“Whatever you say. I care not for riches.”
The Reverend Matthew Daugherty, OFM, voluble, forty-four-year-old Franciscan professor of religion and theology at Siena College, built for football, hard-charging, soft-spoken rebel of the faith, self-anointed radical missionary in the slums who, in speeches, offhand remarks to the press, and letters to the editor, had repeatedly attacked the Mayor and the Albany Democratic machine for indifference to the poor and especially the black poor—a brazen stance in the holy shadow of the Albany Catholic diocese, and unheard of in this town in this or the previous century—had been silenced by his superior at the college, told to stay away from the inner city, teach your classes, shut your mouth. But the order had obviously come down from the hierarchy of the diocese; and what else could you expect from those lofty Democratic clerics except an edict to stop bothering our generous politicians who are all regular communicants?
Matt drank half his beer and said, “I just took a ride with Penny. She dropped me off up the block.”
“Didn’t you take a vow of chastity?”
“All we did was talk. You gotta hear this.”
“Tell me.”
“She says the machine is out to get one of their enemies, to set an example. She doesn’t know who but it won’t be pretty. Somebody told her.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn’t say but she swears it’s true. She says it could be me.”
“Didn’t they already get you?”
“Then maybe it’s you. Or one of the Brothers.”
“You don’t really trust Penny, do you?”
“Penny’s all right, Dan. I know what you think, but she does good work with the neighborhood groups, for no pay. I respect that even if I don’t always trust what she says.”
“Why are you riding around with sexy women on the make? Aren’t you restricted to campus?”
“I can walk. I walk the golf course. I wave at the golfers. She picked me up on the road that runs along the seventeenth hole. After we talked I thought I should come down and tell you.”
“You called her?”
“She called me. We’ve talked before.”
“You hear her confession?”
“Not as such.”
“But she confides in you.”
“She’s got troubles like everybody.”
“Does she cry into the shoulder of your robe?”
“She’s got emotions.”
“But you don’t. Salty women with major tits don’t disturb the serenity of your chastity.”
Matt swallowed some beer.
“I’m guessing she put the moves on you,” Quinn said.
“I guess you could call it that.”
“What did she do?”
“You know how it goes.”
“Actually I do. She did it with me.”
“You did it with her?”
“No, she did it with me. The moves. Then she called Renata to say she was sorry for keeping me out late. I wasn’t out late, but that’s her method. She sandbags you, then rats on you for doing nothing. Disturb the equilibrium, that’s her game.”
“I can handle this stuff, Dan. I been handling it for years. I’m not that horny lowlife I used to be. I found other ways of getting in trouble.”
“Shooting off your mouth.”
“My specialty.”
“Look, are you all right? I mean it’s been a rough couple of days for you.” Quinn stood up.
“I’m getting a grip. You gotta leave?”
“I do. Tremont Van Ort is bad off. He’s flat out on his stoop on Dongan Avenue and won’t move, or can’t. Claudia called an ambulance but they don’t pick up on Dongan Avenue. Claudia asked if I could get him to the hospital. I said I’d see what I could do.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“The South End is off-limits for you. What if you’re seen?”
“What else can they do, confiscate my socks? Gotta help Tremont.”
“You want a beer for the road?”
“Why not?”
In the dining room George Quinn was sitting with his hat in his lap, facing the large wall mirror over the sideboard. He was waving to his own image, telling him to come on over, but when he saw Quinn he changed the gesture and blessed himself.
“Bless me father for I have sinned,” he said.
“You haven’t sinned today,” Quinn said. “Let’s go.”
“So that’s it,” George said. “We’re all set. I got my hat.” He stood up and put his hat on and walked to the door.
“My father was asking for you, George,” Matt said.
“Your father?”
“Martin Daugherty.”
“Martin Daugherty. We were in France together.”
“I know. He says you were the best-dressed soldier in the AEF.”
“Martin Daugherty was a good fellow. You could always trust him. He wrote for the papers.”
“He’s out in the Ann Lee Home.”
“I didn’t know that,” Quinn said.
“He’s been there six months but I got a letter from the county that they’re kicking him out.”
“For what?”
“They don’t say. I figure it’s the politicians pressuring me.”
“Those bastards.”
“Martin Daugherty lived on Colonie Street,” George said.
“He did indeed,” Matt said.
“We should be going. I’ve got my hat.”
“You’re goin’ out on the town,” Matt said.
George answered in a song:“Put your feet on the barroom shelf,
Open the bottle and help yourself.”
“Look out, Albany,” Matt said. “Here comes George Quinn.”
What Danny said was, “There’s the Club, right up those steps, okay?”
Of course it’s okay.
“It’s two forty-five. I’ll meet you at the Club bar at six o’clock. You have your watch?”
Of course I have my watch. And George got out of the car and took two steps toward the Club, and when Danny pulled away George turned around to watch him go. He looked up and down the block for the Club, crossed State Street and walked down the hill and crossed Pearl Street. Steps is what Danny said. Steps loomed. Five of them. Brown. Nobody outside. He pushed open the door and walked across the mottled marble. He stopped and stared at all the glass and brass.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“The Club.”
“Which club might that be, sir?”
“It’s right up to snuff.”
“This is a bank, sir. Do you have an account with us?”
“I certainly do.”
“Fine. Let me take you to a teller. Your name?”
“My name for what?”
“The name on your account.”
“George Quinn.”
“Welcome to the New York State Bank, Mr. Quinn. I’ll check your account for you.”
“It’s right up to snuff.”
“I’m sure it is.”
George took his wallet from his back pocket and opened it to find two five-dollar bills. He poked a finger into a pocket of the wallet and pulled out a check. He opened it and read his name on the check.
“Right over here. You can write your check right here. Here’s the pen. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“What else is there?”
“How much would you like to write this check for, Mr. Quinn?”
“It’s got to be enough.”
“I hope it will be.”
George poised the pen over the check and thought about numbers, then wrote “two hundred” on a blank line. He put down the pen and handed the check to the man at his elbow.
“You have to sign it, sir.”
George looked at the check and picked up the pen. He signed “George,” and gave the check to the man.
“Your full name, Mr. Quinn.”
George wrote “Quinn” after “George.”
“Now fill in the amount with
numbers,” said the man. “Two hundred, in numbers. Two-oh-oh.”
George wrote “200” and handed the check to the man, who took it to a teller. He came back and handed the check to George.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. I can’t cash this. This is one of our checks but your account here was closed last year. Perhaps you have an account in the Albany Savings Bank or the National Savings, or City and County? Mechanics and Farmers? Do any of those banks sound familiar to you?”
“My bank is close to the Club.”
“I’m not sure which club you mean.”
“Why the hell are you in business if you won’t cash a check and don’t know where the hell anything is?”
“Shall I call Albany Savings for you? I could have someone walk you over there.”
“Don’t bother,” said George, and he went out. He looked up State Street at the Capitol, which he had watched burn in 1911 and he wondered if they ever finished rebuilding the damn thing. Yes, and maybe no. He had worked in the Document Room when Jimmy Walker was a senator and Al Smith ran the Assembly. Big Bill Sulzer wasn’t around yet, was he? It was Al who was the big man. Get me the World, the Sun, the Times and the Tribune, Georgie, Al would say. Big smile on his kisser. Here’s a dollar and you keep the change.
George crossed State and looked at Van Vechten Hall and thought of going to Beauman’s to meet the ladies, but it’s early, isn’t it? He felt for his vest pocket watch, no vest, no pocket, no watch. Wrist? There it is and it’s three o’clock, too early. Beauman’s musicians don’t set up until seven.
“Hello, George,” a fellow said.
“Hellee, helloo Brzt, Bitts, Billdy,” what the hell is his name?
“Where you off to?”
“The Club,” George said.
“You got time for a cuppa coffee?”
“All right,” said George. Bradz, Bonzi, Bunzy turned into the Waldorf Cafeteria and George followed him in, took a ticket. Crenzy ordered the coffee.
“I was talking to the sheriff yesterday,” Renzi said when they sat down. Renzi. “He says you’re not coming back to work. I told him, George’ll come back when he’s well. I don’t think so, he said. I told him, you don’t go through two cataract operations and get right back at it. George is recovering.”
“That’s how it is,” George said. “I got these new glasses, and eye drops,” and he showed Renzi his eye drops.
“Just passing on what he said. Just so you know, George. I don’t think it’s good news. Give him a call.”
“I’ll do that,” George said.
“What’d you think about Bobby Kennedy?”
“I voted for him. Patsy passed the word to cut him, but I voted for him. I’d vote for anybody named Kennedy.”
“They shot him.”
“Who shot him?”
“Some guy, I don’t know who. But they caught him right away. He’s probably a communist.”
“Kennedy’s not a communist.”
“Get the paper, Georgie. It’s all in the paper. After midnight last night, out in L.A. He just won the primary and they shot him.”
“Who won the primary?”
“Bobby.”
“They shot him because he won the primary?”
“Probably.”
“I voted for him.”
“Call the sheriff and ask him when he expects you back to work,” Renzi said. “I’ll pay for the coffee,” and he took George’s ticket.
“They don’t shoot you when you win a primary,” George said to Renzi’s back. But Renzi kept walking and George didn’t like the coffee. He went back out onto State Street and stared up at the Capitol. I saw that burn in 1911, the State Library. Two or three days it burned, maybe a week. He walked toward the Capitol and looked over at The Tub, the hotel where Al Smith stayed. The sign is down. Al doesn’t have to stay there anymore. Al didn’t have much money then but he’s got it now. When Bobby Kennedy came to Albany, George was there. Wasn’t I? I was there for Truman when he came in on the back end of a train. I was there when Adlai’s train came in and he talked to the crowd from the station platform at Columbia Street. When did Bobby come? His old man owns the Standard Building. Bootlegging, that’s how the Kennedys got their money. It was Jack they shot, not Bobby. I was there when Jack came to Albany to have lunch. His father asked Patsy for an endorsement, and Patsy backed him all the way. Patsy never liked FDR, but he backed Jack. That’s how Jack got to be president. They didn’t cut Jack. George crossed State at Eagle Street and walked toward City Hall and past it. Here comes somebody. Vih. Vivuh. Viv. Vivian. Nice Vivvie.
“Hello, Georgie,” the woman said. She was wearing a yellow straw hat.
“Hello, Vivvie,” George said, and he tipped his hat. “Going to Beauman’s, are you?”
Vivian stopped. “Oh, I wish,” she said. “Beauman’s. Those were the days. No, Georgie, just going over to Cody’s and meet a friend.”
“Cody’s.”
“Cody’s Havana, you know it well. No Beauman’s. No more.”
“Havana? I know it. Beauman’s.” Vivian walked on and George watched her go. She had legs like. Legs. Like. I’m tying the leaves so they won’t fall down and Nellie won’t go away. Pag. Pog. Legs like Peg. George turned and saw the Court House and he stopped. Can’t go there. Why not? George turned back toward City Hall and saw the Chedge coming out. Chedge Epstein and somebody. Fitz. No. Fitzmayor. No. The Mayor. They saw him coming and waited at the corner. George crossed to meet them.
“Hello, Chudge, hello Maaa,” George said.
“George, where’ve you been? We miss you.”
“Been in and out, up and down,” George said.
“Damn it all, George, let’s get you up to the lake. Get a few fellows together and play a little golf.”
“You said it, Judge. Golf. Haven’t played golf in quite a while.”
“You feeling all right, George?” the Mayor asked. “I heard they operated on you.”
“New glasses, Mayor, new eyes.”
“That’ll improve your putting,” the Mayor said.
“Putt-putt,” George said. “Going over to Havana.”
“Havana Cuba? I love it down there, but that’s a long way to go to play golf,” the Mayor said.
And George sang:“Cuba, that’s where I’m going,
Cuba, that’s where I’ll stay.”
“Haven’t heard that one in a while,” the Mayor said.
“Stop in my chambers, George,” the judge said. “We’ll talk about you coming up for some golf.”
“I will, Judge, I will. I’ll say a prayer for you.”
“A prayer? You think you can beat me?”
“Two Hail Marys,” George said.
“That’s the wrong religion,” the Judge said and he and the Mayor both laughed and walked up the street.
Judge. Epstein. Morris. Always wants me to play golf. Mayor Fitz. Fitz what? George watched the Judge and the Mayor walk up Washington Avenue. Going to have a beer, that’s what they do after work. Up to the Club. Fort Fitz. The Fort. Mayor Alex Fitz. George decided he wanted a beer, wanted it cold, the foam sliced off the top by the bartender and the glass with frost on it. He did not know where to go to get such a beer. Fort Fitzgibbon? Fort Orange? The Club has beer. Where is it? He walked down State Street past the Elks Club and turned onto Lodge Street, down past the old Christian Brothers Academy. Brother who, taught reading and writing, arithmetic, taught to the tune of the hickory stick. Brother . . . I never liked him . . . Knocko. Brother Bernardine was a good fella. Brother William Knocko. He walked past Jack Shaughnessy’s old Towne Tavern, but it’s not there, new place there, don’t like the looks, a dump. He walked down Beaver Street past Rudnick’s, Jack’s old Oyster House, Apollo Billiards, that’s where Billy won the candy store. We booked numbers in the back of the store and Billy dealt poker. George crossed to the other side of Beaver and walked back the way he came and up the hill to where Beaver met Eagle. He saw the second police precinct, stay out of
there, and across from it he saw a word in the window that he liked, Stanwix. Patsy. He went in and stood at the bar. People on barstools were watching television. Bobby Kennedy is out of surgery. It’s shocking. In critical condition. The nation is stunned. Big colored fella behind the bar looked at George.
“What can I get you?”
“What’s in the window.”
“What do you want?”
“The sign in the window.”
“You want the sign?”
“I want that,” and he pointed at the neon window sign with Stanwix spelled backward.
“You want a Stanwix beer, is that it?”
“Yes. What’s the name of this place?”
“Cody’s,” the man said.
“This isn’t the Club, I know that.”
“It’s Cody’s Havana Club, if that’s what you mean.”
“Cody’s Havana Club,” George said. “I’ve been here before.”
“I’ll get your beer,” the man said.
George took a swallow of the beer and he loved it. He looked at it, watched it sweat. He rubbed the sweat, then lifted the glass and sipped. He loved the taste, the coldness on his tongue, in his throat. I should drink more beer. He tipped up the glass and finished it. He licked the foam off his lips. The bartender looked at him.
“Do it again?” he asked George.
“Do what again?”
“Have another beer.”
“Good idea. I’ll have another beer and do it again.”
The barman drew another beer. “Only costs you a dollar,” he said.
“What does?”
“The beer.”
“A dollar? That’s way too much. Beer costs a nickel. Some places they charge a dime. A glass of Bordeaux wine costs ten cents in Paris.”
“That’s before I was born,” the bartender said. “You want a beer today it’s fifty cents a glass and you had two glasses. One dollar.”
George took out his wallet and fished for one of his five-dollar bills. He gave it to the man and stared at him.
“Is your name Dick?” George asked.
“No.”
“You look a lot like a friend of mine. I haven’t seen him in a while. You know Van Woert Street?”
“I do,” the bartender said.
“Dick. That was his name. Dick Hawkins. Did you know him?”