by Jan Burke
O’Connor’s view of the tabletop began to blur. He scrunched his eyes shut, only to feel hot tears rolling down his face. A baby, he thought. Always acting like a baby. And he was crying in front of Jack Corrigan, of all people.
“Conn,” Jack said quietly. “Conn of a Hundred-and-one Battles.”
“My father got hurt,” the boy said softly, speaking down at the table. “He’d been hurt before, even lost a finger, but this last time — it’s his back. He can’t stand up straight. Can’t even be on his feet for more than a minute or two before the pain… well, anyway, he can’t work.” He pulled out his handkerchief, realized it was still damp from the sink and put it away again.
After a moment, O’Connor heard Corrigan writing in his notebook and looked up. Without glancing up, Corrigan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a clean white handkerchief and offered it across the table.
O’Connor took it and loudly blew his nose into it. He heard Big Sarah walk out of the kitchen, but saw Corrigan wave her back.
“Fine,” she called over her shoulder, “but the shifts are going to be changin’ and fellers are gonna be showin’ up here any minute. I ain’t turnin’ away business, even for you, Handsome Jack.”
Jack smiled. “Wash your face, kid, and we’ll get out of here before those spies from the News can figure out what’s up.”
Jack made a phone call while O’Connor washed up. When O’Connor came back out, Jack was saying, “No surprise, is it? Yes, I’ll be by later tonight. Hell no, I won’t disclose my source, and shame on you for asking.”
He hung up and smiled at Conn. “A detective friend of mine. Turns out that Plymouth is registered to one Mitch Yeager. Good work, kid.”
O’Connor thanked both Corrigan and Big Sarah before they left. She told him to come in and see her again soon. Jack seemed preoccupied; hands in his coat pockets, he didn’t speak as they walked back to the paper.
Jack insisted on driving him home, although O’Connor protested more than once that he didn’t live so very far away and could walk. O’Connor didn’t often ride in cars, and under other circumstances, the offer of even the shortest trip in Jack’s Model A would have been snapped up in a minute. Instead, O’Connor was busy seeking the intervention of all the saints and angels, praying that his father had downed enough cheap whiskey to fall asleep, and that Jack Corrigan would let him off at the curb and drive off before seeing the hovel where they lived.
The small apartment building wasn’t far from downtown. O’Connor hated the place. He was glad Corrigan was seeing it at night — when he might not notice that its dull pink paint was peeling, that the lawn was brown, that the walkway was choked with weeds. As Jack, in defiance of heaven, not only pulled over to the curb but turned off the motor, O’Connor thought that even in darkness, everything about the place said no one would live there unless he couldn’t do any better for himself.
Corrigan was watching him, though, and not the building. “Would it help if I went in with you, explained—”
“No,” O’Connor said quickly, for though the place was kept neat and tidy, his father did not allow strangers past the door, would not let anyone who was not a priest or a family member see what he had become. “No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”
Corrigan put a hand on his shoulder. “All right, then, kid. Maybe you know best. If I can make something of what you’ve told me about the juror, I’m in your debt.”
“I could be your secret agent,” O’Connor said quickly, voicing the hidden, impossible hope that he had held all afternoon and evening.
To his credit, Corrigan managed not to laugh or smile. “It’s an idea worth considering,” he said. “But listen to me, Conn. Mitch Yeager’s not someone to play games with. This is serious business, and if you’re going to be my secret agent, you can’t take risks like following gangsters’ cars and writing down their license numbers while you’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk.”
“I didn’t,” the boy said. “I memorized it, then went into the restroom to write it down.”
Jack stared at him, then started laughing. “Oh, forgive me, kid.” He grew quiet, then said, “Conn, if there’s one mistake repeated by generation after generation of men, it’s that they underestimate their boys.” He looked toward the dimly lit porch of the apartment building. “You be careful all the same, kid. Be careful all the same.”
Jack Corrigan’s stories on jury tampering in the Mitch Yeager trial sold a lot of copies of the Express over the next few weeks. This made Winston Wrigley happy, which meant that both Corrigan’s and O’Connor’s bosses were happy. This happiness extended to almost everyone who worked in the Wrigley Building, except, of course, the staff of the News — most especially its star reporter, the woman who came to the corner of Broadway and Magnolia one afternoon and stood watching O’Connor for fifteen nearly unbearable minutes.
The newsboy felt more nervous than the day he had seen Corrigan jostled on the street by one of Yeager’s men, not long after Jack had stopped by to talk to him. A policeman had seen that and prevented a fight. He didn’t think a copper would defend him against Helen Swan.
This wasn’t the first day she had watched him, but this time, to his horror, she was walking straight toward him. With great effort, he prevented himself from making the Sign of the Cross as she approached.
He had asked Jack about her, and Jack had laughed and said, “Swanie? Brother, when they made the first pair of trousers, they had Swanie try ’em on to make sure they’d be tough enough for any man.” Then Jack winked at him and said, “She’s the daughter of a suffragist, you know.”
It was a word O’Connor didn’t know the precise meaning of, but thought it probably meant her mother made people suffer. Helen Swan didn’t exactly look mean, O’Connor thought as she moved closer. All the same, he had stopped calling out the headlines of the Express and found himself just standing there, waiting for her. He decided there was something about Helen Swan that made you give her your attention when she wanted it. She was a brunette with big brown eyes that he couldn’t look away from. She was not exactly beautiful, not in the way Lillian Vanderveer was, but she had an unmistakable style all her own. O’Connor thought she carried herself as if everyone who hadn’t bowed or curtsied to her yet soon would.
“O’Connor, isn’t it?” she said in a low, melodic voice.
He swallowed and nodded.
She smiled. “Jack Corrigan seems to know a lot about what goes on near this corner lately.”
“He’s a fine reporter,” O’Connor said loyally.
Helen Swan gave a soft, husky laugh. “Yes, he is. Utterly shameless, but a fine reporter.” She began to walk off, then turned and said, “Be sure to tell Jack I said hello.”
It was late that evening before O’Connor saw Corrigan again, and under the circumstances, he considered not conveying Miss Swan’s regards. Jack was sitting in a booth at the back of Big Sarah’s; two women sat across from him. One was known to O’Connor — Lillian Vanderveer.
The other was a woman O’Connor had never met before. She was also a blonde, but her eyes were beer-bottle brown. Her cheeks were flushed and she was laughing hard at some remark Jack had made.
Big Sarah caught O’Connor’s eye and shook her head. O’Connor was about to leave, but Jack called out to him.
“Mr. O’Connor! Don’t rush off.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Lillian said. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m going steady with a little kid.”
“You are,” Big Sarah answered, causing Jack and the other woman to laugh again.
Corrigan had been drinking, O’Connor realized. He accepted this without great upset; over the last few years, since the accident on the oil rig, his own father was often in this state. He gauged Jack’s mood to be jovial, not surly or mean. Nevertheless, he had long ago learned to be wary of men in this condition, knowing their moods could change without warning. So it was that when he approached the booth, he stopped an arm�
��s distance from Jack’s side of the table.
Corrigan didn’t fail to notice this distance. The reporter said nothing, but rubbed his chin thoughtfully. O’Connor glanced at the women, who had fallen silent.
“Mr. O’Connor,” Corrigan said, without a trace of the drunkenness Conn had seen just a moment before, “allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Ducane, a good friend of Miss Vanderveer’s.”
“How do you do?” O’Connor said.
“Hiya, kid,” the woman said, smiling. “Call me Thelma. You must be the little hooligan who’s driving Lil crazy.”
“Thelma!” Lil said sharply, but Thelma only laughed.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. You know that — right, kid?”
Before he could answer, Jack said, “Mrs. Ducane and Miss Vanderveer were just leaving.”
Thelma’s laugh brayed again, but Lillian gave Jack a cool look. “First the trial,” she said, “and now this. Maybe I’ll do as Daddy suggests and go out with Harold Linworth again. “
Jack smiled. “Capital idea. And capital is what it would be, right? Aiding the cash flow at Ducane-Vanderveer?”
“That is a despicable suggestion—”
“Speaking of despicable, I suppose Daddy wouldn’t want you to start seeing your first love again. Oh, wait, that’s right—”
“Don’t say another word, damn you!”
“C’mon, Lil,” Thelma said, rising to her feet with a wobble. “This is getting boring. Let’s go play with the big boys.”
Lillian hesitated, giving Jack an opportunity he did not take. She stood and walked out without a backward glance. As the diner door closed behind them, O’Connor heard Big Sarah mutter, “Good riddance.”
“How about a cup of coffee, Sarah?” Jack said. He motioned to O’Connor. “Have a seat.”
O’Connor slid into the other side of the booth, which was still fragrant with a mixture of the women’s perfume, smoke, alcohol, and the congealing remains of a banana split. Jack saw him studying the dessert dish and said, “Booze gives Thelma a sweet tooth.”
“I don’t like her,” O’Connor blurted.
“Thelma?”
He nodded.
“I don’t like her much, either,” Jack said. “But her father is in business with Lillian’s father, so the two girls have been close friends for several years now. I think Thelma managed to introduce Lil to some bad company.” He paused and said, “But that’s no story for a kid’s ears.” He shook his head in disgust with himself. “Ungentlemanly of me to even bring it up.”
Big Sarah came over with a cup of hot, black coffee and set it in front of Jack. O’Connor stayed silent while she took the dirty dishes from the table. She gave him a wink and said, “Want anything?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
She left them to wait on two men who were sitting at the counter.
O’Connor figured he might as well tell Jack the bad news now and get it over with. “Something happened at the corner today.”
Jack paused in the act of lifting the cup of coffee.
“Miss Swan came up to me. I’m pretty sure she knows I talk to you.”
The cup rattled against the saucer as Jack set it down and started laughing. “Swanie? Swanie figured it out already?” He laughed again. “Helen Swan is smarter than any man in that building — including Old Man Wrigley. My hat’s off to her, by God!”
O’Connor was puzzled. “You aren’t upset?”
“No, why should I be? This is great. She’s got to be jealous as all get out.” He paused. “She scare you?”
O’Connor shrugged. “A little. At first.”
“And now?”
“There’s something about her — I don’t know.”
“And you want to be a reporter?” Jack scoffed. “You’ll have to do better than that. What’s this ‘something’?”
The boy’s brows drew together. “All right, then. She puts me in mind of a queen.”
Corrigan grinned. “Ah, yes. She does have that effect on gentlemen of all ages. And the next thing you know, they’re giving her their utter loyalty and devotion, rushing off to do her bidding.”
“Not me,” O’Connor declared. “I’m loyal to the Express, one hundred percent!”
“I never doubted it, Mr. O’Connor.”
They talked for a time about O’Connor’s day at school and the stories Jack was working on. Jack drank another cup of coffee, then suggested they go for a long walk together. “Not quite ready to call it a night, are you?” he asked.
No, O’Connor wasn’t.
The double bill at the downtown movie house was letting out just as they neared the theater, and Jack took O’Connor’s hand as they made their way across that crowded section of sidewalk. Perhaps because Jack was recognized or perhaps because there were no other children nearby, some of the men and women leaving the theater watched Jack and O’Connor. The women usually smiled at them — Jack would nod or touch his hat brim.
For those moments, O’Connor ignored the fact that Jack was not much older than his oldest brother and fantasized that he was Jack Corrigan’s son; that his father, Jack Corrigan, had taken him to see The Texas Rangers and China Clipper, that he was the son of the best reporter in the world and everyone knew it, that his father was proud of him and thought him the finest of young men, and then… and then they had walked beyond the edge of the crowd and Jack released his hand.
As his hand dropped free of Corrigan’s, O’Connor thought of his real father, Kieran O’Connor, and felt ashamed of himself. The small pleasure of the fantasy was forgotten.
Corrigan was asking him something. “I’m sorry,” O’Connor said, “I was thinking so loud, I didn’t hear you.”
“I was asking if anyone had ever taught you how to box.”
“No, sir. Dermot tried once, but it didn’t take. If I did the right thing with my hands, I did the wrong thing with my feet.”
“A common problem,” Corrigan said, “even among the pros.”
They had reached the shore by then and Corrigan stopped to take off his shoes. “C’mon,” he said, “take yours off, too. Easier to learn on the sand.”
O’Connor followed suit, then shivered as his bare feet hit the cold beach.
“You’ll be warmed up in a minute,” Jack said.
The moon shone bright over the water and sand. Jack began to show O’Connor how to hold his fists, how to throw his weight into a punch, how to protect himself from a counterpunch. The sand both braced and slowed his feet, and twice when he overstepped, it cushioned his falls. Some of Dermot’s lessons came back to him, but now made more sense.
Jack rolled up his pants legs and dropped to his knees, held both hands up. “Okay,” he said, “come at me. Hard as you like.”
After a few hesitant punches, Jack said, “Harder.”
O’Connor punched a little harder.
“Harder,” Jack said again. “Pretend I’ve been mean to Maureen.”
O’Connor began walloping Jack’s open palms.
After a few minutes of punishment, Jack yelled, “Okay, okay! Truce! Uncle! Hell, I’m not going to be able to hold a pen tomorrow.” At O’Connor’s look of horror, he said, “Just a joke, kid. Just a joke. I’m fine. How are you?”
O’Connor was breathing hard, and as Jack had predicted, he felt warm from his exertions. But the breeze off the water was cooling him, the sand was soft beneath his feet, and he knew he had boxed better this time than he ever had with Dermot. He smiled. “I’m fine.”
Jack stood and brushed off his legs and feet. “We’ll have another lesson tomorrow.”
“Do you mean it?” O’Connor asked.
“Sure. But don’t try this out on anybody until you’ve had a chance to really learn what you’re doing.”
“Oh, I don’t aim to start fights.”
“Kid,” Jack said as they began to put on their socks and shoes, “if I thought you were aiming to start fights, I wouldn’t have taught you anything about boxing.”<
br />
“Who taught you?”
“My father.”
O’Connor was silent, suddenly seeming to need all his concentration for his shoelaces.
“Your dad ever teach you anything?” Corrigan asked.
O’Connor looked up. “Oh, sure. Lots of things. When I was little, he taught me how to tie my shoes. And when I get big enough to shave, I’ll know how, ’cause he used to let me watch him do that. And he used to sing, so I learned a lot of songs from him.”
Corrigan was quiet as they began to walk back to the Wrigley Building, heading up American Avenue. Nearby to the north, eerily silhouetted in the moonlight, were hills so crowded with oil derricks they seemed cloaked in a strange black forest of identical leafless trees. “That’s where my dad worked,” O’Connor said, pointing. “He built some of those wells.”
“Roughnecking — that’s some of the hardest work anywhere,” Jack said.
O’Connor nodded. “My dad likes hard work. Maureen remembers him better than I do — from before the accident, I mean. He never drank in those days. Not a drop. And even now, I know… I know it’s not what he really likes. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so, yes.”
“I keep praying that the Lord will cure him. I don’t understand why he doesn’t. I mean, Jesus suffered on the cross, but he didn’t stay up there for years at a time, now, did he?”
“I’m not the man to teach you about religion, Conn. I’ll be a poor enough boxing coach.”
Jack saw that the boy was making some earnest reply, but just at that moment, a Red Car came by, rumbling its way down the rails to the next stop.
“What did you say?”
“I said, never mind boxing — I mean, I won’t mind learning it. But what I really want you to teach me, Mr. Jack Corrigan, is how to be a newspaper-man.”
8
THE NURSE CAME BACK TO CHECK ON CORRIGAN, BREAKING THE SPELL reminiscence had cast on O’Connor. She attempted another round of banter with O’Connor, but after his third one-word reply gave it up and left him to brood over Corrigan alone.
