Jan Burke - Bloodlines

“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.”