—What?
—She might still do it.
—What?
—Get to call me Boy.
Ahead, above the sky. Hours ahead; I saw it.
—When I go back, he said.
—Don’t let her.
He said nothing. The glow was nearer.
—In a dangerous place.
—What? I said.
—Me, he said. —I’m in a dangerous place.
—I wasn’t much good to you, was I?
—You said it, he said.
The glow was lights, a city ahead with shape. We passed silos, we rode over tracks, ran alongside more. We caught, and passed, a train, and trains.
—We did fine, he said. —We took it as far as we could go.
I let it settle. It was the goodbye.
—But I know.
—What?
—Ain’t no escaping, he said. —No standing on my own two feet.
—Sorry, Louis.
—You agree?
—I think so.
—Fuckers don’t just own the ground. They own my goddam feet.
A street, fenced each side by solid houses, a line of shops, a vacant lot. Factory chimneys, black night again, more chimneys.
—But look on the bright side, Louis, I said. —I’m the one they want to kill.
—Fuck you.
But the streets, the lights, they seemed to warm him.
—Tell you. It was my problem before I met you. It’s still my problem. You didn’t bring it on. The problem was here, in Chicago. We cut out. Same problem where we went. Bigger problem, maybe bigger prospects. I’m going back. My choice.
—What choice?
He sighed.
—You right, he said. —Some choice. Play, or do not play. No choice. Got to play.
—You’re the best.
—I know.
—It’s yours. Make the most of it.
He looked at me now.
—I know.
He looked away, and back.
—Why they after you?
—Oh, I said. —I muscled in on their operation, on the Lower East Side. I thought I told you.
—But the Irish gent. Why is he after you?
—We go back, I said. —It’s a longish story. D’you want to hear it?
—No.
—It’s the real reason they’re gunning for me, I said. —I think it is.
He said nothing.
We knew where we were going. He was bringing me right to the door.
—There’s more, he said. —Why they’re after you.
—What?
—You were in the way. Between me and them.
—Probably.
—They thought that.
—Yeah.
—Should have stayed closer, he said.
—What?
—Been thinking about it, he said. —You should have stayed closer to me.
—Well, I said.
—Might have been different. It would have been clearer. They’d have respected it.
—Well, I said. —When Rockwell got in there.
—Fuck Rockwell. He wasn’t you.
—You met other guys like Rockwell, and you’d always walked away from them. Joe Glaser.
—He wanted to manage me. Rockwell didn’t.
—He did.
—Wasn’t what I was after with Rockwell.
—I know.
Another dawn, the last one. Thick, bright lines crossed the street. Traffic shuffling, pedestrians hunched. Cold light out there; the El beside us broke the air. I shouted.
—It was the records, the bookings. I know that. It’s just. I didn’t know what I was there for.
He nodded.
—Maybe this the right way.
—I didn’t want to be a bodyguard, I said. —I wanted, I don’t know, fuckin’ more. Then she came along.
—And you managed her.
I took my hands off the wheel and slapped it.
—She didn’t want to be fuckin’ managed either. But it was good for a bit.
—I didn’t want to be managed by a white man.
—Including me.
He nodded.
—That’s fair enough, I said. —I’m finally understanding. But it’s a pity.
He nodded.
Nothing for a block or two. We were going back into the sun now.
—Thought I could get away with it, he said. —Thought I just might do it.
—What?
—Be black and not let it matter. Overcome it.
—You did.
—No, man, nay nay. Sick of having to be proud or ashamed. Just want to blow my fucking cornet.
—You do.
—We here.
—I know.
I looked for shape through the glass, for a small running figure. I tried to hear the voice. Was it a school day? I hadn’t a clue. I pulled again, and I heard the bell deep inside, in the kitchen. I waited. For a tall woman to take shape beyond the glass, pull open the door, look out. I pulled again. Made out the stairs. Saw the shape. Saw the hesitation, the last step. I knocked, pecked the glass – tap tap. I saw the arm, the hand; I heard the lock.
—Oh.
Missis Lowe stared, then saw.
I knocked on Louis’s window. He was back in the driver’s seat, his car.
—They’re not there, I told him.
—Where?
—Don’t know.
—Oh, man. Get in.
She recognised, remembered me. She brought the door more inches towards her; she stepped into the gap.
—Mister Smart.
—Howyeh.
—Why are you here?
I knew.
—Your wife is not – that is, she is no longer here.
—Oh, I said. —Where is she? D’you know?
—I’m afraid not.
—Oh.
—She – well, she left. With the sweet little—
—When?
—Yesterday?
—Yesterday?
—Why, yes. Yesterday morning. They were at the door when I came down.
—You’ve no idea where they went?
—No.
—Nothing?
—No. I’m afraid – I offered to write her a reference. I was a mite upset. But I did offer. What I wanted, I hoped she’d stay a spell longer. The child. I hoped she’d change her mind. I hoped my reference—
It was creeping up.
—She said she didn’t need one.
—Was there anyone waiting for her, or anything?
I could still think, stay calm. It was coming.
—No, she said. —Not that I saw. Nobody. I thought, I presumed she would be joining you in—
—New York.
—Yes.
—No.
—I see. Isn’t this –? A day sooner, Mister Smart.
—I know.
—She didn’t know you were coming. Did she?
—No.
I stepped away, stepped down. It was coming. They were out there, anywhere. Any street, any train.
—Thanks. Bye.
—Goodbye. Please, Mister Smart.
—Yeah?
—When, if. When you find them, ask the child to write me.
—I will.
—Thank you.
—Know where you need to go? said Louis.
—No.
—Pops, it’s tough.
I nodded.
—Tough as a night in jail.
—What sort of a fuckin’ prick was I?
He let me at it. He started the car. He blew on his hands.
I was long enough in this country; it was easy to disappear. She was doing the hiding, and she’d be better at it than I’d been. I’d never find her. What had I fuckin’ done?
Louis sighed, and got us out from under the big tree, to the street.
He yelled.
She was right in front of us, on the hood of the Buick. Her face was at the windscreen, staring in at
Louis. Missis Lowe. Lost and furious.
She saw me. She looked at Louis, then back at me.
—There was—
I jumped out and helped her down. She wasn’t hurt; she didn’t seem to be. She stood straight, looked in at Louis. I looked at her face, her hands. She was fine. She looked at Louis. She looked at me. Louis climbed out of the car.
—Are you alright?
—I’m perfectly fine.
She looked at Louis.
—That young man needs his eyes tested.
—Right away, ma’am, said Louis. —Do it this very morning.
She looked at me.
—There was something. Your wife said.
—What?
—When she was checking the child’s coat. I went to do it, you understand, to tuck her scarf into the coat. But then I, well – I heard your wife mention a hotel.
—What hotel?
—I cannot recall the name.
—Was it a Chicago hotel?
—I do know that I knew the name. I recall that clearly.
—Any idea?
—I’m—
—Metropole? said Louis.
She glared at him. She looked at me.
—I knew the name when I heard it, she said. —But not as a hotel.
—How d’you mean?
—A song, I think.
—A hotel with the same name as a song?
—I think so.
I looked at Louis.
He shrugged. He got back into the car.
—It’ll probably come back to you when I’ve gone, I told her.
I watched to see if she understood.
—That’s what often happens, I said.
She nodded. She was cold. I took her elbow. She looked very old and small. I walked her back to the front door.
—When you’ve forgotten about it, I said.
—What?
—The name of the hotel.
—Oh. Yes.
—Or the song.
—Yes.
—I’ll call again tomorrow, I told her. —In case you remember.
But I wouldn’t.
I could search the stations, streets. I could look forever.
I walked back to the car. I climbed back in. It was colder inside. Louis got her going.
Missis Lowe was in front of the car. He braked.
I got out quickly.
—Macushla.
There was nothing clear, no one I could see yet. No one going in and out. It was a hotel, it had the name, but it wasn’t right.
—It’s quiet, I said.
—One of those ones, he said. —We been in a few. Go in, you stay in. Been in, you stay out.
—Maybe business is bad.
—Might be. Again?
—Yeah.
He took the corners sharp, as quickly, slowly as he could manage. No skidding, no need for stares or braking. He took me past the hotel again.
We’d be seen this time, if we were being watched. I took it all in, the revolving door, resting still, the guy against the railings at the next building, and the guy at the drugstore on the opposite corner, leaning against the glass. His eyes, under the awning – Soda, Candies – under his pork-pie hat, staring across at the door that wasn’t turning. The trolley car pushed away, and there was another guy, outside John M. Erickson, The North Side’s Largest Clothing Store. There were others, and there’d be more.
—Whose hotel is it? I asked Louis.
—Don’t know, he said. —This ain’t home.
—Strange name.
—Nice tune.
Macushla. In among the Ericksons, and Umenhofers and Aumanns.
—Look at the kids, he said.
Not many of them. Up on the sidewalk.
—None in the gutter, said Louis.
I looked for bare feet. There weren’t any.
—Money here.
He took the Macushla corner, right, off the trolley-car tracks. A guy sat on the fireplug, chatting to a cop. Louis crawled as I looked at windows. Lace curtains looked back, all windows shut.
—I have to go in.
He said nothing. He stopped the car. I opened my door, checked first that the running board was safe above the kerb. The street had been recently swept. I was itchy and suddenly exhausted; the street was cleaner than I was.
I could see a slice of the alley that would bring me to the back of the hotel. It was clear. There was a garage on the other side of the alley, on the corner. I heard a radio. I heard a tool hit concrete. I heard work.
—Take the last step, O’Pops. I’m nervous here.
—Okay.
—Could get myself recognised. And I’m supposed to be in Philadelphia.
I got out. The edge was off the cold. Spring was a month away. I bent down. I looked in at him.
—See you, Louis.
—Unlikely.
—Good luck.
He took the hand off the wheel, waved, and went. He didn’t look. The only car moving on the street; gone. I knew: I wouldn’t see him again.
I didn’t wait.
I walked across the alley mouth. It was empty. I looked into the garage. I saw two feet, sticking out from under a Bearcat. I heard the radio. I heard men laugh, a door slam. I saw an Upton Oil Company truck parked outside the garage, down-street from me.
I took the alley.
I strolled, close to the hotel wall. Under windows, fire escapes. I’ve a pair of arms to hug and hold, but nobody’s using them now. I walked away from the radio, into darker shadow. I looked behind, I listened as I moved. Another door, another tool, the guy under the Bearcat tapped his boots together. There was no one following, no one over the street.
A door beside the ramp. I checked the knob. It turned; a click. I waited, turned again and let it open. Noise came at me with the heat. I stepped inside, and waited. It was dark. Kitchen sounds. Pots, clanks. An order barked. It was some sort of hallway. Padlocked doors, three of them, to the left. Damp wall to the right. A door in front of me. I waited.
—Where’s them eggs?
I waited.
—Wipe its ass before you threw that on the pan?
American accents.
It was a hotel; I could hear that. I could go back out and enter by the revolving door, walk up to the counter, and ask for Miss O’Shea. Who? My wife. Men were at work beyond the door, cooking for the guests.
Something stopped me.
The guys outside. Macushla. The sign, the neon, up new on top of the flaking paint. The door that didn’t revolve.
Why was she here, with Saoirse? If she was here. Macushla. It was just a song.
I shut the door behind me, quietly. I walked past the padlocks, quietly.
Work. That was why. She’d had enough of Missis Lowe.
I got to the next door. I held the knob.
And she’d had enough of waiting for me.
I turned it, slowly.
Macushla, macushla. There’d be work amongst her own here. Cousins, maybe. Roscommon people.
The click.
I pushed. The smell before the light. The kitchen. White, silver. Moving figures. Blade in air. Steam. No women. No one looked. I walked further in, kept going, a man with purpose, who knew where he was going.
A waiter, his back, tray going high, in front of me. A coffeepot, cups, sugar bowl. I followed him, past a butcher’s block, around it. Double-doors. He cracked them, shoulder at the centre, saved the tray, held it back. Gone. The doors flapped once, and stopped.
—Turn that goddam steak, goddam it.
—Yessir, yessir.
—Goddam hunkie. We don’t burn our meat here in these United States.
—Yessir, yessir.
I took the doors; I pushed them with both hands.
The dining room.
Empty.
—Aha.
Not empty.
Kellet was sitting there, and I wasn’t surprised.
The coffee tray in front of him.
—The bold
Henry Glick.
He was alone.
My arse. There was no one to see yet, but they were there.
—The train, Henry, said Kellet. —I recommend it. A lot better than the dusty oul’ things back home. Will you have a drop?
I didn’t answer.
—D’yeh not like the coffee?
I didn’t answer.
—Sit down.
I didn’t answer.
—Sit down, for fuck sake. We’ll have a chat before I kill you. It’s the last chance you’ll get to rest your feet.
He tapped a chair with his foot as he poured coffee from the silver pot to his cup.
—That’s the ticket, he said.
He tasted the coffee and watched me sit.
—She was right.
I said nothing.
—Yep, he said. —She was dead right.
I kept my hands off the arms of the chair.
—She said you’d come through the back door.
He leaned out, put his cup down.
—She said it would never dawn on you to walk in the same way as everyone else. You’ve put on the pounds, Henry.
I sat back in the chair. There was no more coming or going from the kitchen. The doors from the dining room to the lobby were open.
He was thin. His neck rose out of his shirt, barely touching the sides, and it didn’t gather much meat on the way. He was grey-skinned, now that I was looking at him in daylight. The whites of his eyes wouldn’t be white again; they were washed red, near pink – surprised eyes in a cynical head. I was looking across at a Fenian hop-head. Or a hop-head who’d pretended to be a Fenian.
I spoke.
—How’s the informer business?
—Booming.
He stared back. He wasn’t worried that my words might have carried, that Fenian ears behind the drapes or doors might have heard.
He was alone.
—There’ll always be work for those daring enough to tell the right men what they want to hear, he said. —That’s an informer for you, Mister Glick. He gives good men their licence to murder.
—That’s well put.
—I thank you. And, believe it or not now, Henry, but I was never an informer.
—What were you doing in the cell with me?
—I was a spy. There’s a difference. I was a plant. I was never involved. I was never in. So I couldn’t have informed.
—So, what? You’re not with the I.R.A.?
—I didn’t say that.
I didn’t want to talk to him but he’d caught me. I couldn’t help myself.
—But you said you weren’t involved.
—I wasn’t.
I lifted my hand – he didn’t react – and pointed at the bulge in his jacket.