‘Yeah, well, we made more since then, seems Meehan’s collector haven’t stopped by the neighbourhood recently so I had some of our boys help them out with their collections.’
‘Shit, Meehan’s going to go nuts…’
‘I hope so, maybe he’ll do something stupid. Anyway, where’s Shorty?’
‘He’s downstairs in the shop wearing his apron and chatting to all the bored housewives’ Flannery sat, watching O’Keegan pace.
‘Good, tell him to find a place that can hold about forty or so people, I’ve got something in mind and we’ll need somewhere a little private and with some space. When he’s found it, make sure all the boys turn up there Tuesday night at eleven and bring the local boys you mentioned too. They’ll be needed.’
‘Right Boss. What do you have in mind?’ Flannery leant forward in his chair, sensing O’Keegan had figured something out.
‘I think I know how we can pull Meehan down.’ O’Keegan sat, at eye level with Flannery.
‘By next Tuesday? Don’t take this the wrong way O’Keegan but you’re crazier than Meehan is…we won’t have enough people by then even if the Supervisor comes through - Meehan has got to have at least ten times more men than we have…’
‘I may be nuts but reputation is something I understand…it’s something I’ve lived with the whole of my life, you know that.’
‘Yeah, I know but how does this help us? I’m not getting it.’
‘Meehan’s boys follow him because he has the reputation…the businesses he protects pay him because he has a reputation…the cops work with him because of it. The power he has, the fear that makes them do what he wants is foundered on it. Everything he has is because of the reputation.’
‘Alright, so?’
‘If we can take it away…if we can show him up, make people realise he isn’t so great then it will all unravel. It will all turn to shit. I guarantee it….I’m sure of it. If I’d lost to someone back home, whoever beat me would have taken my reputation, I’d have lost all standing. Do you get it now?’
Now it was Flannery’s time to stand and pace, it all started to come together as he walked.
‘Shit…could it really be that easy? But how do we do it? How do you knock away a reputation he’s taken a lifetime to build? Catch him in bed with a nun or something?’
O’Keegan pushed his legs out, slouching down in his seat, almost horizontal as he smiled over at Flannery. ‘I think I know…’
‘Alright you smug bastard…are you going to tell me or not?’ Flannery tried to grin back at him, not quite managing.
‘A tournament…’
Flannery looked sceptically at O’Keegan. ‘Like Robin Hood and all that? I’m no good with a bow and arrow…’
‘Very funny…no, we’ll hold a tournament to see what we have on our books. We know our boys can shovel coal, but Meehan ain’t coal, so we need to know our boys have what it takes. I’m thinking bare knuckles.’
The light when on in Flannery’s face as he made all the connections, then he shook his head. ‘He won’t go for it…he has no reason to. Why would he risk it?’
‘I’ve thought about that, if I push him to it, in public, then he can’t say no. If he does then he loses face, if that happens then we have the same result without any pain.’ O’Keegan said.
‘You? If you try it he’ll try to have you in a box within the same hour…’
‘Yeah, he’ll try, hopefully you and the rest of the boys can stop that from happening.’
‘Shit, it’s risky…’
‘The whole fucking thing is risky, if we had a problem with risk we should have become priests and black isn’t my colour.’
‘If we’re going to do it then it needs to be big, we need to put on show. We could even make a bit more cash. We could use it. Let’s send the word out, offer a prize. Perhaps one of the hundreds Reilly generously donated to the cause?’
O’Keegan thought about it. The more public it was the better. Why not? This will draw a crowd and that’s exactly what they needed. Reputation, he’d fought his whole life for a reputation. If he put it on the table and Meehan met his bet, then one of them could take away the whole hand…he and Flannery stood a chance, even if it was a slim one. Take Meehan’s reputation and Meehan’s world would fall apart. Yes, why not, he’d gamble on his fists again.
‘Let’s go ahead, Shorty can pull it all together’.
‘Yeah, okay O’Keegan…it will turn up the heat, I just hope we’re ready by then.’
‘Knowing how fast Meehan acts, I’m not sure we have time for ‘ready’, we just have to do whatever we can to stay in the game.’
Chapter 23
The plans had been finalized, everything was almost ready and Shorty was proud of another job well done as he looked around the vacant warehouse. It had taken him a day or two to scout out the right building and to ‘borrow’ the use of the place. It was one of the more obscure empty warehouses tucked away in the recesses of the docks. Perfect for what they needed.
It hadn’t taken him too long to find out who the night watchman and that was all the information he needed to track the man down before he was due to start his rounds. Meeting him outside his tenement, Shorty had put on the charm, he had been told the night watchman was paid a sorry wage to walk backwards and forwards in front of a string of buildings for ten hours a night, seven days a week.
A few bottles of whisky and a few bucks later and the O’Keegan’s boys had their own prize fighting arena. Beside, Shorty had promised that there was going to be no funny business, just a little prize fight to pass the time and the place was so bare and empty that short of knocking the doors of their hinges, there really wasn’t much that could come to any harm.
In fairness to the night watchman, it hadn’t been a completely easy sell but the whisky was an offer that he had not been able to pass up, his eyes had locked on them, the desire strong, it wasn’t every day a man close to retirement in this kind of job got his hands on the good stuff. Shorty knew everyone has their weakness and he had found the night watchman’s.
As soon as they he had his hands on the whisky, the night watchman had found himself a nice, warm, quiet place to sit and had quickly and firmly drunk himself into oblivion. Taking the keys for a quick look snoop around, Shorty passed through the warehouse kicking up the wood chips and dust doing his best to avoid the patches of old oil from long dead machines and vehicles.
The place was ideal. He had made a mental note to find out who owned the place.
Chapter 24
The butcher’s boy rapped on the basement entrance, the solid tradesman’s entrance reached by a slight turning stairway. He glanced up to street level, watching the different pairs of legs striding by as people started their day. He waited, not daring to knock again, knowing through a few months of experience and more than a few cuffed ears that knocking too much would not be appreciated.
The lock turn, the white flat door, giving an unsticking tremor as the locks were loosed, taking one step back, the door opened. The door was replaced by James, the household’s Cook, a man that always insisted in looking over the meat himself before accepting it.
But the boy had been here often, almost daily, they were beginning to trust each other. But the Cook was always here, more out of habit than need.
‘You have everything on the list?’
‘Yes Sir, everything just as ordered, an I checked it through myself, just to make sure it was up to your standard Sir.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that boy’ He reached into the basket, not waiting for the boy to pass it over. His hands already unwrapping each wax papered joint, checking for firmness before stepping out into the sunlight to check the colour. With a nod and a grunt at one package, he wrapped it up just as tightly and went onto the next. Not raising his eyes, his mouth did all the talking.
‘So what news do you have for me today – anything interesting above ground?’
The boys voice almost cracked, an oc
tave higher as he let lose with the latest, a quick babble.
‘There’s going to be a fight, a real fight…’
The cook looked up, assessing the excitement in the boys face,
‘There’s always fights in Boston, where’s the news in that’
The boy almost danced, his mind already starting to run through his imagined punches and dodges.
‘Sorry Sir…no, I mean a bare knuckle prize fight, some new boys have put it together, its all anyone’s talking about’
‘Well, that just goes to show that most people have nothing worth saying.’ He waited, not wanting to sound eager but knowing too that the master would want all the details.
‘Okay boy, the meat looks pretty good but I’m thinking we’re not getting the best…talk to the butcher, tell him we expect the best cuts…now about that fight…’
‘Yes Sir, sorry sir, didn’t mean to bring it up, I know you have more important things’
The cook tried to sense if there was any sarcasm meant, but then realised he was just not being understood.
‘No boy, about that fight, I do have better things to think about, but I can’t speak for the head of the house. What’s happening?’
Almost dropping his basket, the boy began to bob, his head ducking and moving from the imaginary fists.
‘There’s some new boys, fresh of the boat I’ve been told, their putting on a prize fight at the wharf. I heard the butcher talking about it. He says there are at least thirty men that will be fighting…through the whole night…and and…’
The Cook reached out a hand, steadying the boy, bringing him down a notch.
‘Settle down boy’
The butcher’s boy stopped moving and looked up at the cook, swallowing.
‘Yes, yes, sorry about that…but I’ve already heard it a hundred times today already, every house I come too, everyone’s talking about it.’
‘So you said, what else?’
‘They say Meehan’s going to fight…can you imagine it? Meehan, in the ring…he’s in the papers and he’s famo… ‘
‘Hold it boy, what was that you said?’ The cook’s fingers dug into the boys arm, all motion held tight. The boy looked up at him, wanting more than anything to kick him in the shins, his arm hurting.
‘Yes, just what I said, they say Meehan’s going to fight, two weeks from yesterday…at the wharf’.
The Cook let him loose, picking up the recently forgotten meat packages, turning back into the doorway without a word. ‘On you way boy, mark you tell the Butcher what I said…’
‘Yes Sir, see you tomorrow Sir.’
The last words were drowned out as the door slammed, very shut.
Chapter 25
The footfalls were silent, each step padded by thick golden hued carpet. The door was tapped, just once, the small knuckle barely meeting the surface.
‘Com’on in’
He entered, standing at the foot of the bed, the drapes partially drawn around the four poster, the gap showing a cascade of brash blonde hair, stationary.
He looked around, seeing the empty whisky bottle that must have been thrown across the room, a variety of clothes dropped in small piles from one corner to the next. The curtains open, no one bothering to close them during another post midnight struggle.
‘Sir, sorry to bother you Sir, I have some news.’
‘Oh you do, so you think the soup of the day is that good do you?’
The voice was muffled, filtering its way through the cloth around the bed.
‘The soup will be excellent, I can assure you of that, but that’s not the news Sir.’
‘Yeah, didn’t think it was…’ The cook saw the hand come through the drapes gap, pulling one to the side until the ruffled and sleep deprived face was present.
‘There’s talk of a fight Sir, thought you would want to know.’
‘I always like to know about fights but what’s so special that you wanted to come up from the Kitchen to tell me?’
‘It’s a prize fight sir, thirty men so they say…and there’s going to be a special feature…’
The cook watched his master lying back, tired from the exertion of waking and sitting up.
‘A special attraction, what have they got this time? Is the President going to be there?’
‘No sir, that’s why I thought this was important, they say there’s a guest fighter…that’s why all the talk.’
‘A guest…anyone interestin’. Maybe I should get tickets. Who’s it going to be?’
‘That’s what I thought your would want to know Sir….they say it’s you. You’re going to be one of the ones fighting.’
The bed rocked as Meehan jumped up, morning calm smashed, on his feet in the middle of the bed.
‘Me, Me? fucking me? I’m fighting, a fucking prize fight like some Saturday afternoon freak show? Who says this? Who says I’m fighting?’
Meehan’s hand was around the cooks throat before he could move, not even seeing the few steps Meehan must have taken to get there. Meehan’s eyes wide, his mouth smeared across his face, the blood focused in his face as his hand tightened, brain blank anger.
‘Sir, Sir…for God’s sake, please sir’ His fear tasted like iron in his mouth, the air starting to disappear as Meehan’s hand continued to tighten, nothing left, the cook did the only thing left he could imagine, his hand coming around to slap Meehan’s face, all force gone.
Meehan registered the blow, the white scorching anger pierced for a second, looking down at the cooks white face, he released his grip. Watching the cook fall back on his arse, Meehan watched his hands up to his throat, trying to massage the air back in. Meehan stood frozen, all emotion draining away.
A second later his eyes refocused, seeing the cook properly for the first time through the anger. Shaking his head to clear it, he said the only thing left in his head.
‘…what was the Soup again?’
The cook lay, seeing the ceiling for the first time, noticing the circular boundary around the central brass enclosed light. No desire to move, appreciating everything he could see. Coughing, he croaked up at Meehan,
‘What was the…? It was Mushroom…mushroom sir. Yes, its…’
‘Good, that’s my favourite. Honey, honey?’ Meehan walked back to the bed side, pulling the last drape over. ‘Honey, mushroom soup tonight…okay honey?’
Meehan heard the positive mumble from under the bed clothes, his wife still sleeping.
Turning back to the cook, he held out his hand, helping him up. Meehan’s bedroom door opened just a crack, an angelic face beneath a pudgy arm and miniature fingers still raised to the handle, a two year old body on tip toes, came around the door.
‘Daddy, daddy, I want mommy.’ Seeing the cook struggling up with innocent eyes. ‘Did he fall over Daddy?’
‘Yes Darling, he fell over, but he’s okay now, don’t worry sweetheart, Daddy’s helping him stand up. He’s not hurt.’ Dusting him down like he was helping up the fallen. ‘You’re not hurt are you?’ The steel in his voice unheard by the child.
‘No sir’ He made a smile at Meehan’s daughter. ‘No, I’m not hurt honey’.
‘One more thing –’ Meehan focused on the cook, hands still busy brushing of imaginary dust from his shoulders.
‘Yes Sir?’ Flinching as Meehan brushed.
‘Make some of them small dried bread bits I like, they always taste good with the mushrooms…’ Turning to his daughter. ‘You like those bread bits too, don’t you Darling.’ His daughter nodded, blonde curls bouncing, large eyes open.
‘Yes Daddy’. The cook looked down at Meehan’s daughter, wondering not for the first time how a man like that could have fathered such an angelic daughter.
‘…Yes Sir.’
Chapter 26
The word that something unusual was being lined up at the wharf warehouse penetrated the full mix of Boston society, from the street wise underclass to the bored social elite.
This city was like any other
, always on the look out for something to take away the tedium of safe and pampered lives or hard and unforgiving ones.
Other delivery boys told house staff as they delivered, house staff mentioned it in passing to masters and the younger men in the house and before too long that was anyone was talking about it.
Plans were changed and new ones made, friends and more friends invited, encouraged to view what all talked about as the event of the city.
A night time outing to the wharf had an irresistible edge to it for many, a side of Boston often avoided but the tantalizing opportunity to step over the boundaries too intriguing for most to pass up.
Within a few brief hours, the O’Keegan Boiler Room Boys event was the talk of bars, restaurants, and clubs, the book makers seized on it, spinning it out and compounding the talk, the prize of one hundred dollars to the ‘last man standing’ kept the conversation going across the tables.
The event was set, O’Keegan was committed, Boston was almost ready.
Chapter 27
Book makers had found each of O’Keegan boys, sending street spies to come back with descriptions of each man.
Each contender evaluated like prize horses, the size of their arms, their fists, the scars, broken noses testament to past successful battles, if they could have looked at their teeth, they would have.
Each man was watched and weighed as they moved around town by eyes that proclaimed they ‘knew a thing or two about the fight game’ as O’Keegan’s men moved around town.
Odds had been set, unoriginal names had been created and chalked up on blacken boards. Frankie ‘The Hammer’ Alteri, stocky, a man compressed but capable; John ‘The Executioner’ Edwards, blonde, madly manic, with a light in his eyes that made the sane nervous; Tony ‘The Priest’ Jenkins, the wild card, thin, almost gaunt, a quiet man that walked with precision; O’Toole, Alteri - they were all measured, reviewed and served up to the waiting public.
The dollars went down on the table, the business brisk as everyone contributed to the excitement.
The Fighting O'Keegans Page 9
