“Emmett was serious about every day of his life.”
“That’s the truth. I’m serious too. If the Daughertys ever need anything, I’m there.”
Edward nodded and thought: I’ll pass the word to Katrina.
When he went back to Giles’s table, the women were gone, Maginn and Giles were sitting with Jimmy Cadden, another Eintrachter, a prankster who battened on the comic discomfiture of his friends, especially Maginn.
“Where’s Aunt Sally and Felicity?” Edward asked.
“Maginn chased them away,” Cadden said.
“Not true,” said Maginn. “I paid them such compliments they couldn’t sit still. Sally is crazy about me.”
“She thinks Maginn is demented,” Cadden said.
“We’ll see what she thinks,” Maginn said.
“Let’s say Sally was amused,” said Giles.
“I saw you talking to the hero of your play,” Maginn said to Edward.
“If you mean Francis Phelan, get it right,” Edward said. “He inspired part of the hero’s character, but only part.”
“The radical part,” Maginn said.
“Some of that, yes,” Edward said.
“How’s that play doing?” Giles asked.
“Played to sold-out houses in Albany for a month and a half last year,” Edward said. “Did well in Boston and Philadelphia, and it’s still running in New York.”
“I’m writing about it for the Century,” Maginn said, “an article on using fiction and theater for political ends, writers telling us how the world ought to be. I seriously warn you against running with those pimps of transformation, Edward. You’re a talented man, and The Car Barns is a talented play, but radical work like that strikes me as a justification for labor violence. I’m fond of politics, but let’s not call it art.”
“Some art is political, whether you like it or not.”
“And some plays are so political they cease to be art.”
“I write what I believe. My soul is open for inspection.”
“Read my inspection report on your soul in the Century.”
“What about your novel? When do we get a look at it?”
“Let’s say my novel is in abeyance,” Maginn said.
“You’ve quit it,” said Edward.
“Maybe,” said Maginn.
Excellent move, Edward thought. You never wrote a fictional paragraph I believed. More intelligent than talented, that’s your condition, Maginn.
“We all do some things better than others,” Edward said.
“I envy you your naïveté, Edward,” Maginn said. “You still think that everything you do matters. I think it’s all a chase after the great cipher.”
“Time to chase the beer,” Cadden said.
“I’ll go,” Maginn said, and he collected the drinkers’ prepaid beer tickets. When he moved toward the bar, Giles quickly unfurled his plan for the Fireman’s Wife Joke. He’d heard about it in New York, where it had had great success, but now said he needed Cadden and Edward to make it work.
“Leave me out,” Edward said. “I’m too old for this.”
“Of course you are. That’s what makes you credible.”
Edward was only five years older than Giles, but five seemed like twenty to Edward. Giles, dedicated physician, good and amiable friend, was the perennial adolescent, a fireman himself since the Delavan, reveling in the excitement of a flaming building, riding with firefighters as their doctor, treating injured firemen and burn victims.
“What do you expect me to do?” Edward asked him.
“Be the voice of authority.”
“Who else are you bringing in on it?”
“Somebody whose voice Maginn won’t recognize. Clubber Dooley, maybe. Maginn doesn’t know Clubber very well.”
“Can you trust Clubber not to give it away?” Cadden asked. “Isn’t his brain a little wrinkled?”
“Clubber’ll do me a favor,” Giles said. “I eased the pain in his bad foot last year.”
“Maginn is smart,” Edward said. “He’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe not,” Cadden said. “When he’s hot for a woman his brain moves below his belt.”
Very accurate on Maginn, Edward thought. The man, unfortunately, was a freak. He could be the greatest of friends, great talker, witty and oddly wise. Edward had had misgivings asking him to be best man at the wedding, but Maginn behaved impeccably, a notable contributor to the elevated spirits of that marvelous day. And he was embarrassingly grateful for being asked: an imprimatur on the friendship. But you are also a pain in the ass, Maginn. Your mouth is out of control and so is your critical faculty. You need come-uppance. Edward decided to help with the joke.
Maginn returned with the news that a roll of the prepaid tickets used for buying beer had been stolen, and bartenders were accepting only cash. Maginn, short of cash, suggested they all buy their own drinks. So he, Cadden, and Edward moved toward the bar at the stern of the barge.
Cully Watson and the five other toughs from the gangway incident, all in their twenties, all in shirtsleeves and caps, hovered near the bar. Only Watson was bareheaded. He had an empty glass in one hand and tickets in the other.
“You’re saying my money’s no good,” Watson said.
“Tickets are no good,” the bartender said. “Our tickets were stolen. You want a beer, you pay cash.”
“I paid cash for these tickets when I got on this shitbucket.”
“Maybe you did, but now it’s cash only.”
“He says our tickets are no good,” Watson said to his friends.
“Maybe he’s the one that’s no good,” said one.
“He says he only takes cash,” Watson said.
Edward saw the toughs were already in a fight stance, coiled with energy. Watson’s talk was a gambit. Cadden stepped up to the bar.
“I got cash money and I’d like three lagers,” Cadden said. He turned to Watson. “You guys don’t mind, do you?”
The barman filled three mugs. Watson stared at Cadden.
“This is trouble,” Maginn said. “Let it go, Cadden. We’ll go to the bar on the upper deck.”
“I got ’em already,” Cadden said, reaching for the beers.
“You wait your turn,” Watson said, and he put his tickets on the bar. “I’ll take them beers.”
“Not with tickets you won’t,” the bartender said, and he pushed the beers closer to Cadden. Watson reached for the mugs but Cadden blocked him.
“You ain’t very polite,” Watson said. He shoved Cadden with one hand and knocked him off-balance, then swept the mugs off the bar.
“Bad news, Cadden, I told you,” Maginn said. “Don’t push it.”
“Cheap hooligan,” Cadden said.
As Cadden faced down Watson, one tough picked up a fallen beer mug and stood staring at him. Suddenly the tough swung the mug and hit Cadden on the side of the head. He staggered and fell across the bar. Willie Glass and Joe Anthony arrived, swinging nightsticks. Glass rapped the tough who had floored Cadden and he buckled. Maginn and Edward pulled Cadden away from the bar and sat him on a bench. Edward felt his head. No blood. Cadden shook his head, trying to focus.
“Break this up,” Willie Glass was saying, shoving the toughs away from the bar. He and Joe Anthony had their backs to each other as they swung their clubs.
“I’ll get that son of a bitch,” Cadden said.
“Cadden,” Maginn whispered, “that’s Cully Watson. He’s a killer.”
“Where’s Giles? Get Giles to come and look at Cadden’s head,” Edward said to Maginn.
Two toughs leaped on Glass, took away his stick, and brought him down. Two other toughs were showing knives, and one said, “The cop says break it up, so we’ll break it up,” and he kicked Glass in the mouth, then bashed his face with a beer mug. Anthony clubbed the kicker, but another tough hit Anthony with a mug and blood spurted from his left eye.