A True Irish-American
By Kevin Donnelly
Submitted in partial fulfillment of the
Requirements for a
Degree in English-Professional writing
Senior Thesis
Professor Patrick Ryan
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Abstract:
This thesis contains the opening chapters of the novel A True Irish-American. A True
Irish-American is a fictional story of the Irish immigration to the United States from the
1920’s-1970’s. Using fictional characters, the story describes the hardships and struggles
faced by the Irish in America. The main characters, John and Ryan O’Reilly, will be
faced with conflicts between each other and obstacles of the time they live in.
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Chapter 1
Dear Margaret,
Time seemed to move so fast at your side, I wish I could have slowed it down, but
not here. The nights are so long, so cold, so bitter. The only knowledge of morning I have is
the light that gets through the cracks of the rotting wood. My stomach has held up for the
most part, better then others around me. Food is very scarce but it’s nothing I’m not used to.
The smell, the smell, I can’t get used to the smell. With only one toilet for 300 people the
smell has become unbearable.
I met a man the other day who reminded me a little of Michael. He was from
Dublin like most others I’ve met. His face was a bit pale, but he had the look of your
brother just the same. He talked of the streets being made of gold and a chance for an
Irishman to be someone at the other side of the ocean. I haven’t seen him in some time now.
I hope he hasn’t gotten sick, I hope he gets to see the end of this voyage. Hope… Hope is
the only thing a man can have in a place like this. Herded together like cattle, we all hang
on to the dream for a new life. I don’t know if the streets will be made of gold, all I know
is that I love you and I continue to hope, just as I hope this letter finds you and finds you
well.
Your husband,
John O’Reilly
Ryan finished reading the old crushed letter. It had wrinkles spreading across the
page like a roadmap of Brooklyn. Brown stains on the paper gave it a rusted look and
made it difficult to make out some of the words. The envelope was in better condition
though. It was marked for Ireland but with no postal stamp.
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Ryan folded it up neatly and, while shaking his head a little, placed it precisely
back under the dresser where he found it. He couldn’t help but notice the six shooter
revolver sitting on top of the dresser. It was shiny black as always with a brown handled
grip. The end of the barrel had some grey soot on it, indicating that it may have been
used the night before. Ryan had never noticed that about the gun before. Suddenly a
voice called from downstairs.
His father, John O’Reilly said, “Ryan!! Get down here and eat with your broth-is!
Some people gotta go to work in this house.”
Ryan exhaled showing his frustration, but made sure he closed his father’s
bedroom door behind him. He scurried down the stairs but didn’t go to the kitchen right
away. Instead, he headed out the front door. It was Wednesday and Ryan knew that his
father wouldn’t let him sit down until he got him the morning paper. Most of the time
Ryan and his two brothers would take turns, but Ryan liked going out to the street in the
morning. The neighborhood never had a dull moment, and Ryan didn’t like to miss any
of the action. This particular morning would be a little different.
Ryan stepped out to the sidewalk and took in the breeze of cool air from the long
awaited spring weather. As usual, the Irish from the neighborhood were coming in and
out of the grocery store across the street. Customers carried brown paper bags
overflowing with bread, beer and cigarette cartons.
Not many people on the block owned a car, so they traveled by train or by bus.
Ryan sometimes saw people running past, spilling coffee as they ran to catch the train.
Ryan inherited the habit of always taking the train from his father. John could’ve
afforded a car but he would always say, “I only travel by train or subway; there’s no other
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way in my mind”. It didn’t make much sense to Ryan because the train would stop five
blocks away from the school and he had to walk. Ryan knew not to question his father’s
intellect.
Murphy’s was a pub on the corner of Ryan’s block that every kid wanted to be in
or just be a part of. It wasn’t just a pub; it was “the” pub. Three concrete steps led up to a
glass door that would ring every time it opened. The bell never rang much in the
morning, but at night he heard it constantly ringing from his window. Lying in his bed
Ryan would count every time the bell rang to get an idea of how many people were going
to Murphy’s that night.
The highest he ever reached without falling asleep, was fifty three but every night
he tried to beat his record. The sign in front had been worn down over the years. The
overhang was now a faded green and the white letters that spelled Murphy’s were now
only partially white. The shamrock was still bright though. It seemed like somebody
started to repaint the sign but never got to the letters.
These weren’t the real reasons why Ryan liked going out to get the paper, at least
not the most important one. No, he hoped just to get a glimpse of Julie; just one glimpse
would start Ryan’s day with a smile. A jewel, Jewels, is what Ryan called her, even
though he never actually met her. That’s what Ryan viewed her as, a jewel among
pebbles. Her eyes were so shiny it seemed as though they would blind you if you looked
too hard. Her stare would make Ryan’s heart beat with a fury that no other person could
make it do.
Like clockwork, she appeared on the other side of the street waiting for the bus.
Ryan nervously kicked the curb and tried to make like he wasn’t looking at her. Ryan’s
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heart began to beat fast and his chest became engulfed in flames. Julie let out a quick
smile and Ryan exhaled his held breath with signs of relief. Her smile put out the fire in
his chest and put his fidgeting to rest.
Julie lived a few blocks down from Ryan, and they shared the same bus route.
Ryan wished he could take the bus just one day with her but his father didn’t approve.
John felt his kids should learn to take the train and travel as he did. As usual, father knew
best in the O’Reilly house, and that was the end of that.
The bus pulled up, taking Julie out of Ryan’s vision. The paperboy dropped the
morning paper at Ryan’s feet as he flew past on his bicycle. The bus drove off blowing a
cloud of black smoke out of the tail pipe. Ryan bent down to pick up the paper but when
he turned around he bumped into someone.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, dick”! Ryan was surprised; as he looked down
to see a small dark-haired kid whose face was familiar. He wore a wife beater and a shiny
chain that hung down to the middle of his chest and revealed a gold cross.
“Sorry man, I didn’t see you there,” said Ryan, shaking his head. “What? So now
you’re sayin I’m short dude,” The boy replied. “No that’s not what I’m sayin,” said Ryan.
“Then what are you sayin, I’m a shrimp huh?” said the boy. “No..I..I..No,” Ryan
stuttered his words a little this time.
The boy’s face became very impatient. “What are you, one of those stutter-in
mics my father tells me about?” He kept moving his hands a lot when he talked, as if he
were teaching something in a classroom. He said, “My father said that Irish are just about
as good as a nigga, except niggaz get paid more.” Ryan’s eyebrows clinched downward
when he heard this, getting in defense mode.
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Ryan replied to the remark, “Well, my father said that Italy is shaped like a boot
because that much shit don’t fit in a shoe.”
He took a step forward, and with a surprised look on his face said, “Oh I see,
you’re not a stutter-in mic, you’re a fuckin comedian.”
“I guess so you wop basted,” said Ryan. Just then the Italian kid took a quick
cheap shot below Ryan’s belt, dropping him to one knee.
The boy said, “I’d remember the name Dominic if I were you, asshole. Just cause
I’m small don’t mean I can’t take big mics like you.” He turned to walk away but
apparently had one more thing to say.
“Oh yea and if I see you look-in at my sister like that again I’ll break both your
legs.” He said something in Italian that Ryan didn’t understand, but he got the picture.
Ryan couldn’t get up; all he could only wait for the pain to stop as Dominic walked down
the street.
The door to the house opened, and Ryan’s father came halfway out. “Hey,
dumbass, get in here wit dat paper,” he said. Ryan’s father had kind of a weird accent,
which combined Bronx and Irish. He had a habit of calling his kids things like “dumbass”
and “lug head”.
Ryan struggled a little bit to get up and limped a little toward the door. “Why da
hell you limping like dat,” said Ryan’s father as he took the paper from him? “No reason
Dad.”
The house was small and cluttered, like most of the other houses on the block.
The inside definitely had a certain sense of coziness to it. The living room had been recarpeted by Ryan’s father, who had always made good use of his hands. The blue rug
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stretched across the room leading to a brown reclining chair and a three seat couch sealed
over with plastic. Ryan didn’t like the plastic because every time he’d sit down the plastic
would make a loud farting noise. The kids never sat in the reclining chair because they
knew it was reserved for the man of the house. Radio had died out some, so the television
got the most attention. They owned only one T.V., similar to other the other families on
the block. A brown frame surrounded the screen and a revolving dial changed the limited
eleven channels. The boys would sit on the rug or plastic covered couch as their father
reclined back to enjoy some black and white T.V.
The upstairs contained three rooms that John refurbished and painted all white.
The upstairs bathroom split the boy’s room and their father’s room apart. Ryan and his
older brother John Jr. shared a room at one end of the hall and their father was opposite
them. John built bunk beds for the two boys with a wooden ladder leading up to the top
bunk. John Jr., being older by two years, had seniority and claimed the top bunk as his.
Whenever Ryan’s father wasn’t home he would lock the door to his room. Every once in
a while, Ryan would get a chance to nose around in the only room that still had some
mystery to it.
That morning, the two boys sat down to eat with their father like any other day.
The smell of Irish sausage filled the small kitchen. Sausage was a smell that Ryan had
become accustomed to and loved. The tea pot whistled and alerted Ryan that his father’s
tea was done. The boys had learned to help out around the house at a young age, after not
having a mother for so many years.
John O’Reilly sipped his tea, leaving some residue on his grey mustache. His hair
had turned mostly grey over the years and puffed out at the top, if it wasn’t combed. His
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stomach would always be touching the table pushing him back a few inches. He was a
heavy man but worked as if he were twenty pounds lighter.
Every morning he would set the newspaper down in front of him and tell his two
boys about the world. “This country is going straight to hell,” he’d say. Ryan would listen
as his father laid it all out for him. He’d say “The Irish are the backbones of this country
son, remember that.” Ryan had no doubt that John O’Reilly was a man who held grudges.
Hate was bottled up inside John and closed tightly. Every once in a while the bottle
would open and the O’Reilly boys would get a taste for his belt.
One night, when Ryan was a few years younger, John came home late from work.
This wasn’t out of the ordinary because John had worked many late nights and come
home drunk. John owned his own packaging and shipping business and had shops all
over the five boroughs.
On this particular night Ryan had left one of his toys out on the living room floor.
Ryan woke up to heavy breathing and thumping up the stairs. The door flung open and
two bright green eyes appeared in the darkness. The eyes stared through the dark and the
four feet of room separating the two. Ryan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, revealing John
with his shirt only half tucked in and his red striped tie loosely hanging around his neck.
Ryan was dragged from his bed that night and taken downstairs for a good beating. The
smell of sweat and Irish whiskey became a bad memory for Ryan. Ryan cried that night
for the first time he could remember. He cried out of fear and disappointment in himself
but after that night, Ryan never let his father see another tear from him again.
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Chapter 2
John O’Reilly would say, “You boys want something in dis life you gotta work
for it, and when work doesn’t pay off you, gotta take it, ya understand.” John O’Reilly
was a hard worker his entire life. When he arrived in America the streets weren’t paved
with gold and nobody greeted him with open arms. Instead he was spat on and told to go
back to where he came from. At the time of his arrival the Irish were seen as the lowest of
the low, and put on the same class status as blacks.
John had a hard time finding work at first. He eventually found a job working at
the docks in New York Harbor, unloading shipments for terrible pay. He spent months
trying to save enough money so he could send his wife Margaret to the states. John was
only making about five cents a day at the docks and he could barely afford to feed
himself.
Unfortunately, Margret would never get to see America. Her health had worsened
after John had left for his journey to the states. Margaret never told John the extent of her
pain; she kept it inside so he wouldn’t worry. John didn’t even know she was sick until a
couple months passed and Margaret fainted at their home in Ireland. After a couple of
months in the states John received a letter from Margaret’s brother telling him, “I’m sorry
John but she’s with God now.” John tore up the letter that day and almost lost all the
hope he had left.
John was able to cram in another Irish family living in a shanty town near the port
where arrived. The family consisted of eight people living in a two room apartment. He
didn’t like leeching off of people but after two nights of sleeping on the street, with only
a bottle of whiskey to keep him warm, he would take any help he could get. Jim Murphy
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was the head of the large family. He found John on that rainy night, shivering in the cold
with a crumpled letter in his hand that would never be sent.
Jim picked him up off the street and brought him home that night. “Come on,
buddy. Don’t show them any weakness,” said Jim as he picked John up from the wet side
walk. John barely fit in the apartment but they made room for him on the floor. He came
to his senses as Jim laid him down on the cold wood floor. He opened his eyes and saw
Jim’s daughter across the floor. They made eye contact for a moment but John quickly
fell into a deep sleep.
John stayed with the Murphy’s for a couple of months, until he got back on his
feet. He eventually found a better job at a postal factory. The pay wasn’t much, but it was
better then his job at the docks. It allowed John to get a place of his own, after a while of
committed saving. The house was on Welcher Avenue in the Bronx. John had become
close with Jim’s daughter, Sara, who was the same age as John. Her hair was curly brown
and she had some freckles on her nose and cheeks. She was a hard worker, from the day
she arrived in America and always had her hands full. Whether it was taking care of her
brothers and sisters or helping put bread on the table, Sara was always busy. John was
attracted to her, right from the start. Her strong willed personality captured John’s
attention. It didn’t take much longer till Sara moved in with John. Sara helped John get
through long nights with no alcohol. She was able to fill the hole in John that the liquor
could not.
John had become friendly with Sara’s brothers Patrick and Michael. Jim Murphy
said that sticking together was the only way that the Irish could move forward in
America. Patrick was a couple of years older then John, and had a commanding look
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about him. He was the oldest of eight siblings and knew how to keep a crowded room
under control. Michael was a year younger and he always had to be the center of
attention. His wisecracks and jokes made it easy for people to flock around him. His
mouth was dirty but if you ever needed a good laugh, Michael Murphy was your man.
John and Patrick worked at the postal factory together, with hundreds of other
Irish immigrants. The days grew long and hard on their backs but they made the best of
it. After work, the three Irishmen would talk over pints of Guinness and have a few
laughs. These guys could have eight glasses a piece and not slur a word. John always kept
it to a minimum since his soon to be wife, Sara, was keeping tabs on him. Sara wasn’t
controlling or anything, but she knew first hand what alcohol could do to a man. Sara did
her best to keep John away from the stereotypes that labeled the Irish like, “good for
nothing drunks.” John loved her for that and always kept his drinking under control for
her.
John, although skeptical at first, decided to marry for the second time. He was
nervous about marriage because deep down he still felt wounds healing from Margaret’s
death. That all changed when Sara said, “you’ll always have a place for her, no matter
what happens in the rest of your life.” John realized his love for Sara was undeniable.
They married and in a few months Sara was pregnant with John Jr.
Despite everything that was happening around them, John was able to keep his
job at the factory. The economy fell hard that year and many Irish, along with other
Americans, were out of a job. John made some connections during his work at the
factory. Some days instead of packing boxes he would deliver mail around the Bronx and
Manhattan. The side work he acquired wasn’t exactly legal, but it helped bring in some
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extra cash. He would run numbers and make deliveries for people on his spare time. Sara
could always tell when John lied to her, even when it was a petty lie. It was not so much
in his face, but more his eyes that she could see the lie. Sara would always say, “John,
your eyes are lying to me.” When Sara asked where the extra money was coming from
John couldn’t hide it. She wasn’t angry with John but more disappointed that he should
know better. Times were getting more difficult and food more scarce but John cut his
deal off anyway.
John Jr. was born in the first month of 1933. John was mixed with feelings of
excitement and paranoia; he had never been a father. Another mouth to feed meant that
he needed to put more bread on the table. Workers began losing their jobs left and right
and John found himself holding on to his, by a thread.
Sara went back to work almost immediately after giving birth. She worked ten
hour days cleaning houses. John hated the fact that he couldn’t make enough money to
support his family. Sara was a worker though and the labor didn’t seem to bother her.
Many Irish women worked long grueling hours just like men. Hell, even John worked
along side woman at the factory. Irish women of the time were strong spirited and
worked two jobs. One job was at the factory and the other was taking care of the common
family of eight.
In 1935 Sara became pregnant with another child. This time the pregnancy wasn’t
planned but Sara was pleased, nonetheless. John became frightened as his hours at the
factory were slowly being chipped away. Patrick had already been laid off and moved to
Boston for more work. John debated with Sara about going back to his connections to
bring in more money, but Sara refused.
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“We’ll find another way, John,” she would say. Even in their most desperate
times Sara was always calm and managed to keep John on his feet. They decided to name
the child, Margaret, if it were a girl and Ryan, if it were a boy. The servings of potatoes
and meat became smaller and smaller. Sara still worked throughout seven months of her
pregnancy, until one day she fainted while cleaning an employer’s kitchen. John forbid
her to work and blamed himself for the incident. His guilt began to grow inside him. He
had no money for Sara to see a doctor and was sacrificing his own dinners to John Jr.
The ninth month of Sara’s pregnancy came, but John would still only have to
worry about feeding three mouths. On May 20th 1933, a life was given and another taken.
Sara’s body had become too weak and she died giving birth to their second son, Ryan.
After that day, things just seemed to get worse and worse for John. He lost his job
soon after Sara’s death and had to move out of the house. Jim Murphy took John and
boys in for a while. The hole in John was empty again and he looked for alcohol to fill it.
The entire country was suffering but John seemed to blame others for his problems. An
Italian carpenter beat John out for a job once because they said he had more experience.
He felt it was the bad name that Irish had received for working in America that lost him
the job. John was livid and his anger continued to grow.
John’s ideals began to change seemingly overnight. The straight arrow that Sara
had kept over the years began to bend, and the bottle Sara had kept closed began to twist
open. Others in the country saw despair, John saw opportunity. “When work fails, you
gotta take it,” became John O’Reilly’s oath. If the Irish were always going to be summed
up as alcoholics, John felt he could use it to his advantage. John reconnected the severed
wires to his old contacts and began his rise to power.
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Bootlegging became a popular trade among Irish in New York and Boston. John
rounded up the Murphy brothers for what he called, “a great plan.” They began small by
high-jacking liquor trucks in the Bronx and some surrounding areas. Eventually they
high-jacked enough trucks to start their own bootlegging gang. John organized bootleg
meetings in the Bronx and some parts of Boston and the money began to flow like a
waterfall.
John O’Reilly had a new influence in America. He soon had enough money to
buy back the house he felt was taken from him. An Italian family had moved in following
John’s absence. The neighborhood was still mainly Irish immigrants but a few Italian
families had moved in.
John walked into the house that day with a brand new suit and acted as if he had
never left. He sat at the table where his wife Sara had cooked dinner for him every night.
John had a confident look on his face, like a salesman who just raked in a ton of money.
The owner sat opposite him with an uncomfortable look on his face. John took some
money out of his suit pocket with his left hand and placed it on the table. The Old Italian
man shook his head and said, “The house is not for sale.” John reached in his pocket
again, unscathed by the remark, and placed more money on the table. “That should be
enough,” John said. The man looked down at the money and then back at John, “you
don’t understand the house is not for sale.” John shook his head a little and with his right
hand he reached to his side and pulled out a fully loaded revolver and set it on the table.
“Well how about dat is dat enough?”
John moved in with his two sons a few days later. His new-found occupation
began to grow, therefore requiring more workers. He hired new Irish muscle to increase
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the amount of trucks they could take down in a month. Patrick became John’s number
one guy and took care of all the transactions.
Confusion set in one night when Michael Murphy and two other men were highjacking a truck at the same time as someone else. The controversy led to a shootout
leaving three dead and Michael Murphy with a bullet in his ass. The report of what
happened came back to John and he wasn’t happy.
John soon learned that it was two of Owney, “The Killer,” Madden’s men who
were killed during the confusion. Madden had made a name for himself by setting up
bootlegging operations and boxing matches in New York. John O’Reilly had now made
the mistake of jacking a truck in Madden’s territory and now he would have to face the
repercussions.
Patrick, through his connections in Boston, was able to set up a meeting between
Owney and John. Madden put the word out that he was looking for John and he would
find him one way or the other. The meeting was set to take place at the Cotton Club at
142nd street and Lenox Avenue in Harlem. Madden had acquired the club, through
various negotiations, while serving time in Sing Sing penitentiary.
It was unusually hot for a night in October and John O’Reilly put on his most
expensive suit and tied his tie tight around his neck. He looked himself in the mirror but
didn’t see the same man. His eyes, once filled with joy and happiness, were now filled
with hate.
Patrick and the other guys in his crew wanted to go with him, but John refused.
“I’ll do this alone,” he said. He apologized for scolding Michael and said, “I’ll take care
of it alright. I always do.” Michael was sitting uneasy on the couch after having the bullet
16
removed earlier that day. John looked down at his two boys on the couch. He turned and
walked out the front door and didn’t look back.
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Chapter 3
Owney Madden had acquired the infamous Cotton Club in 1923, while he was
serving a twenty year murder sentence in Sing Sing correctional facility. He purchased
Club Deluxe from former heavy-weight champion Jack Johnson and renamed it the
Cotton Club. The club had now become specifically, “Whites Only,” but incorporated
black entertainment. Jazz singers and entertainers like Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington,
Louis Armstrong, Bojangles Robinson and The Nicholas Brothers all performed at the
club.
John stepped into the street light. He took one last pull of his cigarette and the
smoke rose up past his face engulfing him. He walked with a type of determination he
never had before.
The line stretched along the white building and around the corner. Everyone on
the line was dressed to look their best. The red carpet led the way to the entrance, where
anybody who was anybody in New York would be granted entry. John moved swiftly
passed the line paying no mind to the gorgeous women who filled it. He could hear the
sounds of the saxophone and the bass playing from the inside of the building. John was
put to a halt by the man guarding the door who shoved a clipboard into his chest
separating the two. He was a large stocky man but his face looked like someone held a
screen to it and then threw shit at it.
John, without hesitation, slapped the clipboard into the air, releasing it from his
chest. Suddenly two other men came from the sides of John and grabbed him. They
scuffled a little bit but got hold of John.
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“Hey, hey get your fuckin hands off me alright,” said John. The men after
checking John up and down for a weapon backed off a little, but kept their guard. “I’m
here to see Mr. Madden,” he said in an argumentative tone.
“What’s your name tough guy?” said the guard. John fixed his suit and combed
his hair back into place.
“John O’Reilly,” and he should be expecting me. A few people on line had
acknowledged the scene and were paying close attention. One woman with a bright white
dress stared at John with curiosity. The guard ran his large doe-like finger down the list,
stopping at John’s name.
He unhooked the chain that was blocking the door and John made his way inside,
but not before making eye contact with the woman in the white dress.
The inside of the Club was lit up brightly with a red haze covering every inch of
the first floor. Waitresses carried glasses and drinks at a quick pace moving with the loud
beat of jazz coming from the stage. The chorus singers were all young women and
dressed in skimpy outfits to attract the on-looking crowd. The man on the saxophone
played his instrument in a rocking back and forth motion with both eyes closed,
captivated in the music. The bass player’s eyes were hidden by a pair of darkly shaded
glasses. All the members of the band wore blue tuxedos with black bowties. The dance
floor was packed and the surrounding tables didn’t seem to have a seat open.
John made his way through the sea of people on the dance floor and took a seat at
the bar. He ordered a drink then turned and looked up at the second floor platform.
Nobody was dancing on that floor, just people at tables with their eyes glued on the show
below. Only one man wasn’t watching the band. He stood with one hand on the balcony
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and the other smoking a cigarette. His black suit was without flaw and his red striped tie
capitalized his presence. His hair was combed slickly to the side and his face, though
seemingly young, had the look of experience. His eyes squinted as he took a pull of his
cigarette and locked eyes with John. The two men stared at each other and all the sound
in the room was suddenly blocked out in John’s mind and turned to slow motion, just
leaving him and Owney Madden.
“Mr. Madden will see you now!” broke the silence and John turned to see a short
bearded man awaiting his attention. When John looked back all he saw was an empty
spot at the balcony. He was escorted up the stairs as the woman in the white dress caught
his eye again from the dance floor. He rounded the second floor scaffold and passed two
guards with no expressionless faces. He entered the office room at the end of the
walkway.
The shades were drawn from the only window that looked out onto the entire
club, but the room was well illuminated. There sat Owney Madden, behind a desk, in a
large black leather chair. The room was surprisingly empty with only four walls, two of
them with framed pictures. One was a painting of the Brooklyn Bridge and the other was
a picture of Prima Carnera the heavy-weight boxer.
Madden, after being released from prison, got his hands tied up in boxing. At the
time, he was managing Primo Carnera who was the current heavy-weight champion.
Madden had been accused of fixing fights in the past and reporters had begun questioning
Carnera’s victories.
John looked around the small office in curiosity, but he stayed alert nevertheless.
Owney Madden rocked a little in his chair, as he inspected John up and down.
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“You can leave us now French,” said Madden. The bearded man, who had
escorted John in, turned and closed the door behind him. John knew he must’ve been Big
Frenchy, Madden’s right hand man who helped him muscle his way into acquiring the
Cotton Club.
“Have a seat,” said Madden, waving his hand passed the chair in front of John.
“No thanks, I think I’ll stand,” said John. He tightened his suit around his chest a little
and took a step forward.
Madden said, “Please, it would make me feel better if you sat. After all you’re my
guest here.” Madden stood up and pulled the chair out for John to sit, just as a good host
should. John acknowledged the hospitality and decided to take a seat. He noticed that
hidden in the corner of the room was a slim door that was not noticeable until you
stepped in a few feet.
“Do you know who I am?” asked Madden with an intrigued look on his face.
“Yea. I know who you are,” said John shaking his head slightly in recognition.
“Good, then that will save me time in certain categories that I don’t feel I will need to
explain. I’m a very busy man John and time is something that I’ve learned to respect over
the years. I respect it because it’s above all of us and we can’t stop it no matter how hard
we try,” said Madden.
“Time is just a counting system. Numbers that some philosopher attached
meaning to,” John replied. Owney squinted his eyes. He tried looking deeper into John.
“Well if numbers are just numbers, then why do we abide by them, follow them,
and study them?” asked Owney.
21
John said, “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask the mother fucker who invented
the clock.” Owney was shocked for a second but quickly gained his resolve and laughed.
He had a high-pitched laugh that seemed to echo in the four corners of the room.
“I can see you’re a tough nut to crack John. But one thing I’ve learned over the
years is that with the right tool you can break anything, said Owney.” He paused for a
second to let John soak it in.
“Come here John I want to show you something,” said Madden as he stood up and
walked to the shaded windows and drew up the blinds. John followed his lead. They both
looked down at the people who filled the dance floor. The lights from the stage
illuminated the dark eyes of the two men watching overhead.
Madden said, “You see this John. This is what I created. A man’s got to have a
vision in a country like this, especially an Irishman. If you want to get anywhere in life
you gotta be able to smell opportunity when others see disaster. The whole country is
falling apart, but you wouldn’t be able to tell by look-in at all this would you.”
John turned his eyes away from the view and looked at Madden. “The world only
falls apart if people let it,” said John.
“Ah huh, see that’s just my point, John. People decide their own fate. Nobody
pulls my strings and tells me what to do. There’s nobody behind the curtain who is
responsible for my actions, it’s just me. If I want something, I’ll take it and if someone
gets in my way, well let’s just say they, decided their own fate,” said Madden.
The two men sat back down after Madden closed the shades. John was just taking
his time. He knew of Madden, but never met him before. John wanted to get a better feel
for what kind of man he was.
22
Madden inched his chair up to the desk, crossed his fingers together and said,
“Now for the business at hand. I consider myself a businessman John, so just think of this
as a business meeting. I am the boss and you are an employee.”
John interrupted. “I don’t work for you, Mr. Madden. I don’t work for anybody.”
Madden said, “I beg to differ, John; you see you signed a contract stating that in
fact you do work for me, in fact that your entire crew works for me.”
“I never signed anything,” said John, with an affirmative look on his face.
“You signed it in blood John, you signed it in blood,” said Madden as his eyes
opened widely and as he leaned forward in John’s direction. “You see, though you may
have not pulled the trigger yourself, your men represent you as mine represent me. That
means that you shed some of my blood and I want it back.”
John stared deep into the eyes of Madden, not exactly knowing what to look for,
just looking. He said, “I understand how you feel, Mr. Madden and I do take responsibly
for the actions of my men. The truck will be returned to you immediately with my
deepest apologies, and that is the best I can offer you.”
“No you see you’re not in the position to be making offers, because that’s my job.
In a business transaction one person makes the offer and the other decides to accept or
decline. It would be in your best interests to accept my offer,” said Madden.
John said, “What might that offer be Mr. Madden?” trying not to reveal any of his
frustration to Madden.
“It’s simple John. You have an up and coming business and you must therefore
pay a certain interest to the people who were here before you, namely me. Now if you are
23
going to work for me we must build a bridge of trust between us,” said Madden. He
stopped and glanced at the painting of the Brooklyn Bridge.
“What kind of bridge are you talking about?” said John.
Madden said, “People are jealous John you know that. Whenever somebody
accomplishes something good, take this club for example, somebody is always there
trying to tear it down. A certain business associate of mine is trying that at this very
moment. Now needless to say, I would usually handle this type of business myself but on
this particular occasion I could use a man of your stature.”
Madden leaned back in his chair again but still kept his hands folded. “Have you
ever heard of Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll?” John kept his posture upright and made very
little expression.
Madden said, “Well, he’s decided that the oath he took means nothing. Exploiting
friends to the police is not exactly the best way to keep them. I’ve arranged for him to be
dealt with and I want you to tag along. Let’s call it your training lesson.”
“Why me? I’m sure you got plenty of guys around here to do your dirty work.
Why don’t you just send shit face that’s guarding your front door?” said John.
“Who Mugsy?” He let out another laugh that echoed in John’s ear. “No John, this
is going to require man with special talent. Here is the number for two associates of mine.
They’ll give you all the necessary details,” said Madden.
John took the number and looked at it quickly. He shifted his head back up to
Madden who sat with a look of superiority. “What if I say no to this?” John waited for a
reply.
24
“In that case John, I wouldn’t go after you. Nahhh. That would be too easy. In a
case like yours, I’d go after someone you love, say a wife, a brother, or maybe even a
son,” said Madden. John took a deep breath and exhaled fire. He knew right then, if he
didn’t agree, his two sons could be in danger.
“You still haven’t answered my question Madden,” said John, leaning forward to
match Madden’s position and repeated, “why me?”
“Let’s just say I want to keep my eye on you,” said Madden, leaned back in his chair.
John was not intimidated by Madden at all. He just stood up, walked to the door and let
himself out. He turned as he put his hand on the door knob and said, “You ever hear the
old saying; keep your friends close and your enemies even closer?” Madden agreed with
a slight head nod.
“Because if I were you, I’d be wondering if you just made a friend or an enemy?”
John turned and exited the office. He didn’t stop the entire way out, quickly making his
way through the crowd. He didn’t look back but he could feel Madden watching him
leave from the window above. He was put to a stop again at the front door by Madden’s
ugly thug, Mugsy.
“You know its asshole’s like you that put Irish on the same level as the niggiz,
said Mugsy. John rolled his eyes and looked up in annoyance and quickly gave a jab
below Mugsy’s belt dropping him to pavement.
25
Chapter 4
Ryan decided to walk instead of taking the train to school that day. He had shaken
off his early encounter with Jewel’s brother, who had introduced himself so kindly. The
day was warm and the few trees on the block began to sprout some leaves. Buses and cars
drove past Ryan leaving the sent of exhaust in the air. Ryan hated his wardrobe though,
everything all black from head to toe. His catholic school uniform was tight on his body
and at times he felt strangled by it. The cloth from his pants would always stick to his
legs in the warm weather and his collar would always strangle at his neck.
Spring was Ryan’s favorite part of the year. It was a time where anyone and
everything could start over. That’s what Ryan wanted to do, start over fresh. Today
would be different then all the others before it. Today would be the day when Ryan
would cough out the plug in his throat and speak to the girl who made his heart ache.
Ryan arrived at St. John’s Catholic School for boys and girls. The top of the
building held a giant cross that Ryan stopped to glance at before entering the doors. His
brother John Jr., ran past him in the hallway and gave him a quick tap over the head,
snapping Ryan out of a daze. “Wake up Ryan. Remember stick ball today after school,”
he said.
Ryan made his way through the swarm of students who looked like clones
because of their matching uniforms. Nuns and priests walked the hallway yelling, “get to
class.” The students were mostly Irish or Italian and everybody seemed to keep with their
own groups. The teachers were strict, especially about religious issues.
Ryan never had a problem with school. His father definitely taught him some
street smarts over the years but book smarts seemed to come naturally for him. His grades
26
were always good and his knowledge of things above his grade level was astounding.
Ryan’s father never praised him for any of the grades he showed him. If Ryan ever
showed him an A paper, John would just say, “Don’t believe everything you read, Ryan.”
Teachers always expressed a large sense of superiority to the students of St.
Johns. In past times, they had tried belittling Ryan by testing his intellect, always
assuming that Ryan was just another, “dumb Irish kid.” His history teacher once asked
him who the fourteenth president of the United States was with a smirk on his face. Ryan
replied, “Franklin Pierce,” sending the teacher into utter shock. History was his best
subject. He liked learning about the past because he felt that it would prepare him for the
future.
The dragged on and Ryan was antsy to get out and play stick ball with his older
brother. After placing his books back in the locker his eye caught notice of Jewels,
walking around the corner. She was accompanied by two friends and was letting out her
electric smile. Ryan froze as usual, but tried to break it by concentrating. “Alright this is
it,” he said to himself. He clinched his fists and began his mission. He developed a
determined walk toward Jewel’s and on his way over they made eye contact. She blushed
a little. Just as his mouth opened to speak a huge slam from the lockers interrupted the
meeting.
Two stocky students brushed past Ryan and slammed someone into the lockers.
They picked him up and thrust him back for a second time. Jewel’s let out a cry, “No,
leave him alone.” Ryan now understood who the boy was. Dominic’s face came into
view but it had lost the look of confidence and showed only pain. Jewels tried to pull one
27
of the boys off of him but got shoved back into the newly formed crowd. Ryan, seeing
and hearing her pain flipped a switch inside his head.
Ryan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and spun him around, introducing him to
a right hand. The boy had at least two inches on Ryan but fell with one shot. The other,
seeing what transpired, let go of Dominic and came after Ryan. He swung his arms
widely in Ryan’s direction not connecting with any of them. Ryan bobbed and weaved
like he had been boxing for years. He ducked a big swing and came back up with another
meaty right hook that jolted the boy into the lockers.
After the crash of the lockers all was silent. Ryan was in a state of shock just like
everyone around him. He breathed heavy for a few moments then calmed himself. He
turned and made eye contact with Jewel’s again, but this time with no smiles, just a
confused stare. Dominic’s groans of pain woke Jewel’s out of her trance with Ryan and
she rushed to pick him up. Just then a teacher busted through the crowd and grabbed
Ryan by his collar, swaying him back and forth.
She said, “Oh it’s you, O’Reilly I should’ve known.” Ryan took one more
disgruntled look at Jewels before he was tugged away. Ryan never understood but it
seemed like bad behavior was an expectation for him by his teachers. After a while he
began to think his father would have the answer to that question.
Ryan received a good talking to by the headmaster of the school. It involved some
harsh words and a few smacks with a ruler. They tried reaching his father but were
unsuccessful in their attempts. Ryan stood his ground hard and didn’t allow the
headmaster to break his spirit. Discipline was something that came second hand to Ryan,
so he coped with the beating pretty well. He was let out of school with a warning that if
28
he continued behavior like that he would be expelled. Ryan was more concerned about
missing his stick ball game after school.
Ryan had missed the train so he knew that walking was in the near future. As he
made his way out the door a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
“I guess some of you mics are tougher than I thought,” said Dominic Ryan
recognized his voice right away and didn’t even turn around to answer.
He looked up, let out a deep breath and said, “What do you want?”
Dominic said, “Why’d you help me back there?” Ryan turned to see a bruised and
red faced Dominic standing against the building. His uniform was torn near the collar and
he looked like he had just been mugged.
“I don’t know man,” Ryan answered.
“For someone to help a person who just kicked them in the nuts a few hours
earlier, is either a saint or just plain stupid,” said Dominic.
“Well I ain’t a saint and I must be stupid for helping a little shit like you out, so
there’s your answer,” said Ryan. He then turned his back on Dominic and walked down
the stone steps as he continued his walk home.
“Alright, alright, whatever your reasons were I’m glad you stepped in. Even
though I could’ve taken both those guys without your help,” Said Dominic
Ryan said, “If this is your way of saying thank you, you’re doing a really bad
job.” Ryan continued to walk fast keeping Dominic two steps behind.
“What is it with you Irish huh? You all walk around with some kind of chip on
your shoulder,” said Dominic as he picked up the pace to stay with Ryan.
29
“I don’t know, I guess we’re all just a bunch of drunks,” said Ryan Dominic
picked up on the sarcasm but paid it no mind. “What the hell were those guys after you
about anyway?” said Ryan. The two boys crossed the street quickly and hopped the fence
surrounding the schoolyard.
“Ah nothing, just a little disagreement we were having,” said Dominic. Ryan
looked over at Dominic and said, “That didn’t look like a little disagreement. What was it
over?”
Dominic answered, “Well they felt that I shouldn’t have had a sex sandwich with
their twin sisters, but I disagreed”. Ryan stopped walking for a minute and his face turned
to a confused smile.
He said, “Wait. You had sex with twin sisters?”
“Yea, so what?” said Dominic as he put his hands up in the air making it clear that
it wasn’t a big deal.
“That’s two girls at the same time?” Ryan asked trying to confirm.
“Yea. I see you can count, that’s good for you,” said Dominic.
“Twins,” Ryan repeated.
“Holy shit, yes twins, two, a pair, pockets, dos. You mics like repeating
yourselves a lot huh,” Dominic said as he put two fingers in Ryan’s face and twiddling
them. Ryan slapped the fingers out of his face and said, “Alright smart ass I get it.”
The two boys passed over the baseball field that in time would fill with spring
players. The schoolyard had a bad element that would wander in after school hours.
Groups of kids would herd together around the yard and nothing would ever come from it
but trouble. If anyone was ever looking to score drugs, everybody knew the schoolyard
30
was the place to do it. Although Ryan’s brother would sometimes hang around after
school, Ryan would usually steer clear of the grounds. Dominic walked beside Ryan
saying, “Hey,” or “Ho,” to almost everybody he walked passed.
“You’re a regular Hollywood around this area, huh?” Ryan asked.
“Who me? No most of these guys aren’t my friends they just owe me money or
favors,” said Dominic.
“What kind of favors?” said Ryan, looking at Dominic with a puzzled look on his
face.
“There you go with the fuckin questions again. What are you trying to be when
you get older a fuckin reporter?” said Dominic.
“No,” Ryan replied. “I actually want to be an Italian chef and make fucken
meatballs all day. ‘ Dominic began to laugh hard holding his stomach as he walked. The
two boys began to laugh together as they exited the school yard.
“Hey why don’t you let me buy you a drink,” said Dominic.
“Buy me a drink. Come on man I wasn’t born yesterday. You can’t buy alcohol,”
said Ryan.
“Hey, listen man, when you’re in my family, you’re never too young to drink,”
said Dominic.
“Yea well in my family you’re never too old to drink either, said Ryan”.
The boys walked a few blocks together watching the buses pass by filled with
students trying to get home. They talked about sports and finally found a common ground
on football. Ryan was a Notre Dame fan and although Dominic didn’t root for them
specifically, he acknowledged that they were a good team. When they would talk about
31
family, Ryan would dance around the subject of Jewels trying not to make it too obvious
about his feelings for her.
To Ryan’s surprise, Dominic’s home was really large. Most houses in the
Wakefield section of the Bronx were cluttered and seemed to fall right on top of each
other. Ryan’s house had broken that tradition a little, after all the work his father invested
in it. This house actually had a decent size backyard and Ryan thought about stick ball
being played on grass instead of concrete.
“Oh yea dude, my family plays stickball back here all the time,” said Dominic.
Ryan was amazed by the size of the house. They walked down the beautifully paved
driveway, and into a monstrous garage. Dominic undid the lock with a key he grabbed
from under a coffee can near by. “Check this out,” he said.
He swung the doors open to reveal a 1953 Oldsmobile Starphire convertible. The
shiny red paint lit up Ryan’s eyes as he inspected the car from front to back.
Ryan said, “This car has fiberglass body work, a wrap around windshield,
combination bucket-grille and bucket seats. It’s a V-8, with a two hundred horsepower
engine.” Dominic looked at Ryan with amazement wondering how he knew all that
information.
“Uhhh, yea. It also makes girls go fucken wild. I’ll tell you what, one drive
around in this thing and all your girl problems go out the fucken window,” said Dominic.
He explained how his father bought the car but took it out very rarely. He drove it about
once or twice a year, when the weather was at its warmest. Surrounding the car were
wooden barrels, some of them stacked to reach the ceiling. Dominic made his way over
32
to one of the tin jugs resting on a small wooden table. He poured a glass and extended it
in Ryan’s direction. “This will put some hair on your chest,” he said.
Ryan took a swig and coughed a little putting his hand against his chest. “What
the hell is in that, Gasoline?” Dominic laughed a little and said, “That’s homemade wine.
My father makes the best wine and that’s all he’ll ever drink.” Dominic took a swig
himself and seemed a little more accustomed to the taste.
“What does your dad do for a living?” Ryan asked, as he took another sip of the
wine. “He’s in the carpentry business and he owns his own shop. My brothers Pauli and
Phil work for him. Someday when I get old enough I’m gonna work for him too.” The
boys finished the glass of wine and closed up the shed.
They decided to take a walk down to the train tracks off Third Avenue. They
stopped under an overpass where cars flew past overhead. Under the bridge contained
graffiti filled walls and some old furniture. They rested on a couch that must have fallen
off a truck, traveling on the highway above. A train would pass every so often and they
would watch it go by because it became too loud for them to talk. Ryan thought about
hitching a ride on one of the trains. “Just leave and never come back,” he said.
“Why would you want to leave? We got everything we need here. A couch to sit
on, graffiti, and the fresh smell of shit,” said Dominic.
Ryan got up from the couch and walked along the train tracks. He tried balancing
himself on one of the rails but kept falling off. “Something’s just not right, you know
what I mean. I get this feeling sometimes.” Ryan said, pausing for a minute unable to
finish his sentence.
33
“What feeling” said Dominic? Ryan didn’t answer; he just looked out into the
open field opposite the train tracks. They talked for a while longer, throwing rocks at one
of the signs along the tracks. They competed to see who could hit the sign the most times
and Ryan won every time. His aim was sharp like a blade and he would repeatedly hit the
sign in the exact same spot. They tired after a while and they wanted to get home before
dark. Dominic’s house was first on their journey home and they stopped under a
streetlight out front.
“By the way, where the hell did you learn to throw punches like that anyway,”
asked Dominic.
Ryan said, “I don’t know, it kind of just happened.” Ryan looked at both his fists.
They both had some marks from his knockout blows.
“Well you kind of kicked the living shit out of those kids. I think you might be
better as a friend then an enemy Irishman,” said Dominic.
“At least now I know where I can get the best wine in this part of the Bronx,” said
Ryan. They shook hands and Dominic headed toward the front door.
Dominic looked back one last time and said, “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow right.”
Ryan gave a little smile and nodded his head. He looked up at the window on the second
floor of the house. He could see a figure staring at him through the curtain. Ryan got a
familiar feeling in his legs and chest. It wasn’t a frozen feeling but more of warmth. With
little hesitation Ryan picked his hand up and waved it lightly in the night air. He thought
he saw the figure wave back.
34
Chapter 5
It was a cold night in February and John O’Reilly waited at the window of his
house looking out at the street. His two sons had already gone to bed upstairs and he
made little noise, so as not to wake them. Patrick Murphy sat on the couch beside him
unable to keep still.
“I don’t like it John. I’ll tell you I really don’t like this.” Patrick got up off the
couch and paced back and forth.
“What’s to like, Pat?” John kept his stare out the window. “Would you stop
pacing, you’re gonna give me a fuckin heart attack.” Patrick stopped burning a hole in the
rug and sat back down, trying to relax.
“John I hope you know what you’re doing with this Madden guy because I hear
that he can’t be trusted. No one who even works for him can be trusted. You realize this
hit is going to bring all kinds of heat down on the business,” said Pat.
“Not our business,” John replied. He walked away from the window and poured
himself a drink of scotch.
“How do you know that? How do you know that Madden isn’t setting you up to
be the patsy in this,” said Pat with concern reflected in his voice?
“I don’t know, but what I do know is if you look hard enough at someone, you
can always find a weakness,” said John.
Patrick looked confused as he made a bewildered face and said, “So what’s that
have to do with anything?”
“It’s got everything to do with this. His weakness is anger and his ego. His guys
already took a shot at this “Mad Dog Coll,” and they killed three people in the process.
35
They went into an apartment, in our territory, with guns blazing and Coll wasn’t even
there,” said John.
“That’s not what the paper said; how the hell did you know that,” said Pat?
“If you want to run this business, you have to make it your business to know
everything that goes on in your territory. As far as I’m concerned Madden made a move
in our territory too and that calls for action,” said John
“At least let one of the guys go with you, John. It would make us all feel better,”
said Pat.
John said, “Listen Pat, I’m telling you everything’s going to be fine. This guy’s
ego is gonna be his downfall believe me. He thinks because he got shot eight times he’s
untouchable, but I’ll tell you something Pat, nobody’s untouchable, you hear me nobody.
”
A honk came from the outside street and John moved the curtain aside to see out
the window. It was an all black Cadillac sitting out in front of the house. The windows
were dark but John could make out three men sitting in the car.
John pulled out his revolver checking the six bullets inside, and then put it back
behind his waste. He said, “Alright, take care of the kids until I get back. Oh and Pat,
remember everybody has a weakness.” John threw on his black coat and hat and walked
out the door. Pat watched from the window as John entered the back seat of the shiny
bright Cadillac. The car took off down the road and Patrick closed the curtains.
36
Chapter 6
Ryan came home to a seemingly empty house that night. The television was off,
and the house had an unsettling quietness to it. Ryan went up the steps to his father’s
room and found it locked, signifying that his father had not come home from work yet.
He cracked open the door to his room letting a little of the hallway light enter the room.
He saw his Brother John sleeping quietly on the top bunk. Ryan’s stomach began to
growl like a beast in a cage. It was the only noise that broke the silence of the house. He
made his way to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator for any leftovers. He was
pleased to find half of a turkey sandwich which his father must’ve left.
After filling his urge for food, Ryan still had some energy left. It was mostly
because of what transpired during the day but what really poked at his head was his
meeting with Jewels. He tried to think about what she was doing at that exact moment.
His mind raced with ideas of her combing her hair, eating dinner, or just getting ready for
bed. He wondered if Dominic told her about their meeting after school and hoped it
would intrigue her.
He had a kind of smirk on his face while thinking of her that couldn’t be washed
away, at least not for the time being. He turned on the television, but it was just noise to
him in the background of his thoughts. Nothing could make him tired on this night. Even
though he didn’t actually talk to Jewels, Ryan felt he made contact with her in a way that
only he could understand. He didn’t make contact with words, but through the language
of the eyes. “You can tell a lot about someone by looking them in the eyes, Ryan.” John
had told Ryan this one night after he took the boys to see their first boxing match. This
always stuck with him.
37
Ryan turned off the T.V. and could hear the bell ring down the street every couple
of minutes. Ryan forgot about Jewels for a moment and turned his attention to Murphy’s.
He went to the window and heard muffled Irish music coming from the bar.
Ryan sat in bed still unable to sleep. He broke his record that night reaching fifty
five counts of Murphy’s bell. He walked out to enter the bathroom that separated the
boy’s room from their fathers. Stopping in the hall, he looked at the closed door to his
father’s room. Something urged Ryan inside to try and open the door. He scanned the
hallway, not really sure what to look for, but stopped at the clothes hanger on the door to
his room. He twisted the metal making a key shaped tool and pried at the lock. His
attempts were very unsuccessful and frustration began to set in. Just as Ryan was about to
give up he heard the lock click.
Ryan crept into the dark room, searching for the light on the wall carefully, so he
wouldn’t knock anything over. He flipped the switch bringing the room into vision. The
bed was messed-up with blankets and sheets scattered. His father never was much of a
housekeeper. The note Ryan read earlier that morning was still exactly where he left it.
Ryan looked at himself quickly in the mirror that stood above the large furnished desk.
His father’s watches were spread out all over the desk with some paperwork underneath
them. Ryan tried on a few of the watches, finding only one that fit him. It was a gold
watch that didn’t work anymore, but really shined in the light. The antique look made it
stand out among the other ten watches that scattered the desk. Just then Ryan froze, as he
heard the front door swing open and footsteps enter the house. Ryan quickly put the
watch down and swatted off the light switch. He listened and heard some scuffling
downstairs. He locked the door and closed it behind him slowly.
38
Nobody came up the stairs and Ryan crept toward the top railing. He held the
railing like prison bars looking down on the living room where he saw his father
removing his jacket. His shirt underneath was drenched with splatters of blood and he
had dried blood running up both his forearms. John was breathing heavy as he loosened
the tie around his neck. Ryan stared with a frightened look clenching onto the railing for
dear life. John made a move for the stairs, making it impossible for Ryan to get back in
his room without being seen. He crawled quickly to the bathroom and hid behind the
shower curtain.
The light turned on in the bathroom and Ryan held his breath believing that a
single exhale would give away his position. He heard the sink running and the sound of
his father’s breathing. Ryan took a peek around the curtain and saw him rapidly
scrubbing the blood off his hands. The attempts to get it all off were growing tiresome to
John as he dirtied towel after towel. Ryan watched the garbage can overflow with blood
stained towels. John stopped for a second and looked in the mirror. Blood lines had
dripped down his face and his neck, so he began scrubbing his face hard. Ryan’s heart
was beating so loud he thought his father might hear it and discover him hiding.
John went back into his room and removed the blood soaked shirt. He wasn’t in
any pain and had no wounds about his body at all. Ryan thought to himself the blood is
not his. He heard a clinging noise from the bathroom that paused his looking for more
towels. He looked back in the bathroom and noticed the curtain was opened a little bit.
John walked over to the boys room and cracked open the door and saw them both lying
quietly in bed. He shut the door after a moment and Ryan reopened his eyes. Ryan ended
up doubling his record that night, because he didn’t sleep a wink.
39
Chapter 7
The three men introduced themselves as “Bo,” “Scarnici,” and “Fabrizzi.” The car
was dark and the men wore all black. As they past each street light John could see their
faces for only a moment’s time. The getaway driver was a heavy set man who didn’t say
much, just kept his eyes sharp on the road. The seat was pushed forward and he looked
kind of squished, bringing to question how he could drive the car with such ease. Fabrizzi
sat in the front passenger seat and smoked a cigarette drastically. He turned, faced John
and the light flashed through the car showing his boney face that defined his cheekbones.
His hair showing under the black hat was light brown. He wore no tie but his white shirt
stuck out among all his black clothing.
“Listen, just because the man upstairs says you gotta work with us don’t mean we
have to like it,” said Fabrizzi. Bo, who was driving the car, took his eyes off the road for
the first time and glanced up at the rearview mirror to take a look at John. Scarnici, the
man who sat next to John, also wore a hat and jacket but with brown color separating him
from the other two. Scarnici asked John if he had the right tool to get the job done. John
moved his coat to the side flashing his revolver to Scarnici. He shook his head after
viewing it and said, “The boss wants this done right.” He reached under the seat and
pulled out two briefcases. One case was placed on John’s lap and the other stayed with
Scarnici. John snapped open the locks only to find a Tommy gun neatly organized in four
separate pieces. John knew right away that this was going to get messy.
“Don’t shoot till we shoot first you hear,” said Fabrizzi. John didn’t answer he
just cautiously and precisely pieced his instrument together, making sure all the strings
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were tightened. He snapped the round clip into place, setting the clock in his head for a
time to kill.
The car stopped on West 23rd street across the street from a pharmacy building. It
was dark and nobody was on the street. In front of the pharmacy was a glass telephone
booth with a sliding door. Every so often, someone would walk passed the booth or stop
and make a phone call. Whenever someone stopped at the booth the two shooters waiting
beside John would tighten up on their grips and Bo would tighten up on the wheel. It
didn’t take John long to realize the plan. As soon as Coll entered the booth, it would be
the last phone call he ever made.
Many false alarms happened and John could tell the three men were on edge, but
not him, he kept cool. “Never lose focus,” was something his father said to him growing
up in Ireland. John was always ready to expect the unexpected and never let down his
guard the entire time they waited. John hadn’t put himself in this situation because of fear
for his own life, but rather the fear for his two sons sleeping at home. Madden had
threatened his family and John could never live with himself if his actions endangered the
two boys. He thought about them sleeping in their beds safely for a moment but quickly
erased them from his mind. To get out of this situation alive he needed to have his wits
about him.
John was the first to see him approach. He never met Coll face-to-face before but
he had seen a picture of him in the newspaper. He had a skinny black mustache and chin
that was dented in. Most of all he had the eyes of a killer. During a drive-by shooting Coll
had been accused of killing a young child. He denied the incident of course but John
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knew he was guilty the minute he saw the picture of him walking out of the court house,
with a smile on his face.
John didn’t alert the other men; he just watched as Coll finished his cigarette
outside the booth, exhaling smoke with a mix of frosty air. He slid the sliding door open
and stepped in the narrow booth to make a phone call. Little did he know, death would be
answering his call that night.
“That’s him,” said Fabbrizzi. John turned his head back at the three gangsters who
had their eyes glued to the phone booth. Fabrizzi and Scarnici started fumbling about
trying to get ready, constantly checking their weapons. John only believed in checking it
once, so he just kept a firm grip on his instrument, ready to play at a moments notice.
Fabrizzi turned and said, “Alright listen, I’ll take the street in front of the booth.
You take the right side and new guy you take the left.” John just nodded in agreement,
not taking his eyes off the target. “Remember, don’t do nothing till I do it first,” said
Fabbrizzi.
John snapped back, “I heard you the first time.” The doors opened and the three
men spread out along the street, checking both directions for any signs of people. The
street light above lit up a circle around the booth. The three men moved silently in the
surrounding darkness. John could see, as he got closer, that Coll was very involved with
his phone call, waving his hands up and down in the booth. John Thought to himself, “I
guess death drives a hard bargain.”
The three gangsters stopped in position forming an invisible triangle around the
booth. Two Tommy guns covered the sides of the booth and one revolver held by
Fabrizzi on the street. Coll now had his head down against the phone, frustrated with the
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call. John couldn’t see his face so he took a few steps forward wanting to look him in the
eye. He never killed a man before and never really thought about it, till that moment. His
hand was a little sweaty around the handle of the gun, so he wiped it against his coat and
gripped his instrument with both hands. Everything slowed down, just like when he saw
Madden in the club for the first time. John forgot about the other two men, just leaving
John O’Reilly and “Mad Dog Coll.” Nothing separated the two but a piece of glass and
the barrier of dark and light. John took one more step forward, bringing him into the
circle of light that illuminated the booth. He raised his instrument to his waste ready to
play a tune. Coll slowly looked up and stopped moving his lips when John came into
sight. They locked eyes and John looked deep into the face of a cold hearted killer. Coll
must’ve been holding his breath because he let out one last chilly exhale and a shot rang
out from the street, BANG!!
The bullet blasted through the glass, ripping into Coll’s right shoulder. The bang
set John off and he squeezed the trigger putting numerous holes into Coll’s body. Glass
shattered all over the sidewalk and street, as the triangle of men engulfed the middle with
a barrage of bullets. “Mad Dog Coll,” was turned inside out as his blood splattered the
entire inside of the booth. The blasting ceased for a moment and all that could be heard
was Coll’s last breath and the dial tone coming form the hanging phone.
The silence was broken by another shot that rang out from Fabrizzi’s revolver that
hit John above the collar bone. The impact dropped him onto the glass covered sidewalk.
John quickly reached for his gleaming black revolver and fired at the street. A loud yelp
from Frabrizzi came out of the dark the street. John struggled but got himself to a knee
and swung his body around a tree, but not before firing a bullet into Scarnici’s leg, who
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was trying desperately to reload. Screeching tires and lights from the Cadillac flashed by
the phone booth as the two wounded men struggled to make their escape. John reloaded
three bullets and continued to fire at the car, shattering the back windshield. A siren
sounded nearby and sent the Cadillac peeling out down the road.
A black and white police car came into view and stopped at the booth, letting out
the officer from the passenger seat. The car door slammed shut and took off down the
road after the Cadillac. John stayed hidden for a moment after seeing the shiny badge in
the dark. John got to his feet quietly but couldn’t stop his heavy breathing. John made a
break for it down the alley-way, alongside the pharmacy.
“Freeze,” yelled the officer behind him. A shot blasted the brick just missing John
as he rounded the corner. The alley was dark and John tripped over a crate, but quickly
got back on his feet. He heard the officer’s feet clacking the ground behind him. John
cleared a fence but had trouble because of the throbbing pain in his wound. Another shot
rang out sparking the fence as he dropped to his feet. Despite the pain John continued to
run faster then he ever ran before.
“Police! Stop!” was yelled from the officer behind him. It only encouraged
John to run faster. Water came into view and John struggled to get his coat off. He finally
threw it aside but not before letting the officer gain some ground on him. John dove into
the freezing water and immediately felt like thousands of knives were stabbing him all
over his body. The river began pushing him south. The officer fired a few bullets from
shore and John swam under to avoid them. Bullets splashed the water around him,
slowing down as they hit the water.
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Soon he was out of the officer’s range and he struggled to reach shore. He
grabbed hold of a fishing net and frantically pulled against the current. After a long
struggle, he was able to pull himself onto the wooden dock. He shivered frantically and
hoped he would survive the night.
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