  “I won.”

  She threw both arms around my neck and kissed me. She’d never been one for a public display of affection, but I enjoyed the moment, whatever her motivations. She buried her face in my chest and squeezed me like she used to.

  I’d waited two years for this moment. I couldn’t let go. We were in a crowded terminal buzzing with commotion, but with my eyes closed it felt as if it was just the two of us.

  Stoddard cleared his throat. “This display is uncomfortable even by Penn Station standards. People are starting to stare.” He nodded toward the exit.

  Laura and I followed him outside into the brightness of the May sun. We ignored “Employee Only” signs, crossed several tracks, and stood between two trains. Stoddard crossed both arms. “What happened?”

  “Tony Vales happened. He thought I killed his brother because a dirty cop wanted him to think that.” I gave them the shorthand version of my altercation at the flower shop. Laura looked horrified, Stoddard disappointed.

  He shook his head. “I would’ve jammed the glass farther into his neck.”

  Laura nodded. “He’s serious.”

  I had little doubt Stoddard would’ve killed Tony and been done with it. “What happened in the flower shop wasn’t why I wanted to meet. Belle Starr remembered a detail about the man who shot Mickey. He’s a homicide detective named Hawkins. The driver was a member of the Blackshirts, the shooter, NYPD. Someone had to coordinate this.”

  Stoddard rubbed his hands in delight. “Just when I thought Paul Cummings had skipped town you come up with this Hawkins guy. He’s our best link to the Golden Legion. We need to persuade him to talk.”

  “How are you going to get an NYPD detective to …?” Laura’s eyes darted between Stoddard and me. “Oh.”

  A railroad worker in blue coveralls walked around one of the trains. He carried a lantern in one hand. “You’re not allowed here, folks.”

  Stoddard assumed his gruff government agent expression. He slipped his wallet from his suit and flashed his Secret Service badge.

  “Enjoy your visit.” The worker hurried past us and continued down the line.

  “Let’s go talk to this Hawkins.” Stoddard stuffed the wallet back in his suit and headed back to the terminal. He looked as determined as a bull charging a red cape.

  I grabbed his arm. “I suppose you plan to just barge into the police station and borrow one of their interrogation rooms.”

  “If he’s not at work, we’ll pay him a visit. If he’s working, I’ll tail him, find where he goes when he’s off.” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “We may be running out of time. Roosevelt will be in the city Thursday night for a speech at Madison Square Garden, and the Golden Legion is off skeet shooting.”

  Shooting. I couldn’t shake the image of Dalrymple and his gang taking target practice.

  Laura and I followed Stoddard to the phone booths along the far wall.

  “I have a friend in NYPD who owes me a favor.” Stoddard went inside a booth and closed the door.

  “He has friends?” I gazed around, looking for the young couple. The suitcases were gone. Perhaps they’d taken the train to Wyoming, or maybe they’d taken my advice.

  Laura’s eyes glistened. She brushed hair from my brow. “You could have been killed. This is the second time in days.” Her hand lingered on my cheek. Her eyes met mine, reminding me of the young girl’s look. “I know I said we couldn’t talk about us until this was over, but I’m afraid I may never get the chance. Jake, I … love—”

  Flash. A reporter held a camera at his side. “Thanks, Miss Wilson, Mr. Donovan. That will make a swell picture for my paper.”

  Laura gasped.

  I’d waited two years to hear Laura say she loved me, but a picture like that could blow her cover. I went after the man, pushing through the crowd, but the reporter had disappeared.

  I returned. Laura stared across the terminal as if in a trance.

  Stoddard came out of the phone booth with a disappointed scowl. His gaze darted between the two of us. “Did I miss something?”

  “A reporter snapped a picture of Laura and me for the papers.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Stoddard lowered his voice. “I leave you alone for two minutes. You’ve been acting like newlyweds since we got here.”

  Laura let out a sigh. “Excuse me for caring!”

  Stoddard’s forehead wrinkled. “We have to talk to Hawkins and see if the hit on Mickey was related to the president. He’s working today, and I don’t want to raise concerns at the station. We might have to wait until tomorrow and surprise him at his apartment.”

  “You know where he lives?”

  He gestured toward the phone booth. “I do now.”

  When Laura dropped me off at the Carlyle, I held her hand. “You’ll be at Mickey’s funeral.”

  “Of course I’ll be there.”

  I watched her drive away then went inside. I used most of my remaining cash to settle Belle’s account and pay for another night at the hotel. I’d have to hock something valuable like my watch and find a cheaper place.

  A cabbie drove me to St. Timothy’s. He pulled up in front of the church and held out his hand. “That’ll be eleven bucks.”

  In my wallet, two small bills peered up at me. “I only have two fives. I don’t suppose you’d cut me some slack. We’re at a church, and—”

  “Don’t care if I drove you to church or a whorehouse, I’ve got a family to feed.”

  My trouser pocket contained two quarters. I dropped them into his hand. “I’m tapped out.”

  “Four bits? That’s it? Get out.”

  “Sorry.” I took my cane and climbed out.

  The cabbie slammed the car in gear and squealed tires as he sped off.

  Gino hurried down the church steps. “What was that all about?”

  This wasn’t the place to talk about my finances. “I’m a little short, that’s all.”

  “How short?”

  I led Gino past arriving mourners. In the parking lot I told him about the limo ride with Spencer Dalrymple and the financial squeeze he slapped on me.

  “Let me get this straight, Laura’s fiancé used his clout to buy your publisher and freeze your bank account. All that to get you to leave the city?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t explain all the reasons he wanted me out of the picture.

  “Why didn’t you come to me? I’m insulted.” Gino lit a cigarette and took a long puff. “That’s why I’ve never trusted banks. I’m strictly a cash and carry guy. When do you leave for Florida?”

  “You think he can pressure me into going back. Now I’m insulted.”

  He set one hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you back down from gangsters and thugs. You’re one tough son of a bitch, but you’ve got a history of running from personal problems.”

  We were outside a church, so I resisted the temptation to sock him. Gino had always been straight with me. I listened while he ticked off a list of times I’d fled from problems. After high school, my father wanted me to attend college. Instead, I enlisted, and the army sent me to France. After Pop died, I joined the Pinkertons, left New York, and traveled the country. Laura wouldn’t marry me, so I moved to Florida.

  “How much do you need?” Gino dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe.

  “I can hock my watch.”

  “How much?”

  “A couple hundred. I’m going to check into a cheaper hotel.”

  “No you’re not. Don’t let Dalrymple see you sweat.” Gino slipped an envelope from his suit pocket. Keeping it close to his vest, he fanned through several fifties and hundreds and handed the envelope to me. “Here’s a grand.”

  “You brought a thousand bucks to a funeral?”

  “I carry a grand everywhere. Remember, as kids, I always kept a quarter in my shoe, didn’t I?”

  “You never loaned me your quarter.”


  Gino chuckled. “Times have changed. Prohibition’s been good to me. I’ve got plenty stashed. Stop by The Yankee Club when you need more.”

  I didn’t plan on needing more. After we took Dalrymple down, my funds would be available and Empire Press wouldn’t be answering to the bum.

  I took the money and stuffed the envelope in my suit coat pocket. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t get all mushy on me, Donovan.”

  We’d been friends most of our lives, but I couldn’t believe Gino’s generosity. “How can I ever repay your kindness?”

  “Fifties and hundreds. Tens and twenties will do in a pinch, but they make a bulge in my suit and make me look like Mae West’s left side. You can repay me when you get things straightened out.”

  We climbed the church stairs where Gino, Mickey, and I had served as altar boys. The first alcohol I drank was wine Gino snatched from the rectory.

  Inside I dipped my fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. The familiar church made me determined to set aside the past few days and focus on paying my respects to one of the closest friends I’d ever had. The church had changed little. Organ music came from the choir loft, and statues of Mary and several apostles faced the lacquered pews. Candles flickered in red glass holders, and stained-glass windows displayed the Stations of the Cross. A huge crucifix hung above the altar as if Jesus looked down on Mickey’s casket sitting in the front of the church.

  Gino and I headed up the aisle. Inspector Stone sat alone in the third row. I couldn’t help wondering if he played a role in Mickey’s death. While Gino stopped in front of Mickey’s casket, I slipped into the pew beside Stone.

  With a black rosary in his hands, the inspector moved his lips in silent prayer. He paused and looked me over. “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

  “Where’s your buddy?”

  “Hawkins? He’s not my buddy. We work together, that’s it.”

  “I heard you were pals.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “You heard wrong.”

  I was glad he’d said that, but I didn’t know Stone well enough to trust him with what I’d learned about his partner. “See you at the wake,” I said.

  “Wait. At the hospital I accused you of getting Mickey killed.” Stone’s fingers moved to the next bead on the rosary. “I was wrong.”

  “Thanks.” On my way to the front of the church, I nodded to Frankie, seated behind Gino and Laura, touched he’d come to pay his respects to a man he barely knew.

  I bowed my head before Mickey’s casket. His carefree life had ended way too soon. I’d come to terms with Mickey getting shot the night I visited his office, but I couldn’t shake all my guilt. It had been my idea for him to join me in opening a detective agency.

  After landing in the hospital and getting involved with Stoddard’s investigation of Dalrymple and the Golden Legion, I hadn’t had time to mourn. Now I couldn’t remember how to, so I pictured Mickey and me having a final conversation until we met in the next life.

  I knew what he’d say. He’d want me to bring Hawkins and Dalrymple to justice, because justice was what drove him as a soldier, a cop, and a detective.

  Just as likely, he’d tell a bawdy joke and let out that raspy laugh I missed already. I bowed my head and said a prayer for my friend’s eternal happiness then renewed my vow to bring his murderers to justice.

  Two altar boys genuflected then joined the priest at the back of the church. I sat in the front row between Laura and Gino. Everyone rose as Father O’Malley entered.

  Mickey didn’t attend mass on a regular basis. He was a happy-go-lucky guy who wouldn’t want a solemn ritual. The mass became a blur of Latin and revisited memories. The sermon about faith and accepting death as God’s plan offered no comfort.

  I barely paid attention as Father O’Malley quoted Ecclesiastes—a time to be born, a time to die … a time to kill. Would I have to kill before this case came to a close?

  Laura dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up handkerchief. She opened her fingers and held my hand. We stared at the closed casket. After the sermon, ushers gathered collection baskets with long handles, genuflected at the aisle, and came to the first row.

  I nudged Gino. “A collection plate at a funeral?”

  He shrugged. “We’re in a depression.”

  Gino dropped a sawbuck into the collection. The usher held the collection plate in front of me. All I had was the grand Gino had loaned me.

  He gave me a nudge. “You gotta give something. Come on, you’re embarrassing me.”

  Laura covered a smile with her hand.

  I slipped the envelope from my suit coat and thumbed through the money. The usher’s eyes widened at all the cash.

  I whispered to Gino. “The smallest is a fifty.”

  “It’s for the Lord.”

  The usher let out a sigh of impatience. I dropped a fifty into the plate and stuffed the envelope into my suit coat pocket.

  Gino nudged me again. “Mickey would’ve loved this.”

  At the end of the Mass, I grabbed my cane and, in spite of my injured leg, walked alongside the casket with Gino and the other pallbearers.

  At the cemetery, I stood with Gino and Laura, her face a mask behind dark sunglasses. After Mickey had been laid to rest, she drove me to The Yankee Club. We rode mostly in silence. I was lost in my memories of a man who touched us all.

  Inside the speakeasy, Gino’s mother wrapped both arms around me and kissed my cheek. She did the same to Laura and Gino. A picture of Mickey hung beside the photo of Gino and Babe Ruth.

  On the wall behind the dance floor a map of Ireland replaced the familiar map of Italy. Instead of Bridgette and the jazz band, an Irish band in green vests set up on the stage. In accordance with an old Irish custom, the mirror above the bar was covered with black cloth. The wall clock had been stopped.

  Laura and Gino consoled friends, smiling and laughing like one was supposed to at a wake. I propped my cane against the bar and took a stool. The bartender poured a shot of Irish whiskey and set it in front of me.

  The lead singer held up a shot glass of whiskey. “To Mickey.” When everyone replied, “To Mickey,” he downed the drink and began to sing one of Mickey’s favorite St. Patrick’s Day sing-alongs, “Sweet Rosie O’Grady.” Nearly everyone sang along. Everyone but me. I threw back the whiskey and ordered another.

  Laura climbed onto the stool beside me. She downed the last of my second shot of whiskey and signaled for another, her laughter and good cheer gone. The bartender set a fresh drink in front of her and tended to a customer at the far end of the bar.

  She blinked away tears and stared at the drink. “What’s wrong with you? It’s an Irish wake.”

  “I don’t feel like being festive.”

  She threw back the shot. “That’s the point of a wake, isn’t it, to be festive when you feel like crying?”

  “You did your part when we arrived.”

  “I’m an actress.”

  After the song, the singer picked up a flute. “This is the only sad song we play today. ’Twas Mickey’s favorite, so it won’t be tears I’ll be seeing. Not today.” He played the opening to “Danny Boy.”

  With my heart tugging in my chest, I took Laura’s hand and led her to the crowded dance floor. As we danced, she laid her head against my shoulder. Neither of us spoke. The song ended, producing more tears, but none from Laura or me. Mickey would’ve wanted it that way. I held up my hand and caught the singer’s attention. He nodded.

  I cleared my throat. “Sixteen years ago Mickey and I shipped off to France during the Great War. I won’t talk about the hard times we faced, but I’ll tell you about a bright spring afternoon at a lake we visited on the only leave I remember. The lakeshore was filled with beautiful women who made American soldiers feel welcome, even a couple of saps like Mickey and me.”

  The crowd hooted and whistled. Laura smiled at a story she’d heard a dozen times.
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  “You might suspect we had more than a few brews. The day grew long and warm, and we grew thirsty. Mickey and I took off our shoes and socks. Beer mugs in hand, we waded into the murky lake to cool off. He ventured farther than I and must have stepped off a ledge, because all at once he sank beneath the water like a stone. As he went down, his arm shot up, mug in hand. Not a drop of lake water tainted his favorite brew.”

  Laura and I joined the crowd in laughter.

  “Mickey came up sputtering and wiped his face as I helped him back to shore. He held up his beer and swallowed the rest in one gulp. ‘I think I’ll have another.’ ”

  Everyone in the speakeasy snickered at the story. The laughter died down, and the singer began to sing “Dear Old Donegal.” Laura and I danced. After the song she shared her favorite Mickey O’Brien story about a St. Patrick’s Day parade where Mickey came to the rescue of an Irish lass who had had too much to drink.

  The afternoon went on with songs punctuated with tales of Mickey O’Brien, funny stories, and memories of his courage. He would’ve enjoyed the wake.

  I drank more than I should have. I stepped outside and dropped down on a bench by the front door as the setting sun shone into my face.

  The door opened and Laura sat beside me, took my arm in hers, and rested her head against my shoulder. “I’m sorry about how I behaved at Penn Station. I risked the case against Dalrymple and endangered our lives.”

  The door opened again. Frankie stumbled out and spilled the drink in his hand. He gripped the end of the bench and regained his balance. He swayed as he stood there. His mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. He turned, opened the door, and went inside.

  Laura chuckled. “He drinks too much to be your driver.”

  “He won’t be much use tomorrow, that’s for sure.” I stared into Laura’s eyes.

  She gazed at me as if I’d never left.

  “Maybe we should pack up and just leave New York, let the world sort itself out.”

  “Sure, and where would we go?”

  “Anywhere there are no mobsters with tommy guns, no plots against the government, and corrupt cops are rare.”

  “I’d love to go away with you, Jake. I want to go somewhere safe, where I know I won’t be attending a wake for you and pretending I’m not sad.” Her eyes moistened. “I promised Mickey. We have to see this through. We only have to find enough evidence to get the feds involved. Then we’ll go away, wherever you want.”