The Banished Children of Eve (18 page)

The room had
filled with shadows. Burdened by the sadness of his story, Capshaw's head drooped, the beak pointed toward his breast. Poor owl.

Dunne rolled another cigarette and lit it. The flash of flame seemed to snap Capshaw out of his reverie.

“Pardon me,” Dunne said, “but you think the John Morrissey you've just described is the same man gonna let you and me get away with his money?”

Capshaw got up and turned the valve on the gas lamp. The shadow retreated. “Ain't paid attention to a thing I said, have you?”

“Haven't missed a word.”

“I'll say it one more time: Morrissey ain't gonna know we got his money. He'll be after our gentleman swindler, and even if he catches him, he ain't never gonna believe the man ain't got the money hid somewhere. But I doubt he will catch him. If it goes right, we'll be rich, Dunne. Set yourself up in business. Look around, boy. Ain't no old men in this business. One day you'll read about me being found with my head bashed in, or maybe I'll hear that you ended up like Dandy Dan, fallen from some rooftop with a pike through your jaw.”

“You keep talking like you're offering me gold, but it adds up to a lot of gas. A man who
might
steal a fortune and, whenever that
might
be,
might
stash it where we
might
get our hands on it, or, rather, where
I might,
since I'm the one being nominated to carry out that part of the arrangement, the difficult part, the breaking-and-entering part.”

“You're good at it. Got a reputation for being smooth.”

“Supposin' I say no?”

“You're too smart for that.”

“Supposin' I'm loyal to my own kind and go to Morrissey and tell him I talked to someone who's out to jump his jack?”

“He'd thank you. And then, just like you said before, Paddy or not, he'd have you killed for having had such a conversation.”

“Supposin' I do
some investigating, find this gentleman for myself—it shouldn't be hard—and pop the beans alone?”

“Then I'd kill you. Track you to the ends of the earth if I had to.”

Dunne took a draw on the cigarette, held the smoke, blew an O at the ceiling. It hovered over Capshaw's head. A halo. Saint Waldo the Fence. Capshaw waved away the crown of saintliness. Probably had the same feeling toward tobacco as alcohol.

“I'm not gonna beg. Don't want to be a part of this, just get out. Keep your mouth shut. Mind your own business. Forget we ever talked. But I thought you was smarter than that and had more ambition. Wouldn't have invited you here if I didn't.”

“How do you plan we split it?”

“Fifty-fifty, right down the middle.”

“Seems to me that the man who actually has to do the job has the greater risk.”

“Wouldn't even know where to look or when if it wasn't for me. Fifty-fifty. Ain't no use a-hagglin'. I ain't gonna budge.”

One of Dandy Dan's observations:
The Yankees are a race born to bargaining. You can rob them with gun or knife or bludgeon, but never with the tongue.

“Fifty-fifty it is.”

“I knew it, boy! Knew you wouldn't let me down! I have an eye for character.”

“What now?”

“Patience on your part, persistence on mine. I must help our friend along. Tighten the screws a little at a time. Push him down the proper path. One day he'll do it. Ain't no doubt. Take his bundle and skip-toe. That's the moment we strike. We're in, we're out, get the bundle, and off he goes with the Metropolitans and Morrissey in hot pursuit!”

“Can't wait forever. Got my own business to attend to, and I'm no glad leg goes in a place without first lookin' it over and gettin' an idea of what's inside.”

“That's why I picked ya. Got a reputation for bein' careful. Enter a house in some disguise, as a tradesman or the like, before you pull a job. That's the kind of preparation I admire. For now, sit tight, that's all.”

Capshaw
reached down and removed the urn from Dunne's lap. A signal their meeting was over. Next gip, please. Dunne took a final draw and blew a last O. It circled Capshaw's head, grew wider, and descended around his neck. A noose. Protestants might not believe in omens, but wasn't a Paddy didn't know the truth they held. It was Dunne's turn to wave the smoke away.

“You want me to leave front or rear?” Dunne said.

“Up to you.”

“When should I come back?”

“Sit quiet until you hear from me. When the time comes, I'll have another message left at the desk of the New England Hotel. It'll say, eh, ‘Father is dead. Please come home instantly. Mother.'”

“One last thing. How'd you know I'm living at the New England?”

“I know mine, and mine know me.”

They stood together by the door. Capshaw opened it, and gave his eagle-marked hand to Dunne. They shook. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still threatening, the wind stronger than before. Across the street, the half-built church loomed over the ragged fence, a rain-stained shell.

“Be patient, Dunne. Don't do anythin' foolish.”

“Never have.”

“Don't start.”

Dunne started down Madison. A lone carriage moved up the avenue. He looked back once. Capshaw was at the window, preening. Dunne knew Capshaw was up to more than he had revealed. Had to be a trick in there somewhere. Not sure what. Have to find out for himself, no other way, poke around, listen, ask, play it carefully. A dangerous combination, Capshaw, Morrissey, the Metropolitans, but hit it right, and
hey get along Josey, get along Jim,
no telling what might come.

THE WIND
SWEPT IN
from the harbor, up the long corridors of stone, shaking the coach as it turned the corner of Thirty-fifth Street onto Madison Avenue. As they, came over the crest of the hill, Father Corrigan looked out the rain-streaked window across Forty-first Street at the massive sloping wall of the collecting reservoir, the flag on its rampart standing out straight, pointing north. The coach picked up speed as it rattled and jolted down to Forty-second Street. Corrigan leaned forward to look out the other window at the hill that brooded over the street's east end. Its slopes were covered by a ragtag collection of shanties. Smoke rose out of the crooked chimneys that poked through their roofs, white wisps trailing north with the wind. St. John's parish. Miserably behind in its contribution to the building of the cathedral. People with goats and small yards full of potatoes, old women who smoked clay pipes and spoke in Irish. A place to be avoided. Corrigan sat back in the seat, and turned to his right. The old man, shrouded in his black cape, was more silent than usual. Probably been drinking. But didn't smell of it. Could be the weather. Two days of it now. A burden on even the sunniest temperaments, never mind those suffering from inordinate melancholia. Corrigan put his hand gently on the sleeve of his companion's cape. “Your Grace,” he said, “don't think it would be wise to leave the coach. It would be better, I think, if we drove around the site without exposing ourselves to the elements.”

There was no response. The old man's face was up close to the window, his nose almost pressed against it. A lone figure moved down Madison Avenue, his head bowed into the wind. The coach turned onto muddy, rutted Fifty-first Street. Corrigan felt the weight of the old man fall against him. More shadow than man. At the corner they turned onto Fifth Avenue and came to a halt.

“Your
Grace, we're here.” Corrigan grasped the strap by the door and pulled his bulk forward. His cassock came up over his socks. He raised himself off the seat and straightened it. “I'll tell the driver to circumvent the site.” He reached up to the small glass panel set high in front of them and knocked on it. It shot back. A red face appeared.

“Yes, Father?” the driver asked.

“Turn around here and slowly circle the cathedral.”

The coach rocked as the door swung open. The old man jumped to the ground. Corrigan slid across the seat and crouched at the door. The wind almost blew his hat off. The black cape was already moving away. Corrigan looked up at the panel. The face was still there. “For God's sake, Heaney,” he said, “give me a hand.” The coachman climbed down slowly and held up both hands. Corrigan took them and lowered himself. He stood and righted his hat. The black cape was moving on. “The mud, Your Grace,” he shouted, “be careful of the mud.” He turned to the coachman. “Not a word of this to Mrs. Rodrigue, do you hear me, Heaney.”

The coachman took off his cap and stuck it in his pocket. There was a smirk on the red face. “Your man has a mind of his own, no doubt about it, a powerful mind of his own.” He pointed at the old man. “Better stay close to him. I'll be waiting for you here, Father. And be sure of it. Not a word to the Archbishop's sister.” He put a finger to his lips. “Not a word.” The smirk spread into a smile.

Corrigan looked to make sure the Archbishop was still in sight. Him a kind of coachman, too. The same roughness. The same undertone of insolence. The edge in his voice that always sounded like a challenge. The Archbishop's sister, as well. Married to the son of a wealthy planter from Santo Domingo. Servants, a French tutor. Her husband's successful career as an architect, with the Archbishop of New York, her brother, as his patron. The mansion on Lexington Avenue. Silk drapes. A cellar full of wine. And still she looked and sounded like one of those crones from the shantytown on the hill above Forty-second Street. Peasants, all of them. An indelible stamp, like the priesthood. Corrigan lifted his cassock at the knees. He walked on the tips of his toes to where Archbishop Hughes looked up at the cathedral. The Archbishop's cape billowed around him, and he kept one hand on the back of his head over his zucchetto, the purple skullcap the Pope had given him.

“It
could start raining again any minute, Your Grace.”

The Archbishop started to move again. Corrigan resisted the urge to grab him by the arm and hold him. A fine sight. Archbishop Hughes and his secretary wrestling in the mudhole surrounding the cathedral. They walked along the tall wooden fence that cut the construction sight off from the avenue. The watchman came out from his hut, tipped his hat, and opened the gate. Hughes went past without acknowledging him, his pace quickening. Ahead was a great puddle. Corrigan called after him, “Watch out!” But he went ahead, striding through it, his cape trailing through the water, the mud splattering his slippers and the bottom of his cassock. The parted water closed behind him. Corrigan stepped around the perimeter of the puddle as quickly as he could. The mud sucked at his shoes. Hughes had stopped in front of the great portal, an empty arch with water dripping from its stone.

“Your Grace,” Corrigan said as he came up behind Hughes, “please stand back, the wind might blow some debris down; please don't get too close.”

The wooden framework that enshrouded the cathedral sagged in places. It had been two years since any workman had used the cranes or climbed the scaffolding. First they had gone on strike. The winter before the war. The Catholics had gone out with the others. Hughes had threatened to find out their names and have their priests order them back to work. An impossible task, the priests told him. It will only embarrass the Church.
Embarrass the Church.
“And what was it called,” Hughes asked, “when Irishmen put down their tools and abandoned the construction of a monument to the suffering their race had endured for the sake of that Church?”

Corrigan
watched the parapet above them. Some ropes had come loose and were swinging wildly in the wind. He moved closer to the Archbishop. He should take him firmly by the arm. He should insist they return to the coach. If anything should happen, he would be held responsible. The wind played on the scaffolding. The ropes made a snapping sound, and a piece of one came loose and sailed over their heads toward the avenue.

“Your Grace, please!”

Corrigan heard the desperation in his own voice. He reached out to grab the old man's arm. He couldn't. The sanctity of his office. A successor to the Apostles. Crude at times. Always cold, distant, exacting. Sometimes cruel. Never at ease, nor concerned whether anyone else was. Occasionally an embarrassment. A relic. A bishop who despite his unwavering declaration of loyalty to the Holy See still saw himself as sovereign in his own diocese, an equal of the Pope's. That was why the red hat had never been placed on his head. He had wanted to be the first American cardinal. He wouldn't be. Rome needed him but did not trust him. His old-fashioned independence and his public avowals of democracy. Cardinal Barnabo of Propaganda had said as much to Corrigan that final day in Rome. You understand Rome, he said, because you have been educated here. You have the spirit of a Roman, Father Corrigan. You will need that very much when you return home. You must serve Archbishop Hughes as best you can. He is a great man, and I would not like to see him fall prey to those in Rome who would destroy him. But he is …
the Cardinal held out his hand with the palm down and gently rotated it
… how shall we say, incautious. He says things that are, eh, hard to comprehend. So, my friend, you must …
the Cardinal put a finger to his eye
… and you must …
the Cardinal put a finger to his ear
… and you must …
he made a gesture as if he were scribbling on a pad.
We must know what is happening in New York. Someone must be the eyes and ears of Rome.

Archbishop
Hughes stepped forward under the scaffolding and put his hands on the wall. He could have settled for Belleville or Dorchester stone. It was cheaper, said the architect, Mr. Renwick. And just as durable. Mr. Renwick was a Protestant. They tended to be practical in all things. But the worship of God wasn't a practical matter. It was a mystery, sorrowful, joyful, glorious. And this was an edifice that would house the greatest mystery of all: wine into blood, bread into flesh. Protestants didn't believe that. They preferred logic to mystery, Dorchester stone to white marble.