The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (22 page)

He lay abed, listening as Paulie left for school in her usual, late-flying rush. Then he got up, shaved and

dressed with the care of a man preparing for some court function. His only worry, as he saw it, was how to wait until four. At four, the night staff were entitled to go and pick up their pay checks. And as all staff changes were reported on payday in the pay office, Hennen would know. But, flute! It was a long, long morning.

At a quarter to four, having already waited fifteen minutes in the corridor, Coffey went into the Tribune business office and idled by the cashier's wicket, trying to catch Mr. Hennen's eye. Mr. Hennen, an old bird in his cage, busied himself with his ledgers, aware of Coffey, but determined to make him wait each agonizing second until the hour. The office clock's second hand circled, the minute hand jerked up one black notch, the hour hand moved imperceptibly closer. At the precise moment that all three reached the hour, Coffey stepped up to the wicket. Mr. Hennen laid down his pen, fussed with his black sleeve protectors and looked in Coffey's direction. "Name?" he shouted.

"J. F. Coffey."

Mr. Hennen riffled through a sheaf of pay checks and slipped one through the wicket. "Don't spend it all at once," he said.

"By the way — I — ah — I wonder if you'd have a note about a staff change?" Coffey said. "A transfer for me?"

Mr. Hennen cocked his old parrot head to one side. "Transfer?" He opened another ledger and took out four little yellow slips. He riffled through them. "These here are all the new staff changes. Your name's not in."

"Perhaps it hasn't come down yet?"

"All changes came in at noon. So it won't be for next week, fella."

"But Mr. MacGregor promised me . . "

"Did he now?" Mr. Hennen said, and winked.

Coffey turned from that wicked parrot eye, afraid. What did that wink mean? Surely . . .

"Hey, wait a minute/' Mr. Hennen said. "One of your fellas is sick. Phoned up, wants someone to take his check over to him. Let's see. Davis is the name. Want to take it to him?"

Old Billy. There was the reason he had not been promoted. That was what Mr. Hennen knew and had not said. Coffey went back to the wicket, heartsick with anger against old doddering Bill. Why did he have to get sick this week, of all weeks? It was not fair. Bloody Old Bill! "All right," he said. "HI take it to him/'

Mr. Hennen passed over an addressed envelope and Coffey went out into the streets again. Bill's place was a room over a small clothing store, in a street three blocks from the Tribune offices. The landlord, an aged French-Canadian who spoke no English, looked at W. DAVIS on the pay envelope, then nodded and led Coffey up the back stairs to a door at the end of a dark corridor. Coffey knocked.

"Come in," an old voice called.

The room reminded Coffey of Veronica's, but there was a difference. Old Billy had lived here a long time. There was a small electric hotplate, an old icebox, a green card table on which a large orange cat licked its paws. The walls were shelved with many books in fruit-crate containers. There were several snapshots on the walls, and an ingenious device of extension cords and three-way plugs so that Old Billy could turn on and off the lights from any chair or corner. On the bed lay the master of the room, his frail body invisible beneath a heap of quilts, his plumy

goatee jutting upwards in the direction of the water-stained ceiling. "It's Paddy, isn't it?" he said. "Did you bring my check, Paddy?"

Coffey removed a fold-up chair from the stack beside the card table. The cat made a hissing noise of dislike. The chair had not been opened for many a year; dust lay thick in its crevices; its hinged joints were stiff. He put it at the head of the bed and sat down. He handed over the envelope.

Frail old fingers fumbled with the flap. "Full check/' Old Billy said. "Didn't dock me sick pay, I see. Good. And how are you, lad? What's new?"

Coffey did not answer. He looked at the old man's arm, protruding from a worn pajama sleeve. On the skeletal wrist was a faded tattoo. A harp, a shamrock and a faint script: ERIN Go BRAGH. Above this tattoo was another, a heart pierced by an arrow, and entwined with a motto: BILL LOVES MIN.

"Are you Irish, Billy?" Coffey said. "That harp?"

"Course I'm Irish," Old Billy said. "William O'Brien Davis. Fine Irish name."

"But you were born over here?"

"No, sir. I'm an immigrant, same as you. Donegal man, born and bred. Came out here when I was twenty years old, looking for the streets that were paved with gold." Billy's mouth opened in a chuckle, showing his hard old gums. "Yes," he said. "I've been all over, Atlantic to Pacific and back again. Been north of the Circle too, and down south as far as the Gulf of Mexico. Yes, I been all over the States; seen them all, all forty-eight. Never found any gold streets, though. No sir."

But Coffey did not join in the old man's laugh. He stared at that skeletal forearm. BILL LOVES MIN. Where and in what long ago had Bill loved Min? Where was Min

now? How many years had Old Bill lain here in this room, watched over only by the inhuman, unblinking eyes of his orange cat?

"Yes, all I got to show now is forty dollars a month on the Old Age pension," Bill said. "A man can't live on that nowadays. Even me, and I don't hardly eat but a bowl of Campbell's Soup once a day. And beer. Beer's what keeps me going. That's why this proofreading job was such a blessing. Lots of beer."

"But you still have the proofreading job," Coffey said. "We've been expecting you back tonight."

"Not tonight," Old Billy said. He touched his chest. "Got something in here, the doctor says. I've got to rest."

"But you'll be back," Coffey said. "In a day or two—"

"It was the Tribune doctor who saw me," Old Bill said. "They have my number. Hear they hired a new man already."

"The new man's not a replacement for you," Coffey said. "He's my replacement. They're making me a reporter next week. Now, listen, Bill. Tonight, I'm going to see MacGregor, I'll tell him you'll be back in a day or two. You'll be up and about in no time."

The old man's eyes had closed. He appeared to be sleeping.

"Bill, listen?" Coffey said. "Bill, are you asleep?"

"Plenty of time to sleep," the old voice said. "Not much else to do but sleep when you're living on the Old Age. Be all right, though. I've got all my things here. Bowl of soup, that's good enough. And a beer. The odd beer . . ."

His toothless mouth remained open on that sentence. His hand, holding the pay check, slid over the quilt and bumped against Coffey's knee. The envelope fell on the floor. Carefully, Coffey picked it up and put it on the card table. Carefully, he leaned over the old face. Yes, Bill was asleep.

"I'll be back, Bill," Coffey said in a whisper. He lifted up the skeletal arm, covered it with the quilt. Yes, J. F. Coffey, Journalist, would come back; oh yes, Billy, I promise you, I'll come back every week, I won't forget you. I'll bring beer. Every time, a case of beer.

But would he? Another promise. Would he Judas Old Billy along with the rest of them? For Old Billy might not come back to work. Old Billy might never be back. Coffey tiptoed to the door, opened it with infinite precaution, and went out into the dark corridor.

Irish. An immigrant, same as you. A young wanderer, once, traveling through this land of ice and snow, looking for the bluebird. ERIN Go BRAGH. But was it really ERIN FOREVER? What trace of Erin was left on William O'Brien Davis save that harp and shamrock, that motto, faded as the old reminder that BILL LOVES MIN? Would Ginger Coffey also end his days in some room, old and used, his voice nasal and reedy, all accent gone? "Yes, I'm Irish. James Francis Coffey. Fine Irish name."

No, no, that wasn't going to happen to him. Not to J. F. Coffey, Journalist. Never mind Old Billy, he was going to get that reporting job. Tonight he was. It was all arranged. He wasn't going to wait for MacGregor to speak to him, he must speak to MacGregor himself, remind him — yes, MacGregor was a busy man, it might have slipped his mind. And a promise is a promise. So, all right then. See MacGregor.

Because it was pay night, Fox and the others had spent their usual two hours in the tavern before coming to work. This meant that only Coffey and the New Man were not under the weather. So Coffey read the major number of galleys before the first edition. He and the New Man were working at the same desk, sober men and true. Ah,

New Man! Good man yourself. You front-line troop relief!

At ten, when supper bell sounded, MacGregor had not put in an appearance. Coffey could wait no longer. He went to the office. But MacGregor was in conference with the telegraph editor, which meant that Coffey had to wait in the corridor until ten past ten. At last, when the telegraph editor went out, in went Coffey.

"What do you want?" MacGregor said.

"It's the two weeks, sir. It's up, as of tonight."

"What two weeks?"

You see! It had slipped MacGregor's mind; so it was a lucky thing Coffey had decided to take the bull by the horns, wasn't it? Glad that he had come, he spoke up. "You remember, sir, about making me a reporter? You promised two weeks ago."

"Aye," MacGregor said. "Well, we're still short-staffed in the proofroom, as you know. Man sick."

"Yes, sir. But I went to see Old Billy Davis today and he's feeling much better. He'll be back to work in a day or two at the latest. Now I wondered, in view of that, perhaps you'd make the change now and start me off as a reporter next week?"

"No."

"But I've been expecting it," Coffey said, feeling his face grow hot. "I've been counting on it, sir. I hardly think

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it s tair.

"Fair? What? What the hell are you talking about? Now go on — take your arse out of here before I kick it out."

"No!" Coffey said, in a sudden shocked rage. "You made me a promise. I've been working like a bloody slave for the past three weeks in hopes of this. I gave up another job because of it. I promised my wife and daughter. You don't know how much this means to me, sir. It's very important."

"Clarence?" MacGregor shouted. The fat man rushed in, notebook at the ready. "Now, Coffey," MacGregor said. "Tell it to us again."

"You promised me," Coffey said, feeling his tongue thick and confused. "You promised that you'd promote me as soon as you had a replacement in the proofroom. Well, that new proofreader's been here three days now. He's a good man too."

"What new reader?"

"Rhodes, sir," Clarence said. "Replacement for old Davis."

"But Billy's coming back," Coffey began. "He needs the job. You're not going to throw him —"

"Doctor said bronchial trouble, sir," Clarence told his chief.

"Aye." MacGregor nodded his head. "Bronchial trouble. He won't be back."

"But you promised me." Coffey turned to Clarence. "You were here. You heard him."

"I don't recall any promise," Clarence said.

"Aye," MacGregor said. "Go on back to your desk, Coffey."

"No, it's not fair! Dammit, is that the way you keep your word?" Coffey shouted.

"Perhaps I'd better phone the lobby, sir," Clarence said. "And ask them to send Ritchie up."

Ritchie? Ritchie was the doorman. A blackness sealed Coffey's eyes. For a moment he stood, dizzy, their voices fading in his ears. Doorman? To throw him out?

". . . had quite enough of this," MacGregor's voice said. "Now go on back to your wurrk or you'll not be paid."

"That's it, fella," Clarence said. A hand took Coffey's arm. "Come on, now."

"No," Coffey said. "Dammit, no!"

"Listen to me, you." The blackness cleared from in front of Coffey's eyes and he saw MacGregor leaning across the desk. A large blue vein pumped in MacGregor's pale, bony skull. "If you think I have any notion of making you a reporter after the way you carried on tonight, you're sadly mistaken. Now, get back to that proof desk and thank your stars I don't kick your arse right out of this building. Is that clear?"

Clear? He shook himself free of Clarence's arm. He turned back into the corridor. The composing room bell shrilled, calling the readers back to work. Dazed, he walked towards the sound of the bell.

The new proofreader, Mr. Rhodes, was surprised at the difference in the Irishman's behavior when the Irishman came back from his supper break. Until now he had thought of the Irishman as the hardest-working, most respectable man on the shift, the only one you would not be ashamed to introduce to your friends. Obliging, sober, well-spoken, not cursing and half drunk like the rest of these bums.

Mr. Rhodes was on pension from the railroad and had only taken this job to help his wife make payments on a little place they were buying up North. He had been unpleasantly surprised by the class of man he found himself working with, and, in fact, would have resigned the second night had it not been for the Irishman's helping hand and courtesy. But now, when the big fellow came back and sat down at the desk beside Rhodes, he began to show signs that he might be every bit as unstable as the others. For one thing, he hardly did a tap of work for the rest of the shift. He sat there, his face like a wooden idol, muttering filthy language under his breath. Had he too been drinking, Rhodes wondered? Indeed, it would be no surprise, for in all Rhodes's years in the railroad's ac-

counting department, he had never met such a low class of man as Fox or Harry or that young lad with the eczema. So at the end of the night's work, when he heard the big fellow say that he would go out for drinks with the rest of them — well, thought Rhodes, I was mistaken, he's a bum like the others. No money was worth it, to be forced to spend your retirement years in the company of men like these. No. Next Friday, Rhodes decided, 111 give notice.

"Come on, Paddy," Harry said. "We have a jug at Rose's place."

They stood on the steps of the Tribune building. Down the street, brightlit in the night silence, a sign winked on and off. FIVE-MINUTE LUNCH. "Rose?" Coffey said.

"Rose of the rosy teats," Fox shouted. "Come on, lads."

The Five-Minute Lunch was open all night. There, under the rumble of transcontinental trains leaving on track, arriving on track, gathered a nightly cross-section of city owls. Bus drivers on the late trick, their change machines extracted and placed carefully beside their coffee and eggs; colored sleeping car porters from the railroad terminus across the street, magpie collections of abandoned newspapers and magazines stuffed in the handles of their overnight bags; consumptive-looking French-Canadian waiters stealing a break from the boredom of fifth-rate nightclubs; middle-aged whores, muffled in babushkas, snow boots and sensible wool scarves, condemned by the winter to come in often out of the cold; night postal clerks; ticket collectors; cleaning men. And behind the long mica-and-chrome serving-counter, under framed, hand-lettered cards — WESTERN SANDWICH, KNACKWURST & BEANS, SPAGHETTI & MEATBALLS — the queen of this night hive moved, never off her paining feet, never hurried, never done. Rose Alma Briggs.