by Martina Cole
Cathy was right: he was greedy, he was selfish and he used people. Now he had murdered for a second time, a girl who had loved him with all her heart. Poor Caroline. He had never really cared for her - she had been a possession, something he owned. Someone he had abused as he abused everyone.
As he had even abused Cathy Connor.
It was daybreak when he finally cried, but Eamonn being Eamonn, it was mostly for himself. The best part of his youth was gone, and with it any chance of seeing again the girl he loved.
BOOK TWO
‘Truth is the most valuable thing we have. Let us economise with it’
- Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens), 1835-1910
Chapter Twenty
1971
‘Jasus, son, would you ever let a man fecking sleep?’
Eamonn Senior’s voice was heavy with drink and tiredness. His son stared at him balefully while he tried to dress in the confined space of their bedroom.
‘You’d better get up and let’s get to work, Dad, for fuck’s sake. You know what O’Halloran said yesterday and if you lose this job then you can fuck off out of it, I ain’t keeping you.’
The older man looked at his handsome son and sighed heavily. The boy was working hard to try and get them some kind of life. They were robbing Peter to pay Paul, and after all this work and worry their home was a walk-up in the Bronx which housed only Irish, blacks and cockroaches.
The smell was worse than anything he had encountered in his life before and he was heartily sick of it. The heat of a New York summer here was bad enough, but the cold winter, with endless snow and ice, was doubly unbearable. If the boy would only listen to reason they’d be riding the pig’s back. But he would not listen, wanted to do everything right this time. Wanted to have a regular job, a normal way of life. It was sickening.
Scratching his belly, the older man waited until he heard the pop of the gas under the coffee pot before pulling on his trousers. Dragging on his shirt, he began his daily complaint, shouting to be heard in the kitchen.
‘If you’d only listen to sense, boy, we’d be living the life of Riley now and no mistake.’
Eamonn Junior rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Rinsing the cups under the tap, he tried to blot out his father’s words. Every day it was the same thing and he was getting sick of it. The old man wanted him to become America’s answer to Ned Kelly and get them a good living. In England, his father had told him that his way of life was bad. Now, though, in the States, he wanted the boy to capitalise on his reputation as a murderer and join what amounted to the Irish Mafia.
He stared out of the window and watched the street as he sipped his coffee. There were black faces everywhere; at first that had amazed him. England had a fair few, but America was positively overrun with them. It had been strange finding himself in a minority when they had first moved here, and time hadn’t changed that. There was a very beautiful black girl living on his floor and Eamonn had chatted to her a few times before he realised she was a prostitute. He smiled now as he recalled asking her out, and her discussing the price! In England he had thought himself so knowledgeable about everything. Here he was a babe-in-arms.
The dock work had been easier to acquire than he had expected yet it was still physically arduous and his father was only taken on because of his Irish connections. They both knew and both used it in their own way. Strangely, Eamonn did not miss his old job with Danny Dixon.
Eamonn loved New York. It was a seething mass of people, cultures and trouble. City Hall was the all-important centre of government for the province. People talked about it as if it were a mixture of the House of Lords and the worst military junta they could name. It was corrupt, it was splendid and it was there.
Yet as exciting as the city could be to him at times, he saw the ugliness of it keenly. Felt the tensions among the under-classes, and heard the way that people talked and talked and never really said anything. The bottom line was that New York was like any other big city: it was a good touch providing you had money. He needed money here more than he had ever needed it in London.
He realised his father was standing beside him, slurping black coffee and giving voice to his usual complaint. ‘If you’d only listen to the Mahoneys, we’d be living like lords. Have the best of everything. The Irish run this fecking town though no one has realised it yet. The collections for Ireland are bringing in a fortune and anyone doing the job can cream off at least twenty-five per cent for their trouble. There’s money to be made, good money, and you of all people should be seeing that. Christ, there was a time when you’d kill for a few quid . . .’
His voice trailed off. He knew when he had gone too far. ‘Jasus, son, I could cut me tongue out, I could that.’
There was a deep silence. Finally it was broken by Eamonn Junior saying, ‘Wrap up well, Dad, it’s freezing out there.’
They left the apartment in silence. Eamonn Senior was still contrite over his words and as they walked down the stairs, squeezed his son’s shoulder affectionately.
‘This weather would cut the lungs from you. I don’t ever remember being so cold.’
As they walked towards the bus depot a car stopped beside them and Petey Mahoney whistled them to stop. ‘Jump in. I’ll give you a lift. There’s no work for you today anyways.’ His heavy Cork accent was at odds with his smart clothes. He dressed like an upper-class WASP.
Eamonn Junior looked at the man expressionlessly. The smell of petrol from the car was heavy in his lungs, hot-smelling, hanging on the cold air. His father pushed him gently towards it and Petey, taking a roll of money from his pocket, slipped the older man a fifty. Smiling, he said: ‘Get the hair of the dog that bit you. I’ll take care of the little one.’ He laughed at his own joke and Eamonn, knowing he had no choice, got into the car.
‘Isn’t this a lovely automobile?’ Petey asked him as an opening gambit. Eamonn smiled. It was - a Pontiac Firebird, black and sleek, purring as they pulled away into the traffic.
‘You could be driving one like this if you wasn’t so pigheaded.’ Petey held up his hand as if he were being challenged, yet Eamonn had said nothing. He never did. ‘Don’t start now! I’m just stating a fact. We need young men like you. You’ve already got a good reputation from home. Why do you always refuse to work for us?’ The last was said with genuine interest. There were Paddies climbing over themselves to get in with the Mahoneys. Eamonn’s complete indifference to them was what made him stand out.
They knew he had murdered twice. The girl was a sorry case, but such was life. The first murder, as a young boy, had been well executed and with just the right amount of ruthlessness to earn him the respect of his peers.
Eamonn could have found it in his heart to like him, if only Petey didn’t keep on at him about joining the Mahoneys’ firm. He shook his head and sighed. ‘Can we just listen to the radio from now on?’
Petey, always affable, turned up the radio and said delightedly: ‘At least you’re talking, that’s a new one with you. I call you the Silent Man. Tell me just this one thing and I’ll shut me big gob - what made you change so much? I mean, why this stand after all you did in London, eh?’
They had stopped at traffic lights and Petey peered into the younger man’s eyes, genuinely interested in what he was asking.
Turning down the radio, Eamonn said seriously, ‘I killed a girl, a lovely young girl who should have had a long life ahead of her. I also killed a boy. He’d probably have done the same for me but still, I robbed two people of their lives in just a few years. I broke men’s legs and arms for money, and I enjoyed it. I loved the power of it all, loved being in charge. After Caroline’s death, I took stock. I wanted to be part of the real world again. I stopped wanting to control everything. I was a sick person, an evil person, and I could no longer live with that.’
Petey looked at him, and then as the lights finally changed, said gently: ‘Is that all? I thought it was for some really good reason.’
The radio full on once more
, they drove in silence to the headquarters of the Mahoneys, deep in the heart of Queens.
Jack Mahoney was big, six foot four inches, with the breadth to carry it off. His wife tried to keep him in shape but in the fast-food culture of America it was a losing battle. His belly was gigantic, a massive wobbling structure that she refused to have on top of her. This suited Jack because his tastes ran to tiny crop-haired black girls who he would swear gave the best blow jobs this side of the Atlantic. His seven daughters adored their big rumbustious father and he attended Mass every morning at six-thirty, rain or shine. Food and getting his cock sucked regularly were Jack’s main hobbies. His work was a different kettle of fish altogether.
Jack controlled Mahoney enterprises through fear and through money. He believed that if you paid a man enough, you bought his loyalty. It had worked well for him till now. The Mahoneys had never had an informer or a turncoat.
But Jack also liked to keep the Irish around him happy. He knew that there was going to be a lot of trouble in the North back home, and even though he himself was a Southerner, Cork born and bred, he realised there was a lot of money to be made from helping out their Northern counterparts.
A large percentage of New York Irish lived on their memories, talking constantly of the Old Country and eating cabbage and corned beef, as a kind of sacred rite. It tasted nothing like the good food in Ireland but they didn’t know that, because the majority of them were second- or third-generation Irish. While fuelling their nostalgia for the Auld Country, Jack was making a bundle from his Irish bars and was determined to keep it that way. His bars were alive with men and women singing rebel songs, eating Irish soda bread and drinking Jameson’s. He had other businesses too, and to run these he needed muscle.
It seemed Eamonn Docherty was just the kind of employee they were looking for. It had never occurred to Jack that anyone might not want to work for him. If it had he would just have issued them with an ultimatum: work for me or I’ll make sure you never work anywhere else. But for all that he knew he was a good employer. Once he had them, he looked after them in such a way that he was guaranteed their loyalty and gratitude for ever after.
Eamonn Docherty, according to the boy’s father, was an enforcer born and bred. Best of all, he had no convictions, political or otherwise. When asked about the state of Ireland, he had answered: ‘Who gives a fuck?’ Jack Mahoney’s sentiments entirely, though he would never admit as much to anyone outside the family. So he had arranged for his younger brother Petey to pick up the errant youngster and bring him in.
Jack Mahoney’s reputation was such that he was entertained in Little Italy and Chinatown - almost unheard of for an Irishman - but he was a staunch believer in organised crime and times were changing. The Italians and the Chinese were businessmen at heart and this was the time for them to befriend the Irish who were coming up fast in the various rackets.
He saw his brother parking the car and getting out of it with young Docherty. Jack watched the boy’s arrogant stance closely and shook his head with a wry smile. The younger man was a fine specimen, but then his father had been a big handsome man in his day. Eamonn Senior could have been somebody but the easy life had always appealed to him too much. Men who lived off women were dirt to Jack, but the old man was Irish and you had to seem at least to be looking after your own.
Settling himself behind his large oak desk, Jack made himself look busy and important as the young man was shown into his office by Petey.
Eamonn Senior was sitting in a bar off Broadway. It was Irish-owned, the drink was not watered down and the company convivial. With a fifty-dollar bill, he was soon a welcome part of that company and was engrossed in conversation with a man called Willie McLaughlin on the pros and cons of a united Ireland. Three large Jameson’s and he was well away, enjoying himself, when out of the corner of his eye he noted Jackie O’Malley, a bookmaker to whom he owed over two hundred dollars.
‘In the money, are we?’ Jackie’s voice was sarcastic.
Eamonn Senior, with drink inside him and feeling good, was not too worried. ‘Oh, it’s a small touch I got from Petey Mahoney. He’s out with my boy at the moment.’
Jackie knew this was a veiled threat and looking at the red-nosed man before him, suddenly became very angry. People like Docherty were users and O’Malley knew that if he let him off, others would expect the same consideration. He stared around the bar, at the shamrocks and the phoney Irish flags, the Waterford crystal behind the bar and the photos of Brendan Behan that adorned the walls. Overwhelmed with the futility of the struggle to keep his head above water, he said vehemently: ‘I don’t care who your son is gallivanting about with, I want the money you owe me, and I want it now!’
Eamonn Senior, full of whiskey and bravado, answered him lightly. ‘Then you’ll know what it’s like to want, won’t you?’
Jackie O’Malley had buried his wife three days before. He had been chasing money for weeks now; his wife’s treatment had cost him a fortune, and in all honesty she hadn’t even been worth it. His only son had come back for the funeral and returned to college with hardly a word. His daughter was having nothing to do with Jackie, and he himself was being chased by loan sharks because no one would pay him what they owed so he in turn could not make his repayments.
Now here was a piece of shite, a man devoid of anything that could be classed decency, more or less telling him to whistle for his money. People were watching the exchange. Jackie was being publicly belittled and was growing angrier by the second.
This had been the story of his life, used and abused by everyone. No respect, no one according him even common courtesy. He had been chasing his money for days, and no one was interested. He was a small operator, didn’t have people like the Mahoneys or the Murphys to chase his debts for him, and it seemed that more and more people were turning to the bigger firms after they had in effect ripped Jackie off.
He snapped his fingers at the barman. ‘Two large ones, here.’
The barman placed the two drinks on the bar and Jackie downed one at a gulp, then immediately followed it up with the other. Everyone watched in fascination as he then opened his coat and took out a long-barrelled gun. It was an old gun, one that had been used many years before by the old Moustache Petes. It was practically an antique.
He shot Eamonn Docherty Senior in the chest, the loudness of the retort making people in the bar run for cover and drowning out the game of baseball on the television set. Then, turning the gun on himself, Jackie placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The young barman looked at the brains spattered all over his T-shirt, saying, ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ over and over again as he waited for the police to arrive.
The news hit the streets almost immediately and a policeman paid by the Mahoneys reported it to Petey while Eamonn was still closeted with Jack. Eamonn stared at the man before him.
Jack was huge, fat and undignified, a big, bumbling man with an aura of viciousness that was hard to ignore. Eamonn could see now why people were in awe of him. As big as he was, he moved in a surprisingly light fashion which belied his enormous body. It was a complete revelation to Eamonn to meet this soft-spoken man face to face. He had heard so much about him that to meet him was like gaining an audience with the Pope. Once you got there you were not sure what to say.
Jack gently explained to him what he wanted. He never used force unless he had to, was a great believer in the power of the spoken word.
‘The thing is, I understand you are a very smooth operator. I’ve had great reports from London about you. I think that unfortunate incident with the girl was probably partly her own fault. Women can be the devil at times with their talking and their tantrums. I know, I have a wife and seven daughters, God help me. Now, I am after your expertise in the heavy department. I need young men, up and coming sorts, whom I can train and put in positions of prominence in business. I can offer you big rewards and the respect of the whole community. I can also make you rich beyond your dre
ams.’
His voice changed then. The camaraderie was gone as he finished: ‘I do not offer my friendship lightly, nor do I like having it thrown back in my face. I only ever offer the hand of friendship personally once. If it’s not accepted then I class that person as my enemy.’
Eamonn knew that he was being told that if he didn’t take the job he would be a marked man. Mahoney could make sure he never worked again. Or he could make sure that he never breathed again. It was a Catch 22 situation. Forcing a smile on to his face, he asked gently, ‘What about the pay?’
The big guy laughed. He had his man and could afford to be magnanimous. Even though they both knew he had got Eamonn by default, they forged a strange kind of friendship that day. It was based on mutual respect.
Eamonn had expected to dislike the man, yet found himself admiring him, even wanting to be part of his enterprise. Jack Mahoney had taken the American Dream and turned it on its head. If for no other reason than that, Eamonn looked up to him. Deep inside, he also acknowledged that he was glad to be back doing what he did best. Doing what he enjoyed!
He felt the old adrenaline rush. Now he was back where he loved to be: in charge of himself, in charge of others. Deep inside, he’d known all along he had been kidding himself. He was born for this life, brought up for it. Why fight it any longer?
As he left the office he saw Petey waiting for him. The other man looked grave-faced, and as he broke the news to Eamonn, felt a great sorrow for him. The Mahoneys knew how great the pull of a patriarch could be. Their own father had been a lot worse than Eamonn Docherty Senior, and yet they had taken care of him.
