The saloon had been done up remarkably well in its time, but its time was now demonstrably past. Years ago, when Gavagan bought the building, it had been even more run-down, drawing its clientele from the lowest strata of society, and was not at all the sort of place where a respectable man would take his thirst. Gavagan had renovated the place, having it in mind to cater to a more intellectual patronage. He did not quite achieve that lofty goal, but he at least lifted the saloon from its long decay.
Time, of course, had softened the renovations, and the odors of a great many beers had left their memory in the wood. The flooring was scuffed and planed from the passage of countless feet. Even the dark, rich surface of the bar had accumulated its share of nicks and scratches. A stuffed owl mounted on the back wall had a seedy appearance; and in the far corner near the ceiling could be seen the frayed straw of a nest, as if a bird had taken up residence.
The stranger at the far end of the bar, near the window, was a middle-aged man, though of uncertain years, for his gray hair seemed older than the rest of him. The three-piece suit marked him as a man of consequence, although the jacket had come off and the vest was unbuttoned. He'd had two cocktails already, but was not yet what you would call "under the weather." His face bore the soft look of far-off concentration.
The brass blonde, seated at the table with two gentlemen, tipped her head toward him and said, "Now there's a fellow with a few problems."
"We should all be so lucky, Mrs. Jonas," young Keating answered, "to have only a few of those."
Mr. Witherwax paid no attention to the interruption, for interruption it was. "All I said is that the neighborhood is changing. That's all I said." He was drinking boilermakers.
"Well, it's the sort of thing that always happens in a dynamic community," Keating said. "Times change."
Mr. Witherwax stuck his chin up. "Did I say they don't? I read in a book one time that . . . "
Mr. Gross, occupying a stool at the near end of the bar farther from the window, raised his glass to the bartender. "Mr. Cohan, another beer, if you please." Then, with a nod over his shoulder, "He's always reading something in a book."
The bartender smiled. "It's a fine thing in a man, to be after reading the books."
"Maybe so," Mr. Gross allowed, "but he doesn't have to go and recite them back to us, now does he? And while you're at it, see what that dapper gentleman down the other end is drinking, with my compliments."
"All I said is it's changing," Mr. Witherwax insisted. "I didn't say nothing about the immigrants."
"And a good thing, too," Mr. Cohan suggested as he busied himself with the bottles, "the half of them being Irish."
"Irish, sure," said Keating. "And Arab and Pakistani and . . . "
"Aren't Pakistanis Arabs?" said Mrs. Jonas.
"No, ma'am. No more than that Finns are French."
"That don't matter to me," insisted Mr. Witherwax. "All I said was it's not the same neighborhood it used to be."
"We don't get many of those Arabs in here," Mr. Cohan said. "But the Irish, now . . . "
"That's because their religion—Islam—doesn't let them drink alcohol." Keating worked at the library and in consequence had a great deal of miscellany in his head, perhaps as much as his companion, Mr. Witherwax, although, unlike the latter, he tended to keep it there and not let it go spilling about.
Mr. Cohan drew back in shock and turned to Gross. "Did you ever hear the like of it, Mr. Gross? I know there are those who cannot handle the creature, but a drink or two is a fine thing for a pleasant evening of talk." He turned to the stranger, wishing to include him in the general conversation, for Gavagan had always envisioned his establishment as much a salon as a saloon. "Isn't that right?"
The stranger's eyes came into focus and he looked around as if surprised to find himself present. "I'm sorry . . . ?" he said.
Mr. Gross said helpfully, "We was talking about the neighborhood and the Irish and—"
"Damn the Irish," the man said, draining his glass.
A profound silence fell over the room. Witherwax traded looks with his two companions. Gross studied his beer. Mr. Cohan appeared to have something lodged in his throat. After a moment's strangled silence, that worthy said gently, "Gavagan does not care for me to be chastising a patron. It's bad for the trade. But I'll not be hearing such talk in this establishment."
The stranger pushed his glass away and sighed. "I shouldn't've had that second drink. I apologize . . . Mr. Cohan, is it? I don't usually speak so intemperately, but I have been having some troubles lately and the people who have been giving them to me are Irish."
"There," said the brass blonde to her friends. "I told you he had troubles."
"Troubles, is it?" Mr. Cohan said. "Well, the Irish are good at giving those out, though we always seem to have enough left over for ourselves. But it will do you to know that we here at Gavagan's have heard people's troubles before, but never once did they damn anyone; not even that Italian joint around the corner, which may even deserve the damning because they pour short measure."
"Didn't that magician fellow damn someone one time?" said Witherwax.
"Theophrastus V. Abaris," said the bartender, drawing the syllables out. "I'd forgotten about him. Sure, he cursed poor Mr. Murdoch, when the young felly was after losing his dragon."
"What sort of troubles?" Mr. Gross asked the stranger.
"Do you remember Madame Lavoisin?" said Mrs. Jonas. "Now she was trouble."
Mr. Witherwax gestured toward the bar, "Does he look like a man who goes to a beauty parlor?"
"I asked . . . ," said Gross.
"These days they have unisex parlors," said Keating.
"And we'll have none of that talk in Gavagan's, either," said Mr. Cohan, who had only heard part of it. "'You need sex parlors.' What is the world coming to?"
"I asked . . . ," said Gross.
"No, no," said Keating. "I meant beauty parlors."
"Madame Lavoisin sometimes took in men . . . ," Mrs. Jonas said.
"Quiet!" cried Gross. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Now, there's no need to be shouting, Mr. Gross," said the bartender.
"I only wanted to know what sort of troubles our friend here has been having that he damns the Irish for them."
"I didn't mean it the way it sounded," the man said. "It was only my frustration talking. Look, I'll stand a round for the rest of you to make amends."
Mr. Cohan busied himself with the makings. Another boilermaker for Mr. Witherwax. A Presidente for both Keating and Mrs. Jonas. Gross, taking advantage of the offer, switched from beer to a whiskey sour with muddled fruit. The stranger asked for a club soda. "Two cocktails were one too many," he said.
"Now," said Mr. Cohan, having settled everyone with their libations, "perhaps you will tell us your story and let us be judging the fault of any Irish."
The man sat up straight on his stool and buttoned his vest. He looked about the room at five attentive pairs of eyes. "I don't know how you can help me, but . . . "
"My name is W. Wilson Newbury, and I am a banker by trade . . . "
"I knew it," Mr. Witherwax whispered to his companions. "Just look at his suit."
"Hush," said Mrs. Jonas. "Go on dear."
"You would think that my life would be all Kiwanis meetings and mortgages, and I'll be the first to admit that I've pretty much lived the standard, bourgeois life—married, two kids, both grown now, steady work and steady promotion—and I've never seen any reason to apologize for it. Even so, some strange things have happened to me . . . " Newbury sighed and shook his head. "It's not something I ask for, but sometimes it seems as if I'm a magnet of some sort."
"Say," said Gross to the bartender, "do you remember that young Van Nest fella, always had those critters following him? He was something of a magnet, too."
"Well," said Newbury, "my firm has been investing in out-of-state banks. You have to do that, to stay viable these days. A few months ago, the M & A people—that's Mergers and Acquisitions—tipped us to a good prospect in your city. A small immigrant bank on Maclean Avenue. Yes, Mr. Cohan, 'Irish Broadway.' We were interested because the Irish have a good history of bootstrapping. The Irish Emigrant Society, for example, during the nineteenth century, began as what we call today a 'microlender,' and grew to become Emigrant Bank. That was why we were interested in this Luchorpán Ltd. It seemed poised for the same sort of growth."
"In my day," Witherwax said, "banks had real names. 'First National Bank.' 'Security Trust.' What do you see now? 'Rock Bank.' 'Fleet Bank.' Do they keep stones in their vaults? Do they loan only to sailors?"
"It's all marketing nowadays," said Mr. Gross.
Mrs. Jonas waved her hand in the air. "You're not letting Mr. Newbury talk."
The banker smiled his thanks at her. "Esau Drexel—that's my president—asked me to look into matters personally. Harrison Trust is an old-fashioned firm, and we believe in the personal touch. There is only so much you can learn from paperwork, regulatory filings, and web searches. He wanted me to form an impression of the people who ran this bank, to see if they were the sort we could work with.
"I'm used to these sudden trips out of town and Denise—my wife—has learned to live with them. I always keep a small carry-on suitcase packed and ready. The next morning, I took the early shuttle to LaGuardia, where the Luchorpán bank manager met me. Conn MacNai was a short fellow with flaming red hair—the sort of red you really only see in cartoon Irish. I thought him rather young at first to be in such a position. His skin was very fine and there was not a trace of gray in his hair—not something I can say of myself any more, I'm afraid. Yet when I looked closer I received the impression that he was much older than he seemed. His eyes, I think. They had a cast to them that only age can give.
"Mr. MacNai had reserved a room for me at the Holiday Inn and he took me there first, so I could drop off my valise. He drove a compact car, an Escort I think, and it was no fun for me to fold myself into it. Fortunately, the bank was not too far from the hotel and the trip was a short one.
"When we pulled into the lot, I noticed several children clustered around the ATM, but when they saw us, they ran. I noticed some graffiti on the machine and asked MacNai if he ever had trouble with the local gangs, but he said no."
Mr. Cohan nodded. "I know the neighborhood."
"Well, MacNai showed me around the place. It was quite small and tidy, if you know what I mean. A teller line. One or two desks for loan officers. A room for confidential meetings. What surprised me was the vault for the safe deposit boxes, which was quite extensive—larger, I thought, than the size of the bank warranted. I said so to MacNai, but he told me that many of their depositors, being from the old country, like to keep their valuables in a secure place." Newbury lifted his club soda and sipped from it thoughtfully.
"There was one odd detail," he said when he set it down again. "The builder had managed some trick with the windows. They were leaded in some queer way and, though you wouldn't know it to look at them, they acted like prisms, so that the light inside the bank was split into colors as if by stained glass.
"While I was studying the windows trying to see how it was done—I used to work summers for a contractor when I was young—I saw a young boy walk up to the ATM, which was just outside and, when he tried his card and had apparently gotten nothing back, he spat on the cash slot."
"I've felt like doing that myself sometimes," Gross said.
"It's the human touch," Witherwax announced from the table. "That's what's missing in this day and age. When the machines misfunction, there's no one about to speak to."
"The young man," said Newbury, "turned as if he were going to stalk into the bank and make an issue of it, but he saw me looking and gave me such a glare of hatred and suspicion that it quite startled me and I took a step back. Because of that trick with the leaded glass, it seemed to me as if his eyes were as red as his hair.
"MacNai was standing there with me, explaining some arrangement with messenger tubes for drive-up banking, but when he saw what had happened, he took me by the elbow and led me away from the window. For the next minute or so, I kept craning my neck to see if the young hoodlum would come into the bank, for it seemed as if he had taken an instant dislike to me. But he never showed, so I thought I had been mistaken."
Witherwax shook his head. "What's the world coming to?" he asked. "These kids today, they don't show any respect. Mr. Cohan, another boilermaker, if you please."
"It's not something you should normally worry about," the bartender assured the banker as he handled the bottles and jigger glass without looking. "Those punkas like to act tough, but it's mostly front. They won't do nothing to you when they think they'll be seen."
"At the time," Newbury said, "what bothered me was that the bank seemed awfully small for the assets they were claiming in their filings. So I asked to see their books. It wouldn't be unheard of for a small operation to pad their accounts so they'd be bought up at an inflated price. MacNai became very defensive, and that made me more suspicious. However, he must have wanted the capital we represented because he gave in eventually.
"He set me up in that private room and brought the books, which were old-fashioned bound ledgers, believe it or not. One of the reasons they were looking for capital was to modernize their systems. If he had just left me there with the books, I might only have given them a cursory look. The more detailed examination would come later—if I recommended we go ahead. But MacNai stood there beside me, fidgeting. Now, even the most honest man can grow nervous at such an examination—"
"It's all those laws," young Keating explained to his companions. "There are so many, you can't get through the day without stepping on one."
"—but I've learned to recognize when it goes beyond mere nervousness. MacNai was hiding something. So, I checked things a little more closely than I otherwise might have."
"And what was it you found?" Mr. Cohan asked. "For I take it you must have found something."
"There were an unusual number of small, unsecured loans, often to the same individuals. Now, that is just the sort of thing a microlender ought to be doing, except that these were consumer loans, pure and simple, not seed money for small businesses."
Mr. Cohan scratched his chin. "There ought to have been a shoe store or two in there."
Newbury waved a hand. "Oh, a few loans of that sort, but only a few. When I pointed out the excessive number of personal loans to MacNai, he hemmed and hawed and finally claimed that the loans were secured by jewels, coin, and other valuables those individuals had entrusted to the safe deposit boxes.
"'It's a new thing, we're after trying, Mr. Newbury,' he said to me. When I replied that microlending was hardly new, he said, 'It took a great deal of time and effort to convince my people to entrust their valuables to this institution. They are quite jealous and suspicious about their fortunes.'
"'Fortunes?' I asked, wondering if the safe deposit vault were as large as it was for some reason.
"MacNai seemed to flush ruddier than he was. 'Tis a manner of speaking in the old country.'
"I wasn't about to take MacNai's word for the contents of his vault. I know it was a matter for the auditors, but he had made me suspicious and I decided to press the issue. He had no legal obligation to show me their contents, but Harrison Trust was under no legal obligation to supply him with capital, either. Finally, he said he would consult with one or two of his depositors and see if he could get their permission to open their boxes for me.
"I had to leave it at that, as it was getting late. MacNai drove me back to the hotel and recommended a restaurant within walking distance—an Irish restaurant, of course. The food was quite good and a pint or two of stout ale added to this spare tire I've put around my waist. I was feeling pretty good when I made my way back to the hotel and had just about decided that there was nothing more to MacNai and his little bank than earnest amateurism and a rowdy neighborhood, but there in the lobby was that tough I had seen spitting at the ATM outside the bank.
"Seen up close, his eyes were gray, not red, and had that same indefinable look of age that MacNai had had. He might have been fifteen or he might have been fifty. I confess I took a step backward on seeing him, but he only smiled and offered me a drink from a flask he carried."
"You didn't drink from it, did you?" Mr. Cohan asked with sudden concern. "No, I can see that you did not, and a good thing, too."
"I should think so," said Newbury. "Who knew what germs it carried?"
"Go on," said Gross. "What did he say to you?"
"Well, despite the friendly gesture of the drink, he was quite rude. He accused me of trying to steal his money. 'I know why ye want to pry open those boxes. It's so ye can plunder what's in 'em.' His brogue was so thick I could scarcely understand him. I tried to assure him that I only wanted to verify the collateral on some loans, but he wouldn't have it. 'Ye're as bad as MacNai,' he said. 'He an' that machine o' his that won't give a bit o' coin when you ask it.'
"'Is that why you spit at it?' I asked him, but he cried out and lifted his hand as if to strike me. I thought he did strike me, but all I felt was a brush of air."
"They don't have a bit of strength," Mr. Cohan said. "It's all in their wits."
"That was a bit too much. I'm a sedentary man, but I keep in shape and I won't shy away from a fight. I grabbed hold of him, but he was a nimble fellow and slipped my grasp. He ran out the door and I followed, but he was gone by the time I reached the parking lot. To make matters worse, the hotel manager lectured me about creating a scene in his lobby. I guess he felt he had to say something, and the other fellow had run off.
"I mentioned the incident to MacNai when he came to pick me up the next day. 'All this secrecy about the contents of the safe deposit boxes,' I warned him, 'could sound to some ears like illicit money laundering. And that could get the federal people interested in your operation.'
"That worried him and he brooded all during the drive. Just as we reached Luchorpán, he turned to me and said, 'Look here, Mr. Newbury, it's true that we've had problems with the ATM. It doesn't disburse the money, but it deducts from the depositors' accounts. We've been making those little loans to cover their losses until we figure out what the reason is. I know that's not proper, but we'll get things straight in a few weeks.'
"By that time, I had my doubts, but I decided to say nothing and wrap up my visit as quickly as possible. I picked three safe deposit boxes at random and MacNai contacted the owners and asked them to come in. One of them refused and, rather than argue over it, I picked another box. While we waited, MacNai brought in some deli sandwiches—corned beef—but I had eaten a large breakfast and didn't touch them.
"The first owner was a little old woman named Maire ni Tuithe. MacNai carefully explained the reason for opening her box. She scowled and argued back and said her hoard—she actually used the word 'hoard'—was her own and no one else's. 'Now, Maire bawn,' said MacNai, 'remember what we all agreed. It does none of us any good to bury it in the ground. We need to make our money work for us. That means we must obey the banking laws, and this gentleman must confirm that the collateral exists. He's got you caught, fair and square, even if it is a rule that he's caught you by and not the scruff of your neck.'
"I can't say I cared much for the way MacNai explained things. He made it sound like I'd tackled the old lady and pinned her to the lobby floor. It seemed to work, though, for she became all sweetness and light after that. They went into the vault with their keys and emerged with a large metal box, which we took into the private room. Ni Tuithe actually locked the door and, after the box was opened, I could see why.
"I have never seen so much gold coin in my life. There were old double eagles and Krugerands and even, I swear, Spanish doubloons and Venetian ducats. That Maire bawn hadn't been kidding when she called it her 'hoard.' Melted down to ingots, the gold would have been worth a fortune; auctioned as coin to collectors, it was worth three fortunes. Museums would duel one another at twenty paces for some of the older pieces. My jaw must have dropped to the vicinity of my knees. 'How did you come by this?' I asked.
"''Tis me life savings,' the woman answered. 'All that stands between me an' a pauper's grave.' And I'll have to admit that her Social Security check would never come close to the income that brass deposit box would bring. I assured her that I had no intention of depriving her of her property, which actually seemed to shock her.
"Once she had gone, I questioned MacNai more closely on the security at the bank. It did not seem especially tight—if the rest of the boxes were as flush as the one I'd picked at random. 'We look out for our own,' MacNai said. 'First, no one would suspect such a trove in a small bank like this. Secondly, we have friends.'
"There was something in the way he said it that made my hairs curl. Then he muttered something about a black pig that I didn't catch. I began to reconsider my thoughts about the bank being a front for criminal elements.
"The other two box-holders came and it was just like the first. Brass containers full of golden coins—except the third, which had a significant amount of silver. That gentleman, O Beirne, was quite smug about it. 'You'll not find silver go like the morning's dew,' he said, much to MacNai's evident irritation. Neither of them made the sort of fuss about opening his box as did the Ni Tuithe woman earlier, but MacNai spoke with them quietly before introducing us, so I suppose he persuaded them the same way.
"In fact, I'm sure of it. For when I left the building I saw all three of them gathered in the parking lot listening to my friend of that morning. He was gesticulating wildly and I heard him say something like, 'not fairly caught,' when he caught sight of me and pointed. 'And there he is, making off with your treasures!'
"Now, they had all seen their safe deposit boxes locked safely back into the vault, so I don't know how they thought I'd be making off with anything, but they all turned to me and seemed almost to leap through the air. The woman, in particular, let out a horrific shriek that nearly froze the blood in my veins—and all this in broad daylight no more than a block from MacLean Avenue!
"I'm no coward, but I know when I'm outnumbered. Beside, Esau doesn't pay me to brawl in the Bronx. I sprinted up the block with them at my heels. It seemed to me as if they rode on the wind. Luck being with me, I found a cab at the corner. The cabbie was a Sikh. He saw my four pursuers and shook his head. 'What a terrible shame,' he said, 'what this neighborhood has come to. They are illegal aliens, you know. They come here and take jobs away from us Americans.'
"I hadn't had an experience like that since Decatur, Georgia. We drove for a while until I had regained a measure of calm. I saw your establishment, and told him to drop me here." Newbury spread his hands. "And now you know why I've had unkind thoughts about the Irish."
"Well, as to that," said Mr. Cohan, "it wasn't rightly the Irish you had trouble with. Luchorpán was their old name in the Gaelic, but they've been called by other names. That sort has always meant trouble. They can be pleasant enough when they're rightly caught—and then it is all 'yes, sor' and 'no, sor' and 'as you please, sor'—but it doesn't do to turn your back for a moment. They are powerful jealous of their treasures, too. I hadn't heard that they was emigratin', but it doesn't surprise me, things being as they are in the old country."
"There is something I don't understand," Gross said. "I mean, I understand about the colors coming through the window—and it's not many men have the privilege of finding themselves at the rainbow's end—and about spitting at the ATM—"
"It's how you make sure the money doesn't disappear," Witherwax told him. "Didn't Councilman Maguire of the Fifth Ward have that very problem one time?"
Mr. Cohan nodded. "He did that. The poor felly, God rest him, was coming in here before every election to spit in the pot and get a little bit of the luck that was still in it."
"But that's not the part I don't understand," Gross insisted. "It's why the ATM wouldn't give out the money in the first place."
"Why, that sort of money," Mr. Cohan told him, "doesn't like the touch of cold iron—you'll recall that the lock boxes were brass—and I don't suppose paper money issued in place of it is any different. The money is only a symbol, after all."
"Oh, dear Lord," said young Keating. "We're in for a world of hurt."
Gross blinked and looked at the others. "Why's that?"
Newbury looked at Keating. Then he covered his face and groaned. "Money is fungible. Set them up, Mr. Cohan. We may as well spend it while we can."
Mr. Cohan set up another round, and while he did he whistled an old song:
"And did you meet Them riding down
A mile away from Galway town?"