The Parting Glass (27 page)

It is no surprise to me that there are policemen and firemen to spare at St. Brigid’s. We were bred through years of suffering to work together for justice. Is that not a description of the jobs so many Irish are called on to do?

Your loving sister,

Maura McSweeney

chapter 17

A
t first Brenna refused to quit her job. “I’ve no faith in this Timothy McNulty,” she told Liam. “I’ve heard of him, you know. He gives money to the church and community with one hand, and snatches everything he can with the other. He’s a thief and a liar, and the fact that he’s Irish makes no difference at all. Look what his men did to you. Do you think they’ll stop next time if they believe you’ve crossed them?”

Liam had considered lying to Brenna, telling her that McNulty had interrupted another man’s beating of him and offered Liam a job because of his courage. But too many people had been nearby to witness the actual event. Most likely Brenna would discover the truth and be furious with him.

“He’s a hard man,” Liam admitted. “But he was testing me. Now he knows I’m a man who keeps things to myself, a man who can be trusted.”

“And you trust Timothy McNulty? A bootlegger? A rumrunner?”

“Can you say those things are wrong? People want what they want, Brenna. A harmless drink or two, and they can’t get it any other way. Somebody always makes money off bad laws. Who knows that better than an Irishman? For once I’ll be the one making the money.”

Nothing she said could change his mind. She continued going to work, leaving Irene with a neighbor each morning and loudly proclaiming that if she was going to be widowed young, she might as well have a position lined up to support herself and their daughter. After six months, though, she came home one evening and announced that she had given notice and planned to quit at week’s end.

“Irene needs her mother,” was all she would say. Liam knew better than to inquire further.

He had been surprised to discover how mundane his new job really was. He rode with several other men in a car that followed McNulty everywhere. He stood, arms folded, outside a variety of buildings when McNulty had meetings. When called on, he loaded crates of unknown origin into cars, trucks or boats, asking no questions and receiving no explanations. He swept floors at the hardware store downstairs from McNulty’s business office, sometimes waiting on customers, sometimes carrying bags for shoppers.

He was paid regularly, and as well as he’d been at the factory. He was issued no weapon, asked to keep no secrets. He was alternately relieved and disturbed. He had no wish to put his life on the line, but he had hoped for a job with a future. His future, it seemed, was a life of manual labor.

Three months after taking McNulty’s offer, he was downstairs in the hardware store doing inventory with the manager when Jerry, the oversized brute who had beaten Liam, came downstairs and crooked an index finger in his direction. “Boss wants to see ya.”

Liam would never enjoy Jerry’s company, but the two men had a silent truce. Liam knew better than to make enemies in McNulty’s own operation. If he was ever called on to do anything important, he would need these men protecting his back. And Jerry seemed to take very little that he did for McNulty personally. Beating Liam had been part of a day’s work.

Liam dusted off his hands and started up the stairs after Jerry. He’d rarely climbed them. This was McNulty’s inner sanctum, and it was the job of every man on the ground floor to keep interlopers away.

At the top of the stairs, Jerry signaled a halt. Liam stood with his hat in his hands, waiting to be taken down the hall. He stood that way for a long time, not shifting his weight, not sighing or grumbling. He was paid to do anything McNulty asked, and if he asked him to stand there, he would.

Half an hour passed before he was shown into McNulty’s office. It was surprisingly neat for a man with so many businesses to juggle. Liam wondered if there were other offices hidden in other places, perhaps even in the building.

McNulty sat at a mahogany desk, the surface shining and dust free. He didn’t look up when Liam was shown in, and he didn’t look up for minutes afterward. He gazed at the desk, as if he was hoping it would show him something new, once drawing his finger across the top as if bisecting it for future purposes. At last he looked up. “You like your job? Things going well enough to suit you?”

“Yes, sir. I like it fine.”

“I hear good reports.”

“I’m glad.”

“Your wife’s not unhappy? She’s not complaining to the neighbors?”

“Brenna comes from the same sort of place I did. We learned to keep to ourselves. It’s not a lesson you recover from.”

McNulty smiled. “You like where you live?”

“Well enough, thank you.”

“But you’d like something better?”

“When the time is right.”

“From the beginning I thought you might be a man who’s easily bored. Is that true, Tierney?”

“I don’t let it stop me from doing what I need to.”

McNulty seemed to think that was a good enough answer. “You had a bit of trouble with the law in Ireland, didn’t you?”

Liam was certain McNulty knew all about it. The man was no fool. “I did.”

“I like a lad who does what he thinks best, regardless. A lad who puts Ireland’s future first. I’ve a new job for you. You won’t find it boring.”

“I go where you ask me to go, do what you ask me to do.”

“We’ll be watching you.”

“I’ve no problem with that, sir.”

McNulty looked up and signaled Jerry, who stepped inside the doorway. “He’ll need supplies for the job. Take care of it.” He dismissed Liam with a nod of his head.

“Thank you, sir,” Liam said. Hat still in hand, he followed Jerry out into the hall before he clapped it back on his head.

“Ever fire a gun?” Jerry asked as they started downstairs.

“You’d be surprised at what I’ve done.”

The process of making bootleg liquor differed widely, depending on materials at hand. But barrels of raw alcohol, which could be distilled, flavored and sold at exorbitant prices, went at a premium. Much of the work was done by the time raw alcohol was obtained from the fermentation of water, yeast and some form of sugar, making it a commodity in high demand and worth fighting for.

“Here’s what you need to know,” Jerry told Liam. They were third in a line of cars heading toward the East Side neighborhood of Woodland and 25th, known locally as Bootleggers’ Rendezvous. “Squeaky Frank Donatone has a beef with McNulty. For some reason, he thinks McNulty’s been stepping in on his operation. So he stepped in on McNulty’s and lifted two dozen barrels from our warehouse on Monday. We’re gonna return the favor. You understand?”

Liam figured that if he didn’t, he was a half-wit and not worth trusting with the information.

A sawed-off shotgun resided double barrels-down beside him. After handing him the weapon, Jerry had given him a lesson he didn’t need, but there hadn’t been time to practice. Liam had no interest in shooting the gun—he had never been fond of violence. Still, if he was required to defend himself, he wouldn’t hesitate. And if he was required to defend McNulty, who was paying his salary, he supposed he could do that, as well. Squeaky Frank, despite the ridiculous nickname, had a reputation for ruthlessness.

“Why’s he called Squeaky?” Liam asked.

Jerry snorted. “Got a fake leg that squeaks when he walks.”

Liam figured that if he came across old Squeaky, that was the leg he would aim for if he was lucky enough to have a choice.

It was midafternoon by the time they got to Donatone’s warehouse, and a cold wind blew off the lake, rattling signs and siding, and sending trash skittering across the street. When he stepped out of the car, Liam looked down to see the front page of
La Voce Del Popolo Italiano
wrapping itself over his shoe. “Voice of the Italian People.” He didn’t need an education for the translation.

“They ain’t gonna have much of a voice, time we’re done with ’em today,” Jerry said.

Liam didn’t have anything against Italians, or the Jews, for that matter, who also had their hands deeply in Cleveland’s bootlegging till. He figured everybody was out to get their share, and the more downtrodden they’d been, the more they figured their share was worth.

He thought about that now as he followed Jerry through the undergrowth on the warehouse’s east side. The alley where the warehouse resided was tucked away, but even at that, the neighborhood was strangely quiet. He was reminded of the morning that Jerry and McNulty’s driver had beaten him nearly senseless on his front porch. The working people of Cleveland knew how to mind their own business.

The main door was on the other end of the building, but McNulty’s men were now stationed in the back and at the sides. They flanked their door and waited. Nobody had told Liam the signal, but when a whistle blew, he knew what was required. Together he and Jerry lent their weight to the door, and it crashed open. Liam snapped his gun waist-high and cradled the trigger with his finger.

The warehouse was nearly empty. Two frightened watchmen stood in the middle with trembling hands held high. Jerry laughed. “They better be scared, and not of us. Squeaky’s gonna be one unhappy fella, and that’s no baloney. Tie ’em up.”

Liam saw some wire that was similar to the kind he’d used in the box factory. He grabbed it and sat the men in a corner, back to back, using smaller pieces to secure their hands, then stretching the remainder around and around them, finally bending it back and forth until it snapped and he could fasten it off.

As he worked, the other men loaded barrel after barrel in the truck that had followed Liam and Jerry. It was a city truck, or one painted to look that way. When they had finished, they pulled a sheet of brown canvas across the top, fastening it on all sides so it wouldn’t blow away.

“Done,” Jerry said. “They’re secure?”

Liam hoped he hadn’t wired the men together to make them a better target. “You’re going to leave them like this?”

“No reason not to. Squeaky will know who did this whether these guys squeal or not. Stuff something in their mouths.”

Liam settled for some rags in the corner, folding them to make gags, which he tied securely behind their heads.

Things had gone too well. He’d developed a sixth sense in early childhood, a survival tool that had gotten him to this point in his life. He had learned to feel the winds of change, and he felt them now.

“Hear that?” He got to his feet. “Listen…”

Jerry scowled over his shoulder, striding to the back door where the cars and the truck were parked. “Don’t get all balled up on me, Tierney. Just get going. We’re gonna be the last to leave.”

Liam was halfway toward the exit when he heard the screech of tires and slam of car doors. He grabbed Jerry’s shirt and hauled him backward. “This way.”

Jerry didn’t need a second invitation. They backed toward the door through which they’d entered, shotguns raised for business.

“Treasury agents,” Jerry said, just loud enough for Liam to hear him.

Liam had been prepared for trouble with Squeaky and his gang. He wondered if the dry agents had guessed McNulty’s men would steal back what belonged to them, or if this was just an unfortunate coincidence. In the greater scheme of things, it didn’t really matter.

“Not that way. This.” Liam jerked his head toward a storeroom, where some of the barrels of alcohol had been kept. He’d seen a window large enough to slide through, offering them a better chance to get out without being seen. The window looked out over a vacant lot filled with rusted machinery and factory debris. If they got out fast, they had at least a chance of hiding there.

A blast from somebody’s shotgun sizzled the air, and the rat-a-tat of a machine gun followed. Tires squealed; a bevy of single shots were fired. McNulty’s men were making a getaway. Liam and Jerry dove for the storeroom. The window was high, but two crates under it made a perfect ladder. Liam unlocked and lifted the window and put his head outside. The action was all in the front, and if they were lucky, all the agents would follow the getaway truck. He motioned for Jerry to follow and launched himself out the window to the ground below.

Jerry joined him, although squeezing through the window wasn’t as simple for him as it had been for Liam. For a moment Liam thought they’d made it unseen; then a man came around the corner, pistol pointed directly at Liam’s chest.

“Prohibition Agent Glen Donaghue. Guns down. Hands in the air.”

Liam dropped his shotgun at this formal announcement and raised his hands. Beside him, Liam could see Jerry begin to comply. He had observed the man and been on the wrong end of his fists. He knew giving up was a sham, and he was ready.

Jerry’s shotgun whipped up just as Liam careened into him, knocking the big man off balance in a surprise attack. Pellets sprayed the air but did no damage. Jerry didn’t even stumble to catch his balance. He fell hard, knocking his head against a concrete post as he hit the ground. He went limp.

“You trying to save my life?” Glen Donaghue had gone pale. He was a young man about Liam’s age, with the healthy physique of a generation that had survived both the Great War and Spanish flu. The clean line of his jaw, broad, clear brow and gray eyes were an ancestor’s contribution. The aura of character was his own.

“Not much chance of that, lad,” Liam said. “I just thought you were about to shoot him, that’s all.”

Glen stared at Liam. More shots came from in front of the warehouse, another squeal of tires. “You’re part of this?”

“I came along for the ride.” Liam had heard stories of Treasury Department agents. The job was thankless; the men were poorly paid, and graft was as common as fancy badges. Men quit the department every year to join forces with the criminals they’d once pursued. This man seemed different.

“Bad idea.” Glen’s eyes flicked to the man at Liam’s feet. “You’re better than he is, Mick.”

Liam doubted that, but he was in no mood to argue.

“Put your hands out in front of you.” Glen pulled out handcuffs.