by Jan Burke
Every day, O’Connor hurried from school to the paper, never failing to admire the big ornate building itself (“Grand as a palace,” he’d told his sister Maureen) or to feel important as he stood on his corner, shouting headlines, calling out the words “Ex-press here!” in a manner that caught the ears of bustling businessmen and shoppers on their way home. He quickly learned how to charm his customers, how to make sure they bought their papers from him and no one else. He promoted the star reporter of his paper, smiling and singing out, “Jack Corrigan! Jack Corrigan! Only in the Exxxx-press.”
One day, as he was extolling Corrigan’s work he heard a woman laugh. He turned to see a beautiful young lady — blond, blue-eyed, and bow-lipped, dressed in a fur coat and walking arm in arm with none other than his champion. She laughed again and said, “I suppose you’ll be hurt if I don’t buy one from him, Jack.”
Jack winked at O’Connor, then said, “No, Lil, I’ll be hurt if you don’t give him a tip as well.” So she had given him a silver dollar for a paper that cost a nickel, and when she had refused the change, or to take twenty copies, he had been so astonished that for a time he just stood looking at the coin.
“What’s your name, kid?” Corrigan asked.
“O’Connor, sir.”
“Hmm. Got a first name?”
O’Connor felt his cheeks turn red, but answered, “Connor.”
“Connor O’Connor? That’s a little redundant, isn’t it?” the woman said, laughing again.
But Corrigan took his arm from hers then and hunkered down so that he was eye level with the boy. “No, it’s not. It’s a name passed down from a king. Do you know about him?”
“Conn of the Hundred Battles,” O’Connor answered.
Corrigan smiled. “So, Conn of the Hundred Battles, what’s the best corner in Las Piernas?”
“For selling the evening edition? Corner of Broadway and Magnolia.”
Corrigan peered down the street. “Ah, yes. Southwest corner, I suppose. A courthouse, office buildings, two busy restaurants, and a bus stop.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jack…” the woman said impatiently.
“In a minute, darling. This is my fellow newspaperman. We’re talking business. Besides, my father would rise from his grave to haunt me if I didn’t show respect for one of his countrymen.” He stood and tipped his hat. “Thank you for the conversation, Mr. O’Connor,” he said, and tossed a nickel to the boy.
“I already paid for the paper!” the woman said.
“No, my dear,” Corrigan replied. “I paid for the paper, but you tipped him, remember? A dollar. You’re the soul of generosity.”
“And you’re the soul of bunk,” she said, making him laugh as they walked off.
At home that night, Maureen explained that “redundant” meant exactly what he had guessed it meant, but O’Connor was too excited about the silver dollar (which he had shown only to Maureen) to feel any harm from the rich woman’s words. He was convinced it was a lucky dollar, and perhaps it was, because when he went to work the next day, the boss told him he was being given the corner at Broadway and Magnolia.
Several weeks later, he was making a heated protest to Geoffrey, the night security man, who was perhaps not ten years older than the paperboy.
“But Jack Corrigan’s my friend and it’s important!”
“O’Connor, please be reasonable,” Geoff was saying in a low voice. “I let you stay here after the other boys have all gone home, and I could get in trouble for that. Mr. Corrigan is a busy man. He’s working on his story about the trial and I’m not going to disturb him.”
“Just try. Please!”
Geoffrey sighed, then lifted his phone. “Mr. Corrigan? Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a paperboy here who… No, sir, I haven’t taken leave of my senses, but…”
O’Connor, desperate, pulled out his lucky dollar. “Send this up to him!”
Geoff said, “I don’t think he can be bribed for a silver dollar, kid.”
Corrigan must have heard the exchange, though, because in the next moment Geoff was listening again, and his expression changed to one of disbelief. “Yes, sir,” he said. He turned to O’Connor. “Let me get somebody to watch the desk. I’ll take you up there myself.”
“No,” O’Connor said, “he should come down here.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes—”
“May I please speak to him on the phone?”
Geoff handed the phone over with a “be my guest” gesture.
“Mr. Corrigan?”
“Hello, kid. Come on up, I’ll show you the newsroom.”
The temptation was mighty and he nearly gave in, but he said, “Sir, I’ve talked this over with my big sister and—”
“Your big sister? Listen, old pal, you’ve been holding out on me. How old is she?”
“Maureen? Eleven.”
“Hmm. A little young, even for me. Nevertheless, what did the glorious Maureen advise?”
He thought hard, trying to remember the exact words Maureen had told him to use. “I saw something today that seems important. It’s about the trial. But if I come up there to the newsroom, people from the News are going to know where you heard about this, and if they do, they’ll want me to be their… their…”
“Paperboy?” Corrigan supplied.
“Unidentified source,” O’Connor said, finally remembering the rest of the speech.
There was the slightest hesitation before he said, “Put Geoff back on the line, kid.”
It was not O’Connor’s first defeat, but it was bitter all the same, and as he handed the phone back to Geoff and turned away from the desk, he found himself unable to meet the security guard’s look of sympathy. He put on his cap and was pushing the big front door open when Geoff called, “Hey, kid! Don’t leave.”
When O’Connor turned back, Geoff said, “He wants to know if you’ve had supper yet.”
O’Connor shook his head.
“Then wait for him over at Big Sarah’s, down the street. He’ll hear your story there.”
O’Connor grinned and thanked Geoff as he hurried out the great brass doors.
Big Sarah’s was an all-night diner two doors down from the paper. It wasn’t a fancy place, but O’Connor had never eaten a meal that his mother or one of his sisters hadn’t cooked — unless you counted an apple or two from a street vendor — so he was nearly as much in awe of Big Sarah’s as he was of the Wrigley Building. His breath frosted the window as he peered in and saw that the place was nearly empty, just one old man drinking coffee at the counter.
It was a little cold out, but he was sure he would be thrown out of the place if he stepped inside, so he stood just outside the diner’s entrance. He took off his cap and was combing his hair with his hand, when the roundest woman he had ever seen caught his eye and motioned him inside with a wave.
She greeted him with a warm smile and said, “You must be Mr. O’Connor. I’m Big Sarah. Come on in, right this way, honey. Handsome Jack hisself called and told me you’d be coming. Do you need to wash up?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” he said.
“What fine manners! The gents is straight back there, near the phone.”
In the men’s room, he took off his thin jacket and washed his hands and arms up to the elbows, carefully avoiding one place on his left arm. Fascinated by a cloth towel that was dry when you pulled on it, even though it seemed to be just one towel looped on a continuous roller, he considered trying to pull on it until the wet side showed up again. But it made such a noise, he stopped after three tries. He used a little more water to finish combing his hair, then — remembering to be on his best manners, and certain that Big Sarah would check up on him — thought to wipe down the sink. But here the towel mechanism was found to have a shortcoming — the towel couldn’t reach the sink. He used his handkerchief instead.
When O’Connor stepped out of the washroom, Corrigan was standing next to Big Sarah, who was laughing at some joke
he had just made. The only other customer in the place had left. Corrigan noticed O’Connor and smiled.
“Let’s get some food in him, Sarah.”
“Two specials, comin’ right up,” she said. “You like fried chicken, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
They sat in a booth, and it was all O’Connor could do not to run his hands over everything, to feel the smooth leather of the seats or the shiny tabletop. He followed Corrigan’s example with the napkin, resisted the temptation to keep straightening his flatware.
Big Sarah brought Jack a cup of coffee and O’Connor a glass of milk. He didn’t take a sip of it until Jack took a sip of his coffee.
O’Connor thought that Jack would want to hear his secret information right away, but instead Jack asked, “Won’t your mother wonder where you are?”
O’Connor shook his head. “No, sir.”
Jack looked skeptical.
“She’s working tonight. She does for a lady — cooking and cleaning and sometimes minding the lady’s little girls. They’re just babies, the girls.”
“You’ve been to this house?”
“Oh no, sir.” But he blushed.
“Hmm. But you might have taken an unofficial look at the place, maybe followed her to work one day, just to see if it was a good place for her to work?”
Looking at the table, he said, “Might have.”
Corrigan smiled. “And your father? Does he work nights, too?”
Eyes still averted, O’Connor said, “No, sir.”
Corrigan took out a cigarette and lit it. He watched the boy balance his fork on its edge, then put it down flat, then pull his hands away from the table. Jack waited.
“He was a roughneck,” O’Connor said, meeting his eyes at last.
“Your father worked in the oilfields?”
O’Connor began to repeat the story as he had heard Maureen tell it so many times. “My da came from Ireland to Las Piernas to be a roughneck. Before I was born. Before Maureen was born. When Dermot was two.”
“And how old is Dermot now?”
“Seventeen.”
“So your father must have been here at the beginning of the boom.”
O’Connor nodded. “Pat — his cousin — got him signed on with one of the big oil companies on Signal Hill. Pat works up in Bakersfield now.”
“And you help out by working for the paper.”
He shrugged. “A little.”
Big Sarah brought the chicken dinners. It was more hot food than he’d had on his plate in a long time, but O’Connor, just having thought of his family, suddenly felt as if eating it would be a selfish act.
Sensing the problem, Corrigan said, “Sarah’s feelings will be terribly hurt if you don’t finish every bite.”
O’Connor nodded, and after a few bites, tucked into the meal in earnest. The boy finished his supper before Corrigan was halfway through his own, so Corrigan handed him a menu and told him to choose a dessert.
“Apple pie,” O’Connor said, but continued to read the menu.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
O’Connor nodded. “It’s American. So am I.”
“Not Irish?”
“Oh, sure, but I’m Irish American. Maureen and me—” He could hear her correct him. “I mean, Maureen and I — were born here. The others are Irish. My parents, too.”
“You have other brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, sir. There are seven of us, but only the three at home. The other four are all old and married. I think they’re even as old as you.”
Corrigan laughed.
O’Connor went back to perusing the menu. He couldn’t help but notice that the chicken dinner special cost forty cents, and hoped that Mr. Corrigan had plenty of money on him. Then he remembered that he had the silver dollar with him and relaxed. It was lucky, but if Jack Corrigan needed it to pay for the meal, O’Connor would spend it.
“Changing your mind?”
“No, sir,” he said, setting the menu back in its holder. “I just like to read.”
“An admirable trait, Mr. O’Connor.”
It was only after the pie had been eaten that Jack said, “Now, I haven’t forgotten that you called this meeting on account of some very important business.” He looked around the empty diner with the air of a conspirator. “Is it safe to discuss it here?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so. It’s about the Mitch Yeager trial. The one you’ve been covering down at the courthouse.”
“Hmm,” said Jack, lighting another cigarette. “Mitch Yeager just might beat that rap. His older brother, Adam, is serving hard time, but Mitch did his bootlegging with some big names in town — not old enough to drink the stuff, and he was running rum. Now that bootlegging is out of style, young Mitch has found other pursuits — just as illegal, though. Even if he does tell everyone that he’s simply a businessman being harassed by the Express.”
“I know. I’ve been reading your stories.”
“You have? At ten years old?”
“No, sir. I’m eight.”
“Eight.” He digested this fact for a moment, then said, “I thought we didn’t hire paperboys younger than ten.”
O’Connor shifted in his seat, then said, “I’m tall for my age, so I fibbed to get the job. I’ll be nine soon. Are you going to peach on me?”
Jack rubbed his chin. “No. Go on.”
“Well, I wanted to see Yeager for myself, so I asked Duffy if I could just take a peek from the balcony.”
“Duffy?”
“He’s one of the guards at the courthouse. He buys his papers from me.”
“I should have known. We’ll skip the matter of truancy for the moment. This Duffy agreed to let you ‘peek’ at a real, live mobster on trial?”
“Yes, sir. Only I couldn’t see Yeager so good — so well. I saw you — at least, I saw the back of your head.”
“How could you possibly know it was the back of my head?”
O’Connor blushed again. “I saw the lady with the fur coat sitting next to you.”
“Ah, yes, your benefactress.” When O’Connor looked puzzled, Corrigan said, “The lady who gave you the big tip.”
“Yes, sir. What was that other word, please?”
“Benefactress.” Corrigan waited while the boy repeated it to himself several times, then prompted, “You were saying?”
“Oh. Well, mostly I could see the jury. I could see all of them. This one lady kept glancing up at the balcony, and it seemed to me that something was making her nervous.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She would twist her handkerchief. Not all the time, just after she glanced at the balcony.”
Corrigan looked away, blew out a mouthful of smoke. O’Connor watched him stub out his cigarette and grind the butt into the glass ashtray. He smiled ruefully at O’Connor. “I suppose I’m going to have to ask Lillian to stay home. Apparently she’s too much of a distraction.”
“Lillian is my benefactress?”
He pronounced it perfectly, Corrigan noticed. “Yes. Miss Lillian Vanderveer. Of the Vanderveers, you understand.”
“Oh.”
“So go on, Mr. O’Connor.”
“I figured out that the nervous lady was looking at the men sitting next to me. A big fellow and a little fellow.”
Big Sarah came by and refilled Jack’s coffee. O’Connor covered a big yawn beneath a small hand. Jack took out his pocket watch. “Holy — it’s ten o’clock, kid.” He tucked the watch away. “Let me give you a ride home.”
“Wait! I haven’t told you the most important part.”
Jack stopped in the act of pulling out his wallet.
“I kept looking at the little fellow and at the lady juror, and I realized that they might just be what my da calls me and Maureen — two glasses poured from the same bottle. They look alike.”
Jack frowned. “As much alike as you and Maureen?”
“More. I think he’s the lad
y’s brother — she’s pale and skinny and has frizzy red hair and freckles and a kind of pointy nose. So does he.”
Jack put his wallet back and took out his notebook. “Describe these people to me — the big man, the juror, the little fellow.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was shaking his head in wonder. He knew exactly which juror the kid was talking about and was fairly sure he knew which of Yeager’s men had been sitting up in the balcony. The kid was a natural.
“I had to leave before court was over,” O’Connor was saying. “I had to go get my papers. But I did see one other thing.”
“Much more of this, kid, and I’ll have to trade jobs with you.”
O’Connor pushed up the left sleeve of his jacket — a jacket that had once been Dermot’s. Jack stared at his forearm. “His license number,” O’Connor said proudly. “I saw the big man leave the courthouse with the brother. They got into a black two-door Plymouth sedan.”
Jack was still staring.
“I didn’t have any paper — I mean, I only had my copies of the Express, and I had to sell those. So I wrote it on my arm.”
Corrigan reached over slowly and gently took the boy’s hand in his. “The bruises. Who gave you these bruises?”
O’Connor tried to yank his hand back, but Corrigan held on.
“It’s nothing.”
Corrigan waited.
“A kid at school,” the boy murmured.
“Bigger than you?”
O’Connor nodded.
“You fight back?” Corrigan asked, releasing him.
O’Connor squirmed a bit, then lifted one shoulder. “I tried. But I’m no good at it.”
“What’s wrong with your old man that he hasn’t taught you to defend yourself?”
“It’s not his fault,” O’Connor said quickly, and looked down at the table, avoiding Corrigan’s gaze.
