Katherine Anne Porter (60 page)

Mr. Halloran gave a loud groan and knocked out his pipe on the chair arm. “You would ruin the world, woman, if you could, with your wicked soul, treating a new-married girl as if she had
no home and no parents to come to. But she’s no daughter of mine if she sits there peeling potatoes, letting a man run over her. No daughter of mine and I’ll tell her so if she—”

“You know well she’s your daughter, so hold your tongue,” said Mrs. Halloran, “and if she heeded you she’d be walking the streets this minute. I brought her up an honest girl, and an honest woman she’s going to be or I’ll take her over my knee as I did when she was little. So there you are, Halloran.”

Mr. Halloran leaned far back in his chair and felt along the shelf above his head until his fingers touched a half-dollar he had noticed there. His hand closed over it, he got up instantly and looked about for his hat.

“Keep your daughter, Lacey Mahaffy,” he said, “she’s none of mine but the fruits of your long sinning with the Holy Ghost. And now I’m off for a little round and a couple of beers to keep my mind from dissolving entirely.”

“You can’t have that dollar you just now sneaked off the shelf,” said Mrs. Halloran. “So you think I’m blind besides? Put it back where you found it. That’s for our daily bread.”

“I’m sick of bread daily,” said Mr. Halloran, “I need beer. It was not a dollar, but a half-dollar as you know well.”

“Whatever it was,” said Mrs. Halloran, “it stands instead of a dollar to me. So just drop it.”

“You’ve got tomorrow’s potatoes sewed up in your pocket this minute, and God knows what sums in that black box wherever you hide it, besides the life savings,” said Mr. Halloran. “I earned this half-dollar on relief, and it’s going to be spent properly. And I’ll not be back for supper, so you’ll save on that, too. So long, Lacey Mahaffy, I’m off.”

“If you never come back, it will be all the same,” said Mrs. Halloran, not looking up.

“If I came back with a pocket full of money, you’d be glad to see me,” said Mr. Halloran.

“It would want to be a great sum,” said Mrs. Halloran.

Mr. Halloran shut the door behind him with a fine slam.

He strolled out into the clear fall weather, a late afternoon sun warming his neck and brightening the old red-brick, high-stooped houses of Perry Street. He would go after all these years to Billy’s Place, he might find some luck there. He took his time, though, speaking to the neighbors as he went.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Halloran.” “Good afternoon to you, Missis Caffery.”. . . “It’s fine weather for the time of year, Mr. Gogarty.” “It is indeed, Mr. Halloran.” Mr. Halloran thrived on these civilities, he loved to flourish his hat and give a hearty good day like a man who has nothing on his mind. Ah, there was the young man from the G. and I. store around the corner. He knew what kind of job Mr. Halloran once held there. “Good day, Mr. Halloran.” “Good day to you, Mr. McInerny, how’s business holding up with you?” “Good for the times, Mr. Halloran, that’s the best I can say.” “Things are not getting any better, Mr. McInerny.” “It’s the truth we are all hanging on by the teeth now, Mr. Halloran.”

Soothed by this acknowledgment of man’s common misfortune Mr. Halloran greeted the young cop at the corner. The cop, with his quick eyesight, was snatching a read from a newspaper on the stand across the sidewalk. “How do you do, Young O’Fallon,” asked Mr. Halloran, “is your business lively these days?”

“Quiet as the tomb itself on this block,” said Young O’Fallon. “But that’s a sad thing about Connolly, now.” His eyes motioned toward the newspaper.

“Is he dead?” asked Mr. Halloran; “I haven’t been out until now, I didn’t see the papers.”

“Ah, not yet,” said Young O’Fallon, “but the G-men are after him, it looks they’ll get him surely this time.”

“Connolly in bad with the G-men? Holy Jesus,” said Mr. Halloran, “who will they go after next? The meddlers.”

“It’s that numbers racket,” said the cop. “What’s the harm, I’d like to know? A man must get his money from somewhere when he’s in politics. They oughta give him a chance.”

“Connolly’s a great fellow, God bless him, I hope he gives them the slip,” said Mr. Halloran, “I hope he goes right through their hands like a greased pig.”

“He’s smart,” said the cop. “That Connolly’s a smooth one. He’ll come out of it.”

Ah, will he though? Mr. Halloran asked himself. Who is safe if Connolly goes under? Wait till I give Lacey Mahaffy the news about Connolly, I’ll like seeing her face the first time in twenty years. Lacey kept saying, “A man is a downright fool must be a crook to get rich. Plenty of the best people get rich and do no
harm by it. Look at the Connollys now, good practical Catholics with nine children and more to come if God sends them, and Mass every day, and they’re rolling in wealth richer than your McCorkerys with all their wickedness.” So there you are, Lacey Mahaffy, wrong again, and welcome to your pious Connollys. Still and all it was Connolly who had given Gerald McCorkery his start in the world; McCorkery had been publicity man and then campaign manager for Connolly, in the days when Connolly had Tammany in the palm of his hand and the sky was the limit. And McCorkery had begun at the beginning, God knows. He was running a little basement place first, rent almost nothing, where the boys of the Connolly Club and the Little Tammany Association, just the mere fringe of the district, you might say, could drop in for quiet evenings for a game and a drink along with the talk. Nothing low, nothing but what was customary, with the house taking a cut on the winnings and a fine profit on the liquor, and holding the crowd together. Many was the big plan hatched there came out well for everybody. For everybody but myself, and why was that? And when McCorkery says to me, “You can take over now and run the place for the McCorkery Club,” ah, there was my chance and Lacey Mahaffy wouldn’t hear of it, and with Maggie coming on just then it wouldn’t do to excite her.

Mr. Halloran went on, following his feet that knew the way to Billy’s Place, head down, not speaking to passersby any more, but talking it out with himself again, again. What a track to go over seeing clearly one by one the crossroads where he might have taken a different turn that would have changed all his fortunes; but no, he had gone the other way and now it was too late. She wouldn’t say a thing but “It’s not right and you know it, Halloran,” so what could a man do in all? Ah, you could have gone on with your rightful affairs like any other man, Halloran, it’s not the woman’s place to decide such things; she’d have come round once she saw the money, or a good whack on the backsides would have put her in her place. Never had mortal woman needed a good walloping worse than Lacey Mahaffy, but he could never find it in his heart to give it to her for her own good. That was just another of your many mistakes, Halloran. But there was always the lifelong job
with the G. and I. and peace in the house more or less. Many a man envied me in those days I remember, and I was resting easy on the savings and knowing with that and the pension I could finish out my life with some little business of my own. “What came of that?” Mr. Halloran inquired in a low voice, looking around him. Nobody answered. You know well what came of it, Halloran. You were fired out like a delivery boy, two years before your time was out. Why did you sit there watching the trick being played on others before you, knowing well it could happen to you and never quite believing what you saw with your own eyes? G. and I. gave me my start, when I was green in this country, and they were my own kind or I thought so. Well, it’s done now. Yes, it’s done now, but there was all the years you could have cashed in on the numbers game with the best of them, helping collect the protection money and taking your cut. You could have had a fortune by now in Lacey’s name, safe in the bank. It was good quiet profit and none the wiser. But they’re wiser now, Halloran, don’t forget; still it’s a lump of grief and disappointment to swallow all the same. The game’s up with Connolly, maybe; Lacey Mahaffy had said, “Numbers is just another way of stealing from the poor, and you weren’t born to be a thief like that McCorkery.” Ah, God, no, Halloran, you were born to rot on relief and maybe that’s honest enough for her. That Lacey!— A fortune in her name would have been no good to me whatever. She’s got all the savings tied up, such as they are, she’ll pinch and she’ll starve, she’ll wash dirty clothes first, she won’t give up a penny to live on. She has stood in my way, McCorkery, like a skeleton rattling its bones, and you were right about her, she has been my ruin. “Ah, it’s not too late yet, Halloran,” said McCorkery, appearing plain as day inside Mr. Halloran’s head with the same old face and way with him. “Never say die, Halloran. Elections are coming on again, it’s a busy time for all, there’s work to be done and you’re the very man I’m looking for. Why didn’t you come to me sooner, you know I never forget an old friend. You don’t deserve your ill fortune, Halloran,” McCorkery told him; “I said so to others and I say it now to your face, never did man deserve more of the world than you, Halloran, but the truth is, there’s not always enough good luck to go round; but it’s your turn now, and I’ve got a
job for you up to your abilities at last. For a man like you, there’s nothing to it at all, you can toss it off with one hand tied, Halloran, and good money in it. Organization work, just among your own neighbors, where you’re known and respected for a man of your word and an old friend of Gerald McCorkery. Now look, Halloran,” said Gerald McCorkery, tipping him the wink, “do I need to say more? It’s voters in large numbers we’re after, Halloran, and you’re to bring them in, alive or dead. Keep your eye on the situation at all times and get in touch with me when necessary. And name your figure in the way of money. And come up to the house sometimes, Halloran, why don’t you? Rosie has asked me a hundred times, ‘Whatever went with Halloran, the life of the party?’ That’s the way you stand with Rosie, Halloran. We’re in a two-story flat now with green velvet curtains and carpets you can sink to your shoe-tops in, and there’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t have the same kind of place if you want it. With your gifts, you were never meant to be a poor man.”

Ah, but Lacey Mahaffy wouldn’t have it, maybe. “Then get yourself another sort of woman, Halloran, you’re a good man still, find yourself a woman like Rosie to snuggle down with at night.” Yes, but McCorkery, you forget that Lacey Mahaffy had legs and hair and eyes and a complexion fit for a chorus girl. But would she do anything with them? Never. Would you believe there was a woman wouldn’t take off all her clothes at once even to bathe herself? What a hateful thing she was with her evil mind thinking everything was a sin, and never giving a man a chance to show himself a man in any way. But she’s faded away now, her mean soul shows out all over her, she’s ugly as sin itself now, McCorkery. “It’s what I told you would happen,” said McCorkery, “but now with the job and the money you can go your ways and let Lacey Mahaffy go hers.” I’ll do it, McCorkery. “And forget about Connolly. Just remember I’m my own man and always was. Connolly’s finished, but I’m not. Stronger than ever, Halloran, with Connolly out of the way. I saw this coming long ever ago, Halloran, I got clear of it. They don’t catch McCorkery with his pants down, Halloran. And I almost forgot. . . Here’s something for the running expenses to start. Take this for the present, and there’s more to come. . . .”

Mr. Halloran stopped short, a familiar smell floated under his nose: the warm beer-and-beefsteak smell of Billy’s Place, sawdust and onions, like any other bar maybe, but with something of its own besides. The talk within him stopped also as if a hand had been laid on his mind. He drew his fist out of his pocket almost expecting to find green money in it. The half dollar was in his palm. “I’ll stay while it lasts and hope McCorkery will come in.”

The moment he stepped inside his eye lighted on McCorkery standing at the bar pouring his own drink from the bottle before him. Billy was mopping the bar before him idly, and his eye, swimming toward Halloran, looked like an oyster in its own juice. McCorkery saw him too. “Well, blow me down,” he said, in a voice that had almost lost its old County Mayo ring, “if it ain’t my old sidekick from the G. and I. Step right up, Halloran,” he said, his poker-face as good as ever, no man ever saw Gerald McCorkery surprised at anything. “Step up and name your choice.”

Mr. Halloran glowed suddenly with the warmth around the heart he always had at the sight of McCorkery, he couldn’t put a name on it, but there was something about the man. Ah, it was Gerald all right, the same, who never forgot a friend and never seemed to care whether a man was rich or poor, with his face of granite and his eyes like blue agates in his head, a rock of a man surely. There he was, saying “Step right up,” as if they had parted only yesterday; portly and solid in his expensive-looking clothes, as always; his hat a darker gray than his suit, with a devil-may-care roll to the brim, but nothing sporting, mind you. All first-rate, well made, and the right thing for him, more power to him. Mr. Halloran said, “Ah, McCorkery, you’re the one man on this round earth I hoped to see today, but I says to myself, maybe he doesn’t come round to Billy’s Place so much nowadays.”

“And why not?” asked McCorkery, “I’ve been coming around to Billy’s Place for twenty-five years now, it’s still headquarters for the old guard of the McCorkery Club, Halloran.” He took in Mr. Halloran from head to foot in a flash of a glance and turned toward the bottle.

“I was going to have a beer,” said Mr. Halloran, “but the smell of that whiskey changes my mind for me.” McCorkery
poured a second glass, they lifted the drinks with an identical crook of the elbow, a flick of the wrist at each other.

“Here’s to crime,” said McCorkery, and “Here’s looking at you,” said Mr. Halloran, merrily. Ah, to hell with it, he was back where he belonged, in good company. He put his foot on the rail and snapped down his whiskey, and no sooner was his glass on the bar than McCorkery was filling it again. “Just time for a few quick ones,” he said, “before the boys get here.” Mr. Halloran downed that one, too, before he noticed that McCorkery hadn’t filled his own glass. “I’m ahead of you,” said McCorkery, “I’ll skip this one.”