13 Hangmen by Art Corriveau

Author:Art Corriveau
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amulet Books
Published: 2012-03-04T16:00:00+00:00

n the gloom, Finn spied a half dozen Irishmen standing at the bar. The one with his back turned was arguing with the elderly black bartender with snow-white hair. “What do you mean, you don’t serve my kind here?” the Irishman said.

“You heard me,” the bartender said, polishing a pilsner glass.

“You should feel honored I’ve even stooped to coming in,” the Irishman said. “And the only reason I have is because I’m waiting for my new man to catch up with us. So pour me a whiskey.”

“Plenty of other places in the North End sell whiskey,” the bartender said.

“Don’t get uppity with me, Sambo!” the Irishman said. “I want to speak with the owner.”

“You are,” the bartender said. “Now get out.”

That was when Finn noticed the patch over the bartender’s left eye. One-Eyed Jack.

“Lucky for you I got pressing business,” the Irishman said. “But I’ll be back for a double. And you’ll be giving it to me on the house.” The Irishman turned to leave. It was Stevie Wallace—Paddy’s new boss—the hoodlum who had pointed the revolver at Finn up in the attic.

All went black again.

Finn was lying on the zinc countertop when he woke. The bartender was mopping his forehead with a damp dishrag. Up close, Finn could see he was really old—eighty, at least. But there was an energy about him that made him seem much younger.

“Thanks,” Finn said.

“Jack Douglass, at your service.”

“Sorry about earlier,” Finn said, sitting up.

“What for?” Jack said. “You helped me get rid of him. I’ve never served his kind—hoodlums—and never will. You must be Dolly McGinley’s boy. I’d recognize the color of that hair anywhere.”

“I go by Finn,” he said, surprised. “You know Mam?”

“I sold her your house,” Jack said.

Even more of a surprise. There weren’t very many Negroes left in New Guinea, now that the Irish had moved into the neighborhood and renamed it Little Dublin. Not unless you counted the ones in the Copp’s Hill Burying Ground.

“I hope you’re not here to tell me your mammy’s gone and married Cedric Hagmann?” Jack said.

Finn shook his head. How did he know about that? “I’m here for that dishwashing job,” he said.

“How old are you, son?”

“Sixteen,” Finn lied. “I’m just small for my age.”

Jack laughed. “I don’t happen to have a job for a sixteen-year-old,” he said. “But I might just have one for a twelve-going-on-thirteen-year-old.”

Finn grinned. “I turned thirteen today.”

“Right on time,” Jack said. “I guess you’re hired.”

“When do I start?” Finn said.

“Right now,” Jack said, handing him the dishrag. “One-Eyed Jack’s is open every single day of the year. Happy birthday.”

Finn’s first morning of work was surprisingly busy. There were dozens of glasses to polish, all the tables to wipe clean, floors to sweep, and a mountain of potatoes to peel before the lunch shift. By noon One-Eyed Jack’s was packed with a raucous group of well-heeled, middle-aged Irishmen, and Finn was up to his elbows in suds, with dirty plates and mugs towering around him. In spite of his age, Jack seemed to be everywhere at once, doing the work of two men.

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