Dan Flanagan was on his way to work. It was his second week on the job and he was starting to get into the routine of it. He had gone to see Big Red and, as promised, he had been given a job on the docks as a longshoreman and, as promised, he had been getting work in the loft. It was hard physical labor all day long with only a short break for lunch but it was a million times better than the hole or the construction work he had been doing. The loft was relatively bright and you could see and breathe. The hole of a cargo ship was dark and damp and miserable. The guys down there were desperate and miserable too. He was able to walk to the pier from his apartment on Morton Street, just a good stretch of the legs as they would say at home. Most of the time, it was actually quite a pleasant walk although, as the winter set in, it could be damned nippy in New York. No snow today, thank God. Snow was great for kids but damned miserable to trudge along in if you were trying to get to or from work. Today was brisk. Dan had his collar turned up and his cap pulled down but the sun was shining. He rounded the corner and saw a group of men standing in front of the gate to the pier. They were being addressed by a tall curly headed guy standing on a couple of crates. He got close enough to hear. The guy was shouting,
"Just enough, just enough! That’s what YOU get. You come down here, you beg for work and if you are lucky they pick you. You thank God or your lucky star. You go in there and you break your ass loading crates in a dark hole with no light and no air. You break your back and then they pay you. But what do they pay you? For an honest day’s work, do you get an honest day’s pay? No, no, you know what you get! You get just enough. Just enough to put some food on the table. Some food, so that you and your family doesn’t starve to death. You got a jacket and it’s old and worn and lets in the cold but it’s just enough, just enough to keep you from freezing to death in the winter (the speaker himself had on a relatively new looking navy peacoat and a woolen cap). Yeah, you break your back and you get JUST ENOUGH!
"Are you tired? Are you tired of just enough? What do the bosses get from your honest day’s work? Do you think they are getting just enough? Do you think they know what it is to be hungry or cold? You walk to work, when they come around here they drive, you got your jacket with the patches and the holes, they got fancy overcoats and new hats. Their children are worried about what college they are going to go to, your kids are worried about whether their old man got a day’s work today.
“Are you tired of just enough? The only way you are going to get your fair share is to come together with your brothers all across the country, come together in one big union, big enough to make them listen…”
Right at that moment, Dan felt someone grab his arm from behind and lean in close.
“Keep walking, Danny boy, walk with me now. This is very important, if you want to keep working here.”
It was an Irish voice and it seemed friendly and sincere and urgent so Dan started walking through the gate, arm in arm with the stranger.
“I’m going to laugh out loud and you start shaking your head like you can’t believe the absolute shite that fellow on the crates was talking.”
The stranger leaned in again, “For Jesus’ sake man, they’re watching you,” and he let out a loud bellow of laughter and Dan obediently shook his head for all to see.
When they had passed through the gate, the stranger introduced himself.
“Pat Whelan at your service, Dan. Red asked me to keep an eye out for you, try and see that you stay out of trouble.” Pat was medium height, stocky build, thinning fair hair and pale blue eyes. Dan always felt that you could tell a lot about a person from their eyes. In Pat’s eyes, Dan saw intelligence, good humor and deadly resolve.
The kind of man it was probably best to be on the good side of, so he decided to play along as best he could and keep a firm grip on the wallet in his trouser pocket.
“Well, Pat, I’m sure that I’m obliged to you. Was that trouble?” he said, glancing back toward the gate.
“Yes, Dan, that was trouble indeed. Quite a few of the fellows at that gate were sent there to watch for who showed up, the fellows that showed up and stayed to listen will never see a day’s work here again. I’m glad I came along when I did. They will put your couple of minutes down to ignorance but for God’s sake don’t ever stop to listen again.”
Dan and Pat arranged to meet for a pint that Friday night and Pat began Dan’s education on the way things were. The few friends that Dan had made in the pub talked of sports or news from home. His cousin has moved out to Long Island after the visit from the McDougal street lads and had not encouraged Dan to visit. Pat was the first person he met that seemed to understand what was going on and to take a real interest in his surroundings. Pat was from Kilmallock in County Limerick. Pat was a fellow Republican. He had had some unspecified trouble at home, had set off for New York in something of a hurry and had found work for himself on the docks. Big Red, the hiring boss, had some Limerick connections and Pat had been getting steady work on the docks for about a year. The morning they met, just before they parted, Pat had leaned in and told Dan to listen out for fireworks at lunch time. Dan wasn’t sure what he meant, but sure enough, he had just sat down on the edge of the pier to eat his sandwich when he heard gun shots. He looked across and saw two guys in overcoats blazing away at seagulls. They didn’t look like cops and yet they stood there firing away until they emptied their pistols, totally unconcerned like they were at a shooting range or like they owned the place.
Pat took a long sip of his beer and sat back to explain, “You see, Dan, those fellows are from the union. They came around and made some noise and got everyone’s attention. You thought just what they wanted you to think. By God, these fellows come down here and shoot off their pistols just like they own the place. And that, Dan, is because they do. They just want to remind everyone that they run things and that fellows like the chap outside the gate are outsiders, troublemakers.”
“Were the shooters Italians, as well?”
“Probably, but they have other fellows working with them from time to time, although never high up, never bosses.”
“I was always told that the Irish run this city.”
“Well, to a certain extent we still do. We still have Tammany and we took back the Mayor’s office from the so called Reformers, thank God. City Hall gives us the police and fire department and all the city jobs and that keeps us strong, but times are changing and I see the Italians more and more. We’re getting soft and already many of the Irish are moving out to the suburbs and moving up finding the American dream. Don’t get me wrong, we still have our own hard men, there are a few very likely lads in and around Hell’s Kitchen, but the Italians are different. The Irish have a reputation as fighters and brawlers, but the Italians bring things to another level. They will commit murder over relatively small amounts of money or over an insult and they will do it stone cold sober. They will also obey orders without question. Tangle with one of them and you find yourself facing dozens. They are moving in on gambling and unions, they are paying off the policemen who want the money to send their kids to college. They have it figured out, and I see a big future for them in this city. The trick will be to make enough money and get the hell out of here, before they take over altogether. In the meantime, you can buy another round. Teaching a thick Tipperaryman is thirsty work.”
It was the first of many lectures that Dan received on what Pat liked to call “the way things are.”