Exile on Bridge Street (17 page)

Wanting us to give the workers something to remember, Dinny too stares up at them flinty and obdurate. His eyes focusing in on theirs as we are frogmarched. Centering in to remind them of the cruelty of last April when we fire-bombed the holdings of the New York Dock Company down in Red Hook. That we've no fear of uniforms nor long guns of federal troops nor ILA harriers, for that matter. Telling them to watch us. Telling them to stare at us. Telling them that the government may have their deeds and their rights to the property, but would always be within the clutch of The White Hand butted against the old neighborhoods. Within the threat of the gang's tactics and its demiurgic leader whose name they do not know. Whether it be marines or labor syndicates, no walls will hold us out, as our like comes from within the hearts of all working-class men and women. Hard and pure forevermore.

But instead of looking up at the Navy Yard men, I watch Dinny. Up at the head of us. And I can't help but to see him a bit differently. The man for whom I trust so much of my own life and my family's. Watching him scale old walls when maybe he doesn't see the new ones surrounding us.

CHAPTER 12

Always Closing In

N
OVEMBER
, 1916

H
ARRY
R
EYNOLDS
ALWAYS
KEPT
TO
THE
distance. He was smart that way. Noncommittal. There was nothing about him that stood out. The only thing remarkable about him was his resemblance in the face with Dinny Meehan. A strong resemblance, although Harry was not quite as muscular as Dinny. But what he lacked in matching Dinny's great strength and dominant personality, he made up for in pragmatism and subtlety.

Never once do I remember Harry drinking with us at the Dock Loaders' Club or socializing outside of the longshore work he so admirably accomplished day-in, day-out. After getting his envelope upstairs at the end of the day, he simply disappeared. Into the distance again.

Beat McGarry once told me that Harry was an orphan at the St. John's School for Boys. The only other thing I knew about his past was that he was a prodigy when it came to picking locks and thievery. His inherent pragmatism and independence made him a natural sneak. Beat also told me Harry was in the newspapers one time, although he had lied about his name.

“What did he say his name was?”

“Patrick Kelly, of course. But the newspapers loved him, they called him,” Beat opened his hands as if showing me a large headline, “‘The Coal Hole Robber.'”

“Really? Why?”

“He snuck through coal holes into the basement of tenements and picked the locks and quietly went into rooms taking canned goods.”

“Canned goods?”

“Hungry, ya know? But he took valuables too and sold them at pawns for nickels on the dime.”

From the beginning I noticed there was something odd between Dinny and Harry though. Harry seemed far too intelligent to only be a dockboss. I wondered from the beginning why Harry wasn't closer to the ear of Dinny upstairs at 25 Bridge Street. But no one talked about it. Even when I asked big-mouthed Beat McGarry, he buttoned up.

“I dunno,” he said, turning away from me.

But Harry Reynolds is by far the most respected dockboss Dinny has. At the Atlantic Terminal, Harry never kept a true right-hand man. He has different men work with him, such as Dance Gillen or Whitey and Baron Simpson or Quiet Higgins or even Eddie and Freddie—fringe members, the most of them. Yet somehow, the Atlantic Terminal runs smoother than any of the others.

I work with him at times. And although he doesn't say much, what he does take the time to enunciate is always valuable information.

“Do you think they will ever let Pickles Leighton and Non Connors out of Sing Sing?” I asked him one time as we worked.

He didn't answer, of course.

“What was Pickles Leighton like? And why was he sent up to the stir in 1913?”

No answer.

“Do you think it strange that Dinny married a girl who has two cousins, one in prison, the other banished from the docks?”

Silence.

“Why does The Swede hate Non Connors so much? Was Non Connors set up because The Swede talked Dinny into doing it?”

Harry just watched the hatch gangs at their work guiding the nets into the belly of the barge tied up at the pier. Slowly dropping the loads into the hands of the hull gangs below.

“Is it true they're all going to come after us through Lovett and Red Hook?”

Harry takes a deep breath, “Ya got a lotta questions. A kid known for stealin' pencils and askin' questions? What happens if ya don' get all the answers? What? Nothin'. In fact, ya'd be better off.”

I'm not sure why I want to know everything, but I just keep asking and asking. Lifting sixty-pound crates all day and walking them toward the nets, I look at my hands. They are bleeding in the palms, and my shoulders and lower back ache, legs wobbly. Dropping my hands I see Harry in front of me again. He whispers to a man walking by him and the man nods. Harry always seems to speak to men on a deeper level than most. And men respect him greatly for it. I suppose we all have things we are gifted with, though many people are never given the opportunity to use them. There's nothing that can stop me from asking questions, surely, but just like Tommy Tuohey helps me learn to fight and be aggressive, Harry Reynolds helps me to survive with subtlety and pragmatism. And with bleeding palms I lift another crate. Walk it down the pier in line with the other laborers along the belly of the barge.

Later. Upstairs at the Dock Loaders' Club, The Swede lets Harry and I in.

“Where's Vincent?” I ask, but The Swede shooshes me.

Our boots clomping and the floor creaking in the silent room, Harry sits down in the chair in front of Dinny's desk, me in the chair behind him. The Swede walks around us, stands next to Dinny. All is quiet.

I had never seen Dinny sleep before. I had doubted it ever happened. Coming home late every night. Up earlier than anyone. I never even saw him yawn. Here he sits at his desk, eyes closed. The room silent, the world goes on as usual outside. The shutter windows pried open, the cool November air mingling freely among us. Stretching out behind him is the skyline of Manhattan Island and the millions that reside on it. The distance of the constant city sounds move in our ears. A flat sound almost like the rain. Imperceptible and obvious. Downstairs a lone immigrant sings a song amongst the chatting and tapping of feet to the beat. When the song ends, men clap and glasses touch off against each other.

In his wooden chair, at his empty desk, he sits like some ascetic attaining his oneness, yet he is no more than the man I know in front of me with his eyes closed. Lumpy in the corner with his numbers, The Swede standing at his side, and Harry in front of me, we wait. And we wait longer. I wonder if he practices this as some sort of test to ensure everyone in the room understands that it is him that we all recognize as leader. That we need him. Depend on him, though he is not that type. Simply enough, he sits. What goes on in his mind, I cannot know. But I can see how the strain would get to him. I am no more than a minor member of this crew. A youngster, yet my relationship with him and the burden I bring is complicated. With so many other things to balance, so many enemies that want us felled, I am sure that he must take moments to feel a union with the realities he faces. And certainly, he faces them almost exclusively, for none of us have the ability he does to direct and orchestrate such an act. Then, if that weren't enough, producing reactions that benefit us, our existence an anomaly in and of itself, for so many gangs have by this time been eradicated or made unnecessary. To make a material world, create a space for us in this ever-modernizing place, I can see that he must take time to come back in his mind to a state of blankness. Of perfection. Where the swirling problems that surround us are juggled in his head. Then made even. Flattened, so that he can reorganize them. Categorize a hierarchical structure through the eyes of an unbiased mind. So here he sits. Simply enough. Sits. Becoming unity. Ceasing to exist.

He opens his eyes and looks at Harry and I. “You seen Vincent?”

Harry looks behind to me, then back to Dinny, “Nah.”

The Swede runs his hand through his hair and grits, walks behind us to the door, “We think he's workin' wit' the I-talians.”

“We don' think that,” Dinny says. “You do.”

The Swede points to Harry and I, “You fellers know . . . him and a few others go down to that fleshpot Adonis Social Club . . .”

“Calm the hell down wit' the accusations, Jimmy,” Dinny says to The Swede, then turns his attention to us. “You two see 'em, just lemme know, yeah?”

We both agree but can feel The Swede chewing on ideas behind us. Pacing back and forth by the door, then walking over to stand to the right of Dinny. A moment later he sprints toward the door again and puts his ear on it.

“Stop wit' that shit,” Dinny says.

“I thought I heard Tommy say somethin'.”

Harry is looking in Dinny's face and back to The Swede as I do the same. Finally The Swede comes to stand next to Dinny and relaxes a bit.

“Two barges today?” Dinny asks.

“Yep,” Harry says.

“How's the kid?”

Harry looks back toward me again, then looks up. “He's gonna jump ship to Queenstown, Ireland.”

“What? I didn't say any of that,” I say, angered that my torment between going home to Ireland and staying here in Brooklyn is exposed in front of Dinny.

“Ya thinkin' it though,” Harry says, looking down and back.

“Let 'em go then,” The Swede says, exploding from his spot by the windows and pointing at me. “Jesus H. Christ almighty, he ain't worth a shit anyway, for fuck's sake. Everyone's jumpin' ship here. The whole fookin' world's goin' . . .”

“You're an asshole, Harry,” I say.

“Did ya think Harry'n me are enemies, William?” Dinny asks, looking hard at me.

“No but . . .”

“Keep secrets?”

“I don't know what the deal is between you two. I don't even understand most of what Harry says anyway.”

“Among us,” Dinny says, waving his hand between himself and Harry. “No secrets. To the rest o' the word though, not their business. If Harry'n I got issues, we resolve it between ourselves, but we're always honest. You though, ya not so honest.”

“Damn right, he ain' honest,” The Swede jumps in.

“Your family is not in the position mine is,” I say. “Stuck in the countryside where the fucking Brits don't have to abide by any rules. With no man at home, just a woman, two young sisters, and my brother.”

“My fam'ly's dead,” Dinny says, then spreading his arms wide. “This is my fam'ly. And this fam'ly offers your fam'ly lodgings. You remember what that means? Ya told me once that ya father used to allow strangers to stay wit' ya in exchange for work on the farm.”

I look away.

“It's part o' who we are. For some, the hunger and fear undermines our communal ways. Our instincts and our need to be among our own. That's our lament. To be divided is to be conquered. But, when we come to the aid of our fam'ly an' neighbors when they're in need is to be united again. To never say a bad thing o' the poor and the destitute. Our hearts filled with sympathy. Empathy too, 'cause we been there. Overflowin' wit' it, and when one o' us comes into some luck,” he says, again opening his arms, “is something we then share. It's our way, William. Ya remember ya home? Ya humility? Ya people?”

“I know about it.”

“We all have choices that we gotta suffer t'rough. We have somethin' here that's real. But because it's real, everyone else in the world wants to take it down 'cause we don't play by their rules. By their invisible laws, no. We don't. When we make decisions, we make them as a whole. I don't make them. We all do. Because we're all involved. All o' us here, we all decided ya uncle needed to go away after he took over recruitin' in Brooklyn from Thos Carmody. But that was because we all decided it. Not me. And why? Because they planned on making us extinct entirely. Like what they've done to the others in Manhattan. Look at Tanner Smith. The man was set to take things over in his neighborhood 'til the unions and police and the Jews an' the I-talians and the stevedorin' an' shippin' comp'nies and them temperance people and more . . . all decided gangs're a thing o' the past. That the Irish ain' gonna run things on the docks no more. So now he's just a dockboss tryin' to survive. Nowadays, if ya don't have a legitimate business where ya can run ya illegitimate business? They shut ya down. But not here. Ain' gonna happen here,” he points into his desk, then leans across it. “Not'n Brooklyn. . . . The old way, Liam. Our way. Ya father's way. And those that choose death or imprisonment over subjugation. Because our way is more important to us than their way. Did ya uncle believe in doing things our way? Or the Anglo's way?”

“A different way,” I say obstinately.

Dinny laughs, “That's why ya one o' us, Liam. Because you too refuse to live on someone else's terms. . . . Only one thing a man can do in his life: be bold. Always bold. Always. If ya ain't got patience when a man's bein' bold? Y'ain't got patience for bein' a man. We give ya a choice, this way or that way, and ya choose neither. Ya choose y'own way, and that's why ya one o' us. And together we survive.”

Then there is quiet for a moment, until Dinny calls out, “Jimmy?”

“Yeah?” The Swede answers.

“How comfortable ya feel sendin' this guy to kill someone? Like if we depended on it?”

“Wouldn't.”

“Harry?”

“Nah.”

“For what it matters,” Dinny says. “I wouldn't think it a good idea either. So as soon as ya can learn that ya can stay who y'are and that we respect what ya offer, then ya don' have to worry about ever again killin' a man.”

“Red Hook?” I ask.

“I don't think that's a good idea either. Dangerous down there. Tommy can handle himself when the ships dock. Ya bring another thing to the table for us, William. Ya can read.”

“I can.”

“Write too, no?”

“I can.”

“Know math?”

“I do.”

“And people like ya,” Dinny counts on his fingers. “Everyone here likes ya. Except Petey Behan. Now here's ya next decision that ya gotta suffer t'rough. . . . I want ya outta my home. Tonight. Ya gotta place to stay. Rent's paid for a while. If ya show up tomorrow mornin', I'll see ya then. If ya don't, I'll never see ya again and you'll be done wit' us. But one thing I can say to ya, if ya decide not to come back. Don' come back. Get outta Brooklyn, especially our neighborhoods. Eighty-sixt like Darby Leighton. Done. Forever. Go proselytize like a fookin' dried up Puritan in Kansas'r Missouri'r Texas'r wherever they hatchet saloons, got it?”