And the boys did so love this old man.
Looney was playing a game with them that was almost a ritual by now. “Now which is which?” he said, gazing down at the boys, a pointing finger traveling from Michael to Peter and from Peter to Michael.
Peter began, “I’m—”
“Don’t help me!” A fingertip touched one nose. “Michael... ” And then another nose. “... and Peter.”
The boys groaned and laughed at this purposeful misidentification.
An arm around either boy, Mr. Looney looked across the room where Papa and Mama stood side by side now, the casket just behind them.
“Annie,” he said quietly, with a nod, “Mike... Thank you for coming. You brighten a dark day.”
Papa twitched a small smile, shrugged a little.
Mr. Looney’s eyes widened and his head went back. “Is that heaven I smell?”
Michael didn’t smell heaven, not in this room, but Mr. Looney apparently referred to his mother’s fabled casserole dish.
She smiled awkwardly by way of response, and then, turning to Papa, said, “I should take this out to the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me... ?”
Mr. Looney gestured with an open hand. “Only if you’ll promise me a dance, later.”
She smiled again, just as awkwardly, and that might have been a nod; then she eased away from Papa, through a side door into the kitchen.
Mr. Looney looked down in mock confusion at the boys. “Who is that woman?”
Michael and Peter giggled at this jest; their father didn’t — his eyes were going past them, to the mourners in the sitting room.
Mr. Looney knelt. To Michael he whispered, “Did you bring the necessary equipment?”
Michael nodded, but eager Peter said, “Yes!”
Mr. Looney stood, still with his arms around his godsons, and said to Papa, “I have urgent business with these gentlemen. Please excuse us.”
O’Sullivan watched as Looney led the boys away, in a conspiratorial huddle, and knew exactly what they were up to, and could only smile about it. A little.
Moving into the sitting room, various mourners and Looney minions nodding to him respectfully, O’Sullivan made his way to a table piled with food and drink — appetizers, sandwiches, punch, hard liquor. He helped himself to a glass of whiskey: he needed it.
When he raised the glass for a sip, O’Sullivan noticed brawny Fin McGovern, in his best suit, standing nearby — a bottle of bourbon in one hand, like a Molotov cocktail he was about to throw.
McGovern — in his forties, the oldest of the brothers who had just lost their youngest, Daniel, the man in the casket — seemed to be studying O’Sullivan. His eyes might have glared had they not been slightly bleary.
“Fin,” O’Sullivan said with a nod, and a toast-like gesture of the whiskey glass. “My condolences. Danny was a good boy.”
McGovern’s unblinking gaze held on O’Sullivan for several long moments; then the dead man’s brother said, “I’m sure that would warm the cockles of his heart.”
And with a disgusted grunt that was almost a laugh, McGovern strode away.
O’Sullivan watched him go, hoping he’d just experienced the worst of it, convinced that was just the beginning.
In the basement of the mansion, O’Sullivan’s youngest son had removed a shoe, tilting it to allow a pair of dice to roll from the toe into the heel. The boy plucked out the dice and passed them to Mr. Looney, who said solemnly to his godsons, “Gentlemen — let’s play craps.”
Michael watched with delight as the old man shook the dice in his cupped hands, then shook them some more; the old man kissed his clasped hands, tossed the dice in the air, caught them deftly, before lifting his left leg and firing them at the far cement wall, from which the dice bounced and rolled to a stop to the tune of the boys’ laughter.
Mr. Looney had a grace to him, and a sense of fun, that gave Michael a warm glow.
His mother upstairs, however, was feeling a chill. When she had entered the spacious, up-to-date kitchen, filled with wives busy preparing the evening’s buffet, the room was alive with feminine chitter-chatter. But upon her greeting (“Hello, Rose... how are you, Helen?”), all bantering had come to a halt.
Feeling like a leper but not knowing why, Annie looked for a place to set down her covered dish. The chattering did not resume — the silence quickly became oppressive.
She found a place for her casserole on one of the tables, several of which were already laid out with scores of dishes, and went to a counter, helping herself to a cup of coffee. Gradually conversations resumed, none involving Annie, as the women drank coffee and/or liquor, smoking, relaxing, sampling one another’s cooking.
Annie found a chair at a table, and though the others were all around her, she sat alone, with her cup of coffee.
Finally heavy-set Mrs. Begley (her husband worked in Looney’s soda-pop bottling plant) settled herself down in a chair next to Annie. Dirty looks flew their way, but Mrs. Begley — who’d always been friendly to Annie — seemed to pay no heed.
“You look like you could use a little company,” Mrs. Begley said, some Irish musicality in her voice.
“It’s nice to see a friendly face,” Annie said softly.
“What do you mean, dear?”
She leaned forward, whispered. “When I walked in here, everybody looked daggers at me.”
Mrs. Begley smiled and shrugged. “Oh, well, this has been such a shock, dear. Times like this, everyone’s under a terrible strain. Nerves ajangle.”
“I suppose.”
“You probably came in, all somber and respectful, them babbling like magpies — you just embarrassed them.”
“Oh. I see. I’m sure you’re right... I feel foolish, now... ”
The heavy-set woman raised a gesturing finger; the volume of her brogue-inflected voice heightened a notch. “And I want you to know, Annie O’Sullivan, I myself have said to more than one person, I think it’s a brave and honorable thing, you coming to pay your respects like this.”
Annie frowned. “What do you mean?”
Another shrug. “Well, dear, frankly — Danny McGovern’s wake? Even I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show your face.”
And Mrs. Begley’s smile froze into something that wasn’t a smile at all; then the woman rose and left Annie alone again.
Confused yet embarrassed, Annie got up and left the kitchen, aware suddenly that this wake had implications that went beyond what little her husband had told her.
In the basement, the boys were doing much better than their mother. Mr. Looney sat on the floor, his back to the wall, apparently devastated, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He’d been wiped out by the boys of an astonishing sum: one dollar.
“The chief of police is upstairs, you know,” Mr. Looney said. “There are laws against highway robbery!”
“We won fair and square,” Peter said, hands on his hips.
“I know hustlers when I see ’em,” the old man growled.
“No hustle, old-timer!” Michael said gleefully.
“Pay up!” Peter said.
Mr. Looney held out his hands and the boys each took one, to help him up, but their godfather was the one hustling: he pulled them down to him, drawing them close, arms around them as he kissed their foreheads. The boys hugged the old man back.
“Michael,” Mr. Looney said. “Fetch your dollar — jacket pocket in my study — before I come to my senses and call the cops.”
Michael got up, headed toward the stairs, then turned and said, “When I’m gone, don’t go gypping my kid brother!”
The old man’s eyes flared with mock indignation. “That’s slander!”
“You’ll have me to answer to, you sidewinder!” Michael enjoyed using the word he’d heard the Lone Ranger use on the radio.