13 Hangmen (20 page)

Tony suddenly remembered that Angelo would never marry, never have children.

“Maybe you never will be,” Tony said. “On that page, I mean.”

“Hang on,” Angelo said. “Aren't you jumping the gun a little? I'm only thirteen.”

The bedroom door blew open. But this time it wasn't the twins. “Mama!” Angelo said, startled. “No, I'm fine. I just lost a button. I'll be right down.” The door swung closed again. “I forgot all about breakfast,” he whispered to Tony. “On Saturday mornings she makes a late
colazione
—eggs over polenta and spinach—for the boarders. Be back as soon as I can.”

To keep from nodding off, Tony pulled the wallet out of his back pocket and contemplated the little key in the credit-card slot. It wasn't big enough to open a door. (Not that any of the
doors in this place actually locked.) So what did it open? And what difference did it make if Hagmann planned to level the place, anyway? Tony put the key back and pulled out his new phone. Should he call Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe and pick the Pickleses' brains? He saw there was a return text from Sarah, sent last night:
Case closed? Doubt it. N still in Hangman. Just in different spot.

Suddenly Finn sat up. “Paddy?” he said.

“He's not here,” Tony said, stowing his phone. “I'm Tony.”

Finn scrambled to his feet. “Where's Paddy? Did Stevie Wallace send you?”

“You're probably not going to believe this,” Tony said, “but—”

“I gotta go,” Finn said. He bolted for the bedroom door. But when he swung it open, Angelo suddenly materialized.

“Oh, hi,” Angelo said, stepping into the room. “Glad you're finally awake.”

Finn backed away, terrified.

“What did I miss?” Angelo said, turning to Tony. “Did you ask him about his pact against the Hagmanns yet?”

“I must still be in the middle of one of my—” Finn said, then broke off.

“No, you're awake,” Tony reassured him. He launched into his explanation about how they were from the future—he was
getting pretty good at that part—and wrapped up by explaining how the ring on the spiral had conjured him, a baseball cap had conjured Angelo (though Finn probably couldn't see it), and a mezuzah had conjured Solly (who Finn couldn't see either, since he was in the outhouse). And just in case Finn didn't believe they
were
from the future—neither Angelo nor Solly had at first—Tony could prove it by revealing a couple of secrets about Finn that they as total strangers couldn't possibly know. That's because Finn himself would actually tell those secrets to Solly—who would be right back—in about a decade.

“What secrets?” Finn said, edging toward the door.

“That you pass out in narcoleptic seizures brought on by stress,” Tony said.

Finn froze in his tracks. “Nobody knows about that except One-Eyed Jack,” he said. “The doctor only just explained to me what these sleeping fits were this afternoon.”

“That today is your thirteenth birthday.”

“Christmas Eve, 1909,” Finn whispered.

“That Paddy, your older brother, gave you his claddagh ring—the one with two hands clasping a heart that you set on the spiral before you fell asleep—inscribed with his initials and his date of birth: September 9, 1889.”

“If you really are from the future, like you say, you'll be able to tell me what's about to happen to Paddy,” Finn said.

“I don't know,” Tony confessed.

“Then I gotta find him,” Finn said. “It's past dark. He should be home by now.”

“Solly might know what happened to Paddy,” Angelo offered.

Tony glanced out the window. It wasn't even noon yet for him, Angelo, and Solly. Not only was Finn in a different month of a different century, he was also in a different time of
day
. Boy, were things getting complicated!

Angelo continued, “You mentioned something about Paddy to him when the grown-up version of you gave him the ring on
his
thirteenth birthday. The fastest way to find out would be to wait for Solly to get back from the outhouse.”

Finn hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed.

“Meantime, maybe you could tell us why you made a lifelong pact against the Hagmanns with all your friends,” Tony said.

“What pact?” Finn said.

“Uh-oh,” Angelo said. “We got him too early. He hasn't made it yet.”

“Mind you, I truly hate Cedric Hagmann,” Finn said.

“Well let's start there,” Tony said.

“For some reason, he's just desperate to get his hands on this house, even though he already owns the Charter Street Bank, the rental house next door, and a giant mansion on Garden Court Street,” Finn said. “That's why he's always asking Mam to marry
him, even though she's his housecleaner and an Irishwoman. But Mam keeps saying no. She swore to all us kids she'd never betray the memory of our da like that, no matter how desperate things got. Until today, that is. Cedric Hagmann just told me how he plans to blackmail her into becoming his bride.”

“How?” Tony said.

“By threatening to turn her in to the police for harboring criminals in the attic.”

“Is she?” Angelo said.

“No, but Paddy is.” Finn sighed. “Don't ever believe what you hear about the luck of the Irish,” he said. “This has been the most
un
lucky birthday of my life.”

“Hang on—you'd better start from the beginning,” Tony said.

Finn started over. At dawn he had helped Mam carry her buckets and mops over to Garden Court Street so she could clean Cedric Hagmann's house for Christmas. When he got back to Hangmen Court, though, he couldn't get into the attic bedroom he shared with Paddy. Though the door didn't have a lock, it was barricaded shut with a chair. Finn begged Paddy to open up; his boots had holes in them and his socks were now wet. Suddenly the door flew open. Finn found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver, aimed by a hoodlum who told him to reach for the sky.

All went black. When he finally came to, he was lying on the brass bed with Paddy hovering over him. Turns out the hoodlum was Paddy's new boss—Stevie Wallace, leader of the notorious Tailboard Thieves. Stevie had hijacked a delivery truck of whiskey earlier that morning. The police had raided the Wallace family home on Gustin Street, and Stevie had narrowly escaped out the back window. Until the heat was off, the gang would now be meeting at 13 Hangmen Court—at four o'clock that very afternoon, in fact. Finn begged Paddy to quit the gang. Paddy assured him he'd like nothing better; but it was the only way he could think of to keep the McGinleys together. Mam was trying her best to make ends meet. But with Da gone, she was a short step away from the poorhouse. Paddy made Finn swear on his ring not to tell Mam about the gang. It would kill her to know he was working for the Irish mob. He left to catch up with Wallace.

Finn decided then and there to drop out of school. If he found himself a decent-paying job, maybe Paddy could quit the gang. He hit the streets, in spite of his wet socks. The first
HELP WANTED
sign he came to was in the window of a pub at the corner, called One-Eyed Jack's. He walked straight through the saloon doors to apply for it.

Which is when the
real
trouble began …

n the gloom, Finn spied a half dozen Irishmen standing at the bar. The one with his back turned was arguing with the elderly black bartender with snow-white hair. “What do you mean, you don't serve my kind here?” the Irishman said.

“You heard me,” the bartender said, polishing a pilsner glass.

“You should feel honored I've even stooped to coming in,” the Irishman said. “And the only reason I
have
is because I'm waiting for my new man to catch up with us. So pour me a whiskey.”

“Plenty of other places in the North End sell whiskey,” the bartender said.

“Don't get uppity with me, Sambo!” the Irishman said. “I want to speak with the owner.”

“You are,” the bartender said. “Now get out.”

That was when Finn noticed the patch over the bartender's left eye. One-Eyed Jack.

“Lucky for you I got pressing business,” the Irishman said. “But I'll be back for a double. And you'll be giving it to me on the house.” The Irishman turned to leave. It was Stevie Wallace—Paddy's new boss—the hoodlum who had pointed the revolver at Finn up in the attic.

All went black again.

Finn was lying on the zinc countertop when he woke. The bartender was mopping his forehead with a damp dishrag. Up close, Finn could see he was really old—eighty, at least. But there was an energy about him that made him seem much younger.

“Thanks,” Finn said.

“Jack Douglass, at your service.”

“Sorry about earlier,” Finn said, sitting up.

“What for?” Jack said. “You helped me get rid of him. I've never served his kind—hoodlums—and never will. You must be Dolly McGinley's boy. I'd recognize the color of that hair anywhere.”

“I go by Finn,” he said, surprised. “You know Mam?”

“I sold her your house,” Jack said.

Even more of a surprise. There weren't very many Negroes left
in New Guinea, now that the Irish had moved into the neighborhood and renamed it Little Dublin. Not unless you counted the ones in the Copp's Hill Burying Ground.

“I hope you're not here to tell me your mammy's gone and married Cedric Hagmann?” Jack said.

Finn shook his head. How did he know about that? “I'm here for that dishwashing job,” he said.

“How old are you, son?”

“Sixteen,” Finn lied. “I'm just small for my age.”

Jack laughed. “I don't happen to have a job for a sixteen-year-old,” he said. “But I might just have one for a twelve-going-on-thirteen-year-old.”

Finn grinned. “I turned thirteen today.”

“Right on time,” Jack said. “I guess you're hired.”

“When do I start?” Finn said.

“Right now,” Jack said, handing him the dishrag. “One-Eyed Jack's is open every single day of the year. Happy birthday.”

Finn's first morning of work was surprisingly busy. There were dozens of glasses to polish, all the tables to wipe clean, floors to sweep, and a mountain of potatoes to peel before the lunch shift. By noon One-Eyed Jack's was packed with a raucous group of well-heeled, middle-aged Irishmen, and Finn was up to his elbows in suds, with dirty plates and mugs towering around
him. In spite of his age, Jack seemed to be everywhere at once, doing the work of two men. Soon Jack told Finn to stop washing and start waiting tables. He shoved a plate of fish-and-chips into Finn's barely dry hands and instructed him to set it in front of the loudest man in the saloon. This Finn did. To his horror, a piece of battered cod toppled off the top and plopped into the loud man's lap. He didn't make a fuss, though. He just popped it into his mouth, saying, “That'll fix it for trying to swim away.” The table roared. It was only then that Finn realized who the man actually was: Honey Fitzgerald, Boston's former mayor and the Democratic challenger in January's mayoral election.

“Cat got your tongue?” asked Honey-Fitz.

“Lad's just wondering what you're doing in a place like this,” Jack called from the table he was serving nearby.

“Having my lunch,” Honey-Fitz said. “What are you doing here?”

“I wash dishes for Jack,” Finn stammered.

“Used to be my job,” Honey-Fitz said. “When I was your age.”

“You?” Finn said. “Here?”

“That's right, in a Negro establishment,” Jack said.

“Some people in this town don't think much higher of the Irish,” Honey-Fitz told Finn. “Or the Italians, which is what the guy to my left is. Or the Jews, the guy to my right. But it's really only the difference of a few ships who got here first, isn't it?”

Finn grinned.

Honey-Fitz addressed the table: “Call me color-blind if you must, but I
like
how jumbled up with races and colors and creeds my dear old North End is. It was my dearos, don't forget, who first got me voted into office. So I reckon this is the perfect place for my unofficial reelection campaign headquarters.”