name, sir, is not Ivan. It is Stepan Mikhailovitch Tovsenko. My family is from near Kharkov, in the Ukraine, not Russia.”
The mention of the Ukraine immediately made Johnny think of a Ukie girl named Luba, from a high school dance at Burgard. Long, dark hair, body like Venus, and wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.
“So, anyhoo, Ukie, how’d you like to learn how to do this repair work for me?” Johnny said. He plugged in the pinball machine and the players started getting off their bar stools and pulling out their nickels.
CHAPTER 27
NORTH PARK, 1950
Tim was lying in bed and had turned off the Lone Ranger radio that sounded so loud in the dark, no matter how low he turned it. He had owned the little red box since childhood and kept the wire antenna strung up to the curtain rod, so he could pick up stations from Rochester and sometimes even Syracuse.
Not sleepy, he watched the shadows of the tree branches swaying on the ceiling in the breeze. When the wind blew harder, the leaves would shake and their images danced to and fro. The windows were open, and he could hear the leaves rustle. The cicadas buzzed like a high-pitched saw in the summer heat, and the crickets chirped constantly until threatened by the approach of a bird or a cat. Sometimes a bug would bang up against the screens.
Pat was snoring, a sure sign he’d been drinking. Dad was across the hall in his and Mom’s room and always closed the thick wooden door when he went to bed. Pat stopped snoring after awhile and started mumbling. Nightmares again. Tim didn’t like that. Whenever he’d drink a lot, Pat snored, then tossed and turned, then started talking in his sleep. After just a few moments, he’d jump up with a cry of surprise, sit there for a minute or two, then, go to the bathroom, piss, and wash his face. Sometimes he’d do that two or three times a night.
Tim remembered Pat belting Bobby May and chasing the other bad kids away on the playground at 81 when they’d kicked Timmy and his friends away from the wall, where they were playing strikeout. Pat had been in the Army and fought at the Battle of the Bulge against the Nazis. It disturbed Tim to know Pat could be frightened, and he pulled the covers up and ducked his head under the pillow.
Pat was jolted awake by the dream and found himself sweaty, thirsty, and out of breath. Looking at the luminous, round dial of the ticking Westclox alarm clock, he saw he’d been in bed only twenty minutes. How did it happen so fast? he wondered. What was the dream this time? Father Kessler again, pacing the wooden floors with his hands clasped behind his back, calling me “squire,” a term he used for guys he thought were spoiled and rich:
“So, Squire Brogan, you were skylarking on a simple assignment the Sergeant gave you?” He spun suddenly on his heel and was now staring at Pat, who wanted to crawl under the desk. “‘Skylarking’ is the proper term in the military, is it not, Brogan?” he said, raising his voice to assure attention.
“Yes, Father.”
“You were given some easy responsibilities? Keeping an eye on some young soldiers, taking prisoners back to the rear?”
How did he know all this, how did they always know?
“You even saw Captain, later Colonel, Urban go by, returning to the front lines, even though he had been badly wounded?”
The priest then addressed the entire class. “Lieutenant Colonel Matthew Urbanowicz should be an example to us all. A native of this city, he won numerous medals during the war, amongst them, the Medal of Honor. Never shirking his responsibilities, never failing in them,” Father Kessler said, then looking right at Pat, he added, “He was wounded several times and kept returning to battle to lead his men for God and country. This is the kind of behavior we had hoped we taught you here at Canisius.”
Then, Pat heard his mother crying in the back of the classroom. He looked around, and Mom and Dad were there, and Dad was dressed like a Doughboy from World War I, his campaign hat on his knee, shaking his head.
What the hell is this? It can’t be real, he thought, and that was what woke him up. It always did.
CHAPTER 28
BUFFALO, 1951
Pat had finished the last beer in the refrigerator, and was worrying that his father would notice he’d knocked off three bottles since dinner, when the phone rang. Picking it up, he looked at his watch. 7:15.
“Brogan! Lieutenant Constantino here. Get yourself dressed for work. We’re gonna pay someone a visit downtown. I’ll swing by your house in ten minutes.”
“Now?” Pat responded, looking again at his watch, as if it would change.
“Nine minutes from now. We work any time on this detail, just like the inspector said. You’re not sauced or something, are you?”
“No, not at all,” he answered quickly, thinking where he’d hung his holster, and if he had a clean shirt.
“Good, I’ll be there in eight.” Click.
Brogan ran up the stairs, rushing to beat whoever might want to use the bathroom, and brushed his teeth thoroughly. Flying into his room, he jumped out of his gabardine pants and sports shirt and rushed to put on his brown suit and a white shirt, strap on his shoulder holster, and yank a black tie off the rack. He had just finished putting a Windsor in the skinny necktie and was reaching for the coat when the doorbell rang. He was hurrying down the stairs as his father answered it, Buffalo Evening News (“the Republicans’ paper,” as he put it, grunting derisively) in hand.
“Yes?” Joe said, checking out Constantino, nattily dressed in a chocolate-colored, wide-brim fedora, with a small yellow feather in the black hatband, and a tan overcoat, tied in front.
“Pat Brogan here?”
“. . . and you would be?” Joe replied, tilting his chin up and looking down through wireless spectacles at the shorter man.
“Detective Lieutenant Louis Constantino, Gambling Squad,” he answered, putting out his hand. “I’m Bro . . . Pat’s new boss.”
“Joe Brogan,” the old man replied, giving the detective a firm shake. “Come in, Lieutenant. Are you here on business?”
Chuckling, Constantino eased up. “No, I don’t figure your house for slots, Mr. Brogan. We can work any hours. We go when my boss says jump.”
“That would be Inspector Wachter, I believe, or is Chief Mahaney running this?”
“Ah, yeah, Inspector Wachter’s the head honcho. Mike Mahaney’s moved over to Narcotics.”
“A fine man, Martin Wachter, and his father before him. Know them both from the Rowing Club. He’ll teach you lads well.”
At this, Pat reached the bottom of the stairs, hair slicked down, breath camouflaged, and necktie tight.
“Ready?” Constantino asked, glad to see Pat sharp.
“Ready for action. Dad, you met . . . Lou here? We’ve got some work tonight.”
“I have,” his father replied. “Well, go and do your duty, lads,” he said, as the two policemen went out the door.
Returning to his
