by Kim Taylor
Lefty served just enough food so as to remain within the liquor laws: two salted pigs’ knuckles and two pieces of dark bread per table. Otherwise, he left the saloon alone. He preferred to let the Growlers keep the peace. He allowed Tommy to choose the dancing girls. He allowed Tommy to make the payoff to the police.
Annabelle Lee nuzzled Tommy’s shoulder. Her fingers played with the blond hairs on the back of his neck. She wore the red dress. She had put on more makeup. Mollie thought she looked like a china doll next to Tommy, and she remembered how much this always bothered her. She was a different Annabelle Lee around the boys. She was the whore who smiled at the right times and kept her opinions to herself. But then Annabelle gazed at Tommy, and it wasn’t a whore’s lie, but something real and wanting and desperate. Waiting for a smile turned just her way. Looking for a small hint that her coming back meant something more than a warm body sometimes at night.
“You’ve got fat, Annabelle.” Tommy took a sip of beer, set the mug down lightly. He removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his mouth. “Jail must’ve been good to you.”
“I ain’t fat.” She shot a look to Mollie. “I look just the same’s I went in, right?”
“Sure,” Mollie said.
Annabelle ran the back of her hand along Tommy’s cheek. “I ain’t fat. And stop staring at the girls on the stage.”
Tommy threw her a half smile and patted her leg.
“And I ain’t a dog, so stop patting me.”
Mollie rolled her eyes. Although she loved Annabelle, she had to admit that sometimes she was an idiot. And Annabelle was just at that point of being drunk where you didn’t know what she’d do.
Seamus ran his hand down Mollie’s arm, and up again near her breast. She should have liked it, that simple and gentle touch. But all she wanted was some space and to sit up straight.
“Where ya going?” Seamus pulled her tighter.
“Here, Seamus, pick a card,” Hugh said. “I’ll guess what it is. If I’m right, you buy the beer.” Hugh stuck his fingers in his vest pockets. He sported his hat at a steep angle, low upon his eye. He must have thought that made him look tough, but instead he looked like he was dressing in his father’s clothes.
Seamus sniffed, winked at Mollie, then pulled a card. He palmed it toward her. Three of spades.
“Now stick it back in the deck.” Hugh stretched his arms, then shook out his fingers. He adjusted the daisy in the lapel of his yellow-and-black-checked suit. “Get ready to lose, my friend.”
Hugh laid the cards faceup in an arc. He ran his fingers over them, lightly tapping certain ones, then shaking his head. He stacked the cards, shuffled them, and pulled the top one from the deck. “Three of spades.”
Seamus lit a cigarette, and then cuffed Hugh on the head.
“What the hell was that for?” Hugh’s voice cracked; he was just that age. He picked his derby up off the sticky wood floor and jammed it on his head.
“Go get us another pail of beer,” Seamus said.
“But I won.”
“But I’m thirsty, see? It was the queen of hearts, dummy.” Seamus rolled his lip in a sneer. “You need a little more practice. And your jacket’s hurting my eyes.” He glanced at Tommy for approval.
“I won,” Hugh whined. “You lost. It was the three of spades. Mollie, it was the three of spades, right? Seamus is conning me.”
Poor Hugh. It was a good trick; Mollie knew it herself and used to play it with the newsboys in the alley. “Try it again,” she said to him.
“Forget it, I’m bored,” Seamus said. “Go get the beer.”
“You get it.”
Seamus smiled, then flicked open a switchblade. He jabbed it into the table, piercing the card.
Hugh glared at Seamus. “You don’t scare me. I’m saying you don’t scare me. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never scare me, Seamus Feeney.”
“Go get the beer,” Seamus said.
“No.”
Seamus threw his cigarette in the floor, stood, and bent close into Hugh’s face. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Hugh flinched as Seamus grabbed him around the collar and twisted his shirt up tight. “Get the beer.”
“You get it!” Hugh’s breath spluttered, and his face turned a purplish red.
With his free hand, Seamus pulled Hugh’s ear. Hugh’s arms flailed around and his feet could not find the ground.
“All right! All right.”
Letting go, Seamus watched Hugh fall in a heap on the floor. Hugh coughed and spat. He wiped at his ear with the rag he kept as a handkerchief. He snaked out a hand and yanked Seamus’s knife from the table.
Seamus held out his hand. The knife was still open; Hugh knew it and Seamus knew it. The thin blade shook in Hugh’s grasp. He stared at Seamus’s spread hand, taking in the nicotine yellow between his first and middle fingers, the calluses across the top of his palm, the soft skin below.
Seamus did not blink and did not move. He felt Hugh’s eyes and he knew Hugh wanted to cut him.
The girls on the stage twirled in circles; the yellow of their silk petticoats set the men in the dancehall to cheering.
“Give him the knife, you bastard,” Tommy said.
Hugh folded the blade into its sheath and gave the knife over. Seamus raised a hand at him, and then sat back down.
“Get us some beer,” Tommy said.
“But—”
All Tommy McCormack had to do was rise slightly from his seat, and Hugh grabbed the empty pail and scuttled away.
Seamus shook his head and laughed. “Little bastard, thinks he can . . .” His voice lost energy under Tommy’s angelically cold stare. He swallowed hard.
“Was it the three of spades?” Tommy asked.
“Who cares what it was?”
“There’s enough people to cheat without cheating your friends.” Tommy glanced toward the bar, which curved like a horseshoe between the front doors. “Calhoun’s here.”
Seamus looked. “What’s he doing here?”
“Fuck,” Tommy said. “His boys are at each door.”
Heavy feet thumped toward them. “Sorry I’m late. It was my sister’s birthday. Ma had cake.” Mugs Dennehy was huge, with a flattened nose and a box head that sported a hat a size too tight. “So what’s with the Rum Runners paying a visit?”
Tommy slipped his knife back up his sleeve. “Goddamn Calhoun wants the saloon.”
“Well, he’s not gonna get it. He ain’t getting anything on this block,” Seamus said.
Tommy narrowed his eyes. He let go of Annabelle.
“Not tonight. I only been home a few hours. We were supposed to celebrate, Tommy.”
“Have some more gin and shut up.”
“Don’t tell her to shut up,” Mollie said.
“What’re we going to do, Tommy?” Seamus asked. He had his hands in fists already.
“We’ll go out the stage door.”
“You saw the bricks in the alley?” Mugs asked. “We got a lot.” He wiped his coat sleeve against his nose and nodded to Annabelle. “Good to see ya back.”
“I got the growler!” Hugh ran over and held the pail of beer, like an offering, to Tommy.
The boys all passed it around. Tommy raised his hand. “We got bricks. When the girls go off for their break, we walk out the stage door. The Rum Runners’ll try and catch us outside. I don’t want them thinking they can come in here anytime they please.”
“Ya ruined this card, Seamus.” Hugh waved the three of spades Seamus had speared, and then gathered the deck together.
Tommy took a pull of beer and smiled over at Calhoun. Calhoun glowered in return and turned his back.
Mollie stood. “Come on, Annabelle. Ain’t no need for us here.”
“It’s early. I thought we were going to celebrate,” Annabelle whined. “Can’t you just leave it tonight, Tom?” Annabelle worked hard to keep her eyes focused. She squinted to see Calhoun. “Maybe he’s just havi
ng a drink.”
Tommy ignored her. “We go out when the girls go offstage. I’ll walk out to the street alone. Draw Calhoun and his crew right to us.”
The piano slammed out a final, jarring chord. Neely got up from the bench and pulled the rope to drop the curtain on the stage. Dust shook itself loose from the old moss-green curtains and mixed with the heavy smoke in the room.
Calhoun took a step forward. Tommy stood, his chair scraping the floor. There came the flick of knives opening at the Growlers’ table.
Tommy nodded to the boys. It was time. He led them up the three small steps to the stage.
“Come on, Annabelle, we got to go.” Mollie watched as Calhoun gave a short signal to his gang, who slid through the front doors.
“I want to celebrate.” Annabelle picked up her glass, and when she realized it was empty, slammed it down on the table.
“You’re drunk.” Mollie put Annabelle’s arm over her shoulder and lifted her. “Jesus, help me out a little. I ain’t carrying ya out.”
She half-dragged Annabelle up the stairs and onto the stage, then pushed the curtain aside to let them through.
“Tommy’s got another girl, don’t he?” Annabelle asked. “He’s got to have, else why would he do this tonight?”
“Shhh.”
“She’s probably waiting for him right now. Why couldn’t we have stayed inside? I liked the show.” Annabelle’s head rolled back, and then fell forward.
Mollie shook Annabelle’s shoulders. “How much gin did you have?”
“Aw, leave it be, you ain’t so sober yourself.”
The dancing girls milled around them. As the girls dropped their pasted smiles like so much confetti and rubbed their worn feet, Tommy shoved open the alley door.
AGAINST THE RUM RUNNERS
THEY HUDDLED AGAINST THE alley wall. The windows of Lefty Malone’s threw a yellow puddle across the street in front of them. Mollie heard the stamp of feet and the roars from inside; the girls were back onstage, likely showing more than their legs.
Mollie counted the neatly stacked bricks. “How many are there?” she asked.
“About fifty, I think,” Mugs said. “We got about fifty, right, Seamus?”
“There’s forty-two. Some kids ran off with some earlier. But I been checking them every day,” Hugh said. He stroked the top layer as if it were a fighting dog about to go into the ring.
“Rum Runners. I meant how many Rum Runners.”
“Six or seven. Not counting Calhoun.” Hugh puffed as he tossed bricks to Seamus and Mugs. The boys each put one brick in their left coat pocket and one in their right. Then there came a brick per hand. “I’m gonna smack a brick right in his head, I tell ya. Coming inta Lefty’s without an invite.”
Mugs peered around the corner. He smacked his slungshot—a leather bag filled with lead pellets—against his palm. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s crowded out there.”
“You saying I don’t got good aim?” Hugh snapped. “You saying I’ll miss one of those jacks and hit a kid or something?” His eyes were pink as a pig’s belly—filled with alcohol and anxiety.
“Quiet,” Seamus muttered.
“Shut up, Seamus.” Hugh’s lip curled.
“Wait for my signal.” Tommy smoothed his hair and rubbed his shoes against the back of his pant legs. He struck a match against the bricks and lit a cigarette that flared red against his skin. He stepped into the pool of gaslight on the street, and leaned against the pole.
“There’s more than seven of them,” Mollie said.
“Shut up,” Hugh hissed. “We’re waiting for the signal.” He shoved past Mugs and stuck his head out to the street. “Calhoun’s out the door. I see him.”
Mugs grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. “Wait for the signal.”
“Let’s get’em.” Hugh breathed heavily. “I’m sick of’em.”
“I’m sick of’em, too,” Mugs said.
“I’m gonna flatten that Calhoun, I swear I will—”
“Those sons of—”
“Don’t deserve this street, do they—”
“I’ve wanted to get Calhoun for so long—”
“Get’em—”
“Hurt’em—”
“I’ll kill them all—”
“Now?” Hugh called to Tommy. “Now, Tommy?”
Tommy McCormack shook his head. Then he pushed off the lamppost, taking one step forward. He tossed aside his cigarette.
Calhoun came into view. He was shorter than Tommy, a lump next to Tommy’s sleek figure. He stopped directly in front of him and stared.
“Now?” Hugh asked.
“Wait for the signal,” Seamus whispered.
Hugh watched Tommy. “He’s letting Calhoun walk by. . . .”
“He won’t get away—” Mugs said.
“He will. Tommy’s gonna let him walk right on by and the whole thing’ll be ruined. He’s gonna let him walk—”
“Shut up,” Mugs said.
Then Hugh did it. He grabbed a brick and slung it into the street. “Now!”
Mugs and Seamus joined in, grabbing bricks and throwing them with all their might.
On the street, Calhoun covered his head and dashed behind a cart. Someone’s brick caught the horse pulling the cart, and the animal broke out in a gallop, the cart tilting and swaying behind it, spilling vegetables everywhere. People on the street scattered, finding doorways and alleys to escape the rain of the bricks.
“We’re running you off, Calhoun!” Hugh called out. “All of youse can just—” He hefted another brick, which went off course, crashing through a milliner’s window.
Seamus grabbed Hugh around the neck and wrestled him to the ground. “You stupid—you wait for the signal! Jesus, you idiot.”
“Let go, I can’t breathe!”
“Go!” Mugs loped forward.
“Go go go!” Tommy yelled, not only to urge the boys on, but to warn anyone in their way to move aside.
Then the fists flew, because the Rum Runners were out in full force—Mollie counted eight of them. Hugh went down first and started blubbering. Someone kicked Mugs in the back and then got a boot to his face. Seamus flung short punches and was quick enough to dodge fists. But there were too many of them; they kept yelling and punching, sending Mugs to the ground once more.
The bricks were forgotten, Hugh having messed everything up. A crowd circled the boys; they taunted and jeered. Broken bottles had become the new weapon. Mugs whirled around with his slungshot bag of lead pellets. A boy no older than ten flew at Seamus, his eyes full of fury and hate.
Seamus froze.
Stupid to freeze, with the Rum Runners getting the upper hand. Stupid enough to get a brick smacked in the back of the head. He crumpled. His cheek scraped the pavement. He tried to get up, but his arms and legs went all different directions.
“Seamus!” Mollie called.
A police whistle squealed.
“Seamus!” Mollie rushed forward, but Annabelle grabbed her coat and pulled her back.
“Don’t leave me here.”
“But Seamus—Jesus, let go of me.”
“Mugs’s got him, see?”
It was true. Mugs lifted Seamus from the ground, tried to drag him away. Hugh joined him.
The gangs scattered in all directions. Three policemen ran up. The onlookers pointed every which way, but the policemen just started swinging their nightsticks into the crowd and arrested anyone who fell.
Annabelle pulled Mollie farther into the alley, between the steps to the stage door and an ash barrel. Mollie heard yells and thwacks from the street.
“It’s all ruined, ain’t it?” Annabelle turned in a circle, stumbled, then caught herself up with a hand on the brick wall. Above her head was a faded and torn poster for Annie Hindle, dressed to the nines and tipping her hat like the gentleman she certainly wasn’t. Below her image, Annabelle swayed. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and her blonde wig hung askew. “Who’s he seeing, Mollie
? Whose hole is he plugging now? Goddamn shit of a man.”
“No one. He ain’t seeing no one.” A spit of wind shook the poster; Annie Hindle seemed to wink. As if she had witnessed Tommy McCormack’s exit with one, two, three dancers.
“I saw him looking at that redhead on the stage. Tits to Timbuktu.”
“He wasn’t looking at no girl.”
Annabelle tilted her head and smiled. “Let’s go down to the docks, Moll. Roll us some sailors who’ll be happy”—and this she spat—“for the company. So Tommy thinks we’ll show up at the boardinghouse and bandage all their wounds. Pat ’em, kiss’em, and fuck’em so they feel like kings.”
“Annabelle . . .”
“Well, there’s plenty more where they came from and plenty more that will pay. Shouldn’t give it away anyway, right? Only gets you stuck. I don’t feel good.” She pressed her back against the wall and pulled in a knot of air. “I don’t know what’s worse. The hell I just left or this. God, I’m drunk, Moll.”
Yes, drunk the way Mollie hated most. The drunk where she had to keep Annabelle from opening her legs to a room full of strangers who offered nothing more than quick wisps of love and a few cents and maybe a stale beer. The type of drunk that hated everyone and anything and especially herself. She stepped forward and grabbed Annabelle’s arms. “We’re going home.”
“Are you my mother? ’Cause I got one already.”
“Who you ain’t seen since you were nine years old.”
“What do you—”
A dark figure charged down the alley, lit only from the streetlight behind him. His breath was sharp and hard.
“Tommy?” Annabelle asked.
Too broad to be Tommy. Too short to be Mugs. Too thin to be Hugh.
“‘Tommy?’” There was a sneer in the man’s voice as he mimicked Annabelle. “Not Tommy.”
Calhoun.
Annabelle leaned back against the ash barrel, her fingers grasping the metal rim. “Give ya a feel for ten cents.”
