Praise for William Kennedy:
“Kennedy is a writer with something to say, about matters that touch us all, and he says it with uncommon artistry”
Washington Post
“Kennedy’s power is such that the reader will follow him almost anywhere, to the edge of tragedy and back again to redemption”
Wall Street Journal
“Kennedy’s art is an eccentric triumph, a quirky, risk-taking imagination at play upon the solid paving stones, the breweries, the politicos and pool sharks of an all-too-actual city”
The New York Review of Books
“His smart, sassy dialogue conveys volumes about character. His scene setting makes the city throb with life”
Newsday
“What James Joyce did for Dublin and Saul Bellow did for Chicago, William Kennedy has done for Albany, New York: created a rich and vivid world invisible to the ordinary eye”
Vanity Fair
“His beguiling yarns are the kind of family myths embellished and retold across a kitchen table late at night, whiskified, raunchy, darkly funny”
Time
“William Kennedy’s Albany Cycle is one of the great achievements of modern American writing”
Daily Mail
“William Kennedy is pre-eminent among his generation of writers . . . Kennedy is peerless in the depth and acuity of his sustained vision, and the lost, past world of Albany says more to us today about the current state, about the heart and soul, of American politics than any recent bestselling, Hollywood-pandering political thriller has ever done”
Spectator
“Kennedy’s writing is a triumph: he tackles topics in a gloriously comic, almost old-fashioned language. You feel Kennedy could write the Albany phone book and make it utterly entertaining”
Time Out
“Kennedy proves to be truly Shakespearean”
The Sunday Times
“Kennedy is one of our necessary writers”
GQ
ALSO BY WILLIAM KENNEDY
FICTION
The Ink Truck
Legs
Billy Phelan’s Greatest Game
Ironweed
Quinn’s Book
Very Old Bones
The Flaming Corsage
Changó’s Beads and Two-Tone Shoes
NONFICTION
O Albany!
Riding the Yellow Trolley Car
WITH BRENDAN KENNEDY
Charlie Malarkey and the Belly-Button Machine
Charley Malarkey and the Singing Moose
First published in the USA by Viking Penguin 2002
This ebook edition published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © William Kennedy, 2002
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of William Kennedy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-74322-073-6
eISBN: 978-1-84983-838-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CRo 4YY
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY COHORT OF EARLY ROSCONIANS:
Harry and Helen Staley, Andy and Betsy Viglucci,
Doris Grumbach, Laurie Bank, Peg Boyers,
Dennis Smith, Brendan Kennedy,
and to my wife, a cohort all by herself,
the endlessly astonishing
Dana
Contents
Roscoe in the Wind
The Spheres of War and Peace
Roscoe and the Flying Heads
Love, Scandal, and Horses
Roscoe in a Courtly Mode
Women He Has Known
Roscoe and the Fum
Heartache
Roscoe and the Pope
Negotiable Love
Roscoe and the Silent Music
Some People Just Have to Go
Roscoe Among the Saints
The Beau Geste Revealed
Roscoe and the Sounds
The Genie in the Vase
Author’ Note
That year an ill wind blew over the city and threatened to destroy flowerpots, family fortunes, reputations, true love, and several types of virtue. Roscoe, moving along the road, felt the wind at his back and heard the windblown voices.
“Do you know where the ill wind comes from, Roscoe?” the voices asked him.
“No,” he said, “but I’m not sure the wind is really ill. Its illness may be overrated, maybe even fraudulent.”
“Do people think there’s such a thing as a good ill wind?” they asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “And when it comes it billows the sails of our city, it nourishes our babies, comforts our aliens, gives purpose to our dead, tranquilizes our useless, straightens our crooked, and vice versa. The ill wind is a nonesuch and demands close attention.”
“Why should we believe what you say?”
“As I am incapable of truth,” Roscoe said, “so am I in capable of lying, which is, as all know, the secret of the truly successful politician.”
“Are you a politician, Roscoe?”
“I refuse to answer on grounds that it might degrade or incriminate me.”
Roscoe Owen Conway presided at Albany Democratic Party headquarters, on the eleventh floor of the State Bank building, the main stop for Democrats on the way to heaven. Headquarters occupied three large offices: one where Roscoe, secretary and second in command of the Party, received supplicants and debtors, one where Bart Merrigan and Joey Manucci controlled the flow of visitors and phone calls, and one for the safe which, when put here, was the largest in the city outside of a bank vault. Of late, no money was kept in it, only deceptive Democratic financial data to feed to the Governor’s investigators, who had been swooping down on the Party’s files since 1942, the year the Governor-elect vowed to destroy Albany Democrats.
Money, instead of going into the great safe, went into Roscoe’s top drawer, where he would put it without counting it when a visitor such as Philly Fillipone, who sold produce to the city and county, handed him a packet of cash an inch thick, held by a rubber band.
“Maybe you better count it, make sure there’s no mistake,” Philly said.
Roscoe did not acknowledge that Philly had raised the possibility of shorting the Party, even by accident. He dropped the cash into the open drawer, where Philly could see a pile of twenties. Democratic business was done with twenties. Then Philly asked, “Any change in how we work this year, Roscoe?”
“No,” Roscoe said, “same as usual.” And Philly went away.
At his desk by the door Joey Manucci was recording, on the lined pad where he kept track of visitors in their order of arrival, the names of the men who had just walked in, Jimmy Givney and Cutie LaRue. Joey was printing each name, for he could not write script or read it. Bart Merrigan spoke to the two arrivals. Merrigan, who had gone into the army with Roscoe and Patsy McCall in 1917, was built like a bowling pin, an ex-boxer and a man of great energy whom Roscoe trusted with his li
fe. Merrigan leaned into Roscoe’s office.
“Patsy called. He’ll be in the Ten Eyck lobby in fifteen minutes. Givney from the Twelfth Ward and Cutie LaRue just came in.”
“Have them come back Friday,” Roscoe said. “Is the war over?”
“Not yet. Cutie says you’ll want to see him.”
“How does he know?”
“Cutie knows. And what Cutie don’t know he’ll find out.”
“Send him in.”
Merrigan told Jimmy Givney to come back Friday and Joey scratched a line through his name, using a ruler for neatness. Merrigan turned up the volume of the desk radio he was monitoring for news of the official Japanese surrender. A large framed photo of the new President hung on the wall behind his desk. On the wall opposite hung George Washington, FDR, who was still draped in black crepe, and Alexander Fitzgibbon, the young Mayor of Albany.
“What can I do for you, Cute?” Roscoe asked.
“Can we close the door?”
“Close it.”
And Cutie did. Then he sat down. George (Cutie) LaRue was an aspiring lawyer who had failed the bar examination fourteen times in eight states before he passed it. He did not practice, but he knew most of the political population of Albany on a first-name basis. He functioned as a legislative lobbyist, and everybody knew him by his large, heavy-lidded, Oriental eyes, though he was French. He had a low forehead and combed his hair straight back. His tic was slicking back the hair over his right ear with the heel of his hand as he exhaled cigarette smoke from his mouth and inhaled it up his nose. Cutie knew your needs and he often lobbied for you, whether you paid him or not. If he delivered, you paid him. If he didn’t deliver, he’d try again next session. He held no grudges, for he was ambitious. Cutie once overheard Patsy saying he wanted a book on Ambrose Burnside, a Union general in the Civil War, but it was out of print. Cutie learned that a copy was sitting on a shelf in the library at West Point. He drove to West Point, stole the book, and gave it to Patsy.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Cutie said to Roscoe.
“I don’t even know what you look like,” Roscoe said.
“I heard it from Scully’s office this afternoon. Straight stuff, Roscoe. I kid you not.”
“Are you just talking, Cute, or are you trying to say something?”
“They want to nail you.”
“This is very big news, Cute. I wish you could stay longer.”
“They have stuff they can use.”
“Like that missing forty thou when they subpoenaed our books? That money is not missing,” Roscoe said.
“They’re tapping your lines, reading your mail, watching your wild girlfriend, Trish Cooney.”
“She’s easy to watch. Also, she leaves the shades up.”
“They know all your moves with women.”
“They get paid for this?”
“You got a reputation. You know how they like scandal.”
“I wish my life was that interesting. But thanks, Cute. Is that it?”
“They’re on you full-time. I heard Scully himself say nailing you was as good as nailing Patsy.”
“I appreciate this news.”
“You know what I’m looking for, Roscoe.”
“Yes, I do. A courtroom you can call home.”
“It’s not asking a lot. I’m not talking Supreme Court. Small Claims Court, maybe. Or Traffic Court. I’d make a hell of a judge.”
Roscoe considered that: The Cute Judge. Cute the Judge. Judge Cutie. Cutie Judgie. Jurors in his court would do Cutie Duty.
“A hell of a judge,” Roscoe said. “It goes without saying.”
Roscoe put on his blue seersucker suit coat, waved farewell to the boys, took the elevator down, and went out and up State Street hill. The day was August 14, 1945. Roscoe wore a full beard, going gray, but his mustache was mostly black. Trust no man, not even your brother, if his beard is one color, his mustache another. He was fat but looked only burly, thinking about developing an ulcer but seemed fit. He was burning up but looked cool in his seersucker.
He went into the State Street entrance of the Ten Eyck and up the stairs to the lobby, which was also cool and busy with people checking in—three soldiers, two WACs, a sailor and a girl, rooms scarce tonight if the Japs surrendered. He crossed the marble floor of the lobby and sat where he always sat, precisely where Felix Conway, his father, had sat, this corner known then and now as the Conway corner. He signaled silently to Whitey the bellhop to send a waiter with a gin and quinine water, his daily ritual at this hour. He looked across the lobby, trying to see his father. I’m looking for advice, he told the old man.
Roscoe’s condition had become so confounding that he had asked Patsy McCall and Elisha Fitzgibbon, his two great friends, with whom he formed the triaxial brain trust of the Albany Democratic Party, to come to the hotel and talk to him, away from all other ears. Roscoe, at this moment staring across time, finds his father sitting in this corner. It is a chilly spring afternoon in 1917, the first Great War is ongoing in Europe, and Roscoe, twenty-seven, will soon be in that war. He’s clean-shaven, a lawyer whose chief client is the Fitzgibbon Steel mill, and he also has an eye on politics.
Felix Conway is a man of sixty-five, with a full, gray beard down to his chest, hiding his necktie. He’s wearing a waistcoat, suit coat, overcoat, and cap, but also covers himself with a blanket to fend off the deadly springtime drafts in the Ten Eyck Hotel lobby. Felix is a hotel-dweller and will remain one for the rest of his days, which are not many. He had been the thrice-elected, once-ejected Mayor of Albany, and made a sizable fortune brewing ale and lager. He was ousted from City Hall in 1893 after a lawsuit over voting fraud, but his Democrats regained City Hall in the next election and kept it for five years. In those years Felix was the Party’s elder statesman, with an office next to the new Mayor, and a luncheon table at the Sadler Room in Keeler’s Restaurant, where he held court for Democrats and influence salesmen of all varieties. This lush period for Felix ended in 1899.
In that year the Republicans took City Hall and also found they could afford lunch at Keeler’s great restaurant. But Felix could not bear the effluvia they gave off, so he went home for lunch. It took him six months to admit he was not suited to living full-time among his wife, two sons, and three daughters. And when he did admit it, he betook himself to the brand-new Ten Eyck Hotel and told the folks, Goodbye, dear family, I’ll be home Saturday afternoons and stay till Sunday tea. We’ll have a fine time going to mass, eating the home-cooked meal, won’t it be grand? Yes, it will, and then I’ll be done with you for a week.
The Republicans of 1917 are secure in their power, and the Democrats no longer even try to win, for it is more profitable to play the loser and take Republican handouts for assuming this pose. Yet Democratic reform elements endure, and there sits Roscoe beside his father, eavesdropping as the old man holds court for a steady, life-giving flow of pols, pals, has-beens, and would-bes. Bellhops daily place “reserved” signs on the marble tea table, the Empire armchair and sofa, in the Felix Conway corner. At the moment, Felix is in his chair, giving an audience to Eddie McDermott, leader of yet another reform faction that hopes to challenge Packy McCabe’s useless but invulnerable Albany Democratic Party organization in the 1917 primary.
Eddie stares into Felix’s eye, revealing his plans to reform the Party if he wins the primary, and reform the city if he wins the election. He leans farther and farther forward as he speaks ever-so-softly to Felix, finally rolling off the sofa onto one knee to make his message not only sincere but genuflectional, and he whispers to the Solomon of Albany politics: “You do want the Democrats to make a comeback and take City Hall again, don’t you, sir?”
“Oh, I do, I do,” says Felix. And he truly does.
“I have much to learn, Mr. Conway, but there’s one thing I can learn only from you, for nobody else has an answer, and I’ve asked them all.”
“What might that be, Mr. McDermott?”
“Once we tak
e over the Party, how do we get the money to run it?”
Felix Conway throws his arms wide, kiting his blanket toward the outer lobby, startling Roscoe. He opens both his coats, pulls off his muffler, the better to breathe, and begins to laugh.
“He wants to know how you get the money,” Felix says to Roscoe, and then his laughter roars out of control, he rises from his chair, and shouts out, “How do you get the money? Oh my Jesus, how do you get the money!”
Then the laughter, paroxysmal now, seals Felix’s throat and bloats him with its containment. He floats up from his chair, still with a smile as wide as his head, and he rises like a hot-air balloon, caroming off the balustrade of the Tennessee-marble stairway, and he keeps rising on up to collide with the lobby’s French chandelier, where he explodes in a final thunderclap of a laugh, sending crystal shards raining down onto Eddie McDermott, the terrified reformer below.
Felix Declares His Principles to Roscoe
“How do you get the money, boy? If you run ’em for office and they win, you charge ’em a year’s wages. Keep taxes low, but if you have to raise ’em, call it something else. The city can’t do without vice, so pinch the pimps and milk the madams. Anybody that sells the flesh, tax ’em. If anybody wants city business, thirty percent back to us. Maintain the streets and sewers, but don’t overdo it. Well-lit streets discourage sin, but don’t overdo it. If they play craps, poker, or blackjack, cut the game. If they play faro or roulette, cut it double. Opium is the opiate of the depraved, but if they want it, see that they get it, and tax those lowlife bastards. If they keep their dance halls open twenty-four hours, tax ’em twice. If they run a gyp joint, tax ’em triple. If they send prisoners to our jail, charge ’em rent, at hotel prices. Keep the cops happy and let ’em have a piece of the pie. A small piece. Never buy anything that you can rent forever. If you pave a street, a three-cent brick should be worth thirty cents to the city. Pave every street with a church on it. Cultivate priests and acquire the bishop. Encourage parents to send their kids to Catholic schools; it lowers the public-school budget. When in doubt, appoint another judge, and pay him enough so’s he don’t have to shake down the lawyers. Cultivate lawyers. They know how it is done and will do it. Control the district attorney and never let him go; for he controls the grand juries. Make friends with millionaires and give ’em what they need. Any traction company is a good traction company, and the same goes for electricity. If you build a viaduct, make the contractor your partner. Whenever you confront a monopoly, acquire it. Open an insurance company and make sure anybody doing city business buys a nice policy. If you don’t know diddle about insurance, open a brewery and make ’em buy your beer. Give your friends jobs, but at a price, and make new friends every day. Let the sheriff buy anything he wants for the jail. Never stop a ward leader from stealing; it’s what keeps him honest. Keep your plumbers and electricians working, and remember it takes three men to change a wire. Republicans are all right as long as they’re on our payroll. A city job should raise a man’s dignity but not his wages. Anybody on our payroll pays us dues, three percent of the yearly salary, which is nice. But if they’re on that new civil service and won’t pay and you can’t fire ’em, transfer ’em to the dump. If you find people who like to vote, let ’em. Don’t be afraid to spend money for votes on Election Day. It’s a godsend to the poor, and good for business; but make it old bills, ones and twos, or they get suspicious. And only give ’em out in the river wards, never uptown. If an uptown voter won’t register Democrat, raise his taxes. If he fights the raise, make him hire one of our lawyers to reduce it in court. Once it’s lowered, raise it again next year. Knock on every door and find out if they’re sick or pregnant or simpleminded, and vote ’em. If they’re breathing, take ’em to the polls. If they won’t go, threaten ’em. Find out who’s dead and who’s dying, which is as good as dead, and vote ’em. There’s a hell of a lot of dead and they never complain. The opposition might cry fraud but let ’em prove it after the election. People say voting the dead is immoral, but what the hell, if they were alive they’d all be Democrats. Just because they’re dead don’t mean they’re Republicans.”