There Must Be a Reason
Monday morning, December 24, 1917.
Pier 35, South East Harbor, Manhattan.
Longshoremen who had gathered since before dawn hunched their shoulders against the cold, cigarettes clenched between their teeth as they waited for the day’s work to begin. Steam winches and derricks hauled great wooden crates and sacks of coal up from freighters that had crossed the Atlantic. Carts and trucks waiting on the docks moved in constant hurry, their clatter mixing with the men’s shouted orders.
It was a scene Larry O’Connell had watched for more than a decade, yet he walked toward one of the dockside offices with an uneasy heart.
A co-worker spotted him and hurried over at once.
“Larry, you feeling all right?”
“As you can see. First decent rest I’ve had in a while.”
“Hell, tomorrow’s Christmas. Why didn’t you just stay home and take it easy till then?”
Why come in? To quit, that was why.
Larry’s face twisted into a bitter smile. The co-worker, reading the mood, spoke with difficulty.
“Back then… I’m really sorry I couldn’t help you.”
“I know how things stood. Forget it.”
At first the man had opposed the strike, but the sluggers’ threats and force left him no choice but to go along. When Larry was being beaten, he had looked the other way because he had to.
“Everyone was in the same boat.”
“……Yeah. No other way.”
Larry was the same. He had no choice but to remember every word and action of his co-workers. Even when they greeted him now as if nothing had happened, the residue did not wash away so easily.
“Anyway, I’ve been at this place too long. Should’ve quit when the company changed hands.”
“Don’t talk like that. Who works harder than you? Let’s just shake off the last mess and move on, Larry.”
“No. Sitting in that hospital bed made it clear. Outside looks fine, but the inside’s worn out. Even lifting heavy loads is a struggle now.”
Larry was already in his mid-forties. Manhattan, by contrast, overflowed with young, strong backs. Working alongside them was hard enough; only days ago he had been worked over by sluggers barely out of boyhood.
“Better to find something else while I can still walk away on my own two feet.”
“…….”
“You go take care of your business. I’ll stop by the office and be on my way.”
Larry halted in front of the two-story building that housed the Clyde Steamship Company.
The Clyde Steamship Company specialized in freight and passenger service between the southeastern United States and the Caribbean. Originally owned by the prominent Whitney family, it had been sold in 1907 to Charles Morse—the so-called Ice King—and now even handled war cargo.
When he opened the door the atmosphere was nothing like before. Normally union officers came and went in noisy clusters; today the place was quiet as a church sanctuary. The clerks glanced at Larry, then bent their heads and focused on their work.
“Larry, how are you feeling?”
What was this? The bookkeeper who for years had treated him with cool indifference now smiled and asked after his health.
“Uh… better now. But the office feels different somehow.”
She lowered her voice and looked around.
“Harris just got fired.”
“What?”
At that moment Harris himself came down the stairs from the second floor, arms wrapped around a box of personal effects. Harris had been the manager in charge of ship schedules, cargo, and labor—though in practice he did almost nothing except idle chatter with union men. A pure parachute hire.
His face set hard, he shot Larry one look and vanished out the door. A pitiful exit for a man who had once swaggered with his chin in the air. Probably because of the strike.
While Larry stared at the closed door, an unfamiliar voice reached his ear.
“Perfect timing. Let’s talk in the office.”
A middle-aged man standing at the top of the stairs beckoned, then disappeared into the room.
“That’s Henry Prescott, the labor-relations executive.”
“From the head office?”
“Yes. He’s been asking about you for several days.”
“Me?”
“He’s a tough one. Better go right up.”
Larry scratched his cheek and climbed the stairs.
Click.
The executive was already seated at the desk that belonged to the port manager, leafing through papers.
“Have a seat anywhere.”
A moment later he took one sheet, crossed to the sofa opposite Larry, and sat.
“Larry O’Connell. You’ve been with us ever since the Spanish War. Taken part in a few strikes along the way?”
“Yes…….”
“So why did you oppose this last one?”
“We’d only just finished a hard-fought negotiation a few months earlier. They wanted to walk out for no reason at all.”
Kaplan had stirred up strikes not only at Clyde but at several other companies. According to the newspapers the real motive had been shocking: he intended to bomb American troopships bound for the European front. Police and the Bureau of Investigation were now combing through every striker, hunting for spies.
Men who had opposed the strike—and been beaten for it—had, without intending to, come through looking clean.
Prescott seemed satisfied with the answer. He nodded, set the paper down, then fixed Larry with a sharp look.
“You know any of the ILA officers?”
“None. I just signed the union card like everybody else.”
“What about Tanner Smith?”
“I’ve seen him around. Never spoken to him.”
Prescott rubbed his chin and tilted his head. The ILA had long worked with the gangs, shuttling between the waterfront unions and management to tighten their grip on the docks. Sometimes they threatened the shipping companies or used muscle to dictate hiring—Harris had been one such case. Yet after the Kaplan affair the old ties had snapped, and now the ILA and Tanner Smith had chosen Larry O’Connell in Harris’s place?
There has to be a reason.
Larry’s face said he truly knew nothing.
Prescott thought a moment longer, then made up his mind.
Better than Harris, at least.
Reasonable. Not strike-happy. Office experience? Unnecessary—the clerks would do the actual work. What the company needed was a man who could keep the peace with the union and keep the docks running.
“Larry, from now on you’re going to run this place.”
“……Sir?”
Larry’s eyes went round.
He had come to quit, and instead he was being promoted—to general manager, no less. A desk job.
He listened in a daze while Prescott talked, and before he knew it he had signed a brand-new employment contract. The weekly wage was raised substantially.
“You’ve only just left the hospital. Go home for today. Official start Wednesday.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“I should be thanking you—for the years you’ve given the company.”
Larry stepped out of the second-floor office half-convinced he was dreaming. Would tumbling down the stairs wake him up? Too dangerous; he pinched his cheek instead.
By the time he reached the ground floor every clerk’s eyes were on him.
“Well?” the bookkeeper asked, tense.
Larry scrubbed his face with both hands and found his voice.
“I’m taking Harris’s job.”
“Wow. I figured as much.”
She dropped her voice again and added, “Looking forward to working with you.”
Larry, embarrassed, waved at the room.
“Merry Christmas, everyone. See you in two days.”
“Merry Christmas to you too, Larry!”
Outside the company building his chest felt ready to burst. Christmas Eve—and he had news to carry home. His steps quickened.
Second floor of the twin buildings on Allen Street.
Tanner had shown up first thing that morning.
“Hand over the presents already. I heard you passed out five bucks apiece to the kids.”
“Shouldn’t you be giving me something? I’m still only seventeen.”
“Jesus, and at that age you’ve already killed enough men for two lifetimes. Anyway, Christmas present. Give.”
Tanner held out his palm with an annoying grin. He had come all this way; I could hardly refuse. I pulled a five-dollar bill from the drawer and handed it over.
“Gonna eat well this Christmas.”
He tucked the bill into his wallet, then suddenly grew serious and shook his head.
“What’s with the look?”
“Five bucks each to the whole crew—that’s damn near eight hundred dollars. Someone watching would think you were Rockefeller.”
“Money’s meant to circulate. Spend it, then earn it back. Simple.”
“I hear the gambling den’s empty as a church.”
“……Flies don’t come in winter.”
“What, no flies either? Shit, what now?”
“You take the present and then rub salt in the wound?”
“I’m worried about you. Haven’t been sleeping lately.”
Tanner wasn’t wrong—the gambling floor was dead. That was why the staff there had gotten only two dollars each for Christmas. Bastards.
“By the way, your uncle’s out of the hospital. He go back to work?”
“No idea.”
“Level with me. He really your uncle?”
“Why would I lie about that? We weren’t especially close till now, though.”
“Well, you’re about to get a lot closer. I made him port manager at his company. Who did? Me.”
The deeper reason was that the ILA vice-president, terrified of being tarred with the spy brush himself, had cut Kaplan loose in a hurry and thrown his weight behind Tanner.
“Who made that happen?”
“You did, kid. Credit where it’s due. Hell, more than credit—respect. You know Paul Kelly used to box? Neck like a bull. That same Paul Kelly came in with his head down. Nobody else could’ve made that happen.”
Tanner whistled in admiration; I took it as only natural. Still, this was merely the opening move. In the end I would pull Paul Kelly down, and when that day came the ILA vice-presidency had to belong to Tanner. Uncle Larry was simply one piece of the plan.
“We need to keep planting reliable men. Once Uncle Larry has some seasoning, we send him inside the ILA. Keep stacking our people like that and Tanner’s reach grows.”
Absorb the waterfront locals one by one through beatings, extortion, and threats, while at the same time seeding our own people into both the unions and the ILA itself. Most of the dockworkers were Italian, Jewish, or Irish; national origin mattered a great deal. It was also groundwork for the Prohibition years and, later, for the Second World War.
After Tanner left I waited until midday before making the rounds of the businesses.
The lingerie shop on the first floor was reasonably busy—Christmas shoppers, no doubt.
“Ida, Merry Christmas. See you day after tomorrow.”
“Boss, Merry Christmas to you too.”
I left Ida’s empty smile behind and went down to the basement. The dance hall was still closed; the staff were loafing on the floor.
“Merry Christmas, everyone.”
Next, the second basement.
The moment I opened the door every eye locked on me.
“A fly just walked in.”
“…….”
At least they had the decency to look down.
What exactly was the problem? The opening promotion—giving high win rates so newcomers left with fat wallets—hadn’t been bad. The real problem was that almost no newcomers were coming at all. Time to change tactics.
Lenny Goldstein, the floor manager whose face had gone gaunt from the same worry, planted himself in front of me with a grim expression and held out a report.
“Been working on this for days.”
He had sense enough to feel his neck on the line. I scanned the pages with a cold face.
Lenny offered two strategies.
First: ruin the competing houses. Methods listed: anonymous tips to the police, arson.
“You’re out of your mind. Pass.”
Second: plant people inside the rival joints to spread word-of-mouth—specifically, “Somebody hit a huge score there yesterday.”
He had spent days on this? Six lines of writing?
“City College of New York, mathematics. If that diploma’s fake you’ll be floating the Atlantic in a drum.”
“……It’s real. Top of the entrance list.”
I burned him with a look that could have set paper alight. Still, the second idea wasn’t worthless.
“All right. We go with number two.”
Color returned to Lenny’s face.
We decided to leave only essential staff at the dance hall and the gambling den, then feed the surplus into the competition. Results would be checked in two days. I collected the gift boxes I had hidden in the secret room and headed home.
Tenement house.
I opened the door with both arms full of boxes.
Roa and Liam, already home, greeted not me but the packages.
“Big brother!? What are all those?”
“What are they?”
I considered keeping the boxes for later, then decided against it.
“Santa left them outside the door.”
“Really? Roa, should I close my eyes!?”
“Liam too—should Liam close his eyes?”
“You’re disgusting, you know that?”
Today, for the first time in our lives, my siblings and I would accompany Mother to visit our maternal grandparents.