I myself, though not Irish, heavens no, have spent some few unlucky nights outside, to which I credit my most admirable virtue: acceptance of all men, no matter their circumstances. Besides, Jamey, who swore he was not a Murphy, had money. And I did not. Which was why I troubled to make his acquaintance and drag him over to Wall Street.
“Is this story worth a fiver?” James asked me with what I had to admit was an admirable sneer for an eight-year-old. He’d obviously had dough chiseled out of him before. His palm was already drooping toward the safety of his jeans pocket.
I faked a scowl at him: “A cynic at your age? Tsk, tsk!”
“I don’t even know you!” He scowled back at me. Were I not so kindly natured, I’d say the boy actually snarled. I patted his cute round head, then wiped my hand on my trousers. Pests abound in our beloved New York, especially in spring.
I snagged his arm and peeled open the sweaty fingers, then pushed the hand back at Emil again. “It’s worth a fiver just to get him started,” I muttered to James. “Trust me.” I stroked my straggly goat’s beard and turned my moral back on the implications of a stranger telling a very small boy to “trust me.” I’d been a small boy once, too. A wry echo of my mother’s voice said in my head, “But never so sharp as this one.” Mothers. What do they know? Then I flinched, as if her ghost was hovering near with a rolling pin in hand.
We had to get old Emil to open up. Spare dough was rare these days, except among fat guys wearing diamond stickpins, who were more likely to swipe yours than share theirs. A gaggle of skinflints, to a man.
“Look here, Emil. This boy wants to hear the barmaid and the roller skate story. Don’t you, James?” The boy nodded somewhat doubtfully but then repeated, “… Roller skates?”
(Hooked!…) I touched my hankie to my eye to catch a falling tear over the gullibility of precious little tykes. Aw. Then I stuffed the rag out of sight. I’ve never understood the unfailing draw of roller skates. Baffling.
“You won’t regret this!” Pretending Emil had agreed, I hurried around to perch on the step next to the fellow. He liked to sit on the bottom steps of the Federal Building, dozing his old age away at the feet of the Father of Our Country. Well, not the father of mine, no indeed, but why quibble? George Washington, forever bronzed for the enjoyment of pigeons. In Emil’s position, he could lean his arthritic back against the sun-heated pedestal and keep a fond and comfortable eye on the Stock Exchange across the way.
“Emil used to work there.” I pointed at the exchange. “Before his, um, early retirement.”
James peered askance at the old man, whose mounds of threadbare tweed-draped corpulence seemed permanently bonded to the pediment holding up George. “Why’d you retire early, Emil?” His young voice seemed a bit rougher than it should for a tyke of his age. Interesting. Did he possibly smoke? No. I refused to believe it.
After a silence, Emil answered. “To experience the glory of a thirty-year vacation, dear James. Near a river. The air was healthier there.”
James and I glanced at each other at the same moment. I knew better, and James did not believe him.
As my mouth opened to beg James to let it go, he blurted, “Sing Sing?”
Emil nodded.
“How much did you steal?”
Emil shrugged. “I can’t remember. I’m old now.”
“Poor fellow.” I turned aside from Emil and mouthed to James: “Three hundred g’s.”
James’s eyes narrowed. He mouthed back at me, “For that, he got thirty years?”
I made a face. “Took it from the wrong fellow.”
James remained standing, but at eight, he was level with us, like a trio huddled round a burning oil drum in sleety weather. “So cozy!” I exclaimed. “All friends together, right, James? May I call you Jamey?” Emil swayed away from me as if the question was indelicate. Jamey gave me the fish-eye but nodded, willing to get along, probably due to the cash.
I leaned toward Jamey. “To be clear,” I whispered harshly, “if he remembers where he stashed his goods, I’ll be happy to reimburse your fiver. The rest is mine. Got that?”
His shoved his head toward me on his twiggy neck. “We’ll see,” he snapped.
I could’ve bitten him. But fortune smiled on Jamey, and Emil spoke up.
“Everybody vants to know about ze roller skater, poor lass,” mused Emil in his high, slightly hoarse voice. He smacked his dry lips and eyed me. He must’ve calculated the contents of my wallet by the holes in my coat, because he instantly sighed and looked away. “Ein bisschen bier vould be pleasant.”
I couldn’t deny it. My beard was dripping like a wet rag. So unattractive. “April weather,” I muttered.
Emil settled his haunches more comfortably on the step and then looped his hands around his knees. He let his cane drop onto the broad sidewalk in front of us. Jamey leaped to retrieve it, but I shook my head at him. “It’s Emil’s game,” I muttered behind my hand.
Jamey looked at me, puzzled for only a second. He moved to make more room to allow Emil’s game to proceed, if it should happen. Shrewd child.
I’d seen Emil’s game in action and figured it was yet another reason why he spent his days on these steps, leaning on President Washington. Bankers and brokers were not just of the toffee-nosed “how dare you!” breed, but also usually flush. If they perchance tripped or, even better, fell over Emil’s cane, to a man they would bash and kick the poor old guy in revenge for injuring their dignity-that most fragile of body parts. That is, until Bull stopped the show and made the victim empty his pockets to soothe Emil’s pain. Then Bull would shove the patsy to move along, and he and Emil would split the haul. Speaking of…
A vast shadow cast itself over us.
“Hey, Bull,” said Jamey.
“Ah, heh, you know each other, what a surprise!” I used my best party voice.
Jamey shot me a patronizing look. “Everybody knows Bull.”
He meant this Wall Street Bull, who I’m fairly certain is human. The other one weighs seven thousand pounds and doesn’t move, although he seems ready to: gouging and snorting, his bronze horns lowered threateningly. Tourists had fallen hard for the Wall Street “Charging” Bull. His creator, the artist Arturo Di Modica, had parked him right in front of the exchange one night last Christmas, like a present under the big tree. City Hall had demanded the “gift’s” removal. But tourists speak loudly with dollars. I heard the city refused to buy the Bull from Di Modica but, to keep the tourists happy, will soon shift him-the bull, not its creator-to Broadway in front of the small Bowling Green Park, but facing uptown. Both he and the copper we called Bull… well, certain resemblances, that’s all I’ll say in mixed company.
Emil shivered as his sun disappeared, then he glanced up to view the Bull blocking all light. Emil’s face glowed with delight! “Bull, my boy! Sit down!” (As if the Bull could fold his vast bulk and perch on a narrow step. Sometimes Emil doesn’t think things through.) “I’m just about to tell these two gentlemen about the roller skates!”
Bull nodded, as if impressed. Even his thin lips curved at the ends as if trying to remember smiling from his younger days. “Yeah? That’s a good story. You’ll like it, Jamey. Mind if I hang close ’n hear it, too?”
The Bull was big, as his name implied, and he also pursued the occupation implied-he was Wall Street’s cop. The NYPD kept the other Wall Street posts in rotation, but for some reason, Bull was permanent here. Maybe because he was due to retire soon? Just a guess. His name also fit perfectly, because if anything happened that he didn’t like, he’d beat the living bejeesus out of you. Never laid a fist on me, I assure you. But like some, the Bull couldn’t get enough of Emil’s stories. I figure that’s why he’s never more than twenty feet away from the old man. Touching, isn’t it?