Bloodlines

7

O ’CONNOR GOT HIS FIRST PAYING JOB WHEN HE WAS EIGHT YEARS OLD, in 1936. That was the year he began selling the Express on the corner of Broadway and Las Piernas Boulevard. At that time, the morning paper in Las Piernas was the News, the evening, the Express. Although the papers were owned by the same publisher-Mr. Winston Wrigley-and worked out of the same building, the two staffs were fiercely competitive, paperboys included. The star reporter of the News was a woman named Helen Swan; on the Express, young Jack Corrigan was making a name for himself.

Every day, O’Connor hurried from school to the paper, never failing to admire the big ornate building itself (“Grand as a palace,” he’d told his sister Maureen) or to feel important as he stood on his corner, shouting headlines, calling out the words “Ex-press here!” in a manner that caught the ears of bustling businessmen and shoppers on their way home. He quickly learned how to charm his customers, how to make sure they bought their papers from him and no one else. He promoted the star reporter of his paper, smiling and singing out, “Jack Corrigan! Jack Corrigan! Only in the Exxxx-press.”

One day, as he was extolling Corrigan’s work he heard a woman laugh. He turned to see a beautiful young lady-blond, blue-eyed, and bow-lipped, dressed in a fur coat and walking arm in arm with none other than his champion. She laughed again and said, “I suppose you’ll be hurt if I don’t buy one from him, Jack.”

Jack winked at O’Connor, then said, “No, Lil, I’ll be hurt if you don’t give him a tip as well.” So she had given him a silver dollar for a paper that cost a nickel, and when she had refused the change, or to take twenty copies, he had been so astonished that for a time he just stood looking at the coin.

“What’s your name, kid?” Corrigan asked.

“O’Connor, sir.”

“Hmm. Got a first name?”

O’Connor felt his cheeks turn red, but answered, “Connor.”

“Connor O’Connor? That’s a little redundant, isn’t it?” the woman said, laughing again.

But Corrigan took his arm from hers then and hunkered down so that he was eye level with the boy. “No, it’s not. It’s a name passed down from a king. Do you know about him?”

“Conn of the Hundred Battles,” O’Connor answered.

Corrigan smiled. “So, Conn of the Hundred Battles, what’s the best corner in Las Piernas?”

“For selling the evening edition? Corner of Broadway and Magnolia.”

Corrigan peered down the street. “Ah, yes. Southwest corner, I suppose. A courthouse, office buildings, two busy restaurants, and a bus stop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jack…” the woman said impatiently.

“In a minute, darling. This is my fellow newspaperman. We’re talking business. Besides, my father would rise from his grave to haunt me if I didn’t show respect for one of his countrymen.” He stood and tipped his hat. “Thank you for the conversation, Mr. O’Connor,” he said, and tossed a nickel to the boy.

“I already paid for the paper!” the woman said.

“No, my dear,” Corrigan replied. “I paid for the paper, but you tipped him, remember? A dollar. You’re the soul of generosity.”

“And you’re the soul of bunk,” she said, making him laugh as they walked off.

At home that night, Maureen explained that “redundant” meant exactly what he had guessed it meant, but O’Connor was too excited about the silver dollar (which he had shown only to Maureen) to feel any harm from the rich woman’s words. He was convinced it was a lucky dollar, and perhaps it was, because when he went to work the next day, the boss told him he was being given the corner at Broadway and Magnolia.

Several weeks later, he was making a heated protest to Geoffrey, the night security man, who was perhaps not ten years older than the paperboy.

“But Jack Corrigan’s my friend and it’s important!”

“O’Connor, please be reasonable,” Geoff was saying in a low voice. “I let you stay here after the other boys have all gone home, and I could get in trouble for that. Mr. Corrigan is a busy man. He’s working on his story about the trial and I’m not going to disturb him.”

“Just try. Please!”

Geoffrey sighed, then lifted his phone. “Mr. Corrigan? Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a paperboy here who…No, sir, I haven’t taken leave of my senses, but…”

O’Connor, desperate, pulled out his lucky dollar. “Send this up to him!”

Geoff said, “I don’t think he can be bribed for a silver dollar, kid.”

Corrigan must have heard the exchange, though, because in the next moment Geoff was listening again, and his expression changed to one of disbelief. “Yes, sir,” he said. He turned to O’Connor. “Let me get somebody to watch the desk. I’ll take you up there myself.”

“No,” O’Connor said, “he should come down here.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes-”

“May I please speak to him on the phone?”

Geoff handed the phone over with a “be my guest” gesture.

“Mr. Corrigan?”

“Hello, kid. Come on up, I’ll show you the newsroom.”

The temptation was mighty and he nearly gave in, but he said, “Sir, I’ve talked this over with my big sister and-”

“Your big sister? Listen, old pal, you’ve been holding out on me. How old is she?”

“Maureen? Eleven.”

“Hmm. A little young, even for me. Nevertheless, what did the glorious Maureen advise?”

He thought hard, trying to remember the exact words Maureen had told him to use. “I saw something today that seems important. It’s about the trial. But if I come up there to the newsroom, people from the News are going to know where you heard about this, and if they do, they’ll want me to be their… their…”

“Paperboy?” Corrigan supplied.

“Unidentified source,” O’Connor said, finally remembering the rest of the speech.

There was the slightest hesitation before he said, “Put Geoff back on the line, kid.”

It was not O’Connor’s first defeat, but it was bitter all the same, and as he handed the phone back to Geoff and turned away from the desk, he found himself unable to meet the security guard’s look of sympathy. He put on his cap and was pushing the big front door open when Geoff called, “Hey, kid! Don’t leave.”

When O’Connor turned back, Geoff said, “He wants to know if you’ve had supper yet.”

O’Connor shook his head.

“Then wait for him over at Big Sarah’s, down the street. He’ll hear your story there.”

O’Connor grinned and thanked Geoff as he hurried out the great brass doors.

Big Sarah’s was an all-night diner two doors down from the paper. It wasn’t a fancy place, but O’Connor had never eaten a meal that his mother or one of his sisters hadn’t cooked-unless you counted an apple or two from a street vendor-so he was nearly as much in awe of Big Sarah’s as he was of the Wrigley Building. His breath frosted the window as he peered in and saw that the place was nearly empty, just one old man drinking coffee at the counter.

It was a little cold out, but he was sure he would be thrown out of the place if he stepped inside, so he stood just outside the diner’s entrance. He took off his cap and was combing his hair with his hand, when the roundest woman he had ever seen caught his eye and motioned him inside with a wave.

She greeted him with a warm smile and said, “You must be Mr. O’Connor. I’m Big Sarah. Come on in, right this way, honey. Handsome Jack hisself called and told me you’d be coming. Do you need to wash up?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“What fine manners! The gents is straight back there, near the phone.”

In the men’s room, he took off his thin jacket and washed his hands and arms up to the elbows, carefully avoiding one place on his left arm. Fascinated by a cloth towel that was dry when you pulled on it, even though it seemed to be just one towel looped on a continuous roller, he considered trying to pull on it until the wet side showed up again. But it made such a noise, he stopped after three tries. He used a little more water to finish combing his hair, then- remembering to be on his best manners, and certain that Big Sarah would check up on him-thought to wipe down the sink. But here the towel mechanism was found to have a shortcoming-the towel couldn’t reach the sink. He used his handkerchief instead.

When O’Connor stepped out of the washroom, Corrigan was standing next to Big Sarah, who was laughing at some joke he had just made. The only other customer in the place had left. Corrigan noticed O’Connor and smiled.

“Let’s get some food in him, Sarah.”

“Two specials, comin’ right up,” she said. “You like fried chicken, Mr. O’Connor?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

They sat in a booth, and it was all O’Connor could do not to run his hands over everything, to feel the smooth leather of the seats or the shiny tabletop. He followed Corrigan’s example with the napkin, resisted the temptation to keep straightening his flatware.

Big Sarah brought Jack a cup of coffee and O’Connor a glass of milk. He didn’t take a sip of it until Jack took a sip of his coffee.

O’Connor thought that Jack would want to hear his secret information right away, but instead Jack asked, “Won’t your mother wonder where you are?”

O’Connor shook his head. “No, sir.”

Jack looked skeptical.

“She’s working tonight. She does for a lady-cooking and cleaning and sometimes minding the lady’s little girls. They’re just babies, the girls.”

“You’ve been to this house?”

“Oh no, sir.” But he blushed.

“Hmm. But you might have taken an unofficial look at the place, maybe followed her to work one day, just to see if it was a good place for her to work?”

Looking at the table, he said, “Might have.”

Corrigan smiled. “And your father? Does he work nights, too?”

Eyes still averted, O’Connor said, “No, sir.”

Corrigan took out a cigarette and lit it. He watched the boy balance his fork on its edge, then put it down flat, then pull his hands away from the table. Jack waited.

“He was a roughneck,” O’Connor said, meeting his eyes at last.

“Your father worked in the oilfields?”

O’Connor began to repeat the story as he had heard Maureen tell it so many times. “My da came from Ireland to Las Piernas to be a roughneck. Before I was born. Before Maureen was born. When Dermot was two.”

“And how old is Dermot now?”

“Seventeen.”

“So your father must have been here at the beginning of the boom.”

O’Connor nodded. “Pat-his cousin-got him signed on with one of the big oil companies on Signal Hill. Pat works up in Bakersfield now.”

“And you help out by working for the paper.”

He shrugged. “A little.”

Big Sarah brought the chicken dinners. It was more hot food than he’d had on his plate in a long time, but O’Connor, just having thought of his family, suddenly felt as if eating it would be a selfish act.

Sensing the problem, Corrigan said, “Sarah’s feelings will be terribly hurt if you don’t finish every bite.”

O’Connor nodded, and after a few bites, tucked into the meal in earnest. The boy finished his supper before Corrigan was halfway through his own, so Corrigan handed him a menu and told him to choose a dessert.

“Apple pie,” O’Connor said, but continued to read the menu.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

O’Connor nodded. “It’s American. So am I.”

“Not Irish?”

“Oh, sure, but I’m Irish American. Maureen and me-” He could hear her correct him. “I mean, Maureen and I-were born here. The others are Irish. My parents, too.”

“You have other brothers and sisters?”

“Yes, sir. There are seven of us, but only the three at home. The other four are all old and married. I think they’re even as old as you.”

Corrigan laughed.

O’Connor went back to perusing the menu. He couldn’t help but notice that the chicken dinner special cost forty cents, and hoped that Mr. Corrigan had plenty of money on him. Then he remembered that he had the silver dollar with him and relaxed. It was lucky, but if Jack Corrigan needed it to pay for the meal, O’Connor would spend it.

“Changing your mind?”

“No, sir,” he said, setting the menu back in its holder. “I just like to read.”

“An admirable trait, Mr. O’Connor.”

It was only after the pie had been eaten that Jack said, “Now, I haven’t forgotten that you called this meeting on account of some very important business.” He looked around the empty diner with the air of a conspirator. “Is it safe to discuss it here?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so. It’s about the Mitch Yeager trial. The one you’ve been covering down at the courthouse.”

“Hmm,” said Jack, lighting another cigarette. “Mitch Yeager just might beat that rap. His older brother, Adam, is serving hard time, but Mitch did his bootlegging with some big names in town-not old enough to drink the stuff, and he was running rum. Now that bootlegging is out of style, young Mitch has found other pursuits-just as illegal, though. Even if he does tell everyone that he’s simply a businessman being harassed by the Express.”

“I know. I’ve been reading your stories.”

“You have? At ten years old?”

“No, sir. I’m eight.”

“Eight.” He digested this fact for a moment, then said, “I thought we didn’t hire paperboys younger than ten.”

O’Connor shifted in his seat, then said, “I’m tall for my age, so I fibbed to get the job. I’ll be nine soon. Are you going to peach on me?”

Jack rubbed his chin. “No. Go on.”

“Well, I wanted to see Yeager for myself, so I asked Duffy if I could just take a peek from the balcony.”

“Duffy?”

“He’s one of the guards at the courthouse. He buys his papers from me.”

“I should have known. We’ll skip the matter of truancy for the moment. This Duffy agreed to let you ‘peek’ at a real, live mobster on trial?”

“Yes, sir. Only I couldn’t see Yeager so good-so well. I saw you-at least, I saw the back of your head.”

“How could you possibly know it was the back of my head?”

O’Connor blushed again. “I saw the lady with the fur coat sitting next to you.”

“Ah, yes, your benefactress.” When O’Connor looked puzzled, Corrigan said, “The lady who gave you the big tip.”

“Yes, sir. What was that other word, please?”

“Benefactress.” Corrigan waited while the boy repeated it to himself several times, then prompted, “You were saying?”

“Oh. Well, mostly I could see the jury. I could see all of them. This one lady kept glancing up at the balcony, and it seemed to me that something was making her nervous.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She would twist her handkerchief. Not all the time, just after she glanced at the balcony.”

Corrigan looked away, blew out a mouthful of smoke. O’Connor watched him stub out his cigarette and grind the butt into the glass ashtray. He smiled ruefully at O’Connor. “I suppose I’m going to have to ask Lillian to stay home. Apparently she’s too much of a distraction.”

“Lillian is my benefactress?”

He pronounced it perfectly, Corrigan noticed. “Yes. Miss Lillian Vanderveer. Of the Vanderveers, you understand.”

“Oh.”

“So go on, Mr. O’Connor.”

“I figured out that the nervous lady was looking at the men sitting next to me. A big fellow and a little fellow.”

Big Sarah came by and refilled Jack’s coffee. O’Connor covered a big yawn beneath a small hand. Jack took out his pocket watch. “Holy-it’s ten o’clock, kid.” He tucked the watch away. “Let me give you a ride home.”

“Wait! I haven’t told you the most important part.”

Jack stopped in the act of pulling out his wallet.

“I kept looking at the little fellow and at the lady juror, and I realized that they might just be what my da calls me and Maureen-two glasses poured from the same bottle. They look alike.”

Jack frowned. “As much alike as you and Maureen?”

“More. I think he’s the lady’s brother-she’s pale and skinny and has frizzy red hair and freckles and a kind of pointy nose. So does he.”

Jack put his wallet back and took out his notebook. “Describe these people to me-the big man, the juror, the little fellow.”

Fifteen minutes later, he was shaking his head in wonder. He knew exactly which juror the kid was talking about and was fairly sure he knew which of Yeager’s men had been sitting up in the balcony. The kid was a natural.

“I had to leave before court was over,” O’Connor was saying. “I had to go get my papers. But I did see one other thing.”

“Much more of this, kid, and I’ll have to trade jobs with you.”

O’Connor pushed up the left sleeve of his jacket-a jacket that had once been Dermot’s. Jack stared at his forearm. “His license number,” O’Connor said proudly. “I saw the big man leave the courthouse with the brother. They got into a black two-door Plymouth sedan.”

Jack was still staring.

“I didn’t have any paper-I mean, I only had my copies of the Express, and I had to sell those. So I wrote it on my arm.”

Corrigan reached over slowly and gently took the boy’s hand in his. “The bruises. Who gave you these bruises?”

O’Connor tried to yank his hand back, but Corrigan held on.

“It’s nothing.”

Corrigan waited.

“A kid at school,” the boy murmured.

“Bigger than you?”

O’Connor nodded.

“You fight back?” Corrigan asked, releasing him.

O’Connor squirmed a bit, then lifted one shoulder. “I tried. But I’m no good at it.”

“What’s wrong with your old man that he hasn’t taught you to defend yourself?”

“It’s not his fault,” O’Connor said quickly, and looked down at the table, avoiding Corrigan’s gaze.

O’Connor’s view of the tabletop began to blur. He scrunched his eyes shut, only to feel hot tears rolling down his face. A baby, he thought. Always acting like a baby. And he was crying in front of Jack Corrigan, of all people.

“Conn,” Jack said quietly. “Conn of a Hundred-and-one Battles.”

“My father got hurt,” the boy said softly, speaking down at the table. “He’d been hurt before, even lost a finger, but this last time-it’s his back. He can’t stand up straight. Can’t even be on his feet for more than a minute or two before the pain…well, anyway, he can’t work.” He pulled out his handkerchief, realized it was still damp from the sink and put it away again.

After a moment, O’Connor heard Corrigan writing in his notebook and looked up. Without glancing up, Corrigan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a clean white handkerchief and offered it across the table.

O’Connor took it and loudly blew his nose into it. He heard Big Sarah walk out of the kitchen, but saw Corrigan wave her back.

“Fine,” she called over her shoulder, “but the shifts are going to be changin’ and fellers are gonna be showin’ up here any minute. I ain’t turnin’ away business, even for you, Handsome Jack.”

Jack smiled. “Wash your face, kid, and we’ll get out of here before those spies from the News can figure out what’s up.”

Jack made a phone call while O’Connor washed up. When O’Connor came back out, Jack was saying, “No surprise, is it? Yes, I’ll be by later tonight. Hell no, I won’t disclose my source, and shame on you for asking.”

He hung up and smiled at Conn. “A detective friend of mine. Turns out that Plymouth is registered to one Mitch Yeager. Good work, kid.”

O’Connor thanked both Corrigan and Big Sarah before they left. She told him to come in and see her again soon. Jack seemed preoccupied; hands in his coat pockets, he didn’t speak as they walked back to the paper.

Jack insisted on driving him home, although O’Connor protested more than once that he didn’t live so very far away and could walk. O’Connor didn’t often ride in cars, and under other circumstances, the offer of even the shortest trip in Jack’s Model A would have been snapped up in a minute. Instead, O’Connor was busy seeking the intervention of all the saints and angels, praying that his father had downed enough cheap whiskey to fall asleep, and that Jack Corrigan would let him off at the curb and drive off before seeing the hovel where they lived.

The small apartment building wasn’t far from downtown. O’Connor hated the place. He was glad Corrigan was seeing it at night-when he might not notice that its dull pink paint was peeling, that the lawn was brown, that the walkway was choked with weeds. As Jack, in defiance of heaven, not only pulled over to the curb but turned off the motor, O’Connor thought that even in darkness, everything about the place said no one would live there unless he couldn’t do any better for himself.

Corrigan was watching him, though, and not the building. “Would it help if I went in with you, explained-”

“No,” O’Connor said quickly, for though the place was kept neat and tidy, his father did not allow strangers past the door, would not let anyone who was not a priest or a family member see what he had become. “No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”

Corrigan put a hand on his shoulder. “All right, then, kid. Maybe you know best. If I can make something of what you’ve told me about the juror, I’m in your debt.”

“I could be your secret agent,” O’Connor said quickly, voicing the hidden, impossible hope that he had held all afternoon and evening.

To his credit, Corrigan managed not to laugh or smile. “It’s an idea worth considering,” he said. “But listen to me, Conn. Mitch Yeager’s not someone to play games with. This is serious business, and if you’re going to be my secret agent, you can’t take risks like following gangsters’ cars and writing down their license numbers while you’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk.”

“I didn’t,” the boy said. “I memorized it, then went into the restroom to write it down.”

Jack stared at him, then started laughing. “Oh, forgive me, kid.” He grew quiet, then said, “Conn, if there’s one mistake repeated by generation after generation of men, it’s that they underestimate their boys.” He looked toward the dimly lit porch of the apartment building. “You be careful all the same, kid. Be careful all the same.”

Jack Corrigan’s stories on jury tampering in the Mitch Yeager trial sold a lot of copies of the Express over the next few weeks. This made Winston Wrigley happy, which meant that both Corrigan’s and O’Connor’s bosses were happy. This happiness extended to almost everyone who worked in the Wrigley Building, except, of course, the staff of the News-most especially its star reporter, the woman who came to the corner of Broadway and Magnolia one afternoon and stood watching O’Connor for fifteen nearly unbearable minutes.

The newsboy felt more nervous than the day he had seen Corrigan jostled on the street by one of Yeager’s men, not long after Jack had stopped by to talk to him. A policeman had seen that and prevented a fight. He didn’t think a copper would defend him against Helen Swan.

This wasn’t the first day she had watched him, but this time, to his horror, she was walking straight toward him. With great effort, he prevented himself from making the Sign of the Cross as she approached.

He had asked Jack about her, and Jack had laughed and said, “Swanie? Brother, when they made the first pair of trousers, they had Swanie try ’em on to make sure they’d be tough enough for any man.” Then Jack winked at him and said, “She’s the daughter of a suffragist, you know.”

It was a word O’Connor didn’t know the precise meaning of, but thought it probably meant her mother made people suffer. Helen Swan didn’t exactly look mean, O’Connor thought as she moved closer. All the same, he had stopped calling out the headlines of the Express and found himself just standing there, waiting for her. He decided there was something about Helen Swan that made you give her your attention when she wanted it. She was a brunette with big brown eyes that he couldn’t look away from. She was not exactly beautiful, not in the way Lillian Vanderveer was, but she had an unmistakable style all her own. O’Connor thought she carried herself as if everyone who hadn’t bowed or curtsied to her yet soon would.

“O’Connor, isn’t it?” she said in a low, melodic voice.

He swallowed and nodded.

She smiled. “Jack Corrigan seems to know a lot about what goes on near this corner lately.”

“He’s a fine reporter,” O’Connor said loyally.

Helen Swan gave a soft, husky laugh. “Yes, he is. Utterly shameless, but a fine reporter.” She began to walk off, then turned and said, “Be sure to tell Jack I said hello.”

It was late that evening before O’Connor saw Corrigan again, and under the circumstances, he considered not conveying Miss Swan’s regards. Jack was sitting in a booth at the back of Big Sarah’s; two women sat across from him. One was known to O’Connor-Lillian Vanderveer.

The other was a woman O’Connor had never met before. She was also a blonde, but her eyes were beer-bottle brown. Her cheeks were flushed and she was laughing hard at some remark Jack had made.

Big Sarah caught O’Connor’s eye and shook her head. O’Connor was about to leave, but Jack called out to him.

“Mr. O’Connor! Don’t rush off.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Lillian said. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m going steady with a little kid.”

“You are,” Big Sarah answered, causing Jack and the other woman to laugh again.

Corrigan had been drinking, O’Connor realized. He accepted this without great upset; over the last few years, since the accident on the oil rig, his own father was often in this state. He gauged Jack’s mood to be jovial, not surly or mean. Nevertheless, he had long ago learned to be wary of men in this condition, knowing their moods could change without warning. So it was that when he approached the booth, he stopped an arm’s distance from Jack’s side of the table.

Corrigan didn’t fail to notice this distance. The reporter said nothing, but rubbed his chin thoughtfully. O’Connor glanced at the women, who had fallen silent.

“Mr. O’Connor,” Corrigan said, without a trace of the drunkenness Conn had seen just a moment before, “allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Ducane, a good friend of Miss Vanderveer’s.”

“How do you do?” O’Connor said.

“Hiya, kid,” the woman said, smiling. “Call me Thelma. You must be the little hooligan who’s driving Lil crazy.”

“Thelma!” Lil said sharply, but Thelma only laughed.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. You know that-right, kid?”

Before he could answer, Jack said, “Mrs. Ducane and Miss Vanderveer were just leaving.”

Thelma’s laugh brayed again, but Lillian gave Jack a cool look. “First the trial,” she said, “and now this. Maybe I’ll do as Daddy suggests and go out with Harold Linworth again. “

Jack smiled. “Capital idea. And capital is what it would be, right? Aiding the cash flow at Ducane-Vanderveer?”

“That is a despicable suggestion-”

“Speaking of despicable, I suppose Daddy wouldn’t want you to start seeing your first love again. Oh, wait, that’s right-”

“Don’t say another word, damn you!”

“C’mon, Lil,” Thelma said, rising to her feet with a wobble. “This is getting boring. Let’s go play with the big boys.”

Lillian hesitated, giving Jack an opportunity he did not take. She stood and walked out without a backward glance. As the diner door closed behind them, O’Connor heard Big Sarah mutter, “Good riddance.”

“How about a cup of coffee, Sarah?” Jack said. He motioned to O’Connor. “Have a seat.”

O’Connor slid into the other side of the booth, which was still fragrant with a mixture of the women’s perfume, smoke, alcohol, and the congealing remains of a banana split. Jack saw him studying the dessert dish and said, “Booze gives Thelma a sweet tooth.”

“I don’t like her,” O’Connor blurted.

“Thelma?”

He nodded.

“I don’t like her much, either,” Jack said. “But her father is in business with Lillian’s father, so the two girls have been close friends for several years now. I think Thelma managed to introduce Lil to some bad company.” He paused and said, “But that’s no story for a kid’s ears.” He shook his head in disgust with himself. “Ungentlemanly of me to even bring it up.”

Big Sarah came over with a cup of hot, black coffee and set it in front of Jack. O’Connor stayed silent while she took the dirty dishes from the table. She gave him a wink and said, “Want anything?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

She left them to wait on two men who were sitting at the counter.

O’Connor figured he might as well tell Jack the bad news now and get it over with. “Something happened at the corner today.”

Jack paused in the act of lifting the cup of coffee.

“Miss Swan came up to me. I’m pretty sure she knows I talk to you.”

The cup rattled against the saucer as Jack set it down and started laughing. “Swanie? Swanie figured it out already?” He laughed again. “Helen Swan is smarter than any man in that building-including Old Man Wrigley. My hat’s off to her, by God!”

O’Connor was puzzled. “You aren’t upset?”

“No, why should I be? This is great. She’s got to be jealous as all get out.” He paused. “She scare you?”

O’Connor shrugged. “A little. At first.”

“And now?”

“There’s something about her-I don’t know.”

“And you want to be a reporter?” Jack scoffed. “You’ll have to do better than that. What’s this ‘something’?”

The boy’s brows drew together. “All right, then. She puts me in mind of a queen.”

Corrigan grinned. “Ah, yes. She does have that effect on gentlemen of all ages. And the next thing you know, they’re giving her their utter loyalty and devotion, rushing off to do her bidding.”

“Not me,” O’Connor declared. “I’m loyal to the Express, one hundred percent!”

“I never doubted it, Mr. O’Connor.”

They talked for a time about O’Connor’s day at school and the stories Jack was working on. Jack drank another cup of coffee, then suggested they go for a long walk together. “Not quite ready to call it a night, are you?” he asked.

No, O’Connor wasn’t.

The double bill at the downtown movie house was letting out just as they neared the theater, and Jack took O’Connor’s hand as they made their way across that crowded section of sidewalk. Perhaps because Jack was recognized or perhaps because there were no other children nearby, some of the men and women leaving the theater watched Jack and O’Connor. The women usually smiled at them-Jack would nod or touch his hat brim.

For those moments, O’Connor ignored the fact that Jack was not much older than his oldest brother and fantasized that he was Jack Corrigan’s son; that his father, Jack Corrigan, had taken him to see The Texas Rangers and China Clipper, that he was the son of the best reporter in the world and everyone knew it, that his father was proud of him and thought him the finest of young men, and then… and then they had walked beyond the edge of the crowd and Jack released his hand.

As his hand dropped free of Corrigan’s, O’Connor thought of his real father, Kieran O’Connor, and felt ashamed of himself. The small pleasure of the fantasy was forgotten.

Corrigan was asking him something. “I’m sorry,” O’Connor said, “I was thinking so loud, I didn’t hear you.”

“I was asking if anyone had ever taught you how to box.”

“No, sir. Dermot tried once, but it didn’t take. If I did the right thing with my hands, I did the wrong thing with my feet.”

“A common problem,” Corrigan said, “even among the pros.”

They had reached the shore by then and Corrigan stopped to take off his shoes. “C’mon,” he said, “take yours off, too. Easier to learn on the sand.”

O’Connor followed suit, then shivered as his bare feet hit the cold beach.

“You’ll be warmed up in a minute,” Jack said.

The moon shone bright over the water and sand. Jack began to show O’Connor how to hold his fists, how to throw his weight into a punch, how to protect himself from a counterpunch. The sand both braced and slowed his feet, and twice when he overstepped, it cushioned his falls. Some of Dermot’s lessons came back to him, but now made more sense.

Jack rolled up his pants legs and dropped to his knees, held both hands up. “Okay,” he said, “come at me. Hard as you like.”

After a few hesitant punches, Jack said, “Harder.”

O’Connor punched a little harder.

“Harder,” Jack said again. “Pretend I’ve been mean to Maureen.”

O’Connor began walloping Jack’s open palms.

After a few minutes of punishment, Jack yelled, “Okay, okay! Truce! Uncle! Hell, I’m not going to be able to hold a pen tomorrow.” At O’Connor’s look of horror, he said, “Just a joke, kid. Just a joke. I’m fine. How are you?”

O’Connor was breathing hard, and as Jack had predicted, he felt warm from his exertions. But the breeze off the water was cooling him, the sand was soft beneath his feet, and he knew he had boxed better this time than he ever had with Dermot. He smiled. “I’m fine.”

Jack stood and brushed off his legs and feet. “We’ll have another lesson tomorrow.”

“Do you mean it?” O’Connor asked.

“Sure. But don’t try this out on anybody until you’ve had a chance to really learn what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I don’t aim to start fights.”

“Kid,” Jack said as they began to put on their socks and shoes, “if I thought you were aiming to start fights, I wouldn’t have taught you anything about boxing.”

“Who taught you?”

“My father.”

O’Connor was silent, suddenly seeming to need all his concentration for his shoelaces.

“Your dad ever teach you anything?” Corrigan asked.

O’Connor looked up. “Oh, sure. Lots of things. When I was little, he taught me how to tie my shoes. And when I get big enough to shave, I’ll know how, ’cause he used to let me watch him do that. And he used to sing, so I learned a lot of songs from him.”

Corrigan was quiet as they began to walk back to the Wrigley Building, heading up American Avenue. Nearby to the north, eerily silhouetted in the moonlight, were hills so crowded with oil derricks they seemed cloaked in a strange black forest of identical leafless trees. “That’s where my dad worked,” O’Connor said, pointing. “He built some of those wells.”

“Roughnecking-that’s some of the hardest work anywhere,” Jack said.

O’Connor nodded. “My dad likes hard work. Maureen remembers him better than I do-from before the accident, I mean. He never drank in those days. Not a drop. And even now, I know…I know it’s not what he really likes. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so, yes.”

“I keep praying that the Lord will cure him. I don’t understand why he doesn’t. I mean, Jesus suffered on the cross, but he didn’t stay up there for years at a time, now, did he?”

“I’m not the man to teach you about religion, Conn. I’ll be a poor enough boxing coach.”

Jack saw that the boy was making some earnest reply, but just at that moment, a Red Car came by, rumbling its way down the rails to the next stop.

“What did you say?”

“I said, never mind boxing-I mean, I won’t mind learning it. But what I really want you to teach me, Mr. Jack Corrigan, is how to be a newspaper-man.”