William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“I remember. You were a ringleader in the protest.”

“Beer and bowling go together.”

“You can get both of them at the Club.”

“The Club.”

“Get your hat.”

Quinn called Pat Mahar, custodian of the Elks, and told him George was coming in and could he keep an eye on him for a couple of hours? Leave me a message at the paper if he needs anything, Pat. Just keep him busy, give him a beer or two, not too many, put him in the card room, he can still play blackjack, or in the TV room or at the pool table, just get him talking to his friends and he’ll be all right. He does what he’s told, most of the time. I know you’re not a nursemaid, Pat, but try to keep him in the club. I’ll owe you. Twenty bucks for your trouble, how’s that? Even with the twenty Quinn didn’t trust Pat to do any of this, but it was a start. He’d stop at the Club himself when he got a few minutes.

He called the city desk for any change in his assignment and Markson, the city editor, said Quinn should interview the Mayor on Bobby Kennedy and on the racial tension in town.

“Did you forget the Mayor leaves the room when I arrive?”

“He’ll get over it. Tell him what a great job he’s doing. We want your perspective on the machine’s hostility to Bobby when he ran for senator. You know that inside out. And pump him on what he’s doing to hold down any violence. You also got a message. Max Osborne wants to see you but he didn’t leave a number.”

Max. What the hell kind of message is that with no number? “I can’t guarantee I’ll get through to the Mayor,” Quinn said as he hung up, and George Quinn came down the stairs wearing his coconut straw hat.

“Are we ready?” George asked.

“We are.” But as Quinn reached for the knob on the vestibule door he saw Matt Daugherty coming up the porch steps, in shirtsleeves and with a grim smile.

“Matt. We’re just leaving, but come on in.”

“Only a few minutes,” Matt said. “How are you, George?”

“I’m three flavors of excellent, how’s yourself?”

“I’m trying to figure it out,” Matt said.

“I’m taking him down to the Elks Club,” Quinn said. “You want coffee?”

“How about a beer?”

Quinn opened him a bottle of Irish Cream Ale from the fridge and they sat at the kitchen table. George stood by the stove, hat on.

“We’ll go in a few minutes, Pop,” Quinn said.

“Whatever you say. I care not for riches.”

The Reverend Matthew Daugherty, OFM, voluble, forty-four-year-old Franciscan professor of religion and theology at Siena College, built for football, hard-charging, soft-spoken rebel of the faith, self-anointed radical missionary in the slums who, in speeches, offhand remarks to the press, and letters to the editor, had repeatedly attacked the Mayor and the Albany Democratic machine for indifference to the poor and especially the black poor — a brazen stance in the holy shadow of the Albany Catholic diocese, and unheard of in this town in this or the previous century — had been silenced by his superior at the college, told to stay away from the inner city, teach your classes, shut your mouth. But the order had obviously come down from the hierarchy of the diocese; and what else could you expect from those lofty Democratic clerics except an edict to stop bothering our generous politicians who are all regular communicants?

Matt drank half his beer and said, “I just took a ride with Penny. She dropped me off up the block.”

“Didn’t you take a vow of chastity?”

“All we did was talk. You gotta hear this.”

“Tell me.”

“She says the machine is out to get one of their enemies, to set an example. She doesn’t know who but it won’t be pretty. Somebody told her.”

“Who?”

“She wouldn’t say but she swears it’s true. She says it could be me.”

“Didn’t they already get you?”

“Then maybe it’s you. Or one of the Brothers.”

“You don’t really trust Penny, do you?”

“Penny’s all right, Dan. I know what you think, but she does good work with the neighborhood groups, for no pay. I respect that even if I don’t always trust what she says.”

“Why are you riding around with sexy women on the make? Aren’t you restricted to campus?”

“I can walk. I walk the golf course. I wave at the golfers. She picked me up on the road that runs along the seventeenth hole. After we talked I thought I should come down and tell you.”

“You called her?”

“She called me. We’ve talked before.”

“You hear her confession?”

“Not as such.”

“But she confides in you.”

“She’s got troubles like everybody.”

“Does she cry into the shoulder of your robe?”

“She’s got emotions.”

“But you don’t. Salty women with major tits don’t disturb the serenity of your chastity.”

Matt swallowed some beer.

“I’m guessing she put the moves on you,” Quinn said.

“I guess you could call it that.”

“What did she do?”

“You know how it goes.”

“Actually I do. She did it with me.”

“You did it with her?”

“No, she did it with me. The moves. Then she called Renata to say she was sorry for keeping me out late. I wasn’t out late, but that’s her method. She sandbags you, then rats on you for doing nothing. Disturb the equilibrium, that’s her game.”

“I can handle this stuff, Dan. I been handling it for years. I’m not that horny lowlife I used to be. I found other ways of getting in trouble.”

“Shooting off your mouth.”

“My specialty.”

“Look, are you all right? I mean it’s been a rough couple of days for you.” Quinn stood up.

“I’m getting a grip. You gotta leave?”

“I do. Tremont Van Ort is bad off. He’s flat out on his stoop on Dongan Avenue and won’t move, or can’t. Claudia called an ambulance but they don’t pick up on Dongan Avenue. Claudia asked if I could get him to the hospital. I said I’d see what I could do.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“The South End is off-limits for you. What if you’re seen?”

“What else can they do, confiscate my socks? Gotta help Tremont.”

“You want a beer for the road?”

“Why not?”

In the dining room George Quinn was sitting with his hat in his lap, facing the large wall mirror over the sideboard. He was waving to his own image, telling him to come on over, but when he saw Quinn he changed the gesture and blessed himself.

“Bless me father for I have sinned,” he said.

“You haven’t sinned today,” Quinn said. “Let’s go.”

“So that’s it,” George said. “We’re all set. I got my hat.” He stood up and put his hat on and walked to the door.

“My father was asking for you, George,” Matt said.

“Your father?”

“Martin Daugherty.”

“Martin Daugherty. We were in France together.”

“I know. He says you were the best-dressed soldier in the AEF.”

“Martin Daugherty was a good fellow. You could always trust him. He wrote for the papers.”

“He’s out in the Ann Lee Home.”

“I didn’t know that,” Quinn said.

“He’s been there six months but I got a letter from the county that they’re kicking him out.”

“For what?”

“They don’t say. I figure it’s the politicians pressuring me.”

“Those bastards.”

“Martin Daugherty lived on Colonie Street,” George said.

“He did indeed,” Matt said.

“We should be going. I’ve got my hat.”

“You’re goin’ out on the town,” Matt said.

George answered in a song: “Put your feet on the barroom shelf,

Open the bottle and help yourself.”