When the Sacred Ginmill Closes

His partner continued to hold the Morrisseys at gunpoint until he'd left the building. He had the gun centered at Tim Pat's chest, and for a moment I thought he was going to shoot. His gun was the long-barreled automatic, he'd been the one who put two bullets in the tin ceiling, and if he shot Tim Pat, he seemed unlikely to miss.

There was nothing I could do about it.

Then the moment passed. The gunman breathed out through his mouth, the red kerchief billowing with his breath. He backed to the door and out, fled down the stairs.

No one moved.

Then Tim Pat held a brief whispered conference with one of his brothers, the one who'd been keeping the door downstairs. After a moment the brother nodded and walked to the gaping cupboard at the back of the room. He closed it and hung the Cliffs of Moher poster where it had been.

Tim Pat spoke to his other brother, then cleared his throat. "Gentlemen," he said, and smoothed his beard with his big right hand. "Gentlemen, if I may take a moment to explain the performance ye just witnessed. Two good friends of ours came in to ask for the loan of a couple of dollars, which we lent them with pleasure. None of us recognized them or took note of their appearance, and I'm sure no one in this room would know them should we by God's grace meet up with them again." His fingertips dabbed at his broad forehead, moved again to groom his beard. "Gentlemen," he said, "ye'd honor me and my brothers by havin' the next drink with us."

And the Morrisseys bought a round for the house. Bourbon for me. Jameson for Billie Keegan, scotch for Skip, brandy for Bobby, and a scotch sour for his date. A beer for the guy from CBS, a brandy for Eddie the bartender. Drinks all around- for the cops, for the black politicians, for a roomful of waiters and bartenders and night people. Nobody got up and left, not with the house buying a round, not with a couple of guys out there with masks and guns.

The clean-shaven cousin and two of the brothers served the drinks. Tim Pat stood at the side with his arms folded on his white apron and his face expressionless. After everyone had been served, one of his brothers whispered something to Tim Pat and showed him the glass jar, empty except for a handful of coins. Tim Pat's face darkened.

"Gentlemen," he said, and the room quieted down. "Gentlemen, in the moment of confusion there was money taken as was contributed to Norad, money for the relief of the misfortunate wives and children of political prisoners in the North. Our loss is our own, myself and my brothers, and we'll speak no more of it, but them in the North with no money for food… He stopped for breath, continued in a lower voice. "We'll let the jar pass amongst ye," he said, "and if some of ye should care to contribute, the blessings of God on ye."

I probably stayed another half-hour, not much more than that. I drank the drink Tim Pat bought and one more besides, and that was enough. Billie and Skip left when I did. Bobby and his girl were going to stick around for a while, Vince had already left, and Eddie had joined another table and was trying to make points with a tall girl who waitressed at O'Neal's.

The sky was light, the streets empty still, silent with early dawn. Skip said, "Well, Norad made a couple of bucks, anyway. There couldn't have been a whole lot Frank and Jesse took out of the jar, and the crowd coughed up a fair amount to fill it up again."

"Frank and Jesse?"

"Well, those red hankies, for Christ's sake. You know, Frank and Jesse James. But that was ones and fives they took out of the jar, and it was all tens and twenties got put back into it, so the poor wives and wee childer in the North came out all right."

Billie said, "What do you figure the Morrisseys lost?"

"Jesus, I don't know. That strongbox could have been full of insurance policies and pictures of their sainted mither, but that would be a surprise all around, wouldn't it? I bet they walked with enough to send a lot of guns to the bold lads in Derry and Belfast."

"You think the robbers were IRA?"

"The hell," he said. He threw his cigarette into the gutter. "I think the Morrisseys are. I think that's where their money goes. I figure-"

"Hey, guys! Wait up, huh?"

We turned. A man named Tommy Tillary was hailing us from the stoop of the Morrisseys' house. He was a heavyset fellow, full in the cheeks and jowls, big in the chest, big in the belly, too. He was wearing a summer-weight burgundy blazer and a pair of white pants. He was wearing a tie, too. He almost always wore a tie.

The woman with him was short and slender, with light brown hair that showed red highlights. She was wearing tight faded jeans and a pink button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She looked very tired, and a little drunk.

He said, "You guys know Carolyn? Course you do." We all said hello to her. He said, "I got a car parked around the corner, plenty of room for everybody. Drop you guys off."

"It's a nice morning," Billie said. "I think I'd as soon walk, Tommy."

"Oh, yeah?"

Skip and I said the same. "Walk off some of the booze," Skip said. "Wind down, get ready for bed."

"You sure? No trouble to run you home." We were sure. "Well, you mind walking as far as the car with us? That little demonstration back there, makes a person nervous."

"Sure thing, Tom."

"Nice morning, huh? Be a hot one today but it's beautiful right now. I swear I thought he was gonna shoot whatsisname, Tim Pat. You see the look on his face at the end there?"

"There was a moment," Billie said, "it could have gone either way."

"I was thinking, there's gonna be shooting, back and forth, I'm looking to see which table to dive under. Fucking little tables, there's not a lot of cover, you know?"

"Not too much."

"And I'm a big target, right? What are you smoking, Skip, Camels? Lemme try one of those if you don't mind. I smoke these filters and this time of night they got no taste left to them. Thanks. Was I imagining things or was there a couple of cops in the room?"

"There were a few, anyway."

"They got to carry their guns on or off duty, isn't that right?"

He'd asked the question of me, and I agreed that there was a regulation to that effect.

"You'd think one of 'em would have tried something."

"You mean draw down on the holdup men?"

"Something."

"It's a good way to get people killed," I said. "Throwing lead around a crowded room like that."

"I guess there'd be a danger of ricochets."

"Why'd you say that?"

He looked at me, surprised by the snap in my tone. "Why, the brick walls, I guess," he said. "Even shooting into the tin ceiling the way he did, a bullet could glance off, do some damage. Couldn't it?"

"I guess," I said. A cab cruised by, its off-duty light lit, a passenger sharing the front seat with the driver. I said, "On or off duty, a cop wouldn't start anything in a situation like that unless someone else had already started shooting. There were a couple of bulls in the room tonight who probably had their hands on their guns toward the end there. If that fellow'd shot Tim Pat, he'd probably have been dodging bullets on the way out the door. If anybody had a clear shot at him."

"And if they were sober enough to see straight," Skip put in.

"Makes sense," Tommy said. "Matt, didn't you break up a bar holdup a couple of years ago? Somebody was saying something about it."

"That was a little different," I said. "They'd already shot the bartender dead before I made a move. And I didn't spray bullets around inside, I went out into the street after them." And I thought about that, and missed the next few sentences of the conversation. When I came back into focus Tommy was saying he'd expected to be held up.

" Lot of people in that room tonight," he said. "Night workers, people closed up their places and carrying cash on 'em. You'd think they would have passed the hat, wouldn't you?"

"I guess they were in a hurry."

"I only got a few hundred on me, but I'd rather keep it than give it to a guy with a hanky on his face. You feel relieved not to get robbed, you're real generous when they pass the jug for whatchacallit, Norad? I gave twenty bucks to the widows and orphans, didn't think twice."

"It's all staged," Billie Keegan suggested. "The guys with the handkerchiefs are friends of the family, they put on this little act every couple of weeks to boost the Norad take."

"Jesus," Tommy said, laughing at the idea. "Be something, wouldn't it? There's my car, the Riv. Big boat'll carry everybody easy, you want to change your mind and let me run you on home."

We all stayed with our decision to walk. His car was a maroon Buick Riviera with a white leather interior. He let Carolyn in, then walked around the car and unlocked his door, making a face at her failure to lean across the seat and unlock the door for him.

After they drove off, Billie said, "They were at Armstrong's until one, one-thirty. I didn't expect to see 'em again tonight. I hope he's not driving back to Brooklyn tonight."

"Is that where they live?"

"Where he lives," he told Skip. "She's here in the neighborhood. He's a married guy. Doesn't he wear a ring?"

"I never noticed."

"Caro-lyn from the Caro-line," Billie said. "That's how he introduces her. She was sure shitfaced tonight, wasn't she? When he left earlier I thought for sure he was takin' her home- and come to think of it I guess he was. She was wearin' a dress earlier tonight, wasn't she, Matt?"

"I don't remember."

"I could swear she was. Office clothes, anyway, not jeans and a Brooks shirt like she had on now. Took her home, gave her a bounce, then they got thirsty and by that time the stores were closed, so off we go to the neighborhood after-hours, T. P. Morrissey, Prop. What do you think, Matt? Have I got the makings of a detective?"

"You're doing fine."

"He put on the same clothes but she changed. Now the question is will he go home to the wife or sleep over at Carolyn's and show up at the office tomorrow in the same outfit. The only problem is, who gives a shit?"

"I was just going to ask that," Skip said.

"Yeah. One thing he asked, I'll ask it myself. Why didn't they stick up the customers tonight? There must have been a lot of guys carryin' a few hundred each and a couple with more than that."

"Not worth it."

"That's a few grand we're talking about."

"I know," Skip said. "It's also another twenty minutes if you're gonna do it right, and that's in a room full of drunks with God knows how many of them carrying guns. I bet there were fifteen guns in that room."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm not only serious, I bet I'm guessing low. For openers you got three or four cops. You got Eddie Grillo, right at our table."

"Eddie carries a piece?"

"Eddie runs around with some pretty heavy guys, not even talking about who owns the joint where he works. There was a guy named Chuck, I don't really know him, works at Polly's Cage-"

"I know who you mean. He walks around with a gun on him?"

"Either that or he walks around with a permanent hardon and he's built funny. Believe me, there's a whole lot of guys walk around packing iron. You tell a whole roomful to reach for their wallets, some of them'll reach for their guns instead. Meanwhile they're in and out in what, five minutes tops? I don't think it was five minutes from the door flying open and the bullets in the ceiling until they're out the door and Tim Pat's standing there with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face."