The Mayor of Lexington Avenue (22 page)

“You know, an old parish priest gave him a nickname that he loved and that fit him to a tee, but he pinned it on me because he knew I needed it and that it would give me confidence. He made up this story about how I was going to do something someday for the both of us—just to make me feel better about myself.

“For the rest of my life, whenever I was in a tough situation, whenever I doubted myself, his faith in me always helped me get through. I wish I could have had one minute with him—just one minute—to tell him how much of an influence he had on my life—to tell him I remembered.”

The tears were running down his cheeks as the memories poured out. He was no longer looking at Nancy but straight ahead as if into another dimension. Then he suddenly looked directly at her.

“I’ve never told anyone that story.”

“I won’t tell anybody,” Nancy replied. “I swear.”

Jack smiled. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I keep things to myself—too much maybe.”

Tommy arrived just then with Nancy’s pastrami on rye. He looked at the table and noticed the glasses were empty.

“Can I get anybody anything else?” Tommy asked. He could afford to be polite: Jilly Newton was the only one at the bar and he had already started talking to himself.

“I’d like a glass of water,” Nancy replied. Jack just nodded and pointed to the empty glass to let Tommy know he’d continue with the same poison.

“Sure,” Tommy replied to both of them and walked back towards the bar. Nancy followed him with her eyes, wondering if there was something about Tommy that she’d missed. Watching his lumbering frame shuffle across the linoleum floor, she quickly concluded that she hadn’t missed a thing. Tommy was Tommy—not the best conversationalist but a good listener and therefore a good bartender.

Her thoughts turned back to her boss. She wondered what had happened between Jack Tobin and his friend Mikey so many years ago. He’d said they had lost touch, but the way he said it made her believe there was more to the story. Perhaps whatever happened had something to do with the sadness this man dragged around with him every day. But she wasn’t going to get an answer to that question anytime soon. Jack had just closed his eyes, rested his head against the dark mahogany paneling, and gone to sleep.

Twenty–two

Johnny Tobin met Patricia Morgan in a sandbox when he was three years old. They lived in the same apartment building and their mothers were friends. The moms took the kids to Central Park most summer days and let them play in the sandbox while they sat and talked.

Johnny was at the school playground the day Billy Maloney punched Pat’s older brother Jimmy in the eye during recess. Jimmy and Billy Maloney were in the third grade, two grades ahead of Johnny and Pat. Billy stood there laughing over Jimmy, who was on the ground crying. Pat walked up to Billy and punched him right in the nose, and when he fell to the ground, she jumped on top of him and kept punching until a teacher pulled her off kicking and screaming. The girl had a temper.

Pat played all the street sports. Nobody ever thought of excluding her because she was a girl. She was as good or better than everybody else and besides, nobody had the balls to tell her she couldn’t play, except maybe Mikey—and Mikey always picked her to be on his team. The three of them were great friends until high school, when Pat all of a sudden developed “curves” and “bumps” and started to wear dresses. The boys felt uncomfortable hanging out with her after that, although they didn’t totally dislike the change.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mikey told Johnny one day when they saw Pat walking demurely down the street. “I like girls and especially girls who wear nice dresses and have big tits. I just never thought Patty was going to be one of them,” That was probably the best explanation why they drifted apart in their teenage years. The boys liked girls and fooled around with girls, but they weren’t going to fool around with their own Patty.

Jack had a strange affinity for wakes and funerals. His paternal grandmother came from a family of thirteen and it seemed that when he was a kid he was attending a wake and a funeral every other weekend. Irish wakes were a gathering of the clan, and while there was a good deal of weeping for the dead, there was also a lot of hugging and kissing and laughing, usually around an open coffin, and after the funeral they always had a party. Of course, they weren’t as lighthearted as the other parties his parents threw. There were tears interspersed with the laughter and the drinking, but those funeral parties had something different, something special—the warmth and familiarity of family and close friends. He was a nephew or cousin or great nephew to almost everyone in the room, some of whom he hardly knew, and that made it all the more special.

Mike Kelly’s funeral was going to be different, he knew. Mike’s relatives weren’t his, and after twenty-five years whatever close relationship he had with them was long gone. He expected a cold reception.
What kind of friend would never contact someone in twenty-five years?
He knew the answer Mike’s family had probably arrived at if they thought about it at all:
The rich, big-shot lawyer.
And for that the big-shot lawyer had no counterargument.

He saw her as soon as he walked in the room at John Mahoney’s funeral home. After all those years, he picked her right out of the crowd. She was talking to two people, a smile on her face, her lips doing double time. Like radar, just as he recognized her, her eyes looked up and caught his. She excused herself and walked towards him. He tried not to but he couldn’t help surveying her as she approached. She still looked good from a distance—that tall, athletic body, thin legs, nice
bumps.

Her arms opened.

“Johnny!” she exclaimed as she enveloped him. Jack felt her warmth smother him. For that moment, it felt good to be home. Finally, Pat released him. “I knew you’d come,” she said. “How long has it been—fifteen years?” At that moment, Jack looked around and saw others from the crowd looking at them and listening. The cool, smooth Miami lawyer still could feel embarrassed among the people he grew up with.

“No, it’s been about ten—my dad’s funeral.”

“That’s right. Well, no matter how long it’s been, you look great.” She sensed his unease and took his hand. “C’mon, let’s go say hello to Mrs. Kelly and the boys.”

Before he could voice a protest, or tell Pat how good she looked—and she did look good, even on closer inspection—they were standing before Mrs. Kelly, Mike’s eighty-year-old mother.

“Mrs. Kelly, you remember Johnny Tobin,” Pat said as she introduced him to the old woman. Jack didn’t know what to expect. Mary Kelly’s wrinkled face broke into a big grin.

“Of course I do. I’ll never forget your face, Johnny, the day Father Burke offered to recruit my Mike into the priesthood. I thought
you
were going to have a heart attack.” Everyone around them laughed. Mrs. Kelly squeezed his hand. “What was that he always called you—the Mayor?”

“The Mayor of Lexington Avenue.” It was just like Mikey to convince his own mother, who’d been a witness to Father Burke’s words, that the moniker belonged to Jack.

“Yes, that’s it. Thank you for coming,” she said, her gentle eyes focusing directly on his. “Mike would be happy to know you are here.”

Mike’s brothers, Danny and Eddie, were there as well, next to their mother. Danny hugged Jack, which again surprised him. This was not the reception he’d expected.

“Thanks for coming, Johnny. Mike was always so proud of you—the big-shot lawyer.” Jack didn’t know what to say.

Eddie was in a wheelchair. He tried to talk but just mumbled. He grabbed Jack’s arm with his left hand and smiled. There were tears in his eyes. Jack put his free hand on top of Eddie’s and smiled back.

“He had a stroke three years ago,” Pat whispered in Jack’s ear. “Never recovered.”

After he said hello to everyone else in the family, Jack approached the coffin to pay his respects to his childhood friend. He had thought about this moment on the trip up. He didn’t know how he was going to feel. Would he even recognize Mikey after all these years? But his emotions started to surface before he even looked into the half-open casket. This was his first friend—
my best friend
—and that was something the years could never erase. He knelt down to say a prayer, looked into the coffin and saw Mikey. The red hair was gone, as were the freckles and the smile—that joyful smile, the forerunner of many an adventure for the two of them. Jack began to cry. It was the last thing he wanted to do and he tried to keep it to himself but he was visibly shaking.

Pat knelt next to him, a comforting arm around his shoulders. He initially was too upset to speak but after a few moments he started to regain some of his composure.

“I don’t want to make a scene,” he whispered to her.

“You’re not. And even if you were—we’re Irish. It’s expected.”

“I just never had a friend like Mikey.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Me neither, except you.” Jack looked at her.

“Yeah, you’re right. Except you.”

They met later on at McGlade’s, although the name had been changed to Pat Herrity’s Irish Bar. “Have a Jar at Herrity’s Bar” was the new slogan that adorned the outside of the place. The interior had been substantially upgraded as well. They sat in a back booth. Jack ordered a Guinness, Pat a chablis. The conversation started light.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this all day, Pat—you look great.”

“Why thanks, Jack.”

“So what are you doing these days?”

“I’m a CPA with Harrel and Jackson. Been with them for twenty-five years now.”

“Very impressive,” Jack crooned. “That’s a high-powered firm.”

“Yeah, well don’t get too impressed because I’m retiring in two weeks. I’ve had enough. How about you? We’ve all heard you’re with this big, successful law firm in Miami.”

“Not anymore. I’m about to retire myself—any day now, actually. I haven’t decided when. I’m moving to a small town. I’m still going to work but only while I’m enjoying it.” Jack decided not to get into the sordid details of how he’d accepted the state attorney’s job in Cobb County.

“Really?” Pat replied. “That sounds nice. Are you married? Any kids? I know you were married ten years ago but I can’t remember the kids part.”

Jack laughed. “I can’t remember anything either anymore but the answers to your questions are—’Nope’ and ‘Nope.’ I’ve been married a few times but it never worked out for me. How about you?” They were friends who hadn’t seen each other in years, but Jack was more comfortable at that moment than at any time he could remember.

“I never did get married,” Pat replied. “I had a few relationships over the years but, like yours I guess, they just didn’t work out. Frankly, I think I’m a little hard to take on a daily basis.”

“Me too,” Jack said, and they both laughed. The small talk was over.

“I read it was cancer?”

“Yeah, lung cancer to be exact. Mike was never able to kick the habit and I tell you, Johnny, if I had lived his life, I’d still be smoking myself.”

“You know, I left home after college and I didn’t see Mikey on my trips home after that like I saw you. I don’t know much about his life after I left.”

“How much time do you have?” Pat asked. “Because it’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night—and tomorrow if need be.”

Pat laughed. “We have a funeral to attend tomorrow, but I’ll give you the short version.”

“Hang on a second.” Jack caught the waiter’s attention and ordered a second round. “Never thought I’d see a waiter in McGlade’s.”

“Bernie’s probably rolling around in his grave at the thought,” Pat laughed. Bernie McGlade had run the place by himself when they were kids. There were tables even back then, but if you wanted something to drink you had to go to the bar to get it.

They were always in there as youngsters, usually because their fathers were in there. But there was another reason. Depending on the season, Bernie always had a supply of footballs, basketballs, or baseballs and bats on hand that the neighborhood kids could take to Central Park. It was a small part of the neighborhood that no longer existed.

“When he got out of jail,” Pat began, “Mike kinda slipped back into the old neighborhood routine. His uncle got him a job with the steel workers and he made good money. We’d all get together right here on Friday and Saturday nights. There was a hard edge to his personality after prison, something that most people wouldn’t notice, but I did. He spent two years upstate, you know.” Jack just nodded, his head down. That was the part he felt responsible for. Right there in the beginning—the first pebble in the landslide.

“He started drinking a lot—too much. He was drunk all the time. He almost lost his job a couple of times but his uncle saved him. Apparently, his uncle was a bigwig in the union. Anyway, he met this Puerto Rican woman, Elena—lovely girl—and they started dating and he straightened up. They eventually married and had a little boy. I thought he had gotten over the hump, but he hadn’t. Six months after his son was born, he started back again, worse than before. I don’t know if it was the added pressure or what. He lost his job. She finally fled—and I mean
fled.
She didn’t even tell him where she was going. She just vanished.

“He didn’t stop even then. He just kept drinking until he was living on the street—a total bum. After doing that for years, one day he just stopped. It was a long process back, as you can imagine, but eventually he got a job and an apartment and started to settle in again. We’d meet for coffee once in a while, had dinner once a month. He was fine, but the thing with his wife and kid was always eating away at him.”

“He never heard from the kid?” Jack asked.

“Let me finish, I’m getting there,” Pat said, motioning at him with her hand. “You can’t rush a storyteller.” Jack sat back, feigning a chastened look.

“About ten years ago—and I don’t know the particular facts very well, Mike just gave me snippets from time to time—he got a call from Marguerite, his wife’s sister. The boy was in trouble and they needed money.”

“He hadn’t seen or heard from the wife or child since they left?” Jack asked his question again. He couldn’t help himself.