Jan Burke - Bloodlines

“Apparently you don’t think this hospital is.”

“Although the reputation of the Sisters of Mercy is undoubtedly a fierce one,” he said, “and while I’m sure many a man has died of cruel injuries sustained from wimples and rosary beads, playing bodyguard is not really in their line of work, now is it?”

“Is it in yours?”

“If need be.”

They were reporters, the other nurses said, this man and the patient. She had not imagined that the work was so rough. This one had charmed his way past the end of visiting hours with his smile and that faint echo of Ireland in his speech.

Corrigan moaned and O’Connor was up on his stocking feet and next to the bed in an instant. Together they watched and waited, but there was no other sound from him, save that of his steady breathing.

The nurse studied O’Connor. His hair was dark and thick, a little ruffled. A thin scar cut one of his black brows in half, and his nose had been broken at least once. His blue-gray eyes were bloodshot; there were dark circles beneath them, circles that were not merely the result of this one night of vigilance.

“You need to get some sleep, Mr. O’Connor.”

He shook his head, went back to watching Corrigan.

After a moment, she said, “Next time he wakes up, you’ll let me know?”

He looked up again. “Right away,” he said, crossing his heart in a school-boy’s gesture.

“I wonder what you were like as a child?” she said, glancing at his unmended socks and rumpled hair.

“Ah, my dear,” he said, not meeting her eyes, “no, you don’t. No, you don’t.”

He did not want to sleep, and he did not worry that he would. He washed his face with cold water, then lay back down on the bed, watching Corrigan. He spent a number of minutes in the same useless way he had spent earlier hours-speculating on who had done this to Corrigan, and why. Jack had been closemouthed about what he would be doing this evening. Thinking back on it, O’Connor realized that Corrigan had made stronger than usual protests about O’Connor keeping tabs on him.

“Why on earth didn’t I know you were up to something then and there?” he murmured to himself. “It’s not as if I just met you, is it?”

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…”