13 Hangmen

by Art Corriveau

  As soon as they did, Angelo should get a pair. He’d never fog up again.

  “Do they hurt?” Angelo said.

  “You’ll barely notice they’re in your eyes,” Tony said. “Especially when soft lenses come out in the 1970s.”

  “What’s Wikipedia?” Angelo said.

  Tony didn’t even begin to know how to explain the Internet. Luckily, he didn’t have to. They were interrupted by a voice:

  “What’s going on here?”

  A kid their age was standing at the pawcorance. It was Solly, of course. But as a thirteen-year-old. He was dressed in a black wool suit, there was a yarmulke pinned to the back of his head, and his face was framed by long brown curls. Tony thought they looked a little like ram horns and wondered if the ram was his animal totem.

  “Solomon Weinberg?” he asked.

  Solly nodded, startled.

  “Hurray!” Angelo said. “It finally worked!”

  “Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” Solly said. He had an unexpectedly thick Yiddish accent, one he would obviously lose by the time he became a benchwarmer for the Sox.

  Tony introduced himself and Angelo. He explained they were both from the future—well, sort of. Tony was actually sitting on the floor of his attic bedroom in 2009, whereas Angelo, here, was in his own bedroom in 1939. That was all because of an anomaly in Minkowski’s block universe. Tony launched into an explanation of how the top floor of 13 Hangmen Court acted as a weird sort of time machine—

  Solly strode over to the door and opened it. “Scram!” he said.

  “Wait, I can prove it,” Tony said. “You just turned thirteen, didn’t you?”

  Solly nodded uncertainly.

  “And you just set a prayer scroll on the spiral, right?”

  “That doesn’t prove you’re from the future,” Solly said. “It just proves you’ve been spying on me. Why? I swear I don’t know anything about that molasses!”

  Molasses? Who said anything about molasses?

  Tony explained how the prayer scroll would eventually end up in the brim of that baseball cap on the shelf, a present to Angelo from a Red Sox outfielder. Angelo—who was actually Tony’s great-uncle—would give that cap to Tony for his thirteenth birthday. Setting both the cap and the scroll on the spiral was how they were all connected, why they were all in the attic at the same time. See?

  “No,” said Solly. “Any more than I see a Red Sox cap.”

  “Ted Williams doesn’t exist for him yet,” Angelo whispered to Tony. “Like your cell phone doesn’t exist for me. The best way to prove we’re from the future is to say something that’s going to happen.”

  “You know him better than I do,” Tony said.

  “Scram!” Solly said. “Now. I mean it.”

  “Wait, I know!” Angelo said. “Something happened to you today, on your birthday, something you’ll never forget because of this house, a rusty molasses tank, and some guy named Finn McGinley.”

  Solly suddenly went very pale. He closed the door. “Who told you that?”

  “You did. On my thirteenth birthday. By then you’re an outfielder for the Sox, though to be honest, your career gets sort of ruined at my party.”

  “Is Finn OK?” Solly asked. “I’m waiting for word from him.”

  “I have no idea,” Angelo admitted. “The press arrived before you got the chance to finish your story. All I know is that a Hagmann is involved somehow. Chester Hagmann.”

  “Which is actually why we conjured you,” Tony said. “We’ve both got serious issues with our own Hagmanns over this house.”

  “It’s all because of my big mouth,” Solly sighed, taking a seat beside the other boys on the floor.

  “What is?” Angelo said.

  “Chester Hagmann has just double-crossed Finn into selling him this house. Otherwise the Irish mob will make Finn a pair of cement shoes and sink him to the bottom of the Charles River, all on account of that worthless molasses. Unless, that is, Finn really does know a way to beat Hagmann at his own game.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Tony said. “Start from the beginning.”

  “I should have known what kind of day it would turn out to be, just by the crazy weather outside,” Solly began.

  olly actually began the morning of his thirteenth birthday in good spirits. There was still a week left of winter break from school, it was a beautiful springlike day—very unusual for mid-January in Boston—and he was off to the synagogue to memorize the Torah passage he would be reciting for his bar mitzvah Saturday morning.

  He just had one slightly unpleasant errand to run first.

  Solly found Finn McGinley, the owner of the run-down town house his family rented—13 Hangmen Court—exactly where Mameh said he would: in the boarded-up pub at the corner that used to be called One-Eyed Jack’s. And just as Mameh had predicted, Finn was perched on a stool at the end of the grimy bar, smoking a cigar and reading the Boston Globe. His makeshift office. Solly’s only surprise was the slumlord’s age; Finn couldn’t be much more than twenty-five.

  “I’m here to pay the rent on Number Thirteen,” Solly said.

  “About time,” Finn said without looking up. “It’s two weeks late.”

  “I’ve only got half,” Solly admitted. “It’s been slow at the deli where my mother waitresses—on account of the holidays. What little tip money she made had to go to the doctor treating my baby sister’s polio. Plus my father hasn’t been shipped back yet from the trenches in France, where he’s been fighting the Germans. And his soldier’s pay seems to be lost in the mail.”

  “You know how many hard-luck stories I hear a day?” Finn said.

  Solly exploded with anger. “Shame on you!” he shouted. “You grew up in the North End. Have you already forgotten what it was like for your folks to start a new life in a new country? It’s a shanda, I say—a shame.” Solly instantly regretted his outburst. Mameh was always chiding him for making things worse with his sass.

  Surprisingly, Finn didn’t get angry. He looked up from his paper and started to laugh. “If it isn’t Solly Weinberg,” he said.

  Solly nodded, mystified. Why would Finn know his name?

  “Your thirteenth birthday must be coming up.”

  “It’s today,” Solly said.

  “Time flies,” Finn said, shaking his head. “Tell your mam she can pay me the rest when she’s ready.”

  “I—I don’t understand,” Solly stammered. “Why the change of heart?”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Finn said. “I lived over at Number Thirteen myself when I was your age—back when the North End was still known as Little Dublin. I slept up in the attic, just like you. And I wanted to play ball for the Sox, just like you, back when they were still called the Pilgrims. Hadn’t you better be getting to bar mitzvah practice?”

  Solly nodded. How did Finn know all this?

  “Well, off you get, then. You don’t want to make the rabbi angry, or he won’t let you plant that tree tonight.”

  Solly turned to leave, utterly baffled. It was as though this young Irishman could read his mind. On his way out, he nearly collided with Chester Hagmann, who was just swinging through the saloon doors. What was he doing here? Hagmann was the owner of Purity, a factory behind the synagogue that distilled molasses into fuel for munitions. He was also Finn McGinley’s rival slumlord in the North End—owner, in fact, of No. 15 next door. Everyone knew the two men couldn’t stand each other.

  Solly stooped and pretended to tie his shoe so he could eavesdrop.

  “Where’s the rent on my tank?” Hagmann said to Finn. “It’s two weeks late.”

  “You’ve got some nerve,” Finn said. “Every drop of molasses in it is worthless, now the armistice has been signed and the demand for munitions has vanished. You won’t even buy the stuff off me, and the tank is sitting in your yard.”

  “Not my problem,” Hagmann said. “Next time read the Globe instead of the racing form before making an investment.” He pulled
a document out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid it in front of Finn. “It’s a deed transfer. You know very well you can clear your debt with a single signature.”

  “I won’t sell you Number Thirteen and that’s final,” Finn said.

  “We’ll see about that,” Hagmann said, repocketing the document. “You have until the end of the day to pay up—or else.” He strode out of the pub.

  Solly thought it best to follow.

  Except that Finn’s body went completely rigid. His eyes rolled back in his head. He flopped face-first onto the zinc countertop. Solly raced over. Was the Irishman dead? No, he was still breathing. What was more, his eyes were darting back and forth beneath their lids. Solly tried to shake Finn awake. He merely shuddered and mumbled as though he were dreaming. Solly wasn’t sure what to do next—fetch a doctor?

  Finn sat bolt upright. “Where’s Hagmann?”

  “Gone,” Solly said.

  “Did he see me keel over?”

  “I don’t think so,” Solly said.

  “Close call,” Finn said. “I made a pact with a bunch of childhood buddies, see, never to sell Number Thirteen to a Hagmann. And I’m a man of my word.”

  “Are you OK?” Solly said.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Finn said. He could plainly see, though, that Solly wasn’t so sure. “I just fall asleep sometimes, all of a sudden like.” Finn explained the technical name for it was narcolepsy. He’d been having sleeping fits ever since he was a boy. Doctors all told him the same thing: it was hereditary, there was no way to wake him, there was no cure. The fits were brought on by stress, Finn said. And he was under a great deal of that at the moment. A few of his recent ventures hadn’t panned out. Plus he’d had a couple of unlucky afternoons at the track.

  Solly didn’t know how to respond. Why would Finn—a complete stranger—be telling him all this?

  “Lucky for me, I have a plan,” Finn said, winking. He tapped the Globe’s front-page headline: Congress to Ratify Prohibition Tomorrow. “Because as a matter of fact, I do read more than the racing form.”

  Before Finn could elaborate, another man strode into the bar. Solly recognized him immediately. Frank Wallace, leader of the notorious Gustin Gang—the Irish mob that now terrorized all the Jewish business owners of the North End.

  “Surprised you’re not taking one of your little naps,” Wallace said, grinning and slapping Finn on the back. He turned to Solly. “I’ve known this guy since he was your age. Always sleeping on the job.”

  “I’ve got a little business proposition for you, Frank,” Finn said.

  “Was a time you were too good for the Wallaces,” Frank said.

  “Times have changed,” Finn said.

  Wallace jerked his thumb at Solly. “Who’s the kid?”

  “My new errand boy,” Finn said, flashing Solly a grin. “He’s OK.”

  New errand boy? Since when?

  “Well, spit it out,” Wallace said. “I ain’t got all day.”

  “When Prohibition gets ratified by Congress tomorrow, it’ll be illegal to make or sell another drop of booze after exactly one year’s time,” Finn said.

  “So?” Wallace said.

  “So you should buy up every drop of the molasses I’ve got stored in a tank over at Purity and turn it into cheap rum. You’ll make a fortune over the next twelve months. I’d even consider reopening One-Eyed Jack’s and letting you sell it here—for a small taste of the profits, of course.”

  “I’m listening,” Wallace said. He perched on a bar stool while Finn gave him the particulars: how much molasses was actually in the tank, what sort of discount Finn would be willing to offer the Wallaces per gallon, who in the North End would have the equipment to distill it. Frank pulled out his wallet and handed Finn a wad of cash. Would this do as a down payment? Finn counted it out. Yup, that’d do nicely. The two men shook. Wallace departed, whistling.

  Finn looked surprisingly sad. “That was a bitter pill to swallow,” he said to Solly. “When I was your age, I secretly helped Boston’s future mayor put Frank Wallace’s brother Stevie behind bars—back when the Gustin Gang was still known as the Tailboard Thieves. But I’ve got to pay Hagmann before the end of the day.”

  “What’s this about being your new errand boy?” Solly said.

  Finn pulled a small duffel bag out from behind the bar. He stuffed the cash into it. He slid the duffel across the countertop to Solly.

  “Make this one delivery on your way over to the synagogue, and your mother can consider last month’s rent fully paid,” Finn said. “Whaddya say?”

  Solly waited in a chair outside Chester Hagmann’s office. His stomach had been growling since he’d gotten to Purity; the entire factory smelled like homemade cookies. And lunch was still a long way off. He checked his pocket watch again. He was late for bar mitzvah practice. And Finn was right: he didn’t want to make Rabbi Zuckerman angry. Not only was today Solly’s birthday—the fourteenth day of Shevat, 5679, by the Jewish calendar—tomorrow was the holiday Tu B’Shevat, the New Year for Trees. Which is why the rabbi had picked Solly especially to plant a sapling in the synagogue’s front garden at tonight’s sunset ceremony.

  How had Finn known that?

  Hagmann’s secretary told Solly to step inside. Solly found the factory’s owner behind a gigantic oak desk at the far end of a long, wood-paneled room.

  “You again!” Hagmann frowned.

  “Special delivery from Finn McGinley,” Solly said, setting the duffel on his blotter. “Should be all there.” He turned to leave.

  Hagmann told him to take a seat. He didn’t trust Finn McGinley any more than he trusted a Jew-boy. He would need to count out every penny. Reluctantly, Solly perched on the edge of a chair and watched while Hagmann sorted bills into piles. “McGinley is only delaying the inevitable,” Hagmann muttered. “It’s just a matter of time before he loses everything at Suffolk Downs—including Thirteen Hangmen Court.”

  For some reason, Hagmann’s smugness got Solly’s goat.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Solly blurted. “As soon as Congress ratifies Prohibition tomorrow, Finn will be rolling in dough.”

  “What makes you think that?” Hagmann said.

  “He just sold every drop of his molasses to Frank Wallace,” Solly said. “He’s going to turn it into cheap rum and sell it. Finn’s going to reopen One-Eyed Jack’s.”

  A slow, hideous grin spread across Hagmann’s face, one that gave Solly a chill. “All’s well that ends well, I guess,” he said. “The rent’s all here. You can go.”

  Solly made his way through a forest of rusty holding tanks in Purity’s yard. The synagogue was just over the fence. He felt a sudden pang of guilt. Though Finn hadn’t explicitly told Solly to keep his plan a secret, it certainly wasn’t Solly’s place to blab it to Hagmann. Especially not after Finn had given Mameh a break on the rent. Why couldn’t he ever keep his big mouth shut? He saw no other choice but to return to Finn’s office after bar mitzvah practice and confess what he’d done. Hopefully Finn would still be there—though he wasn’t looking forward to how the Irishman might react.

  Some birthday this was turning out to be!

  Finn was still there.

  But so was Chester Hagmann. And he was once again setting that deed transfer in front of Finn to sign.

  “Didn’t Solly deliver the duffel bag?” Finn said.

  “He did,” Hagmann said.

  “Then I should be all paid up,” Finn said.

  “You are. That’s not why you’re going to sign Number Thirteen over to me.”

  “So why would I do that?”

  “Consider it a fair trade for my help out of your current dilemma,” Hagmann said.

  “What dilemma?” Finn said.

  “When I suggested you read the Globe, I meant beyond the headlines,” Hagmann sneered. “As soon as Prohibition becomes law, only existing rum producers will have a year to phase out their operations. It will become a federal crime for anyone n
ew, like Frank Wallace, to make rum—or for you to reopen this bar.”

  Finn went very pale.

  “So I’d say your dilemma is fairly obvious,” Hagmann continued. “If you tell Wallace the molasses he just bought is worthless, you’re likely to find yourself in a pair of cement shoes at the bottom of the Charles. If you don’t tell him—and he blithely starts making rum—I’ll be forced to inform the authorities, seeing how the holding tank is actually mine and I wouldn’t want to be implicated, whereupon you’ll both likely end up behind bars. You could, of course, give Wallace his money back. Except that it’s now sitting in my bank account. Lucky for you, it’s the exact amount I’m willing to pay for Thirteen Hangmen Court.” Hagmann handed Finn the fountain pen out of his pocket.

  “Who told you about my deal with Wallace?” Finn said.

  Hagmann pointed over to Solly.

  Finn’s eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped the pen. His arms and legs went completely rigid. He flopped face-first onto the bar.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Hagmann said, alarmed.

  “It’s a sleeping fit,” Solly said.

  “Well wake him up!” Hagmann said.

  “I can’t,” Solly said. “No one can. He told me it’s a rare condition. It’s brought on by stressful situations. Who knows when he’ll wake up?”

  Hagmann tugged the deed transfer out from under Finn’s nose. He wiped off the drool, then tucked it back into his pocket. “Tell him to bring me the deed to Number Thirteen by the end of the day, or else.” He turned to leave.

  “You’re nothing but a dirty double-crosser!” Solly shouted.

  “Do you think a little double-crossing would stop me?” Hagmann laughed. “My family has been waiting for generations to get back what is rightfully ours. I suppose I have you to thank for making that possible.” He strode out.

  A moment later, Finn woke up. Solly immediately began babbling an apology. It was all his fault. Now Finn would be forced to break that pact with his childhood friends. Now he’d have to sell 13 Hangmen Court to a Hagmann. And now a Hagmann would surely turn Solly and his family out onto the streets.