Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

floor with the hourglass brass inlays, and the walls, which were polished black marble from the floor to waist level, and then admired the white limestone that went up another twenty feet to the vaulted ceiling trimmed in blue and gold. Going between the black marble columns on his left, Joe entered a part of the building that was all gray limestone, and walked up a circular stairway where Basil Rathbone could have tumbled down, dead from a thrust of Errol Flynn’s sword. Walking down an arched hallway on creaking, but highly-polished, wood floors, he reflected on how his father had been one of the stonemasons who built this mansion for one of Buffalo’s Delaware Avenue millionaires, who left it to the Masons. The Jesuits later bought it at a tax sale for their high school. After the meeting, he reminded himself that he should stop by the hallway where the graduation pictures were, and take a look at Charley’s and Pat’s class photos. He loved to look at those pictures, their young faces so full of joy and promise, dressed in white formal coats and black bow ties. Opening a thick, oak door, he was greeted by the waves and nods of a group of men gathered around a big mahogany table, the elder ones with cigars or pipes burning strong, the younger ones with cigarettes between their fingers, poised over glass ashtrays.

      At the end of the table was the rector of the school, a heavy man dressed in the old-fashioned soutane, with curly white hair and thick glasses, reveling in the respect of these successful citizens, some of whom he had instructed in math and physics in his younger days. The most fawning among them were the men who hadn’t gone to school there, but whose children had made the cut, and gotten into the academically elite boys’ high school. They, the Jesuits knew, were the most likely to make contributions and serve on boards like this one, which set the financial course for the school, and helped decide scholarships and admissions.

      “Father Schaus,” Joe said, taking his place at the table.

      “Ah, Joseph. Good to have you here to leaven our amiable brain trust.”

      The meeting began, on time, as always; the priest said a prayer and then turned the affair over to the board’s president, who read the brief agenda—the sorting out of bids for the paving of a new parking lot, the acceptance of two new scholarship funds, and the settling of the last few spots for the incoming freshman class. The first two issues were settled quickly, with the paving contract going to an alumnus who gave the school a deep discount, and the scholarships, having trusts established for minimal fees at a bank, managed by another member. The final matter was settling which of three boys would get the last spot in the upcoming freshman class.

      “Well,” began the board’s president, an alumnus who was a lawyer with a prominent local firm, “the last item on our agenda tonight requires a little more scrutiny than the first two matters—which of the three best-qualified boys gets the last open spot in next year’s freshman class? All three have excellent academic records, all three did very well on the entrance exam, and none of the three will require any financial assistance.

      “The first is James O’Toole, graduating from St. Joseph’s on Main Street this year. He has a ninety-three percent average at that school, scored a ninety-two percent on the entrance exam here, has a paper route, plays baseball, and is an altar boy at St. Joseph’s. His father is a vice principal in the city public schools, and his mother was a nurse before they had children. No immediate family in the school at this time, nor is his father an alumnus.

      “The second boy is Andrew Maraschiello, who will be graduating from Public School 83 this year, with an average of ninety-three percent there; scored ninety-two percent on the entrance exam here; plays the trumpet and drums; and is a patrol leader with the Boy Scouts. His father is a shirt salesman, president of the K of C at St. Margaret’s, and a member of the Class of 1940. His mother taught at St. Margaret’s for several years.

      “The last candidate is Phillip Monteduro, who is graduating from Annunciation on Lafayette this year, with an average of ninety-six; he scored ninety-three percent on our entrance exam; is an altar boy; plays basketball and baseball; and is active in the Catholic Youth Organization at Annunciation. His mother is a member of the Women’s Sodality, and is an active volunteer at Children’s Hospital. His father is Torreo Monteduro.”

      The mention of the racketeer’s name caused the previously silent group to begin talking amongst themselves, except for Joe and the priest, who kept silent. Joe smiled, thinking about how he and Torreo’s paths kept crossing.

      The president spoke up a little louder, saying, “All these boys scored almost the same on the entrance exam, are nearly equal in their grades at schools, have excellent extracurricular activities, and their families are active contributors to their parishes. I think any of them are qualified for Canisius’ next class of freshmen.”

      “I think you’re right, John, but we don’t want il Zoppo’s kid here,” said a board member. “Who knows what sort of trouble these people might try to make?” He turned to the man sitting next to him, a doctor on the West Side—where Monteduro’s rackets were centered—and asked, “What do you think, Vito?”

      Thinking of the victims who were beat—whom he had treated—as a result of Monteduro’s mob, Vito spread his hands wide and said, “I’m staying out of it.”

      Voices were raised, and Joe spoke up, cutting through all of them.

      “It seems to me, gentlemen, that the Monteduro boy is the best-qualified scholar among them, and stands with the rest in the other ways.” Looking right into the eyes of the man who wanted to keep young Phillip out—a contractor Joe knew, who benefited greatly from city contracts obtained through political connections—he continued, “I wouldn’t throw stones at the boy’s house, gentlemen. There’s plenty of windows that might get shattered all around here if we keep that up.”

      There was a moment’s pause, and Father Schaus reflected, “Yes, we must consider the Pharisaical aspect of blaming the sons for the sins of the father, and, as Joe says, he does stand above the others academically. Now there’s always a few boys who choose not to come here, though they’re accepted, for whatever reason, and perhaps these other two boys might get another chance to join us, if that happens. In the meantime, I think we should agree with Joe that young Monteduro is the best-qualified candidate, and notify his family that he will be welcomed into

      Canisius’ freshman class next fall.”

      CHAPTER 25

      DOWNTOWN, 1950

      Pat wore his brown suit for his first day as a detective, having put a good polish to his shoes the night before; only tipping two beers back while he listened to the Bison’s hockey game on the radio. The Gambling Squad was on the third floor of headquarters, and, as he went to report to the inspector’s office, he had to go through the bullpen, where the Gambling and other headquarters squads were. He could see all eyes on him. He rapped on the wood part of the frosted glass door, where a brass plate read, Martin L. Wachter, Inspector-Headquarters.

      “Come in,” came a resonant voice from beyond the door, and Pat pushed his curly, black hair back as he turned the knob.

      “Patrick Brogan,” the inspector stated upon seeing Brogan.

      “Yes, sir. Reporting, as assigned.”

      The inspector was a tall man; taller than Pat’s six-foot-one; with a prominent nose and receding blonde hair, slicked back. He wore a starched, white shirt with plain, black cuff links; a narrow black tie; and sharply-pressed, brown pleated pants. Worry lines were just appearing in the pale skin beneath gray eyes. He did not stand up, but stared at Pat.

      “I need good men, Brogan. Ones who don’t whine when I get ’em out of bed on cold nights. Ones who are never, I repeat, never, late. You went to Canisius, right?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You know Father Gewitter, Prefect of Discipline, there?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Ever get jug from him? Ever get cracked a good one against the lockers by him?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Well, he’s nothing compared to me. I’m not going to treat