From Broken Glass by Steve Ross

Author:Steve Ross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Books
Published: 2018-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Intervention

South Boston

February 6, 1962

Whitey’s bar smelled of urine and vomit. It reminded me of the barracks at Budzyn. I hesitated at the doorway as if my body wouldn’t obey my mind’s instructions to enter. At a booth against one wall a man lay hunched over a table, a trail of spit running from his mouth to his outstretched arm. In another corner a woman, sitting on the floor, smoked a cigarette with a shaky hand. The bartender nodded. It was ten thirty in the morning.

“What’ll you have,” he said. His shirt was stained, his face unshaven.

“The sign out front says that you don’t open until noon,” I said.

“What are you, a cop?” he asked.

“No, I don’t care when you open actually,” I said. I looked around. “Although perhaps a little later might be helpful to some of these poor people.”

“Maybe you should just go,” he said.

Several patrons seemed to take notice of this request.

“Not quite yet,” I said. “I am looking for someone.”

“And who might that be?” he asked.

“I am looking for someone named Henry,” I said loudly, peering around the bar. “Tilly’s father. Are you here?”

My volume seemed to make everyone stir. A rustling and repositioning of chairs and stools followed.

“Henry, Tilly told me you’d be here. She says you’re always here.”

“I told the little brat to keep her mouth shut,” a man muttered from the other side of the bar. “What do you want? You’re disturbing everyone.”

All eyes were on me as I made my way around the stools and chaotically placed tables and chairs.

“Your daughter hasn’t eaten today. She went to school hungry. She went home and had nothing last night for dinner, either.”

“I’ve been busy. I’m looking for a job.”

“It’s not even eleven in the morning and you’re at a bar. Unless you’re applying to be a bartender or for a job cleaning up other people’s used bottles, I’m not sure I think you’re making much of an effort.”

“What do you care,” he said.

“That’s a good question.” I pulled a chair beside him and sat. “Here’s the thing. I have to see her every day, and I can’t stand to see her as hungry as I was as a child. Her pain feels to me like—”

“She knows how to take care of herself,” he said.

“I was at your apartment an hour ago. There are roaches everywhere, filthy dishes on every counter, the laundry has piled up in a corner, and there is no food. I fed her breakfast when she arrived at school. I’ve been doing it for a year. She finally told me where I could find you.”

“So, good. She ate.”

The bartender came over, shaking his head. “Henry,” he said solemnly. “I want you out of my bar.”

“He will only find another,” I said.

The bartender walked to the other side of the room and began drying glasses with a rag.

“Why don’t you go home and you feed your own kids,” Henry said.

“One of two things is going to happen,” I said. “I am going

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