| My name is Luke Elliot. It’s a good name and I like it, but, like a fool,
I took another man’s name, and for a year I was that man. I shouldn’t have done it, I know
that now, but at the time it seemed foolish not to. It was easy. All I had to do was say I
was him. The charade was set in motion late one morning in early May, 1901. I wore out my welcome in Cleveland’s Irishtown Bend and thought it best to leave town for a while. I was in a hurry, so I bought a ticket on a New York Central that was loading on the boarding platform at that moment. The train was going to Chicago, but by the time I got to Toledo I decided to go to Detroit. I got off the train, bought a ticket for Detroit and headed north. I got off that train at Detroit’s Third Street depot. I planned on finding a place to stay in Corktown, but instead of walking north on Third Street, I walked east on Fort to Detroit’s shopping district. A simple mistake that could have been avoided simply by asking directions. If I would have asked I would have found my way to a Corktown restaurant and from there to a hotel. Regrettably, that is not what happened. As it was I found my way to Crawford’s Dairy Lunch Restaurant on Woodward Avenue. A simple twist of fate that I’d give anything to undo. There in Crawford’s Dairy Lunch the sun streamed through the windows and reflected off the tops of the marble tables. I finished a late breakfast of potatoes, bacon and eggs, and as I drank my coffee and read the sports page, a mouthy little girl of about eight, sitting in the sun by the windows, squinted as she poked the menu with her finger and told her mother she wanted that. A waiter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the mother’s approval. Two tables over a woman and her two children sucked ice cream sodas through straws and stared at the mother and her unruly child. Nearby, out of the reach of the sun’s radiance, a young man in an ill-fitting suit talked to a young lady about the same age as he. His shirt was clean and starched, but he had the look of a man who tied his tie once the first time he put it on, and thereafter loosened it only enough to slip it over his head. He was good looking enough, with blue eyes and a Roman nose, but he let the cowlick at the back of his head to go unkept, allowing strands of hair to fall over his ears and forehead. As I strained to hear what the lady was saying, he wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup as though to keep them warm. The nails of his fingers were short, ragged, impacted with grime that would come out only with time away from the work that put it there. He lifted the cup to his lips then set it back on the table and folded the fingers of one hand inside the fingers of the other. The young lady, who talked in a voice so low I could hardly hear, wore a tailored emerald jacket with a black velvet collar. The hat she wore was a simple one of the latest fashion with a small, fluffy feather curled between two yellow roses. The feather and roses were intertwined with a ribbon of lace. She wore her corset tight-laced, compressing her waist into a fashionable wasp-like figure. Her eyes were bright, pretty, in harmony with her other features. The man in the ill-fitting suit leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “I’ve been an orphan for the last twelve years,” he told the young lady in a serious, unimposing voice. “My mother, father, sister and two brothers died twelve years ago in a fire while I spent the night with my sick aunt. Everything in my life was burned up that night,” he said in a mournful tone. “I was eight years old then, and after the fire I had to live with my aunt. It was awfully lonely without my family,” he told the young lady. “Then my aunt died of diabetes a year later, and they put me in an orphan’s home on the west side of Chicago.” The young lady bit her lower lip and listened sympathetically while he talked about the fire, his aunt and the orphan’s home. “Why did you come to Detroit?” she asked as she twisted the strings of her purse around her fingers. The young man leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “An uncle of mine died and left me a lot of money. I have to go see a lawyer here in Detroit in a few days. He’s gonna take care of everything for me.” The passion that had shone so expressively in the young lady’s face slowly dimmed. She no longer looked at him with longing and pity but lowered her eyes to her hands and with one finger pulled the handle of her cup around until it pointed to herself. After a moment she said she was late for an appointment and that it was very nice talking to him, but she really have to leave. She collected her parasol and purse, apologized again and then walked to the cashier where she paid for her tea and Danish. The young man who claimed he was an orphan sat bent forward with his elbows on the table, his brow furrowed. Unable to hold back my comments on his attempt, I leaned toward him and said, “You shouldn’t have told her you inherited a lot of money.” I expected him to tell me to mind my own business, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “I did inherit a lot of money.” I picked my cup up but set it back down. “Well, whether you did or not, you shouldn’t have told her you did. That made her think you thought she was stupid enough to believe anything, or she was out for money. She really ate up that line about being an orphan though. You should have stuck with that.” “I am an orphan,” the young man said. He stood up and pushed his chair under the table then lifted his hand absently and walked solemnly to the cashier. I caught the waiter’s eye and lifted my cup. The waiter grabbed the coffee pot and came to my table and refilled it. I pushed the coffee aside to cool and turned to the sports page of The Free Press, but before I found yesterday’s scores I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up—it was the orphan. “Could I borrow fifteen cents?” he said. He made an exaggerated show of innocence. “I left my money in my room.” “How much did you say you inherited?” “I didn’t. Look, mister, I’ll pay you back if you walk to my hotel with me. It’s just a couple blocks from here.” I laid my paper on the table and reached in my pocket. I pulled out a half and a quarter. “I don’t have it,” I said, showing the orphan the change. I motioned to the chair on the other side of the table. “Sit down. I’ll be leaving in a minute. I’ll give you the fifteen cents when I pay my bill.” “Thanks,” The orphan said. He laid his derby beside mine. The chair scraped the floor noisily when he pulled it back. He sat down heavily. “Guess it ain’t my day.” “Good thing that girl left when she did,” I told him. “You would have looked like a damn fool after telling her you inherited all that money.” The orphan chuckled. “Yeah, I would, wouldn’t I?” He shook a cigarette loose from a pack of Duke’s Best and offered me one. I told him I didn’t smoke. He put the pack back in his pocket, struck a match with his fingernail, lit his cigarette and blew out a cloud of bluish smoke. He shook the match out and tossed it in the ashtray sitting in the middle of the table. Then, pointing to the paper, he said, “Who won yesterday’s game?” I picked up the paper and started to open it. “You haven’t looked yet?” the orphan asked. When I answered no he said, “I’ll bet you a buck the Sox won.” “You don’t have a buck.” “I got money in my room. What’s the matter? Afraid of a friendly bet?” I drummed my fingers on the table. After a moment I said, “You’re on, man, but if you win I don’t pony up until I see that you had the money to pay me.” “Fair enough,” the orphan said. He chuckled again. “You shouldn’t oughtta make stupid bets like that. Thursday the Sox clobbered the Tigers 19 to 9.” He reached for the paper, but I pulled it back. I opened the paper to the sports section and read the first paragraph. I started laughing. “The Tigers won 8-5. It says here the umpire forfeited the game to the Tigers on account of rain, and Comiskey himself had to run out on the field and rescue the umpire from the Chicago fans. ” The orphan grabbed the paper. He read for a moment then said, “Shit. I hadn’t oughtta pay you, goddamn it. If it didn’t rain Chicago would’ve won.” “Like hell, buddy, pony up.” “Detroit won by forfeit. Maybe you should be a good sport and forfeit the bet.” “Forfeit my ass. You owe me a buck.” The orphan rolled the ash off his cigarette then slid the ashtray closer to him. “The only way Detroit can beat Chicago is by forfeit.” He hesitated a moment then leaned back and said, “Shit. I’ll pay you when we get back to my room.” “What’s the matter, you don’t like Detroit?” “Hell, no. Didn’t you hear me tell that girl I’m from Chicago? You heard everything else.” He shoved the paper over to me. “That’s only one game. The Sox took the championship in 1900 and they’re gonna do it again this year. The Sox got good pitching and batting and if Griffith don’t get hurt there ain’t nothing gonna stop them. ” “Wanna bet?” I said. “I’m from Cleveland myself, but the Tigers only lost three games so far this year and they ain’t gonna lose to Chicago again.” The orphan leaned forward. “You’re from Cleveland, eh. You live in the Flats?” I said I did. “You’re a goddamn mick, ain’t you? You live on Whiskey Island?” “No, I live just south of the island on Riverbed Street, and I ain’t no goddamn mick.” He blurted out a loud, “Ha,” then said, “Well, I’m a goddamn mick. I’m from Canaryville. You ever heard it?” “Yeah. That’s Chicago’s Irish shantytown. That goddamn place makes the Flats look like a good place to live.” “Shantytown?” the orphan said, feigning surprise. “Now ain’t that the pot calling the kettle black.” Before I had a chance to reply he laughed and said, “Hey, you wanna bet on today’s game? Cleveland’s playing the Tigers here today, and I got a buck says Tigers are gonna kick the Blues’ ass.” “I thought you didn’t like Detroit.” “I like them better than Cleveland.” The Tigers were in first place and Cleveland was only a game out of last. It was a sucker’s bet, but I couldn’t do worse than break even, counting the buck I just won. “Okay,” I said, “give me five to one odds and you got a bet.” “You’re on,” the orphan said in a smug tone. He smiled and sat back. “A fool and his money are soon parted.” “You’d better have money in your room.” “I got money, goddamn it. Finish your coffee, and we’ll go get it.” I stirred my black coffee then set the spoon on the table. I blew across the top of the cup then downed the coffee in one continuous gulp. I grabbed my paper and suitcase. “Okay, man, let’s go.” Outside on the street, the orphan flipped his cigarette into the gutter and turned south. Horseshoes clacked on the brick street, and four men with picks and shovels hacked away at the sidewalk. A banner flapping on the awning next to the restaurant announced a three day extension of the May Day sale on women’s skirts and waist shirts. Men in black suits, wearing derbies, bowlers and some wearing top hats raced past the busy shops on the lower floors of buildings that reached as high as eleven stories. Nervous old ladies in long skirts walked slowly on their way to see their bankers. Young ladies with skirts above their ankles rushed to keep appointments with their dressmakers. A cop in a tall leather hat stared at us suspiciously as we walked passed the Wonderland Musee and Theater. People stopped to watch as a man wearing a long coat and goggles raced by, sitting high on the seat of one of those new automobiles. He honked his horn and scared the horses with the loud gasoline engine. “Chicago won the championship last year,” the orphan boasted as we sidestepped two young women, bumping shoulders as they giggled and whispered their secrets. “They’re the best team in this here new American League, and they’re going to take the championship again this year. No contest.” “Well, the Sox better get off their no-account asses then because they’re in fourth place.” We argued back and forth as we wove our way south past Jefferson on the crowded Woodward sidewalk. I stopped when we got to Woodbridge. “Where the hell’s this hotel of yours?” I asked. “It’s the Wabash Hotel by the Brush Street depot.” “That doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot.” “Stop bellyaching, man, it’s only a couple of blocks.” We turned east on Atwater. When we reached the hotel, I said, “Damn, man, if I’d known I had to walk this far I’d have given you the fifteen cents.” “Candy ass,” the orphan said and laughed as he opened the door to the hotel and stepped aside for me to go first. Inside, a man in a baggy suit talked in an inaudible voice to the desk clerk who listened for a moment then wrote something on a piece of paper. The clerk looked up when he heard me, but he saw the orphan and returned to what he was doing. “I like this hotel,” the orphan said. “I can see the river from my room.” He headed for the stairs. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He pounded up the worn carpet two steps at a time. The sun shone through the windows in smoky white streaks. Specks of dust floated lazily in the brightness. An occasional fly buzzed through the dusty beams of light on its way to nowhere and moments later buzzed through it again on its way back. The sun, the smoke and the dust made the gloomy lobby look almost cheerful. I leaned my suitcase against a straight-back chair then sat down and opened my paper. Behind the desk the clerk closed a drawer, the sound echoed for a full second in the empty lobby. That sound was followed by loud thuds on the carpeted stairway as the orphan trumped down the stairs. I closed my paper. The orphan handed me a dollar, a dime and a nickel then opened a wallet that held a number of bills. “See,” he said, “I’ve got money. I’ve got five dollars and a bunch more upstairs.” I stood up. With eyebrows raised I said, “Is that your inheritance?” “Hell, no. A lawyer sent me a hundred bucks and told me to come up here and sign some papers. He said I inherited a whole shit-load of money.” “Well, it doesn’t do you any good up there in your room.” I picked up my suitcase. “Next time take some with you.” “Hey, man, where am I gonna collect my dollar?” “I don’t know. I don’t know the first thing about this town.” “Well, look, if you ain’t doing anything this afternoon, we can go to the game? That way I don’t have to hunt you down. If we hurry we can get to the park before the game starts.” “I just got to town. I gotta find a room somewheres.” “Shit, man, just stash your grip in a locker at the depot. It’ll only take a second.” I had been in Detroit for two hours, I had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and I had all the time in the world to find a room. And it was a beautiful day for a ball game. “Okay, man, I gotta keep my eyes on you til I collect my five bucks.” “Like I say: a fool and his money are soon parted. Let’s go; we ain’t got much time.” “Oh, by the way,” I said, thrusting my hand toward him. “My name’s Luke Elliot.” The orphan took a firm grip on my hand. “Quinn Coogin, glad to make your acquaintance.” It was a perfect day for a base ball game. The temperature was in the low seventies, cotton-like clouds floated lazily on an azure sky, and an occasional breeze was just strong enough to lift your hair. My new friend and I got a couple hotdogs and a beer and made our way toward first base. The seats in the first row were taken, but we managed to find decent seats a few rows up. Both teams were on the field, throwing balls every which way. Two umpires with puffed chest and cigars clenched tightly in their teeth chatted near home base. “I hate Detroit,” Quinn said after he sat down and took a swig of his beer, “but if they shut Cleveland out I’ll go to church tomorrow and drop your five bucks in the poor box. I swear to God.” I wasn’t a praying man, and I wasn’t Catholic but I made the same pledge—only silently. Every other inning Quinn ran to the concession stand and brought us back a beer. I told him I didn’t want one, but he said I was paying for it and got me one anyhow. He got two cigars and gave me one. I told him I didn’t smoke and he said smoke it anyhow, so I lit up just to be sociable. Detroit made a double play; the crowd roared. He was right about me paying for the beer. Detroit scored a run in the first four innings and two in the fifth. He wouldn’t have to donate my five bucks to the church, through: Cleveland scored a run in the second, third and eighth. “How about tomorrow’s game?” Quinn asked when I gave him a buck. “Same bet?” “Five to one and you’re on.” Quinn laughed. “Cleveland don’t stand a snowman’s chance. Same bet tomorrow.” We caught the streetcar at Michigan and took it to Woodward. From there we walked to the hotel. All the while Quinn talked about traveling when he got his inheritance. He was going to start by going to Ireland, then to England and through all the countries of Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Hawaii and Tahiti—wherever the hell that was. He said the way the girls in Tahiti shake their butts is enough to drive a man crazy. From there he’d go to California and then see the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone and all those places on his way back to Chicago. From Chicago he didn’t know where he was going. Generally, I would rather listen than talk, so I mostly listened. It was after five when we got to the Brush Street Depot. “Where the hell we gonna eat?” Quinn asked as I took my suitcase from the locker. “I gotta find a place to stay first.” “Lookit, man, why not stay here at the Wabash Hotel,” Quinn suggested. “It’s as good as any. Better than most. There’s not a whole hell of a lot to do in this town except eat and drink. If you stay here we can go to the games whenever the Tigers play at home.” If it wasn’t for Quinn I’d have found my way to some rundown hotel in Corktown, so why not the Wabash Hotel? I could afford it. It was a short ways off the main thoroughfare, and there wasn’t much noise or traffic, and it was better than what I’d end up in in Corktown. I shrugged my shoulders. “As long as you’re giving me five to one odds, how can I say no?” I got my suitcase, and we crossed the street to the hotel. When I told the desk clerk I wanted a room he stared at me for several seconds and then turned his stare on the Quinn. “You guys brothers?” he asked. Quinn returned his stare for a second then said, “Why, hell yes, we’re brothers.” We could have been. Quinn was about five-eleven with a strong build, the same as me. He had blue eyes and common brown hair and a Roman nose. He wore a dark brown suit of almost the same cut as mine, and he wore a derby. I was twenty-two years old; Quinn looked about the same. I thought it was a good joke, so I smiled, shook my head in agreement and said, “Yeah, Fraternal twins.” “I’m the good looking one,” Quinn said. The clerk looked us over good. “You’re both ugly as hell,” he said and then turned to me. “You staying in his room? If I keep you guys in one room you’re less likely to scare off my other guests.” “You gonna give us a break on the rent?” Quinn asked. “Rooms run a dollar a day or five dollars a week. If you share a room it’ll cost seven-fifty for the both of you.” Quinn crossed one foot over the other and rested it on its toe. “Well, little brother, think you can behave yourself?” I had, for all intent and purposes, lived in a poolroom since I was fourteen. That was eight years of shooting pool and learning to size up a mark. If a man’s going to make a living hustling, learning to size up a man is just as important as shooting a good stick. If you misjudge a man, and he turns out to be a hustler, and a better one than you, you can lose your ass. Quinn was a decent sort. If he lived in the Flats, he might live next door to me. “How long you gonna be here?” I asked. “I don’t know. I gotta see that lawyer next week. After that I don’t know what I’ll do. I got two beds in my room; if we stay in the same room we can save a couple bucks.” “Might as well. I’m gonna be here for a while.” “Sign here,” the clerk said. He slapped a key on the desk and slid it over to me then went to the other end of the desk to wait on another customer. “How do you spell your last name?” I whispered. “C-O-O-G-I-N.” I signed the register Luke Coogin. If not cheerful, neither was Quinn’s second-floor room gloomy. Two windows faced south, overlooking Atwater Street, the Brush Street depot and the Detroit River. I threw my suitcase on the bed that was made. Both beds had faded green spreads and were placed at a right angle to an oak dresser that had a wash bowl and a pitcher of water on it. Quinn had thrown a dirty shirt on the dresser; a sleeve had draped over the pitcher. He had set a half drank bottle of Old Duffy Whiskey precariously near the edge. I walk to the window across a red carpet worn nearly to the warp in trafficked areas. When I pulled the curtain back a rectangle-shaped patch of sunlight lit up the floor. The view below would have been scenic if it hadn’t been for the railroad, warehouses and dock between the river and the hotel. As it was, the scene was artistic in its own way. “You really an orphan?” I asked. “Everything I told that girl back in the restaurant was true,” Quinn said. “I lived in an orphanage from the time I was nine ‘til I was eighteen. I’ve been on my own for two years now.” Down below across the street on the tracks two men met and began talking. I watched absently. “What’s it like living in an orphanage?” “You work your ass off,” Quinn said. “But it ain’t so bad.” He sat on his bed and stared out the window contemplatively. “Father Bonifazio was fair enough, and the sisters were okay as long as you stayed out of trouble.” “Were there any girls there?” He turned his eyes to me. “Yeah, but you couldn’t go near them. If they got knocked up they got sent to the reform school. I never got my cherry busted ‘til I got out of the home.” “What about that inheritance? Was that bull or did you really inherit a lot of money?” Quinn lay down with his head on the pillow, his hands behind his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said. I walked away from the window and sat on my bed. I wasn’t in the mood for cock and bull stories. “Yeah, well, who knows?” I moved my suitcase to the floor and lay down the same as Quinn. “No, I live just south of the island on Riverbed Street, and I ain’t no goddamn mick.” Quinn dozed off. I couldn’t sleep so I took a book from my suitcase. Balzac’s A Harlot High and Low. I had to find out what happened to Lucien after he was saved from suicide at the end of Lost Illusions. And who was that priest? I plopped back on the bed and read. After a half hour I started dozing off, so I closed the book and I took my toothbrush, shaving stuff, grabbed the towel that lay across the foot of my bed and walked down the hallway to the bathroom that all the guests on that floor shared. I took a bath, shaved, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and parted it down the middle, put on clean underwear and a clean shirt and socks. When I got back to my room Quinn was sitting on the edge of his bed with my book in his hands. He held it up. “What’s this?” “It’s a book, you dunce. What the hell’s it look like?” “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who reads shit like this. You getting uppity on me?” “It wouldn’t take a hell of a lot,” I said. Then, “No, nothing like that. My old man pulled me out of school in the fourth grade, and he’d kick my ass if he caught me reading the label on a can of beans. To him reading was the devil’s pastime.” As I talked I opened my suitcase and took out my shoe polish and brush. I sat on the edge of my bed. “If my old man didn’t like reading, I figured it must be good, so I started reading everything I could get my hands on.” Quinn tossed the book on my bed and stood up. “Well, to each his own.” As Quinn stepped to the dresser, I smeared shoe polish on one of my shoes. “Why do you stay at this hotel, Quinn? You’re a goddamn mick from Chicago’s Irish shantytown; seems like you’d be more at home in Corktown.” “I got money, man. Ain’t no way I’m gonna live like that when I don’t have to. Why? You got enough money to stay here?” he asked while he pulled his shirttail out of his pants. “Yeah, I got a few bucks. Just wondered, that’s all.” “Well, if you need a couple bucks til you find work let me know.” He stripped down to his waist and took a sponge bath while I shined my shoes. |
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