Transatlantic, The Ballad of Thomas Fox

The Bronx, NYC, 1984

1

Thomas Fox walks into the room expecting trouble. Up to now the luck of the Irish has been good to him.

"Where’s my money, Tommy?" the blonde man asks.

Fox just stands there, unable to say a word. The man repeats himself.

I don’t have it just yet, Fox then says in a whisper.

Why not?

Because I don’t have no money like.

Where you from, Tommy? the man asks.

"Ireland," says Fox.

"I know that, buddy – I mean where really you from?"

Ireland.

The man could say Fox is just another stupid Mick – but he won’t, because he’s almost one himself.

"Don’t push it, Tommy – where you from, which county?"

Mayo.

Mayo, the man, the gangster Sean McGoldrick, says, getting up from his desk. He walks up to Fox. He’s now so close Fox can smell the whiskey and weed on McGoldrick’s breath. You know what my old man said about Mayo men, don’t you, Tommy?

I don’t, no.

He said you're the laziest sons of bitches there are.

Fox has never heard such a thing. Back home in Castlebar he always saw people working hard when there were jobs available.

You know what, Tommy, my folks are from Kerry. Hard workin’, they are, salt-of-the-earth kinda people – you get my drift?

Fox doesn’t know what to say. As far as he knows his mother is honest. His father was, too, when he was alive.

Lost your tongue, numbnuts?

No, it’s just-

"It’s just what?"

McGoldrick is a second-generation Irish drug dealer, loan shark and associate to one of New York City’s most dangerous men, Mickey Featherstone of the infamous Westies crime gang of Hell’s Kitchen. He’s twenty-eight-years-old and already has a few men’s blood on his hands.

Fox left to escape the poverty and unemployment back home. He's now learning the ways of the streets. He wants money. He wants what other people have got. He wants what every American is supposed to have.

It’s just, Fox goes on, I’ll get ya the money – I mean, I promise ya I will... C’mon give us another week, Sean, please.

I gave you another week the last time, and that was three weeks ago.

But I promise ya now like.

Promises, promises, McGoldrick says with a sigh.

But I mean it.

"They all mean it, Tommy."

McGoldrick walks away from Fox and sits back down.

C’mon, we’re both Irishmen, surely that’s enough.

Fox is playing with McGoldrick, playing the patriotic card, trying to get on the gangster’s good side. And from his experience, it has always worked. Fox doesn’t know why – maybe it’s the Irish brogue or his charm. All he does know, though, is that he’s still alive.

Don’t play that shit with me, Tommy, I’m tellin’ you... Nah, you’re gonna have to do somethin’ for me – for the sake of interest, let’s say.

What are ya talkin’ about, Sean? Fox says, scared now.

Fox doesn’t understand. McGoldrick’s a compatriot, and he should be on his side.

Do you understand me, Tommy? Fox can’t say a word. You should count yourself fuckin’ lucky, buddy – if ya were dealin’ with the Wops or Kikes they’d have cut you into little pieces, burnt you and used your fuckin’ ashes for fertilizer, you ungrateful son of a bitch. Fox doesn’t fully understand but the graphic description has made it a little clearer to him. Get outta here, you asshole, McGoldrick then says with a laugh, though there's nothing funny about it, only indignation for the man in front of him. Fox turns to walk out of the office. Oh, and by the way, Tommy, don’t you be goin’ nowhere, runnin’ off, you here? McGoldrick adds.

Fox gives him the nod and walks out.

2

It’s a hot Saturday afternoon in Woodlawn Heights, in the Bronx. Fox has just walked out of McGoldrick’s seedy office at the back of a garage he owns and fancies a cold one. Not far away, on McClean Avenue, is Reynolds Bar, a place where the Irish community hangs out and a second home to Fox.

Fox walks up to the bar and buys a Miller beer, his American favourite – it’s too hot for a Guinness, and in New York City it can’t compare to back home anyway. He has a brief chat with the barman, Brendan Barrington from County Offaly then gets himself a table and sits down, taking a copy of USA Today from the newspaper rack with him. Although he reads the front cover and the sports pages at the back, Fox isn’t really reading it. For him the news from Ireland is more interesting, but the only time he gets an update is when he makes the fortnightly call to his mother in Mayo or when one of the locals or a guy fresh off the boat bring a copy of the Irish Daily Mirror or something a little more highbrow like The Irish Times. After flicking through it, Fox takes out a cigarette and lights it.

Fox has dark hair and dark eyes – he’s one of the so-called ‘black Irish’, as his father liked to tell him, a descendant of a shipwrecked survivor from the Spanish Armada. Fox thinks it’s all made up.

Fox drinks one beer, then another, then another, until he has drunk more than he planned to. The beer is weak in America compared to in Ireland and he makes quick work of them.

––––––––

It’s mid-afternoon now and the place has filled up a bit. Fox has already had one conversation with Mick Casey from Galway about Galway’s defeat at the hands of Kerry – which Fox found hilarious - in the All-Ireland semi-final at Croke Park in the football. He's also given the phone number of a builder to Terence O’Reilly, who’s looking for some work as a labourer.

When he first started living in New York City, three years previously, Fox was residing in Queens, working in a printing press. That job came to an end when he somehow managed to break the press. The next job was working on garbage collection. He left that to go to a meat-packing factory. Every job he’s ever had has been hard but he's a tough Culchie boy who’s used to it. He’s currently working as a handyman at The Starlight Club, a nightclub in the Bronx owned by Sean McGoldrick’s uncle, Padraic McGoldrick. The money he borrowed from Sean McGoldrick was on the behest of his employer to bring his mother, brother and two sisters over for a two-week vacation. It was the first time Fox had seen them in three years.

All right, Tommo, how's it goin’?

It’s James Cusack, a fellow Mayo man who he first met and lived within Queens. They moved from Queens to a small apartment in Woodlawn Heights. Now, however, Fox is living with his girlfriend, Moira.

Not so bad – what ya up to, Jimmy? Fox asks, pulling up a chair for his friend.

This and that.

Ya face looks thirsty there, Jimmy – ya want a drink?

I can’t buy ya one back – I’m skint.

Fox goes to the bar.

When are ya goin' to pay, Tommo? Brendan asks.

Fox has always taken advantage of the tab system in the American bars.

When I’ve got it.

Brendan snaps at him with his eyes.

Ya already owe me seventy-eight sweet ones – it can’t go on, Tommo.

Will ya ever leave it out there, big man, Fox says.

Fox returns to the table with two cold bottles to a smiling and dry-mouthed Cusack.

I was just thinkin’, Cusack begins, happy with a beer in front of him, what would ya say if we head down into Manhattan for a few jars tonight – it is Saturday, after all?

I don’t think so, Fox says. He wants to stay local tonight. And anyway, his girlfriend’s expecting him home early.

"Ya gettin’ more borin’ than me granny’s boot, Tommo – come on."

That’s what Moira keeps tellin’ me.

The two friends drink on until – red-eyed – Fox leaves Cusack alone at the table.

3

On the way home through the humid night, Fox thinks about the trouble he finds himself in. He knows he’s been stupid borrowing money from Sean McGoldrick. The whole Bronx knows who he is and what he’s capable of. But Fox wanted to see his family, and he wanted them to see America, his new home.

He walks the ten minutes from Reynolds Bar on McClean Avenue to his own apartment he shares with his girlfriend of two years, Moira Langdon. Born in New York to an Irish mother, Moira's a patient woman, and Fox is a lucky man to have her. He enters their modest, two-bedroom apartment with a smile on his face as usual. She can tell he’s been drinking. She always knows when he’s been drinking.

All right, he says.

She looks at him from the couch. He can smell something good from the kitchen. He’s hungry – the beer always does that to him.

Where have you been? she asks, though the question is rhetorical – of course, she knows where he’s been.

Out.

To the bar, yeah?

Ah, I haven’t now, don’t be stupid.

Fox walks to the couch and plants a kiss on his girlfriend’s lips. She smiles, just like any woman would. Apart from the smell of beer on his breath, she’s in heaven.

I made macaroni cheese, she says.

Ya a legend, says Fox.

They head to the kitchen to eat.

So where were you? Moira asks, dishing up the supper.

Here and there.

What’s that supposed to mean?

I was busy.

Fox sometimes still wishes he was back in Queen’s living with Cusack: at least there and at that time things were free and easy. Now he feels like a prisoner in his own home.

Yeah, Thomas, you’re always busy, aren’t you?

Moira knows he’s working for Sean McGoldrick’s uncle, and she doesn’t like it. She knows about their reputation, and what they're capable of.

Work’s work, love, and money’s money, he says.

I read the classifieds today and they’re looking for an assistant janitor at Fordham University – not too far away, and it would just suit you. Fox starts eating, oblivious to Moira. She repeats herself, but the hunger has got the better of him. Well, I think you should go for it, Thomas – it could be the start of something big, Moira goes on.

Yeah, right – no thanks, love, he says with a snigger.

It would certainly beat working for McGoldrick and his family.

Fox leaves the table in dismay and walks into the living room, switches on the television and plants himself on the couch. There’s a baseball game on, but he doesn't like baseball. He turns over to the news: a murder in Brooklyn, a bank robbery on Staten Island. He left Castlebar for this, he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes.

Wake up! the voice says, shaking him violently. It’s only Moira.

"What?" he replies, rubbing his eyes before looking at his watch – it’s late and he’s cranky: she woke him up from an amazing dream: In it he was the star player for the Mayo football team at McHale Park in their mauling of the Tribesmen, scoring four goals and three points. Things don’t get any better than that.

I need you to take the trash out, Thomas, Moira says.

Fox has already been domesticated, in a sense, at least Moira thinks he has. She’s got him on the trash, washing up and the vacuuming. In Castlebar, he never lifted a finger in the house, just like his father when he was alive. His friends back home would laugh at him if they could see how Moira has conditioned him into a ‘new American man’.

I’ll do it later, he replies, yawning.

No you won’t, Thomas, you’ll do it this minute.

Reluctantly, Fox lifts himself up from the couch with a groan and takes the trash outside to the dumpster at the front of the apartment block. It’s a warm night, and a far cry from the weather he’s used to in Mayo with the relentless downpours and winds lashing in from the Atlantic.

Fox takes out a cigarette and lights it, then looks up to the cloudless night sky. It’s at times like these that Fox misses Ireland and yearns for its simplicity.

He throws away the cigarette when he’s finished and makes his way back up to the apartment.

Make us a cup o tay there will ya, love? he says to Moira. She’s already made one - ready and waiting - milk and two sugars. He only drinks tea from Moira or from other Irish people – the Yanks or Irish-Americans wouldn’t even know how to make a good cup of tea if they were hit by a sack full of it on the head. Coffee’s their thing.

He sits down on the couch again with his feet up. There’s a comedy programme on, but Fox doesn’t find it funny: he can’t work out American humour at all: it’s too slapstick and vulgar and lacks the irony and sharp wit of the stuff from back home.

Turn that feckin’ shite off, love, he says to Moira in a tired voice.

She turns off the television and they go to bed. In their bedroom, hanging on the wall over the bed is a crucifix that Fox’s maternal grandfather, Thomas Dalton – who he’s named after – gave him as a Communion present when he was a boy.

4

The next morning Fox gets up for the breakfast Moira made earlier for him. She's already gone to work at the North Central Bronx Hospital as a nurse. Moira’s parents are disappointed at her choice of boyfriend. They think Fox will have a hard time of it in America – he has no education, no trade and no ability to sell himself. Moira doesn’t care, though – she’s in love with her man.

After eating a hearty breakfast of pancakes with syrup, Fox gets ready for work and leaves the apartment.

He walks down Martha Avenue to the Woodlawn Subway station where he will travel to the Bronx proper a few miles south. There he will work – like he has been for the last few months – doing whatever they need him to do in The Starlight Club, owned by Sean McGoldrick’s uncle, Padraic McGoldrick.

Fox goes around the back and knocks on the door that leads to the nightclub's kitchen.

After a moment the door opens. It’s Santiago, the club manager. He's forty-three and from Puerto Rico.

Hi, Thomas, Santiago says in a welcoming voice. You’re early, man.

Fox nods his head and walks in, saying nothing.

They sit down in the kitchen to a morning drink: Santiago to a coffee and Fox to his usual mug of tea.

What time’ll Padraic be in, Santiago? Fox asks, fearing the worst. He’s wondering if Sean McGoldrick's already told his uncle that he still hasn't paid back the money he borrowed.

It will be a busy day. It’s always like that on a Saturday and Sunday morning, after the nights before.

Why you askin'?

It’s nothin’.

Santiago knows something’s wrong, he can tell by the eyes. The McGoldricks can do that to people. He’s seen it too many times. They eat you up and spit you out.

Do you wanna talk about it, Thomas? Santiago then asks.

I don’t, Santiago... I’m fine, honest.

Santiago doesn’t believe him, of course.

Fox gets to work, repairing a light switch in the women’s restroom.

The Starlight Club is one of the best nightclubs in the Bronx, playing contemporary music and disco from the last decade. It is a haunt for celebrities as well as high-profile gangsters from the Bronx itself and from the Upper West and East Sides.

After dealing with the light switch and bringing up some crates of beer from the cellar to the bar, Santiago informs Fox that their boss - the Kerry man Padraic McGoldrick - wants to see him in his office.

Eddie McGoldrick is a thick-set, fifty-eight-year-old, who's been living in New York City since he was seventeen. You could say he’s already an American now, though nobody would be brave enough to tell him that to his face.

Fox knocks on the door nervously. Will he or won’t he say somethin'? And if he does, will he be as charitable as Sean was? Fox muses.

D’ya wanna drink there, Tommo? McGoldrick asks, opening his drinks cabinet to a display of