Every Man for Himself. Mark J. Hannon

edges. Not again, Pat thought, and retched into the street. Bremer jumped out of the way.

      The captain spoke into the radio, “Very well,” then to Bremer, “They got the other guy. The rookie chased him right into the hands of the D & D boys over on Lafayette.”

      Pat looked around again. What was that noise? He heard a rolling, clicking metallic sound as policemen walked about the scene. There were several metal boxes and nickels everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. That’s what this is about? he thought, dropping his head to spit out more bile.

      CHAPTER 2

      NORTH PARK, 1950

      Father Crotty stood in the sacristy, behind the screen before the entrance to the altar, and listened to the people in the pews. It was where Monsignor Gunderman used to stand just before Mass and listen to the whispers of his parishioners before starting a service. While the Bishop, priests from the Cathedral, seminarians, and acolytes all rushed about preparing for the big ceremony, the parish priest relaxed and watched the people in the pews for a few moments as he adjusted his stole and tied his cincture.

      Between the panels of the screen, Crotty could see the front pew where white-haired Joe Brogan sat with his family, straight as an arrow, eyes ever forward, in a three-piece, pinstriped blue suit he must have had since way before the war. Today must be the proudest day of his life, getting made a Knight of St. Gregory. Next to him sat his oldest son, Charley, wearing a brown suit with padded shoulders and lapels as wide as the characters in gangster movies, turning around again and again to see who was there, nodding to those he knew and wishing he could wave to them without his father’s growling. To Charley’s left was the next oldest, Pat, tall and dark haired, wearing a blue suit not much different from his police uniform. Charley’s constant moving was clearly getting on Pat’s nerves, probably aggravating a hangover, if Crotty’s judgment of Pat’s eyes were correct. I don’t know what happened to the boy over there during the war, but it’s wearing on him now, the priest thought. Next to Pat sat Tim, the youngest boy, the failed seminarian. Ever since his earliest childhood, he had sought to please his mother, following her around to all the church functions. He later tried to become a priest, which was her heart’s desire. A bad time of it when his mother died, Crotty recalled, and then more in the seminary, for the poor boy couldn’t grasp the studies and completely collapsed when they told him he had to leave. He still lived at home, taking the bus to his job as a printer’s helper at the Courier-Express downtown, where his father got him hired after he got out of the sanitarium. Next to Tim was Mary Agnes, slender and blonde in a felt tilt hat, pushing her little brother’s hair into place, just as she did when they were children. Her adoring husband, Peter, was there, smiling as always, and he treated Tim as a little child, too, taking him to ball games and such. Time those two had children, thought the priest.

      His Excellency was ready to begin. A short man with glasses, the ceremonial mitre made him seem bigger. Now he stood at the door to the sanctuary, cross and candle bearing acolytes before him, and when one of the seminarians pulled the bell rope, he led them to the foot of the altar, where, after making the sign of the cross, he began to sing the Mass in Latin, “Introibo ad altari Dei . . .” to which the congregation, and Joe Brogan, with eyes closed, answered, “ad Deum qui laetificat meum juventum . . .”

      The pews were filled on this Saturday afternoon, lined with family, friends, neighbors, business associates of Joe Brogan and those who wanted to be. Father Crotty noticed that Joe was smiling now, walking slowly up to the altar rail where he knelt before the Bishop, who would induct him into the Papal Order of St. Gregory instead of giving a sermon. At Joe’s request—and Joe was probably the only layman to have this influence on the Bishop—the induction would be brief. That’s Joe for you, Crotty thought. No big dinners at the Statler downtown or a High Mass at the Cathedral, but a solemn ceremony, sung in chant at his own parish.

      “After decades of service to his Church . . . including the building of schools, the establishment of new parishes here in the Diocese of Buffalo . . . a lifetime ceaselessly dedicated to alleviating the suffering of the poor and the sick through his mighty works in Catholic Charities . . .”

      Crotty remembered Joe’s discussions downtown about the big red sash and large cross medallion that came with the award. It was over hamburgers at George’s Lunch of all places, where George did all the grilling on a stove that looked out the front window and waved his spatula at passersby.

      “I don’t want a bunch of guys in plumed hats banging around with swords, sashes, and all that nonsense,” Joe had said, surprising the Monsignor, who planned the diocese’s ceremonies. “Just Mass and the pin for my lapel will be fine.”

      So, now, instead of hanging the grand sash on the man, the bishop was pinning a red and gold pin to his lapel, so small that the audience could barely see it, saying, “Accept this cross and the apostolic service which it signifies . . .” after which Joe stood and faced the congregation, a few tears running down his ruddy Irish face that got the Connelly sisters reaching for their handkerchiefs. Never missed a service, those girls, and like Joe, had moved here to St. Mark’s Parish from the West Side, oh, twenty years ago, Crotty reckoned.

      Afterwards, when everyone was on the church steps, lighting cigarettes and taking a few pictures, Joe proudly crouched down and showed his new pin to a little boy, his nephew Michael, who seemed baffled by the entire enterprise. “It’s an award from the Pope, Mikie. He’s made me a knight, you see.”

      “But where’s your armor, Uncle Joe?” the confused boy asked. Those around the child laughed, none louder than Joe Brogan.

      Straightening up, Joe spotted a big man with gray curly hair in a dark suit limping down the church steps and went through the well wishers to greet him. When Joe caught him by the elbow, the man stopped and turned, then smiled at Joe. They shook hands, the man bowed his head a little, then went back down the steps and away in a waiting car.

      “Wasn’t that Monteduro?” Mary Agnes whispered to her husband behind her hand.

      “Yeah, I think it was,” Peter replied, but all the speculation ceased when Joe returned.

      Even Charley, the man about town, looked confused at that last gesture, thinking, How the hell does the old man know il Zoppo?

      CHAPTER 3

      THE WEST SIDE, 1902

      Joseph Brogan stood in the stable leaning on a shovel, listening to the men load the wagons with milk outside.

      “Fookin’ heavy today,” his cousin Johnny said, swinging the milk can up towards the wagon. “Shite!” he exclaimed, as the big metal can collided with the wagon’s gate, falling out of Johnny’s grasp, tumbling noisily to the pavement and spilling its contents within moments. The last of the milk was splashing onto the paving stones when the foreman, Mr. Jones, strode down the alley to investigate the commotion. When he saw the gurgle onto the cobblestones, Johnny spotted him and threw himself against the wagon, grasping his lower back with both hands and sliding down the wheel to sit. “Oh, me back,” he cried, his eyes clenched shut and his cap falling off.

      Jones got up close to him and, smelling the whiskey over the odor of dung from the stable, waved his hand in front of his face and roared, “Whew! You drunken idiot! I thought you were soused when you came in! Just went from the bar straight to work again, eh? Well, this is the last time,” he said, as Johnny scrambled to his feet. “Get the hell out of here, you drunken Mick! You’ve spilled your last can of milk here! Get out!” Jones shouted, as Johnny trotted down the alley, pulling his cap down tightly on his head in the pre-dawn cold. The rest of the men turned back to loading their wagons, some checking that their whiskey bottles were carefully stashed and shaking their heads for poor Johnny as he went past.

      The veins in his neck still straining, Jones looked around at the line of wagons being loaded and then back at the stable where Joe stood with the shovel. “You! Brogan!” he hollered, making the boy jump and wonder what to do with the shovel in his hands. “You know his route, boy?” he said, pointing to the horse at the head of Johnny’s wagon.

      “Yea, yes,” Joe stammered.

      “Well,