Road to Perdition

Three

John Looney’s mansion provided an unrivaled view of the Mississippi River Valley, including the mansions below his on the bluff, which of course allowed him to look down on high society. In those days, only one bridge joined the Illinois and Iowa sides of the river — the government bridge, giving access to Arsenal Island from both shores — and most folks invested a nickel and crossed the Mississippi by ferry. The ferry — a riverboat called the Quinlan — included (after sundown) gambling and music.

Research tells me that Bix Beiderbecke and Louis Armstrong frequently played on the Quinlan, but the only time I heard the Quinlan’s jazz band was at Danny McGovern’s wake. Maybe Bix was there, but not Louis. As distinct as my memories are of that afternoon and evening at the Looney mansion, I would remember a black man — “colored,” we said back then — among the musicians assembled in the grand parlor.

Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., sat along the wall in a corner of the grand parlor, in a comfortable armchair, a softly glowing lamp on an end table between him and John Looney, sunk down in his own, rather more throne-like chair; the two men listened as the band played a ragtime tune. Night had come, and such liveliness was to be expected at a wake; the jazz boys from the Quinlan ferryboat were throwing in an Irish tune now and then, a reel here, a jig there — a tenor singing “Danny Boy” had elicited sobs, and Looney himself had instructed the musicians to avoid the number for the rest of the evening.

“Where’s Fin?” Looney — hands on his knees, rocking gently — asked O’Sullivan. It was almost a whisper.

O’Sullivan nodded in Fin McGovern’s direction — the brawny Irishman was sitting alone on the other side of the room, keeping a bottle of bourbon company. Said bottle was no doubt near empty, O’Sullivan reckoned.

“Has the boyo spoken to you?” Looney asked.

“Yes.”

“Any trouble?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep watch.”

“I am.”

His black suitcoat unbuttoned, Connor Looney — just enough weave in his walk to indicate he, too, had had his share of some bottle or other — leaned in on one side of his father, slipping an arm around the old man.

“Well, isn’t this swell,” Connor said, nodding toward the dancing and drinking. “You put on a hell of a show, Pa. Hell of a show.”

Looney touched his son’s arm — an affectionate gesture that put a warm look in Connor’s eyes, surprising O’Sullivan a little. “Show some respect, my boy,” the old man said, lightly. “All eyes are on us.”

“As in ‘Irish eyes are smiling’?”

“They’re not all smiling, son.”

The band was playing a peppy version of “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”

“Got a speech prepared, Pa?” Connor asked. “Nice and pretty?”

“Words from right here,” his father, patting his heart.

Looney leaned on Connor, bracing himself as he stood. “This tune seems to be winding down... best I catch them between songs.” He ambled away from them, toward where the band played on the little stage, leaving his chair to his son — the real son who now sat beside the surrogate.

Looking out at the reveling mourners, Connor etched half a smile. “Danny sure had a lot of friends.”

O’Sullivan couldn’t find any sarcasm in Connor’s words.

So he gave the man a serious response: “He did indeed.”

Now Connor looked at O’Sullivan, his handsome face twisted in its usual wiseguy fashion. “Think your wake’ll be this big?”

“No idea.”

Connor hitched his shoulders, looked toward his father, who was standing out in front of the band, now. “Guys like us, Mike, we don’t get no wake. We’re lucky to get buried on church soil.”

Somebody tapped a glass with a spoon, silence settled in, and all eyes — including O’Sullivan’s and Connor’s — were on the stage, where John Looney stood, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket.

Looney looked out on the crowd, his sky-blue eyes moving from face to face, making each of them feel he spoke directly to them.

“I welcome you to my home,” he said.

Looney’s brogue seemed thicker when he spoke in public, O’Sullivan thought.

“It’s good to have so many friends in this house again. Since Mary’s death, it’s just been me and my boy, walking around these big empty rooms... ”

He opened up the speech, looked at it for several long moments, then folded it back up.

“I had a speech, but... truth to tell, it would be dishonest if I pretended I knew Danny well. But lose one of us, it hurts us all.”

Around the parlor, murmurs of approval.

“I’ll tell you what I do remember — and Fin, I know you’ll recall this, too — when Danny was on the high school football team? He’d done us proud all year. Then came state championship: six points behind, ten seconds left on the clock... and Danny threw the block of his lifetime... and took down his own quarterback!”

Gentle laughter rippled across the room.

“Mistakes — sweet Jesus knows, we all make ’em... wouldn’t be human, otherwise. Wouldn’t need a God, a savior, such case... Give me that bottle would you, son?”

The band leader handed the bottle to the patriarch.

“Great country we live in,” the old man said, without irony. “But it does have its quirks, doesn’t it? Against the law to a have friendly drink... ” He leaned forward, bottle in one hand, raising a forefinger of the other, issuing a mock whisper. “Don’t tell the chief, now... ”

Rather bawdy laughter erupted as the portly chief of police made a show of turning his back, so as not to see this law being broken.

Looney stood tall; his voice turned somber. “We drink today in our late compatriot’s honor.”

Around the room glasses and bottles appeared, held high in the fashion of a toast, saluting the dead man. Watching this carefully, Michael O’Sullivan — on his feet now, as was everyone in the room but the musicians behind their stands — casually removed a small silver flask from a jacket pocket. He was not aware that his wife Annie — standing between their two boys, a protective arm around either — watched him closely, studying him as he listened to his “father” speak.

His voice strong, loud, Looney said, “Let us wake Danny to God.” Then his voice grew even louder, and wry humor touched it now: “And may he be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows he’s dead.”

Standing in back with his mother, young Michael — who had never before heard this traditional Irish commemoration — found the words fascinating, and disturbing. Why would a good person need to fool the devil? Had the man with the pennies on his eyes been a sinner?

On the stage, Mr. Looney was introducing the brother of the dead man, “our good friend, Fin McGovern.”

Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., was observing this tableau carefully.

“Fin will now honor us with a few words,” Looney was saying, somehow managing to be light and serious at the same time, “words that I’m sure will have far more poetry than my own... Fin.”

The burly brother of the deceased took the stage, and Looney gave him a fatherly hug. McGovern accepted the gesture, though stiffly...

“Thank you, Mr. Looney... John.” Then the roughneck in his Sunday best turned toward the assembled mourners. “My brother Danny was not a wise man, nor was he a gentle man. Like many of us here, he worked with his hands... the sweat of his back, not his brow.”

Smiles and nods blossomed around the room.

“And it would be a shameful oversight,” McGovern said with a smile, though the moisture in his eyes glistened enough for O’Sullivan to see, halfway back in the crowd, “not to admit that — with a snootful of liquor in him — he was a royal pain in the patoot.”

Now a gentle wave of laughter rolled across the assemblage. O’Sullivan, however, was not smiling. Neither was his wife Annie, who — leaving the boys for a moment — slipped up beside her husband.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” she whispered.

O’Sullivan glanced at her, almost startled by her presence — and her question. He just shook his head.

“This was not a natural thing, was it?” she asked, an edge in her voice, despite the softness of it.

“Not the place,” O’Sullivan whispered back. “Not the time.”

She returned to her children, while on the stage, McGovern continued his tribute.

“For whatever his failings,” the burly brother was saying, “and Mr. Looney is right, Danny, like all of us, was human... He was a brave boy. A loyal boy. And he spoke the truth... sometimes to a fault.”

An uncomfortable silence was settling over the crowd.

“Oh, he’d have enjoyed this party, he would,” McGovern continued, rocking a bit, his unsteadiness showing. “Me and the family, we want to say thank you, to all of you... and most of all to our generous host.”

These words seemed to relieve the mourners, the sarcasm not registering on many of them — though O’Sullivan knew. And Annie.

“Where would this town be without Mr. John Looney, God love him,” McGovern said, voice trembling.

A murmur of approval undulated over the room, Looney bowing his head, humble, grateful for such kind words.

On wavering feet, McGovern turned to Looney, studying him. “I have worked for you many years now, sir... nearly half my life. And we have never had a disagreement... ”

Few in the room could have noted the shift in John Looney’s expression — the steel coming into his eyes. O’Sullivan did. He was already slowly working his way forward in the crowd.

“But I have come to realize a hard thing,” McGovern said, voice quavering... Was it anger? Sadness? Both? “Looney rules his roost, much as God rules the earth. Looney giveth... Looney taketh away... ”

And O’Sullivan was on stage, now, making sure his expression seemed friendly as he took Fin McGovern’s arm — gentle but firm in his grasp — and walked him off the stage, as the mourners watched, uneasy, not certain what they had just witnessed.

“Strike up the band!” Looney said, buoyantly, and the musicians began a bouncy reel, as the host turned to the assembled guests with a smile and another raise of his glass. O’Sullivan had already hustled the grieving, drunken brother out the front door, two of McGovern’s friends emerging from the crowd to follow.

At the back of the room, protective arms again around the shoulders of her boys, Annie watched — trying not let alarm show in her face — as Connor Looney stepped from the sidelines to follow after her husband and Fin McGovern... and two of Fin’s tough roughneck chums.

“What’s going on?” young Michael asked, looking up at his mother.

“Nothing,” she said, cheerfully. “Nothing at all. These parties can get a little out of hand... Let’s have some food.”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter said, not whining, just honest. “I can’t eat with that dead guy in there.”

Michael said, “There’s cake.”

Peter thought about it, then shrugged. “All right.”

And the three of them headed for the buffet table, though Annie glanced back several times, not showing her worry, while her older boy sensed it, anyway. As his mother helped Peter maneuver a piece of cake onto a small plate, Michael slipped away.

The boy went to the front door, which was ajar. He peeked out and saw Mr. Looney from behind, standing in darkness, looking out on the driveway and front lawn, at a small commotion.

Michael’s father was helping the deceased’s brother, the one called Fin McGovern, walking the big man toward a truck, where two more big men had gone on ahead, waiting, their nasty expressions at odds with their funereal fineries. Connor Looney was bringing up the rear, trotting alongside Fin McGovern, who was almost falling down, he was so drunk.

His father didn’t drink much — he’d never seen his father drunk, rarely seen him take a drink — but one of their neighbors, a man named McFate, was a sloppy, loud “lush” (that was the word Papa had used, speaking to Mama). So Michael could recognize Fin McGovern’s condition as drunkenness; and he even understood that the man had gotten this way out of his sorrow.

What surprised Michael was the vehemence, the savagery with which Fin McGovern refused Connor Looney’s help, shoving the man away, yelling, “First I bury m’brother! Then I deal with you, m’fine boyo... ”

But Papa, on the other side of the drunken man, didn’t seem to take this very seriously, just saying, “Yeah, yeah, Fin... You’ll deal with all of us. But first get a good night’s sleep.”

Papa kept walking Fin McGovern toward that truck, where the two other big men were milling and grousing amongst themselves, as they waited. As Papa helped Mr. McGovern up into the vehicle, the other men quieted down and lent a hand, then got in themselves, one behind the wheel, steadying Fin between them.

But Connor Looney — once he’d been shoved — had stayed behind; and when he turned away from them, his face looked white and strange in the moonlight. Michael saw no expression in Connor’s face, and yet he knew that the man was furious. What Papa had taken as a drunken remark, “Uncle” Connor seemed to consider a direct threat.

As the truck rumbled off down the driveway, its headlights cutting through the night like swords, Mr. Looney stepped out of the darkness and went down the steps to join his son and Papa, who were heading back to the mansion. They met at the bottom of the porch steps.

“Is Fin all right?” Mr. Looney asked.

“Needs to sleep it off,” Papa said.

Shrugging, Connor said, “Yeah, he’s fine. Mike’s right. Lug just drank himself cockeyed, is all... I’ll have a little talk with him.”

But Michael knew Connor’s casual words didn’t match up with that awful expression the man had worn, just moments before.

Mr. Looney said, “Talk to him, but take Mike along.”

“That’s not necessary, Pa — why waste both our time? I’ll be fine.”

“Take Mike with you, I said.” Mr. Looney shook a finger at his son, as if Connor were a child, not a man. “And you just talk to the lad. Nothing more... We’ve had enough rough stuff, for a while.”

What did that mean? Michael wondered. He glanced back to see if his mother had noticed his absence, and when he returned to his spying, Mr. Looney was coming through the door!

But all his godfather did was tousle Michael’s hair and smile down at him, before moving back into where the mourners were having their party. Connor ignored Michael, but Papa seemed surprised, and not happy, about seeing him. When his father’s eyes meet his, Michael wondered if Papa knew he’d been spying.

And Michael O’Sullivan, Sr., wondered what his son may have seen and heard — and, if so, what the boy had understood.

While young Michael did not really understand why these supposedly sad people were having a party, he did enjoy himself, as the festivities got more lively. Plenty more people were at least as tipsy as Mr. McGovern had been, dancing to the band, which played lots of different kinds of music.

The mourners seemed to like the reels best of all, and Mr. Looney, charming host that he was, would shuffle across the room, nodding to people, sometimes chatting with them, a glass of whiskey in hand — sometimes two glasses.

Their mother danced with several of Mr. Looney’s men — oddly, never with Papa, who sat on the sidelines mostly, just watching — and she would whirl around, her hair flying, looking as pretty as the young unmarried girls. Several times Michael found himself wondering if Mama was drunk, too — but that seemed impossible. Still, he’d seen her pouring something from a silver thing into her coffee cup...

Connor Looney, strangely enough, turned out to be a really good dancer. Much as he didn’t care for his so-called uncle, the boy enjoyed watching the man dance — he was really good, slick and smooth, like one of those dark handsome dancers in tuxedos in the picture shows. What was the name of that one actor? George Raft?

Michael wasn’t the only one who enjoyed watching Connor dance — everybody kept an eye on him, and he got a lot of applause. The young woman he was dancing with was good, too; she had on more makeup than some of the other girls, and when she looked at Connor, she had a funny expression — like she was hungry or something.

Probably Connor’s biggest fan was Mr. Looney, and Michael could tell Uncle Connor liked that — maybe it made up for being treated like a kid, outside. When Connor finished up the latest reel, he executed a deft dip that didn’t hide how drunk he was, or how pleased that Mr. Looney was laughing and clapping and proud.

Michael had never seen a grown-up act like a child before — except maybe for drunken Mr. McFate next door (although their neighbor hadn’t been causing trouble since Papa “talked” to him).

Even Mama was acting, if not like a kid, kind of... young. His mother, after dancing with another of Mr. Looney’s men, flounced over to Papa, on the sidelines, and she was out of breath and smiling and laughing. The boy didn’t hear their exchange.

“Kiss me,” Annie said to her husband, slipping an arm around him.

He just looked at her. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I need it.”

“The children.”

“... Do you really think this is a good time to play holier than thou?”

“Annie. Please.”

“Can I get you something, darlin’?”

“No.”

A bit of a weave was in her walk as she headed to the table where she could get coffee and something to spike it with. She was just doing that when, from the stage, came a gentle rainfall of piano notes — the opening chords of an Irish air.

As “aaahs” issued forth from the crowd, all eyes were turning toward the piano, along one side of the room, where John Looney sat, playing. The room had gone otherwise silent when Looney looked up, caught O’Sullivan’s eye, and with a bob of the head, motioned him over. Moments later, O’Sullivan was sliding in next to the old man on the piano bench.

Annie, cup of coffee in hand, swiveled to watch. So did Michael, off to one side, eating a slice of cake, finally. Peter somehow wound up standing next to Connor Looney, and the two drank in the sight of their respective fathers melding musically, as O’Sullivan played along with Looney, hesitant at first, but gradually catching up.

The beautiful melody had people swaying, eyes tearing; but then — with a leprechaun twinkle — the old man shifted gears, starting in on a jig. O’Sullivan stopped, then joined back in, keeping up easily now. Looney would play an improvised variation on a phrase, as a sort of challenge, and O’Sullivan would play it back at him.

The crowd loved it, laughing, clapping along. To Michael, this was as amazing a sight as it was a sound. His father, who usually seemed so austere, was having a good time! Something moved the boy, seeing his Papa next to Mr. Looney, who was so much like a father to Papa, just as he was like a grandfather to Michael and Peter. To see Papa playing so freely, beside Mr. Looney, made Michael happy... though, oddly, his eyes were tearing up, as if he were sad.

Annie O’Sullivan could only smile and shake her head a bit, knowing that her husband would do anything that terrible wonderful old man might ask. And soon she too was caught up in it, as the music built in tempo — phrase and answer, phrase and answer.

Michael noticed his brother standing next to the scary Connor, who was also clapping along, grinning, watching — but something about the man’s expression reminded Michael of Connor’s face earlier, in the moonlight. The man’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes sure weren’t.

After the piano duet had built to a big, improvised, train wreck of an ending — which had the mourners laughing and applauding, wildly — Looney turned to O’Sullivan, held open his arms, and the two men embraced.

Peter, next to Connor Looney, looked at the grown-up next to him; the slender, dark-haired man was an odd duck, the boy thought — something really strange about his eyes. They were always sort of half-closed, like any second he could fall sleep.

But most of all, the really weird thing, was how the man smiled all the time. Peter wondered about that, and being a child, he decided to ask.

“Why are you always smiling?”

And Connor Looney looked down at him, the smile still going. “’Cause it’s all just a goddamn joke.”

The boy stood frozen for a few moments, then scurried off, disturbed, terrified, and yet strangely exhilarated, at hearing the lord’s name taken so carelessly in vain.

Several hours later, at home, in his pajamas, Michael was in the hallway, padding back from the bathroom, when he heard muffled voices. Pausing by his parents’ bedroom door, he could make out both his mother and his father, talking... more Mama than Papa, maybe. Were they... arguing?

Desperate to know, and yet not wanting to, he headed quickly back to the bedroom he shared with Peter. The lights had been officially out for some time, and Peter had been asleep for maybe half an hour; but Michael — as was his habit — was up late, reading.

Crawling back under the covers, he picked up the flashlight and held it over the book he was reading — The Lone Ranger Rides, a Big Little Book. He loved the fat little books, which were about four inches wide and four inches tall and two or three inches thick — on each page at left was text, and on each page at right a full-page picture.

Most of the Big Little Books (ten cents each at the dime store) featured comic-strip characters, like Dick Tracy and Little Orphan Annie; Michael’s favorites, though, were the western heroes, like Tom Mix from the movies and the Lone Ranger from radio. He flew through the thick books, gulping down the words, inhaling the pictures, each of which had a caption: “Moonlight streamed into the room.” Unless he was in the middle of a sentence, he would always look at the picture first, and then read the caption, and finally the page of text. He flipped a page, revealing a shadowy figure climbing in a window: “A man climbed in the window.”

The captions always told you what your eyes had already seen, yet somehow the repetition made everything seem more important, more suspenseful...

“Michael?”

He jumped, even though it was just Peter’s voice.

“What?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“... It was about Mr. Looney’s house.”

“Peter, it’s just a house.”

“The house was scary in my dream.”

“It was scary when we were over there — there was a dead body in it.”

“... Is that why I had a bad dream?”

Michael wanted to get back to his reading. “Gee, I wonder. It’s a big old house, with a dead body and a bunch of drunk people. But it’s still just a house. Go back to sleep.”

Silence.

Then Peter asked, “Is Mr. Looney rich?”

“What do you think?”

“Richer than Babe Ruth?”

Interested suddenly, Michael leaned on his elbow, thinking about his little brother’s question. “Sure — richer than the Babe, even... and the Babe is richer than the president.”

“Wow... How about us?”

“What do you mean, ‘how about us’?”

“Are we rich, Michael?”

“No, stupid... but we’re richer than some people, I guess.”

Michael heard Peter getting settled in his bed, again; relieved, the older boy returned to his reading. The first part of the story was about the bad things the outlaws did; later would be the good part, when the Lone Ranger got even.

“Michael?”

“What!”

“You don’t have to be mad.”

“... What?”

“What does Papa do?”

“What do you mean, what does he do?”

“What’s his job?”

Looking at the Lone Ranger’s picture — he was on his horse, next to Tonto, his Indian friend — Michael said, “He works for Mr. Looney. You know that.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know. Our grandpa died before we were born, and Mr. Looney sort of... stepped in. Looked after Papa.”

“I know all that. That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“What does Papa do for him, Michael? What’s his job?”

Michael turned the page. The picture was of Beasley, the rancher, in his bed at night, sitting up to turn toward the sound KLIK! And the caption said, “Beasley heard the click of a gun.”

Peter said, tauntingly, “You’re not telling me, ’cause you don’t know.”

“Do so.”

“Do not.”

Michael said nothing, studying the picture of the frightened rancher.

Peter was saying, “You don’t know any more than I do... and I’m younger than you.”

Michael, not wanting to admit that Peter was right, said, “Papa goes on missions for Mr. Looney... They’re very dangerous — that’s why he takes his gun along... ” Michael turned the page. “Sometimes the president sends Papa on missions, too — because Papa was a hero in the war and all.”

Peter, sitting up now, covers in his lap, thought that over. Finally the younger boy said, “You’re just making that up.”

“I am not!”

Peter rolled over in bed, with a sigh, facing the wall as he said, “It’s all just a goddamn joke... ”

Alarmed, Michael sat up. “Peter... Peter, don’t ever say that word.”

The younger boy, without turning, said, “I heard Uncle Connor say it.”

“Well, he’s a grown-up, and not a very nice grown-up, either.”

“He’s Mr. Looney’s son, isn’t he?”

“Why don’t you use that word in front of Papa and see what he thinks?”

Now Peter sat up, in alarm. “Don’t tell him I said it!”

“I won’t, I won’t. Just don’t say it again.”

“... Okay.” Peter curled back up in bed.

Michael read a few pages, then he said, “Peter? You still awake?”

“Yes.”

“I heard Uncle Connor use the other bad word... the really bad one.”

Peter rolled over and faced Michael again. “The one that Billy used that time?”

“Yes — the word Sister Mary Teresa used the soap to wash his mouth out with because of.”

Even in the near-darkness, Michael could see Peter’s eyes were wide, whites showing all around. “He must really be a bad man... I don’t care if he’s Mr. Looney’s son, I think he’s scary. Scarier than that house, even.”

“I think you’re right. Go to sleep.”

“Turn off the flashlight and I will.”

“... Okay.”

Michael put the Big Little Book, folded open to his place, on his nightstand. The boys said goodnight to each other, and Michael hoped he wouldn’t have any nightmares. If he did, he figured it wouldn’t be that house or even the dead body that gave them to him, or even the Frankenstein monster.

Most likely it would be the boogeyman that was Uncle Connor.