Shanaghy became a runner for John Morrissey, taking the word to gamblers and gambling houses, to the women on the line and to the ward heelers who did his bidding.
Yet two or three times each week he managed to work with McCarthy for an hour or two, sometimes the whole day. Despite the hard work, or perhaps because of it, he enjoyed himself. And he liked McCarthy. The old Irishman was a tough, no-nonsense sort of man, untouched by the corruption about him. When not with McCarthy, his haunts were the saloons and dives. Men such as Morrissey, who could swing the Irish vote, were important to Tammany Hall and, shrewdly, Morrissey had worked hard to make himself even more so. Admired for his fighting abilities, he was also a politician who found newcomers a place to live. He found them jobs, kept them out of trouble. His thugs and “shoulder-strikers,” as they were called, frightened opposition voters away from the polls, protected their own voters, and occasionally stuffed ballot-boxes or engaged in all manner of trickery and deceit.
Basically, it was Morrissey’s personal popularity that usually carried the day for him.
Shanaghy was thirteen years old when he glimpsed an old friend. He was coming up through the Five Points, walking the middle of the street as behooved one who knew the area, when he saw the Maid o’ Killarney … She was hitched to a butcher’s wagon.
He walked to the curb and stopped. Appearing to pay no attention, he looked the horse over carefully. The same scar on the inside of the fetlock, identical markings. It had to be.
The horse, left standing while a delivery was being made, suddenly took a step forward, stretching its nose to him. “Aye, Maid, you remember me, don’t you?” He patted her a little, and when the driver came bustling from the house he commented, “Nice horse.”
“Feisty,” the delivery man said testily, “too feisty.” Tom had glanced at the sign on the side of the wagon, then waved a hand and walked up the street. Once he was out of sight, he ran. Morrissey, Tom knew, had a meeting at his gambling house at No. 8 Barclay Street, and he should be there now.
Tom entered the gambling house and saw Morrissey seated at a table with several other men, a beer and a cigar clutched in his big hands. Tom hesitated, then walked to Morrissey and spoke up.
“Sir? Mr. Morrissey?” Old Smoke did not like to be interrupted, and he turned sharply. When he saw the boy, some of the irritation left his eyes. “What is it, bye? What’s wrong?”
“Sir, I must speak with you. Now, sir.”
Astonished, Morrissey stared at him. In the year and a half since he had first seen Tom Shanaghy, the boy had never ventured to speak unless spoken to. He had kept out of the way, had done what he was told and kept his mouth shut. “What is it, then?”
“Alone, sir. I must speak to you alone.”
Morrissey pushed back his chair. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?” Taking his beer in one hand and cigar in the other, he led the way to a secluded table. He sat down and gestured for Tom to sit opposite. “Now what is it, bye? I am a busy man, as you can see.”
“Sir, I’ve just seen the Maid o’ Killarney!”
“The who? Who or what is this Maid o’ Killarney?”
“A horse, sir. A racehorse. She’s drawing a butcher’s wagon in the Five Points.”
Morrissey put the cigar in his teeth. “A racehorse drawing a butcher’s wagon?
She must be no good. Must have busted down.”
“I don’t think so, sir. She looked fit … only not cared for, sir. I know the mare, sir. She was uncommonly fast, and even if she’s not in the best of shape she could still be bred, sir.”
“All right, lad. Take your time and tell me about her … “ How long ago was that? Tom Shanaghy, hands clasped behind his head, looked up at the rustling leaves. Ten years? A long time back, a very long time. Slowly and carefully he had explained to John Morrissey about the Maid. How he had been present when she was born, how he had ridden her as an exercise boy around the stables, and ridden her in her first race. “The Maid won,” he explained. “Then she won again. She won twice more with somebody else up, then the man who owned her got in debt over gambling. He lost her and she was sold to an American.”
Morrissey dusted the ash from his cigar. “You’re sure of the horse?” “I am. It was my father fitted the first shoes to her. I played with her as a boy. I’d not make a mistake. And she remembered me.” “How old would she be?”
“Five … a bit over.”
Two days later Morrissey called him in. “Tom, me bye, how would you like to drive a butcher’s wagon?”
“Whatever you say.”
“You’ve got a job, then. You’ll drive the wagon and you’ll check the horse. As I understand it the deliveries are over by noon. You’ll take the horse to Fenway’s after you’ve finished. Tomorrow is Saturday. Sunday morning take her out on the track and give her a light workout. Easy does it. See how she moves, if anything is wrong wi’ her.
“Lochlin will be there, and he’s a fine horseman. He will be watching. No trying for speed now, for she’s been living poorly and will have to be taken careful. Above all, don’t y’ touch her with a currycomb or anything of the kind.
“And not a word of this to anyone, y’ understand? Not a word!” Sunday morning the air had been cool with a touch of fog in the air. He led the Maid out to the track and Lochlin gave him a leg up. “Once around. Just see how she moves, lad. Maybe we have something and maybe we don’t.”
When they turned into the track, the Maid remembered. Her head came up and she tugged at the bit. “Not now, baby. Take it easy … easy now!” She moved into a canter and went once around the track. Lochlin was waiting for them when he pulled up near the gate.
“Moves well. Seems a little stiff, that’s all.” Tom took her around again, a little faster. She was eager and wanted to run and he had to restrain her.
“How was she when you rode her?” Lochlin asked when they returned. “She’s a finisher, Mr. Lochlin. She likes to come from behind, and if she’s anything like she used to be she can really run.” For a week he drove another horse, much alike in outward appearance, with the butcher’s wagon. In the afternoons he worked out the Maid. She had a natural affinity for the track, loved running, and liked to win. What Morrissey had in mind he had no idea, except that he expected to make a lot of money. “Tom,” Morrissey said one day, “don’t come around to Barclay Street.” He lit a fresh cigar. “There’s a man who comes there to gamble. Quite the sharper he thinks himself, and he has a horse. He’s been doing a bit of bragging about that horse, and I’ve a friend wishes to take him down a bit.” It had been a week later that Tom was driving the Maid with the butcher’s wagon. He had a delivery that morning that took him to Barclay Street and he had stopped to get packages of meat from the wagon when he saw Morrissey. Several men were with him and he heard one of the men say, “What? Why, that Wade Hampton horse of mine could beat either of them! Either of them, I say!” Shanaghy heard the arrogance in the tone but did not look around, although he wished to.
“Bob,” another voice said, “you’ve been doing a lot of talking about that Wade Hampton horse. We hear a lot but we don’t see any action. I think you’re just talking through your hat!”
“Like hell, I am! He’s won his last six races, and he’ll win the next six. If you want to put your money where your mouth is, Sweeney, just find yourself a horse!”
“Bah!” Sweeney was contemptuous. “I don’t own a horse, and you know it, but I think you’re full of hot air! Why, I’d bet that milk-wagon horse could beat yours!”
“What?”
The Maid, in blinders and a fly net, stood waiting while Tom poured milk into a can, her head dropping as she snuffled at the dust along the curb. “Don’t be a fool, Sweeney!” another of the men protested. “That mare is all stove up. Anyway, an animal like that can’t run. All she can do is pull a wagon.”
Lochlin emerged from the gambling house. “What’s that? What’s going on?” “Sweeney just offered to bet that milk-wagon horse could beat Bob Childers’s Wade Hampton. He wasn’t serious, of course, but-“ “The hell I wasn’t!” Sweeney said angrily. “You’re damn right I’m serious! Bob carries on about that nag of his like it was the only horse in the world! Well, I think Bob’s full of hot air!”