"Sir, I must speak with you. Now, sir."
Astonished, Morrissey stared at him. In the year and a half since he had first seen Tom Shanaghy, the boy had never ventured to speak unless spoken to. He had kept out of the way, had done what he was told and kept his mouth shut. "What is it, then?"
"Alone, sir. I must speak to you alone."
Morrissey pushed back his chair. "If you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?" Taking his beer in one hand and cigar in the other, he led the way to a secluded table. He sat down and gestured for Tom to sit opposite. "Now what is it, bye? I am a busy man, as you can see."
"Sir, I've just seen the Maid o' Killarney!"
"The who? Who or what is this Maid o' Killarney?"
"A horse, sir. A racehorse. She's drawing a butcher's wagon in the Five Points."
Morrissey put the cigar in his teeth. "A racehorse drawing a butcher's wagon?
She must be no good. Must have busted down."
"I don't think so, sir. She looked fit ... only not cared for, sir. I know the mare, sir. She was uncommonly fast, and even if she's not in the best of shape she could still be bred, sir."
"All right, lad. Take your time and tell me about her ... " How long ago was that? Tom Shanaghy, hands clasped behind his head, looked up at the rustling leaves. Ten years? A long time back, a very long time. Slowly and carefully he had explained to John Morrissey about the Maid. How he had been present when she was born, how he had ridden her as an exercise boy around the stables, and ridden her in her first race. "The Maid won," he explained. "Then she won again. She won twice more with somebody else up, then the man who owned her got in debt over gambling. He lost her and she was sold to an American."
Morrissey dusted the ash from his cigar. "You're sure of the horse?" "I am. It was my father fitted the first shoes to her. I played with her as a boy. I'd not make a mistake. And she remembered me." "How old would she be?"
"Five ... a bit over."
Two days later Morrissey called him in. "Tom, me bye, how would you like to drive a butcher's wagon?"
"Whatever you say."
"You've got a job, then. You'll drive the wagon and you'll check the horse. As I understand it the deliveries are over by noon. You'll take the horse to Fenway's after you've finished. Tomorrow is Saturday. Sunday morning take her out on the track and give her a light workout. Easy does it. See how she moves, if anything is wrong wi' her.
"Lochlin will be there, and he's a fine horseman. He will be watching. No trying for speed now, for she's been living poorly and will have to be taken careful. Above all, don't y' touch her with a currycomb or anything of the kind.
"And not a word of this to anyone, y' understand? Not a word!" Sunday morning the air had been cool with a touch of fog in the air. He led the Maid out to the track and Lochlin gave him a leg up. "Once around. Just see how she moves, lad. Maybe we have something and maybe we don't."
When they turned into the track, the Maid remembered. Her head came up and she tugged at the bit. "Not now, baby. Take it easy ... easy now!" She moved into a canter and went once around the track. Lochlin was waiting for them when he pulled up near the gate.
"Moves well. Seems a little stiff, that's all." Tom took her around again, a little faster. She was eager and wanted to run and he had to restrain her.
"How was she when you rode her?" Lochlin asked when they returned. "She's a finisher, Mr. Lochlin. She likes to come from behind, and if she's anything like she used to be she can really run." For a week he drove another horse, much alike in outward appearance, with the butcher's wagon. In the afternoons he worked out the Maid. She had a natural affinity for the track, loved running, and liked to win. What Morrissey had in mind he had no idea, except that he expected to make a lot of money. "Tom," Morrissey said one day, "don't come around to Barclay Street." He lit a fresh cigar. "There's a man who comes there to gamble. Quite the sharper he thinks himself, and he has a horse. He's been doing a bit of bragging about that horse, and I've a friend wishes to take him down a bit." It had been a week later that Tom was driving the Maid with the butcher's wagon. He had a delivery that morning that took him to Barclay Street and he had stopped to get packages of meat from the wagon when he saw Morrissey. Several men were with him and he heard one of the men say, "What? Why, that Wade Hampton horse of mine could beat either of them! Either of them, I say!" Shanaghy heard the arrogance in the tone but did not look around, although he wished to.
"Bob," another voice said, "you've been doing a lot of talking about that Wade Hampton horse. We hear a lot but we don't see any action. I think you're just talking through your hat!"
"Like hell, I am! He's won his last six races, and he'll win the next six. If you want to put your money where your mouth is, Sweeney, just find yourself a horse!"
"Bah!" Sweeney was contemptuous. "I don't own a horse, and you know it, but I think you're full of hot air! Why, I'd bet that milk-wagon horse could beat yours!"
"What?"
The Maid, in blinders and a fly net, stood waiting while Tom poured milk into a can, her head dropping as she snuffled at the dust along the curb. "Don't be a fool, Sweeney!" another of the men protested. "That mare is all stove up. Anyway, an animal like that can't run. All she can do is pull a wagon."
Lochlin emerged from the gambling house. "What's that? What's going on?" "Sweeney just offered to bet that milk-wagon horse could beat Bob Childers's Wade Hampton. He wasn't serious, of course, but-" "The hell I wasn't!" Sweeney said angrily. "You're damn right I'm serious! Bob carries on about that nag of his like it was the only horse in the world! Well, I think Bob's full of hot air!"
Lochlin shrugged. "You can't be seriously suggesting that that old nag could outrun a racehorse? You've got to be crazy, but if you're serious I'll lay twenty to one that Wade Hampton can beat him."
"Twenty to one? I'll take it!"
Sweeney hesitated. "Well now ... See here. I don't know if-"
"Going to welsh on it, Sweeney?" Bob Childers asked. "You said I was full of hot air, what about you?"
"I'll be damned if I am! I said I'd bet and I will. Twenty to one ... And I've got a thousand dollars says the milk-horse wins!" "A thousand dollars?" Morrissey spoke for the first time. "That's serious money, Sweeney."
"I've got it and I'll bet it," Sweeney said stubbornly. "Bob, you an' Lochlin can put up or shut up."
"Think what you're doing, Sweeney. Bob has a racehorse. That old milk-wagon horse is stiff and old. Hell, if she ever could run, she can't any more. I'd say forget it."
"He made his bet," Lochlin said, "and I've accepted. I will put up my money on one condition. That we run the race tomorrow."
Lochlin turned to Childers. "Bob," he spoke softly, "this will be the easiest money we ever made. I knew Sweeney was a damn fool, but I didn't realize how much of a damn fool he was! This will be a cinch. I'll pick up a cool thousand for an investment of twenty thousand, and all in a matter of minutes." He paused. "How much are you betting, Bob? You can take him for plenty because he's too bullheaded to back out, and you know Sweeney ... he's got it to bet." "I don't know," Childers frowned. "I've got to think about it." "He's good for plenty, Sweeney is, and he's that much of a damn fool. You'll never have a chance like this again. I would guess he's good for twenty or thirty thousand, and I can come up with another twenty. If you can come up with sixty thousand we can win it all. It's a cinch." "It's a lot of money," Childers muttered.
"Of course, but it will take you a year to clear that much ... Hell, it would take three good years to clear that much in your saloon. If the man's a fool, let's get his money before somebody else does." "Where does Morrissey stand? Is he in with us?" Lochlin shrugged. "He's not involved, so far. You can bet if he sees what we've got, he'll be in for a piece, but John was never much of a gambler. He operates the places but he doesn't gamble."
That was ten years ago or better! Shanaghy remembered the day of the race. He had been up on the Maid and they purposely tossed dust over her, and brought her
on the track looking like the milk-wagon horse she'd been. But Shanaghy was nervous, for it was impossible to disguise the clean lines of her. Wade Hampton had started fast and well and was leading by three lengths when the horses rounded the back turn. Then Tom let the Maid go. Filled with joy at the chance, the horse began to run. When they came under the wire she was running easily and won by half a length.
Morrissey had cautioned him. "Lad, if you look to be winning, don't make it by too much, understand? We can use this horse again." The Maid won, and Sweeney, Lochlin and Morrissey split sixty thousand dollars among them.
Shanaghy told McCarthy about the race, and the old blacksmith straightened up from his work. "Aye, I heard of it, lad. And you were a part of that? You should be ashamed. It was a swindle. All of them should be ashamed; Ah, if their old mithers but knew of it!"
"But Mr. Lochlin lost money, too!" Shanaghy protested. McCarthy spat. "If you believe that, you're more innocent than I believed. Did you see any of Lochlin's money? Did anybody?"
"Gallagher was holding the bets. He said-"
"Aye, Gallagher! One of the same lot! Believe me, lad, Lochlin was the come-on, he was the pusher. Lochlin talked a good bet but he was in it up to his ears. And as for Morrissey, he was the brains of the lot-and seemed to be out of it all so he'd not be suspected. Old Smoke is a shrewd man, lad, and don't you forget it. Running for the state Senate, he is, and he'll be elected, too. You fight shy of that lot, lad, or you'll end in jail!" Morrissey had given him five hundred dollars for tipping them off to a good thing and riding the horse. It was more money, Shanaghy reflected, than his poor pa had seen in his lifetime. With it, Shanaghy bought some new clothes and a better place to live. He put three hundred of it into a bank McCarthy suggested. He had ridden the Maid in three more races before he grew too heavy for riding. By the time he was sixteen he was five feet nine inches, as tall as he was ever to be, and he weighed an easy hundred and sixty but looked lighter. Sometimes he sparred with Old Smoke himself, but the iron-fisted Irishman was rough, with both height and reach on Shanaghy, who learned to ride and slip punches, to bob and weave and move in and away.
Although a middleweight in size, he had the shoulders and punching power of a heavyweight, and several times they rang him in on unsuspecting country fighters larger than he.
Of Bob Childers or his family he saw nothing more until several months later when, emerging from the Five Points, he came upon a man who looked like Bob Childers's son standing on a corner with two other men. "There's one of them now," one of the men said, pointing at Tom. "He rode the horse."
The burly young man who resembled Childers called out to him. "You! Come here!" Shanaghy paused. He knew he should keep going, but something in the young man's tone irritated him. "You want to see me," he said, "come to where I am." "I'll come, an' be damned to y'!"
Shanaghy was convinced this was Bob Childers's son. He was a powerful young man, yet too heavy. Shanaghy stood waiting, watching the other two men as well. When the young man was almost to him he saw the others start, and he knew it would be not the one but all three he must fight. The first one stepped up on the curb. "You're one o' that pack o' thieves," he said, "and I'm going to teach you!" "Your pa bought himself a horse race and he lost," Shanaghy said to the young man. "That's all. He asked for it with his loud mouth." "Loud mouth, is it?" The young man lifted a ponderous fist threateningly. "I'll teach ... "
If you are going to fight, Shanaghy had learned long since, don't waste time talking. As young Childers stepped up on the curb, Shanaghy went quickly to meet him. He smashed a left to Childers's mouth; then swung a right into his belly. The punch caught Childers moving in and was totally unexpected. A strong young man, Childers knew little of fighting and always had much to say before he swung a fist. This time he never said it. His wind left him with an oof and he staggered and fell back into a sitting position. Shanaghy wheeled and dove into the space between two buildings, ran their length and, turning sharply, mounted the stairs to the upper story.
This was an area he knew well. Emerging on the rooftop, he ran along the roofs, jumping the walls that divided one from the other. Soon he was blocks away. Coming down from the final rooftop, he went to his room. A few days later he saw John Morrissey. "Aye," John said, "we bought ourselves a packet, lad. Bob's a beefhead himself, but some of the money was from his brother, Eben, and that's another thing. Eben Childers is uncommon shrewd, and a mean, mean man. The one you hit was not Bob's son but Eben's, so you've made an enemy. Be on your guard, lad, for they'll stop at nothing until you're killed or maimed. He believed that big son of his was unbeatable and you felled him with a blow."
Shanaghy shrugged it off. So he had made an enemy ... Well, he had made enemies before this one. Yet it was little he knew of Eben Childers then, and he cared even less, for he had been fighting for half his life and knew nothing else. "He's a hater, lad, and don't forget it. He lost money, but worse than that he was made to appear a fool, and he's a proud, proud man." The word got around that Childers was recruiting men for an all-out war with Morrissey, and Childers had influence where it mattered. Unexpectedly, Morrissey found doors closed to him that had always been open, but Shanaghy knew little beyond the casual barroom gossip that he picked up. Then, one night, as he was coming up the Bowery, he was set upon by a gang of thugs who emerged suddenly from a doorway. "Break his legs!" somebody shouted. "Break his legs and his fingers!"
Again they reckoned without his knowledge of the area, for Tom lunged suddenly, meeting them as they came, and his iron-hard fist clipped the nearest man. The man fell. Leaping past him Shanaghy darted up a stair with the men hot after him. As he topped the flight, he turned. Then grasping a rail in either hand, he swung both feet up and kicked out hard. The boot heels caught the nearest man in the face and he toppled, knocking those behind him backward down the stairs. Again Shanaghy escaped over the roofs.
When he came warily down from the roofs, a few doors from his room, he held himself still in the doorway while he looked carefully around. He was hot and tired. He wanted nothing so much as to climb the stairs to his own room and fall on the bed, yet he was wary.
He had started to leave the doorway where he was hidden when he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows up the street. Was it a harmless drunk sleeping it off in a doorway? Or some of Childers's men waiting for him? No use taking the chance. He went back to the roofs. Almost a block further along, he descended to McCarthy's blacksmith shop. The place was locked and silent, so he crawled into a wagon, pulled a spare canvas wagon sheet over him and went to sleep.
Shanaghy awakened to the clang of McCarthy's hammer. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The sides of the wagon were high, and he could not see the wagonyard or the doorway to the shop. He stood up, grasped the side of the wagon and swung himself over. As his feet hit the ground he heard a rush of feet behind him. Instantly he ducked under the wagon and came up on the other side. A man started under the wagon after him, and Shanaghy kicked him in the head, then turned to face the two who had come around the end of the wagon. One of them yelled, "There he is! Get him!"
Suddenly McCarthy was in the door of his shop, holding a hammer. "One at a time!" he shouted. "Or I'll bust some skulls!"
The man who came at him was a beefy shoulder-striker from Childers's crew. It was a big, broad man with blond hair and a florid face who rushed at Shanaghy. The moment he put up his two hamlike fists, Shanaghy knew he might be good in a rough-and-tumble, but he was no boxer. The man came in, looping a wide right for Shanaghy's chin, and Shanaghy crouched and came in whipping two underhanded punches into the bigger man's belly.
The two punches were perfectly timed. A right to the belly, a left to the same place and then an overhand cross to the chin, and the man went down. He tried to get up but slumped back down into the dirt.
Turning sharply, Shanaghy hit the other man before he expected it, knocking every bit of wind out of him. As the man doubled up, Shanaghy gave him a knee in the face.<
br />
The first one was crawling out from under the wagon, a streak of blood on his face. He held up a hand. "No! No! I quit!"
"Be off with you, then," Shanaghy said, "but don't come looking for me again." When they had gone, Shanaghy went into the blacksmith shop and pumped a bucketful of water from the well. He stripped to the waist and bathed his chest and shoulders, then dampened his hair and combed it out. "Well," McCarthy said dryly, "it seems you can fight a little, and it seems you must. They be upon you, lad."
"Aye. I slipped them last night when they lay waiting at my house." Tom dried his hands. "I think I must take it to them a bit." "Be careful, lad. There's a mean man there, that Eben Childers. He's a hard one, and cold. And his boys ... You met the least of them in Bob. There's others ... worse."
McCarthy watched Tom put on his shirt. "Lad, why don't you go west? There's a deal of land out there, and a chance for a young man." "Land? I'm no farmer, Mac."
"Aye, that you aren't. But what are you, then? A shoulder-striker for Morrissey? A street thug? A bum? Look at yourself, lad, and look well. Just exactly what are you? A fine broth of a lad who is nothing ... Nothing, do y' hear me? And if you stay here hanging about with thugs, cardsharps and the like, you'll be nothing more until they pick you from the gutter some day." Shanaghy glared at him. "Have a care, old man." "Old man, is it? Well, I've grown old ... Will you ever? You'll end with a broken skull some night and they'll have you off to bury in potter's field. "What are you that any bum along the street is not? There's ten thousand like you in Five Points and they'll all die and come to nothing. You're young, and the land is wide. Why stay here where there's few chances? Why not go west? You could study law, study anything, make a man of yourself." "I'm not a man?" Tom doubled his arm. "Look at that. Eighteen inches of biceps.
Who can say I'm not a man?"
"Aye, you're strong, but what else are you? Have you got the brains God gave you? Or a head fit only for butting, like a billy goat? "If a man is to be something, if he is to be a man, he's got to be more than muscle. He's got to do something wi' himself. Get an honest trade, a bit of land, a house of your own, if it is only of sod. Here your friends pat you on the back and let you buy them drinks or whatever, but when you get old and fat and sloppy they'll drop you for others. Men like you are born to be used and tossed aside ... if you let it happen."
the Iron Marshall (1979) Page 2
