4 comments/ 26335 views/ 2 favorites With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 02 By: BOSTONFICTIONWRITER Chapter 7 Romance and Love A true romantic, Michael yearned for love much like Don Quixote searched for Dolcinea. Never relinquishing his belief that, one day, when he found his special person, he would find love and romance. Like innocence and virginity, something not shared with more than one in a lifetime; he believed that love and romance were as one and that both were pure and sacred. He knew that he could only give all that he had to offer, emotionally, spiritually, and physically to only one woman. Anything that he had left to give to someone else, perchance if they divorced or is she died, would serve as more of a relationship of companionship rather than of love. He knew that once giving all of himself to his one, true love, whoever she may be, that he could never love another. He believed that being in love was like playing a character in a movie, you had to give your all to your role, moreover, that love was like a movie because the sequel was never as good as the original. With everything occurring for the first time, he knew, with someone else, that he could never recapture the anticipation of the first kiss, the rapture of their first lovemaking, and the comfort of knowing that everything together with her was everlasting. He believed that if given the chance, because not everyone had the chance, that you had only one chance to get it right. If something happened to his true love, if for some reason they did not stay together or if tragedy befell them and she did not live to share their love for the rest of their lives, until death do they part, as sworn to in their vows of holy matrimony, he would rather spend the rest of his life alone. He would be the one who took up sentry at her gravestone planting flowers, talking to his departed beloved, and praying that her soul made it to Heaven. He would be the one who stayed home watching videos of their trips and pausing through photographs to allow images to redevelop memories of times they shared. Like a shrine that preserved memories of her forever, he would keep her room and her things the way that she had left them. Those who did not know how he felt about love called his beliefs drastic. Those who did not know how he felt about how much the one, true person meant to him called him dramatic. Those who could not understand his regard for the sanctity of marriage and his devotion to the Catholic religion called him a fanatic. He called his beliefs about love idealistic and his feelings about true love quixotic. Till death do you part, he considered that vow and himself, romantic. In the way that he felt about love, if something was to happen to his true love, someone else might contemplate suicide, like did Juliet over Romeo, but a devote Catholic; Michael would never take his own life. He envied the love stories of those couples that were married for 50 years. He thought it the epitome of romance, he liked to believe, that when one died, the other pined away with the loss of her or him, and unable to live one without the other, she or he died of a broken heart within the year. He hoped to have a storybook romance with "...and they died while sleeping in each other's arms" ending. Of course, he knew that ending may sell romance novels but, in reality, it was a fairy tale. By the time marriages transgressed with all the problems of life, one was almost glad to see the other go, finally. He held these beliefs for himself and not for the person who he must meet. He knew that, as he could never force his beliefs on another, it was an unrealistic expectation to find someone who shared those things that he felt so strongly about, the things that made up his character, and the traits that made him so irresistible to women. He understood that it was still a man's world and, with the pressures, expectations, and demands that men made on women, that his intended may not be a virgin, may have had other relationships, a marriage, and/or children, even. Still, it was different for a man. A man did not wear the scarlet letter upon his forehead in the way that society brands women who were half as promiscuous as were men. Yet, he held the belief that it was too easy for him to partake in the casual sex that some of his customers offered him. He rejected those who tested his resolve to remain faithful to his true love, even though he still had not found her, yet. He wanted something more, something lasting, and something real, and was willing to wait for her. He wanted to be ready when he finally met his intended and believed that he would meet her sooner than later. He did not want to ruin his chances with her by filling his mind with meaningless relationships and his heart with unnecessary emotions. He knew, with the clarity of a focused mind, that he had a greater chance of recognizing the one meant for him when he happened upon her. His unusual stance and high personal standards made the women who could not have him, want him more. He viewed much of the dating scene, blind dates, computer dating, nightclubs, singles dances, and the whole social, love hunt for a mate as a charade. The process of trying to find someone to love defeated the concept of love. How could you find love when love is something that you never see coming? He believed that love must happen in its own time, passively instead of actively, when it hits you in the head like a sledgehammer and takes command of your heart in the way that hunger controls your stomach. He felt that television and the show-all movies revealed the fantasy, spoiled romance, and ruined love. Hollywood used graphically explicit realism for box office draw at the expense of love and romance. Why go to the movies anymore when you can step outside the theatre and see all the realism you want? People love movies for the escape from reality; they love the fantasy and enjoy imagining whatever the movie did now show them. He wondered whatever happened to romance. He wondered whatever happened to a good love story. He wondered when he would meet his true love. He tried to imagine what she might look like, but he could never hold on to an image of her in his head. As elusive as she was to find, the imagined image of her was just as vague and just as fleeting. He believed that the current women's magazines that tried to liberate their female readership by chastising men commercialized love by wrapping it up in an 8" x 11" glossy package of fake photos with equally as phony models. No one looks like that. The process of editors driven by the intellectual immaturity of their audience, spinning their definition of sex down to their level for the sake of selling magazines, cheapened love and made romance impossible in the process. As was the inherent nature of much of the dating scene, he believed that you could not hurry or manufacture love and romance with alcohol, with money, with a planned social gathering of the opposite sexes nor with insincere lines stolen from a book or a movie. If fate meant it to happen, then it will happen. So, why try to change fate and ruin your chance at real happiness by rushing something not meant to be. Besides, the excitement that everyday that you awake could be the day that you meet your true love, on the subway, passing her by on the street, seeing her at a restaurant or a bus stop or while shopping for food or hardware renewed his hope and made him persevere in his search for her. Yes, he was much like a modern day Don Quixote in that regard, in the regard that he was looking for love and for his one true love. Much like his Man of La Mancha, he believed in love at first sight, in fate, and in kismet. He believed, in some respects, that he was a pawn in the plan of the Almighty God and that part of that master plan, one day, was the appearance of this true love and it was solely up to him to recognize her when that opportunity presented itself to him. He knew that there was one special someone out there, somewhere, waiting for him to find her. He was willing to wait to open the book of his love story and uncover the identity of his true love. He was willing to wait to find his true love so that they could spend the rest of their lives in romantic bliss together. He felt that too many people rushed love. They wished for the wrong person and finding the person that they had wished for and falling in what they thought was love, they never took the time to look beneath the outside appearance until it was too late. Now, stuck with a person that they do not love, instead of a person that they could have had, if only they had taken the time to see what may have been in front of them the whole time, is so profoundly tragic. Imagine wasting your life living with the wrong person. Imagine settling for a life that could have been magically if only you had waited, if only you had not been so impatient, and if only you had not been so shallowly blinded by solely the outside appearance of someone and allowing the one who had real substance slip away because she was not pretty, and/or blonde and/or busty? He believed that there are stages of love and that age, as well as physical appearance, are important in who appeals to you during each stage in life. A man in his twenties feels differently than a man in his forties, of course, about the type of woman who appeals to him, as a man in his sixties feels about the type of woman how appeals to him. He understands that we look for different traits in a mate at different times in our lives. It is harder to find the person in his twenties who may satisfy all that he needs for the next fifty years, than it is to find the person when he is in his forties and has a better understanding of not only who he is and but also who he needs for the next thirty or forty years. Unless, if the man and woman grow to become extensions of one another and dependent upon one another while developing in a way that they may not have chosen if they were alone or with another person, then that one person may satisfy the other for a lifetime. He felt that a thin, buxom blonde in a tight shirt and short skirt blinded most men and, if she paid them any attention at all then, they were hopelessly in love with not her, but with the image that she portrayed. Conversely, he understood that most women fall in love with the first decent looking guy who treats them well. Then, of course, there is the issue of money. He believed that money was responsible for the death of love and romance. Of course, he understood the importance of money but, when people place money before love, it ruins romance and destroys relationships. He understood the importance of physical appearance, unless if corresponding with someone by mail, telephone or the Internet. Unfortunately, appearance, the initial attraction, gets in the way of finding true love because, if that outwardly beautiful person does not possess those things needed to grow and sustain a relationship, such as a commonality of conversation and of dreams, goals, ideals, and ideas, then there is nothing between you and her to blossom from attraction to something more, such as love. Typically, the person of average or below average appearance has a limited chance of attracting you in the first place, unless, perchance, fate brings you together in a stuck elevator or a crashed airplane on a mountaintop or an abandoned ship that strands you alone with her on a deserted island. Nonetheless, there is nothing worse than drifting through life in a rowboat without oars when you could have been aboard a sailboat, unless, of course, the person who you are drifting with makes you not want to get where you are going any faster than in a rowboat without oars. There is nothing worse than living with someone you do not love when, if you had waited and allowed fate to intervene, you could have had the one meant for you. He believed that you had to give love and romance to receive love and romance and had to give it room to not smother it so that it will grow and blossom into something spectacular. Too many relationships never develop because of the petty immaturities, the selfish actions, and the disrespect that interferes with the growth of love, which, he believed, explained the high divorce rate in this country. He regarded love and romance as a once in a lifetime occurrence, a special event that does not happen to most people, mainly because, most people are too caught up in the every day pettiness of life and are not listening to the gifts that we are have that will help us to identify our true love. Still, we have to work to bring those inherent abilities that we are all born with for them to help us in our search for love. You cannot find someone until you know who it is you are looking for, and in the case of love and romance, you do not know who it is you are looking for until you find him or her. Love and romance are something that, until it happens, like a lightning strike, you do not know what it feels like and, because of that, you are always unprepared for it. He prayed that it would happen to him and remained hopefully convinced that, one day, it would. Still having not found that special someone, the one who he believed he would know was the one as soon as he saw her and the one who he convinced himself he would find, one day, he faithfully saved himself for her. Chapter 8 Father Michael The youngest of six, Michael had brothers Peter, Patrick, Brian and Ryan, the twins, and a sister, Irene. He inherited his Irish mother's orange hair, freckled complexion, relaxed disposition, and short stature, and his bothers and sister inherited their English father's blue-black hair, ivory complexion, quick temper, and height. All but Michael graduated college, had successful careers, owned homes, and was married with children, except for Brian and Ryan, who were happily living the single life together, a twin phenomenon that only other twins understand. Everyone, including the twins, pressured Michael to accomplish the same: college, career, marriage, home, and children. They could not understand how Michael could be happy without college tuition bills, a stressful job, a big mortgage, and the responsibilities of matrimony with children. His mother wanting him to be a doctor, his father hoping him to be a lawyer, Michael hid behind the stone walls of seminary school leaving that to see the world, a world that began and ended with a teller's job at Neighborhood Bank on South Boston's East Broadway, the predominately Irish section of Boston. He grew up here, everyone knew him and he knew everyone, and he liked it that way. He was comfortable. His customers were his relatives, his friends, his neighbors, his old classmates from South Boston High School, and acquaintances who he greeted while walking to and from work. This job heightened his dwarfish stature from 5'3" to 6' tall, or so he felt, especially when standing on the 4" high platform behind the counter. Charged by daily doses of gossip, this job plugged him in the community. With what a hairdresser learns from their customers after exchanging chitchat with their monthly visit, Michael updated gossip with his customers weekly and, with some, daily. He knew everything about everybody, including how much money they made and how much money they had in the bank. His customers, willing to share their personal information with him, were happy to have someone who appeared interested in their lives. Yet, few returned the courtesy asking him about himself. He knew not to volunteer his personal information to those not interested. Consequently, other than knowing that he was almost a priest and that he was the youngest of the O'Leary clan, few knew any more about him or cared to know. A fixture in the neighborhood, a minor celebrity with his customers, no one had to tell him, as Head Teller of the Neighborhood Bank for three years, that he served the community an important service. This, his first job, after leaving the security and the solitude of the seminary just before taking his vows, he belonged here and never wanted to live or work anywhere else. Yet, Michael wrestled with job satisfaction. He always greeted his customers with a smile, made eye contact, and asked, "How may I help you?" but, he thought that that was not enough. Sure, he cashed their checks, recorded their deposits, and prepared their money orders, and made their change while exchanging polite conversation, but that was his job. Whenever his customers left his window with a sullen expression, as if they had withdrawn or cashed their last dollar, and many had, that is, until next week's paycheck or next month's social security check, he felt dissatisfied. For the few moments that they were with him, he worked to make them leave his window feeling better. He succeeded most of the time. As if he had any control over their finances, he felt responsible for their monetary situations. He wished he could help them more. He wished he could replace their gloom with a smile and their pennies with dollars. Sensitive to their plight, he wished he could make their lives monetarily better. He wished he could educate them on how they could become financially sound, free of credit card debt, and secure in the knowledge that they had enough money in the bank to handle any emergency with a little extra cash for a vacation or a spending spree. He thought about applying for a position with the bank as a financial consultant, helping people make informed decisions about investing their money. He decided that he would only be helping the rich customers, those who did not need his help to make more money, those who already had the business acumen, the financial savvy, and the money to invest to ensure themselves and their families' financial security. He did not want to be part of helping those who already had more money than they needed. He wanted to help those poor customers who would appreciate having a few extra dollars at month end each month, those who needed the money to pay their rent, heat their homes, and feed their family. Many did not even have a checking account and most did not have a savings account, never mind an investment portfolio. He tried to convince them to open a checking account, reminding them that it was a free, interest paying account, and they refused, preferring instead to pay their bills with the money orders that they had to pay $3.00 each to buy. Without a checking account, a savings account, and a credit card, they would never build a credit history to warrant a loan for a house, a car, or for any occasion in their lives. They would always be poor, and in the way that they did not teach their children how to live in a society that thrives on savings, investments, and credit, their children would continue their legacy of poverty. He thought about transferring to customer service, but decided that the biggest part of a customer service representative was answering the telephone, opening accounts, ordering checks, making ATM cards, and listening to the grumblings of unhappy customers. He knew that he would never become management material, promoted to loan officer, assistant branch manager, and then branch manager unless he made the transition from the teller's window to the customer service desk and learned all of the banking duties. Yet, he viewed the customer service job as a negative job filled with complaints and complaining customers. Besides, he would have to conspicuously sit out on the main floor behind a desk and wear a suit coat and he looked ridiculous in a suit coat. His narrow shoulders appeared narrower when squashed within the confines of a suit coat. He felt more comfortable in the somewhat informal attire of a shirt and tie, or bowtie, as he preferred to wear. He believed that his job as the head teller of the bank was like the master sergeant's role on the battlefield, the non-commissioned liaison officer of war between management, employees, and customers. It was not that he viewed his place of employment as a battlefield, his job as a battle, and his customers as the enemy, but some customers became testy when it came to their money. Even though he liked most of his customers, he preferred the isolation of standing behind the window and doing business behind the protection of bulletproof glass. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 02 It was not that he was worried about a robbery, but after watching the evening news, and after receiving the FBI's statistics that stated that after convenience stores and gas stations, bank robberies had the highest increase in incidences, and they attributed the increase in those incidences to the economy. Ergo, a bad economy was the barometer signaling a surge in bank robberies. He was aware of the danger. The management of the bank and law enforcement agencies routinely faxed directives and warnings. If you believe one group of statisticians who said that violent crime was down because the population was older and was less motivated to commit violent crimes, other statisticians warned that violent crime was up because of the increased population, along with the numbers of those willing to commit violent crimes. A third statistic warned of illegal immigrants who became desperate for money after they were denied good paying jobs, but that warning was area specific to the southeast, specifically Miami, Florida, and the southwest along the Mexican border. Other faxes routinely warned of terrorist organizations that robbed armored cars first and banks second to fund their terrorism. That fax scared him the most because terrorists were without conscience and did not care about killing anyone who interfered with their attempt to get money to fund their cause. Whether he subscribed to one group of the other, the fact remained that bank robberies, regardless of whether there were more bank robberies or less bank robberies, were now more violent, specifically recalling the bank robbery in Los Angeles where the robbers armed themselves with automatic weapons and bulletproof armor and engaged themselves in a gunfight with the entire Los Angeles Police Department. They would rather die, and did die, than go to prison and they did not care whom they killed to make their escape. He found himself watching real life police videos and dramas, such as Cops, the Real LAPD, and Caught on Video. Unfortunately, those programs sensationalized reality for television ratings filled him with paranoia that crime was all around him. In one way, it beneficially increased his awareness about crime and gave him some useful insight about criminals, but the heavy dosage that those shows fed the public were negative and, with some scenes depicted as dramatized versions of what may happen, the depictions were not as realistic as they portrayed them to be. Further, even if they preceded the shows with a warning that his was a depiction of what could happen, the drama appeared so real that people usually believed that it was real. He noticed that always around the holidays, from just before Thanksgiving to just after New Years, that crime, especially violent crime, rapes, armed robberies, assaults, and murders suddenly increased. People who wanted what others had became more desperate in the immediacy of their need for it around the holidays. He hated guns, would never own one himself, and did not want to die by a bullet. He realized that, as a teller, he was at risk and more of a target, especially around the holidays when peoples' desperation was heightened by the need for money. Yet, his job was a bank teller and he loved it. Call it denial, say it will never happen to me, but he tried not to dwell on the eventual certainty of a bank robbery. If you think about it, it will happen. As a teller, he enjoyed the feel of money when counting it and enjoyed the knowledge of knowing how much money people had in their accounts. If he changed careers, he would miss the hands-on contact between customer and their money, an intimacy and a personal trust nearly as powerful as love. Chapter 9 "How May I Help You?" Mrs. Sullivan, wearing the same raggedy jacket each year, needed more help than he could give her by only cashing her social security checks. She needed money; she looked poor. "Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan. How may I help you?" "You can cash my social security for me, Michael." She slid the check across the window counter beneath the glass toward him. She adjusted her kerchief, tying the knot tighter under her chin, as if she was getting ready to run a race and did not want it to blow off her head. "I'm a hopin' today is my lucky day. Mr. Murphy got in a new batch of rainbow scratch tickets, the ones with the cute little Leprechauns holding a pot of gold. I'm a hopin' St. Patrick will smile down his Irish luck on my poor soul and scratch me a winner." She paused, as if she were counting her winnings. "The grand prize is a million dollars." She put her hand over her chest and closed her eyes. "I can only imagine all the wonderful things that I would buy with a million dollars." She opened her eyes and smiled, "What would you do with a million dollars, Michael?" "You mean, what would I do with the six hundred and fifty thousand dollars that I would have left after I paid the federal and state taxes?" He smiled, "I'd keep my job, take a trip to Ireland, and buy a new Mustang, a green GT." Michael paused his dreaming to count out Mrs. Sullivan's money. "I'd buy a house near Castle Island so that I could see the harbor from my living room, finish college, go to graduate school, Babson College for finance, and invest in the stock market and diversify my money in long-term, blue chip, growth stocks, convertible bonds to hedge the stocks for inflation, and add some high risk yield stocks for my eventual retirement." "Oh, Michael, why in dear God would you keep your job?" "Because I would miss my customers." He winked at Mr. Foley who stood behind Mrs. Sullivan. "I love servicing people like you, Mrs. Sullivan." He touched her fingers beneath the glass handing her the money. "I'd keep my job because I would miss you." "Blarney," she smiled blushed her face and, pulling her fingers away, waved a hand at him, "A winning lottery ticket is wasted on you." "What would you do with the six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Mrs. Sullivan?" "I'd buy me a fur coat," she cocked her head as if she was already wearing it and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, "a full length mink that fell to my ankles." She looked back at Michael, "A mink like the ones that they have on the Price Is Right, but with a hood." She raised her arms, as if to put the hood over her head, and Michael could see the dirt stains under her sleeves. "One that has those big sleeves like a muff, so I could stick my hands in when it got cold out and keep them warm." She lowered her arms. "I wouldn't need to wear gloves because the mink would keep my hands warm." She said with a shiver, "I'd never be cold, again." "Then, I'd go to the jewelry store and buy the biggest diamond ring they had." She looked up at the ceiling, again, as if the ceiling held the answers before returning her attention to Michael. "And I'd buy my husband a Cadillac, sapphire blue with blue leather seats, and give the rest of the money to my children, so that they all could buy houses and cars. And, of course, I'd give a big check to the church." As if the dream had been enough to satisfy her yearning of winning the lottery, she smiled, showing her missing teeth. "I wish you luck, Mrs. Sullivan, but don't go spending all of your money on lottery tickets. It's going to be a cold winter and that's when the greedy oil cartel raises their prices." "I have electric heat, Honey," she smiled. "Well, after everyone fell for the electric company's deregulation campaign and voted for that question on the ballot, Boston Edison requested hearings to raise prices. Their reason for the price hike is as illogical as their greed. Today's Boston Globe reported that the price Edison pays for energy has raised so, they have tripled the surcharge that they charge the consumer." He shrugged, "It doesn't matter if you have oil, gas, coal, wood or electric, it's going to cost everyone more this year to stay warm." He watched his words fall short of his intended target but persevered. "Best you open a savings account now and start—" "Oh, I will, Michael. I'll open up an account next month." She waved her little bit of cash at him, as she hurried to dash to Murphy's Convenience Store. "I'll see you next month, Michael." Mr. Foley, unshaven and thinner and looking at Michael through bloodshot eyes, had been out of work since they moved the shoe factory to Mexico and laid everyone off two years ago. He needed a job; he looked desperate. "How are you, Mr. Foley?" "There's something seriously wrong with you, Michael, if after winning a million dollar lottery—" Michael raised his eyebrows giving Mr. Foley a whimsical look. "Okay, six hundred fifty thousand, that you would still keep your job." He smiled. "McCarthy is paying you way too much money, 'cause you're too damn content." "I'm not much of a dreamer, Mr. Foley," Michael smiled. "How may I help you?" "Well, you could give me your lottery ticket, if you ever come across a winner and I promise to show you how I'll spend it." "If you're giving away winning lottery tickets, Michael, please buy me a car, a new Chevy, before you go and give all that prize money to Foley," said Mr. Shea who stood in line two customers behind Mr. Foley. "I would never waste my money on scratch tickets, but if I ever come across a winner, it's yours," he said to Mr. Foley who had the same dreamy eyed look that Mrs. Sullivan had on her face when she thought about spending her imagined winnings. "But you have to promise me you'll buy a fur coat for Mrs. Sullivan and a car for Mr. Shea." "Yeah, sure, okay, I promise." Mr. Foley turned and looked down at Mr. Shea. "A blue Impala, Foley, with leather interior," said Shea. Mr. Foley smiled and turned his attention back to Michael. "You know, my son, Donald, works for the FBI, and he told me that a promise is legal in court. He said it was," he rubbed his chin searching for the right word, "it was..." "A verbal contract," said Mr. Shea. "Yeah, that's right." He thanked Mr. Shea with a look and turned back to Michael. "That's what he said, a verbal contract, and in a court of law, a verbal contract is just a legal as a signed one." "Mr. Foley, I agree with you. Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea," Michael looked down the line at his customers. "You're my witnesses." Michael smiled, raised his right hand, and placed his left hand over his heart. "I promise to give you, Mr. Foley, any and all winning lottery tickets that I come across in my lifetime, so help me God." "There's no Bible for you to place your hand on but, as you were a man of God—" "Am, Mr. Foley, still am." "I'll take your word on it." He reached in his pocket and took out his passbook. "In the meantime, that is, until you hand over your winning lottery ticket to me, I need to withdraw money from my savings, fifty dollars, please." He handed Michael his passbook. "I have an interview tomorrow at Home Depot." He ran a hand across his mouth and made a sound like a man dying of thirst. "I need a haircut, a shave, and my shoes shined." "I'm sure you'll get the job, Mr. Foley. They'll hire you on the spot." "D'ya think so?" "Yes, I do." Michael smiled nodding his head. "I hope so, Michael." Mr. Foley accepted the receipt of his passbook, opened it to see the balance, and waved the book at him. "It's been a long while since I've had extra enough income to make a deposit instead of a withdrawal." He smiled at Michael, turned, and walked away counting his money. "Knock 'em dead, Mr. Foley." "Thanks, Michael," he waved good-bye and ducked in the liquor store across the street. Mrs. O'Reilly always announcing her arrival and her departure from the bank with a cough, still without health insurance, no longer talked about the heart operation she needed. She needed that operation; she looked sick. "Hello, Mrs. O'Reilly. How may I help you?" "Oh, just stopped in to cash this check from my daughter." She had the nervous habit of rubbing her hands, as if forever soothing them with crème. She signed the check, handed it to Michael, and rubbed her hands. "It's for my cough medicine. The doctor said that I'll stop my heart if I keep on coughing like I do." She sighed and rubbed. "But my medication has doubled in price since I started taking it." She shrugged and coughed. "It's so expensive that I take half of what I should and do without it on the weekends." "It's not good to change the dosage without consulting with your doctor, Mrs. O'Reilly." He paused to count out her money and slid the cash beneath the glass to her. "See Jack Callahan at the Senior Center, he'll put you in touch with a state agency that may help you with the cost of your medication or, maybe, the pharmacist can give you a generic brand." The pasty pallor of her complexion stopped him from ending the transaction. "You have family in Canada, don't you, a sister in Ontario?" "Yes, my sister moved there years ago with her husband and three kids. Her husband worked for General Motors for years in Flint, Michigan, until they moved the operation to Canada, laid-off everyone, and closed the factory. What General Motors did to Flint was criminal." She stopped talking to cough and to rub her hands. "He was skilled at fixing machinery, so they kept him on and transferred him to Ontario." She paused, again, to put the money in her purse. "The children are in college and he must be close to retirement, now. My sister said, when she left the United States—" "My point is, Mrs. O'Reilly," interrupted Michael; "the exchange rate from American dollars to Canadian is very favorable, and the medicine in Canada is much cheaper than it is in the United States." He nodded his head over to Mrs. Ahern who just entered the safety deposit box vault. "She buys her medication in Canada. She goes there with a bus full of senior citizens from the United States every three months. The ones who can't make the trip have their prescriptions transferred there and mailed here. Perhaps, your sister can pick up your medication for you and mail them to you and you can reimburse her for the cost." "Thank you, Michael, I had no idea." She smiled, "You're so very helpful. My sister did mention medication being cheaper there, but I couldn't see how I could have her buy it for me. I'll ask my doctor how I can transfer my prescriptions there." She smiled at him, again. "When are you going to let me fix you up with my granddaughter?" "Oh, I prefer to find my own dates, Mrs. O'Reilly. Besides, your granddaughter just turned 18. What would she want with an old man like me?" He smiled, "But, thank you for considering me." "Old man? How old are you, Michael, twenty-one?" "I'm twenty-four and will be twenty-five in a couple months." "Well, you'll never find anyone here at the bank. You need to go out and have some fun." She smiled until her smile turned into a cough and until she walked away." "Feel better, Mrs. O'Reilly." Mrs. Duffy, always bragging about her twins, did not mention that they graduated high school last year and, forsaking their American dream by abandoning their hope of going to college, they served retail customers at the mall, instead. Her children needed an education; she looked sad. "Hi, Mrs. Duffy. How may I help you?" "I'm a week late with my loan payment, Michael." She tore out a coupon from her book, filled it out, and handed it to him with her check. "How are the twins?" "Driving me crazy with boyfriends." She looked over at the student aid applications. "It's the age," he smiled. "They'll grow out of it, get married, and have kids. Then, your grandchildren will be the ones driving you crazy." He laughed. "Grandchildren are a ways off, I hope," she said returning his smile. "Will they charge me a late fee?" She said while still staring at the student aid applications with her voice drifting away with her attention. "No, Mrs. Duffy." Michael stamped her check, stapled the coupon to it, and gave her a dated receipt. "You are still within the bank's grace period." "Thank you, Michael." "If I hit the lottery," she picked up the student aid application, opened it, and looked through it. "I'd see to it that my daughters were college educated." She waved the brochure at him like a stick which reminded him of how his mother waved the wooden spoon over the stew pot when talking as she cooked. "It's a crying shame that these colleges with their application fees, registration fees, dormitory fees, meal plan fees, medical fees, tuition fees, and book fees can get away with charging poor, hard working people like us more than we can afford to pay to send our children to college when they are rich with wealthy endowments and do not even need our tuition money." She replaced the student aid application in the plastic holder and left the bank. Mr. Shea came in every day fumbling through his pockets for the few dollars that he needed to make change for the bus and the train, after he no longer could afford to repair his 15-year-old Chevy Caprice wagon. He needed a car; he looked tired. "Good morning, Mr. Shea. How may I help you?" "You can buy me a new car, Michael, if you hit the lottery, that's what you can do for me. One of those new Chevy Impalas will do very nicely, thank you very much. I like the back end of that car. It reminds me of my old Chevy." "Sorry, Mr. Shea, but did you not hear me? I already promised my winning ticket to Mr. Foley. Maybe, he'll buy you a new Impala. Actually, did you hear him? He promised that he would buy you a new car, if I gave him my winning lottery ticket." "Ha! That cheap Irishman wouldn't buy his mother a pint if she was dying of thirst." He dug deep in his pocket and pulled out two wrinkled dollar bills. "I should buy change by the rolls, at least enough for the week but," he handed Michael the money, "I hate having change jingling in my pockets or rolling around in my briefcase." He laughed, "It must have something to do with my days as a paperboy." He laughed, again, "Back then, the good news only cost a nickel, today, the bad news cost fifty cents." "There's always the transit pass, Mr. Shea." "Yeah, if only I were as organized as you, Michael." He took receipt of his change, pocketed it, and said, "You have a good day, now." "Thank you, Mr. Shea, you too." Too concerned with the daily happenings within his community and too immersed within the personal problems of his customers, Michael needed a life. Unable to alter anyone's life but his own, he started his new life with a change, albeit, a forced one. Chapter 10 Earth Bank "Either you accept the transfer, Michael, or we will have to let you go," said Mr. McCarthy, the Branch Manager. He waited for Michael's response before reacting to his silence. "Don't be a fool, man. You cannot throw away the years that you have invested with the bank. Earth Bank has more opportunities than Neighborhood Bank could ever offer you." Michael waited for Mr. McCarthy to finish knowing that it would be a while for him to talk himself out about Michael's future. "Earth Bank is a global financial institution with branches world-wide and has billions of dollars in assets, whereas, Neighborhood Bank is a three branch local institution with millions of dollars in assets. The opportunities for advancement are greater with an organization that employs 10,000 people over one that employs 100." Michael knew that it was a better career move with more opportunity and more money, but career advancement and making more money were not his major concerns right now. He knew from those who had been through similar takeovers that the first thing they did is to transfer their employees, transferring some out of state, while others, who had commutes so long, had to relocate if they wanted to keep their jobs. The corporate office did not care if those transferred employees stayed or quit, giving them the ultimatum to either move or leave. He knew that they would perceive him as one of those employees and, either way, if he decided to quit now or temporarily go with Earth Bank and resign later, eventually, he was out of a job. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 02 For the reasons that he did not want to leave his neighborhood, he remained unconvinced by Mr. McCarthy's emotional argument that Earth Bank was a better opportunity than was Neighborhood Bank. Yet, what did it matter. Neighborhood Bank would no longer exist. The decision was already made for him; the choice that Earth Bank left him was not a good one. What he had at Neighborhood Bank, which he would not have at Earth Bank, was his neighborhood and the people who comprised the community. His job, as Head Teller at Neighborhood Bank, made him feel important. It gave him a hand in influencing the financial decisions, however small, of those people who happened in the bank and appeared before his window. What he had at Neighborhood Bank, which he would miss at Earth Bank, was a feeling that he was helping his neighbors and helping his neighborhood. His sense of community extended himself beyond the responsibilities of his job. Rather than a bank teller, he felt that his role was more like a financial liaison of the bank helping the customers of the community. He thought of running for political office knowing that he could help his community more than those who were in office now, but he did not want to change his dislike for politicians by becoming one. He believed that most politicians were self-serving and dishonest. At Neighborhood Bank, he had control of his destiny, conversely, working for Earth Bank or if elected to political office even, he would not have the control that he needed to feel self-satisfied. Though he did not feel particularly satisfied at Neighborhood Bank and felt that he did not help his customers as much as he wanted, he would feel even more dissatisfied at Earth Bank. Like a priest giving confession, he enjoyed his customers coming before his window one at a time saying, "Forgive me Michael for I have spent and it has been one week since my last deposit." He imagined responding to their spending and lack of savings by saying, "Make a deposit and promise thee that thou shall not use thou debit card for three days." Like a monsignor giving his blessing, he allowed the neighborhood children to solicit contributions at the entrance of the bank for charitable organizations and for youth sports. Like the Bishop interpreting a rule of faith, he gave customers permission to post their notices of lost or found, for yard sales, or for anything of interest to the neighborhood on the bulletin board of the bank. Everyone who entered or left the bank paused in front of the corkboard filled with papers as if it was a fountain of holy water. Like the Pope giving his special dispensation to his audience at Vatican City, he allowed merchants to post flyers on the windows of the bank that advertised their weekly sales. He enjoyed the power that his job directly gave him over his customers and that indirectly gave him over his community. The policy of the bank was not to post such things and forbade any solicitation of the customers of the bank for anything other than banking business. Yet, because the bank had been such an important part of the community for such a long time, their written policies were more of a safeguard should there be a problem with an employee or in liability should there be a problem with a customer rather than an expressed rule of commercial banking business. Each branch manager interpreted the policies of the bank as they saw fit. Mr. McCarthy, who now openly expressed his dissatisfaction with his role in the community that he had enjoyed for 37 years, was as much a part of the community of South Boston as the Mayor was of Boston. No matter how much Mr. McCarthy complained about it and railed against it, he could not change it. Besides, although he would not admit it, he enjoyed the power over his customers that came with his job. Once Earth Bank took over, their written policies were no longer guidelines but rules. More importantly, South Boston would no longer have a community bank, but another big bank, rather a glassed cubicle that replaced the customer service of Neighborhood Bank with an impersonal array of ATM machines. Neighborhood Bank had been the last small bank to hold out against the big banks buying out every small bank. Under the laws of banking, the laws that the mega-banks lobbied each year to change to accommodate themselves, these mega-bank mergers eradicated the competition so that these super-banks could charge whatever exorbitant fees they wanted, of course, for the convenience of the customer. The banks lobbied to change the same banking laws to charge their customers as much as legally allowed on their credit cards. The laying-off of bank tellers and the replacement of them with ATM machines decreased the expenses of the bank and increased their bottom line profits and earning that not only made their investors happier but also richer. It was an insult to the intelligence of their customers for the banks to proclaim that any of the changes to the banking laws were for customer convenience. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 03 Chapter 11 Neighborhood Bank The subterranean basement of Neighborhood Bank, three floors below ground level, where the armored car drivers took the freight elevator down to deposit monies received from the Federal Reserve Bank, served as a bomb shelter during both World Wars. The employees, who worked with piped in music and filtered air, believed that Horace haunted the basement. Horace, a janitor at the bank during the roaring twenties, maintained the furnace by shoveling enough coal in the roaring fire to keep the Browmens, as he referred to them instead of Brahmins, from complaining that they were cold. Happy to have a job during the desperation of the twenties, Horace sang as he shoveled. When not singing, he smoked the discarded cigars he found in the trash. Horace had an unlimited supply of cigars because many who received cigars did not smoke or did not smoke cigars. He saved counterfeit money to light his cigars, money that he was supposed to have burned in the furnace, and he felt like a millionaire whenever he lit a 50-cent cigar with a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill. During a robbery, in 1929, bank robbers trying to find an escape route stumbled upon Horace shoveling coal. He startled the robbers when he came out from behind a furnace as dirty as the coal he shoveled. Surprised to happen upon someone in the subterranean basement, the robbers mistook him for a G-man and mistook his shovel for a shotgun. They shot him dead. They caught and convicted the robbers, yet, long after oil replaced coal; those who have worked in the subterranean basement vaults counting money still hear the pinging of Horace's steel shovel hitting coal and the honey sound of his baritone voice singing, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. The bank with its auxiliary generators served as a shelter when Hurricane Carol knocked out the power in '53 and during the blizzard of '78. Serving a Democratic and Catholic, blue-collar community; the bank stayed open serving coffee and donuts until after the polls closed when John F. Kennedy ran for President in '60. The bank opened their doors as a gathering center when Oswald assassinated the President in '63 and closed during the presidential funeral. When the Boston Strangler murders panicked the residents in the early sixties, Neighborhood Bank mailed flyers explaining how customers could keep themselves safe. The bank sponsored a letter writing campaign when the military shipped several of the neighborhood boys to Vietnam and donated money to establish scholarship funds in memory of those boys who died. The bank helped the residents of South Boston cut the red tape to bring over their relatives from Ireland for menial labor jobs during the economic boon of the eighties. When the tall ships came to Boston Harbor, the bank allowed their customers access to its roof that stood three stories taller than any South Boston building and allowed them access every Fourth of July to view the fireworks held on the Charles River Esplanade during the Boston Pops concert. The bank opened its doors when fire destroyed six triple-decker homes on A Street and funded accounts for the neighborhood to donate money to the families who lost everything. The bank used its lobby as a command post when rescuers searched for 5-year-old Colleen O'Brien offering a reward for her safe return and helped pay the funeral expenses when they found her dead, murdered by a neighborhood pervert. "These changes in job, in neighborhood, and in customers," said Mr. McCarthy when Michael did not respond, "could be the best changes that ever happened to you." He smiled, "Who knows, you may meet someone, get married, have children, buy a house, and manage your own Earth Bank branch." He paused. "If you would rather not leave Massachusetts, Earth Bank has branches in Lexington, Concord, Newton, and Wellesley, along with 30 other cities and towns within the Commonwealth. Some of the cities that I mentioned are fine communities to live, to start a family, and to raise children. They have some of the best school systems in the country." He smiled. "I'll give you the highest recommendation to whichever branch you decide to go." Then, he corrected himself. "I mean, to whichever branch they decide to send you." Michael raised his line of vision from Mr. McCarthy's feet to stare at the hair that grew from the mole on his chin. Is it not enough that my friends and family pressure me to marry and have children and, now, even my boss pressures me to conform to his imagined design of my life. McCarthy's droning voice interrupted his thoughts. "There are advantages to working for a large financial institution that has branches in most states and in most countries. If I had an opportunity like that in my career, I would have not stayed her another minute." He waved his hand around as if he were talking about the entire neighborhood. "There's nothing holding you here. You must be as tired talking to the same customers who walk through that door, everyday, as I am." Michael listened to Mr. McCarthy, not saying anything to encourage his dissatisfaction. "You could transfer to Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, or Iowa where the standard of living is cheaper or to Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee or Georgia. They even have a branch close to Disney World." He paced as he talked. "The cost of raising a family and buying a home are much less in those parts of the country than here in the Northeast. Here a modest house will cost you two and three times what it does most other places in the country." He pointed up his index finger to make a point. "They have branches in New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine. If you like Winter sports, those are perfect places to work and recreate." He laughed. "You could ski to work and then turn around and ski home to your wife and children." Again, thought Michael, here we go with more pressure to marry, have children, and buy a house. "Yes," McCarthy furrowed his brow, "Especially for someone young and with a bright future, as you do, change is a good thing." He continued. "Why, when I was about your age...before the war...back then...you were lucky to have a job...then...after the war...in the fifties...that's how I started my banking career...but, in the sixties...and the seventies...then, during the eighties...and the nineties...now, the new millennium..." Michael had stopped listening to him when he was recollecting the start of his career in the sixties. He had heard if all before from Mr. McCarthy and, now, with Neighborhood bank closing, McCarthy appeared to need the comfort that came with telling somebody, anyone who would listen to his rants and ravings, about his past experiences peppered with advice on what they should do to not make the same mistakes that he had made. "Perhaps, one day," Michael tuned Mr. McCarthy's voice back in, "Earth Bank will reopen a branch here and you can request a transfer back to your old neighborhood." He placed a fatherly hand on Michael's shoulder. "You are a good man, son, and have been an exemplary employee. The take-over requires that they close this bank. Neighborhood Bank will no longer exist after the first of the year." He removed his hand. "You must make your decision, now, Michael." Mr. McCarthy gazed through the brass and glass doors of the bank at the street. His daily ritual of waving to customers as they passed the bank stopped today; he ignored those who waved him their hellos. Something that he fostered in every bank employee not to do and reinforced daily in his policy of customers service, he now blatantly violated. "I know how you must feel, but you could not possibly feel any worse than I feel, now." His eyes welled up and his voice cracked. "They are razing my bank to replace it with a 7-bay ATM station and sold the rest of the land to the condominium development next door for parking." He pounded his fist in his hand. "Can you imagine destroying a bank that has served this community for more than 100 years, so that some Yuppie bastard can park his damn SUV closer to his condo while running over with a freakin' cell phone glued to his ear to use the ATM?" He pressed his hands deep in his pant pockets. "I can't." He paced, again. "Can you imagine cars parked where my lobby is now?" He turned to look back and pulled a hand from his pocket to wave his arm towards the rear of the immense room. "Imagine cars parked behind the tellers' cages, in my vault, and in my office." "The future," said McCarthy, "will be one gas station chain, one supermarket chain, and one bank chain. Whatever happened to the Monopoly Law that they passed in '35?" He looked at Michael. "With the loss of free enterprise, a socialistic government will control everything, just as George Orwell predicted in his book, 1984. Soon, we'll all be dressed alike and reciting passages from out of a small book that we must keep with us at all times. We'll lose our freedom of choice along with our right to disagree." "When I started my career thirty-seven years ago," he fell quiet. Then, he said, "My manager, Mr. Moran, said that the automobile and automobile loans would make this bank prosper and financially secure while ingratiating us to the community. Now, the parking of automobiles will break this bank and destroy this community. The big banks will exploit this community by abandoning their customers in favor of land developers who, for a scenic view in exchange for a high rent, will forever change the character of this neighborhood by forcing the good folks who have lived here all of their lives out." "What do we do with all of those paintings?" asked Michael looking at the pictures that lined every bit of wall space of the bank. "Oh, we'll have to return them to Mrs. McNaulty. She was kind enough to allow us to display them with the hopes of making a sale or two." Mr. McCarthy examined the few paintings that decorated his office, each painting highlighted a different landscape of Ireland with a tag below identifying the location of the scene, the artist name and telephone number, and the price of the painting should anyone want to buy one. "Beautiful, aren't they? It makes me want to retire to Ireland." He paused. "Yet, I would never leave here." He paused, again. "This is the greatest country in the world." Michael looked around the room with the belief that Ireland could not be that green, that bright, and that colorfully happy. He thought about the war of religion. He thought about the terrorists who murdered so many innocent people. He thought about the terrorism and the civil war, the Catholics against the Protestants and the Irish against the English that tore Ireland apart. He thought about the poverty that persisted for hundreds of years. He thought about the children and their future. When he refocused his attention to the paintings that lined every wall of the bank, they appeared less green, less bright, and not as happy as before. He realized that he did feel worse than Mr. McCarthy did. At least, Mr. McCarthy, now at the end of his career, had the opportunity to serve his entire career at one place within the neighborhood that he loved and where he lived. Michael felt comfortable in his job; he loved his neighborhood and like his customers. He did not want to leave it and them. He felt that Earth Bank was ripping him away from the life that he had so dearly wanted to lead. He hated Earth Bank for that. He wished he could start his own bank and call it, "O'Leary's Savings and Loan." He thought about a calendar filled not with landscapes of Ireland but with mini-portraits painted by Irish artists of the people of Ireland and given to every customer of opened an account. Mr. McCarthy stopped talking and Michael lowered his stare that went from his chin to his feet. He considered everything that he Mr. McCarthy had said and wondered, if after they turned the bank into a parking lot, if Horace would stay or leave, finally. He hoped that Horace stayed to haunt the ATM machines of Earth Bank. He wished that Horace's voice would come over the loud speaker of the ATM machine with him singing, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, before filling the customers' withdrawal with coal instead of cash. When he looked up, finally, he was no longer in Mr. McCarthy's office at Neighborhood Bank in South Boston; instead, he was at the North End branch of Earth Bank with an old woman dressed all in black standing in front of his teller's window. Chapter 12 Mrs. Enunzio She had a genderless face with skin that never sought shelter from the sun. Dry and wrinkled, her flesh reminded him of the worn and cracked leather car seats from his father's 1968 Chrysler Imperial. Her dark eyes, reflecting nothing, appeared like periods after a sentence that did not have another thought after it. One not to wasted money on makeup to mask her jaundiced complexion or to conceal her pockmarked skin; she covered her coiled gray hair with a long shawl of black lace. As fated to someone in their advancing years, the growth of her nose kept pace with the growth of her ears giving her a gargoyle like appearance. Her rounded shoulders created a slight hunch in her back making her appear like she carried something heavy all the time. Her appearance and her clothing, his stereotypical image of a witch, would make for a scary Halloween costume. Yet, her youthful mannerism of quick hand and eye movements, and her walking and talking fast, made him suspect that she was younger than she appeared. "Good morning," said Michael. "How may I help you?" "I'm Mrs. Enunzio," she said with a backward tilt of her head. "Hello, Mrs. Enunzio." Michael repeated her name as a way of remembering it, as taught to him by Mr. McCarthy. "I'm Michael O'Leary, transferred from South—" "Wheresa Angelo?" She hurled the question at him like vomit projecting her attitude with it and used another backward tilt of her head to emphasize her words. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand before he could answer and said, "I only deala with Angelo." Michael instantly summed her up. Accustomed to first and second generation Irish, some Jewish and immigrant Polish and his share of impatiently demanding Yuppies at Neighborhood Bank in South Boston, this unfamiliar Italian customer at the North End branch of Earth Bank did not impair him from cataloging her as rude, arrogant, and ignorant. Although he switched his professional personality to that of a steward aboard an airplane with a difficult passenger, he had little patience for her bad behavior and Mrs. Enunzio had plenty of that to give. They should have closed this North End branch instead of the South Boston branch, he thought. I should be there instead of here. Michael noticed details about people. He thought it odd that her hands were not as old looking as her face. He took pride in the fact that he could describe anyone who he had seen in the street, even if he had only seen them for a few seconds. He treated his recall for detail as a game that he played with himself. His mother said of him that he should have been a portrait painter or a sculptor. Maybe later, he told himself, whenever he thought about doing something more creative. Maybe, later, when he retired, he would smear paint over canvass creating an image or chisel stone into something artistic. Now, he enjoyed his game of names and faces. It started as a way to remember customers' names. Easy matches were names like Mr. Small, who because he was so tall, reminded him of his last name. Mrs. White had translucent skin, skin that develops like the image of a ghost as you age and disappear, finally. Mr. Evans wore his hair parted down the middle, even on both sides. His game evolved into looking for as much details as he could and those unaccustomed to his observation felt that he stared at them. The people of South Boston had grown accustomed to his examination, but the people of this neighborhood did not appreciate his scrutiny, especially from someone who had flaming orange hair. After receiving complaints about his character study, Mr. Florentino, the Branch Manager, asked him not to appear so obvious in his search for information. Michael continued his secret name game but, this time, more discreetly. He did not think anymore about Mrs. Enunzio's youthful hands. Perhaps, she used hand lotion or wore gloves. He did not care because he did not like her and, whenever he did not like someone, which was unusual because he liked everyone, he lost interest in he or she being a secret contestant in his character study game. Still, he thought of her name, Mrs. Enunzio, and because she dressed all in black, he thought about her as a nun, an evil nun or e-nun, who should live in a zoo, thus using that as an aid to help him remember her name. All of this name game played through his mind within a few seconds of watching Mrs. Enunzio fidgeting in front of his window. "They transferred Angelo from Earth Bank's North End branch to Earth Bank's Charlestown branch," he said smiling, "and when they took over Neighborhood Bank and closed it, they transferred me from South Boson to here, the North End." He shared his information with her in his friendly manner wanting to give her the benefit of doubt and another chance for her to redeem herself with him before he wrote her off. "Go figure," he shrugged. "I'm just an employee and am at the mercy of their whimsy where they will place me." He laughed. "Maybe, next year, they will transfer me to Ireland," he laughed, again, "or to Italy." Michael wished in the buyout and subsequent take-over of Neighborhood Bank by Earth Bank that they had transferred him to Charlestown, another Irish part of Boston where he had family and could have had a place to trade gossip for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at lunch. "I'm Angelo's replacement, Michael," he said when she did not respond. He gave her the smile that he saved for his most difficult customers. "How many I help you, Mrs. Enunzio?" He repeated her name, made eye contact, and smiled, again." Mrs. Enunzio, how may I help you?" Even though he was born at Boston City Hospital, schooled in Boston Public Schools, and lived in South Boston all of his life, an Irish Brogue inherited from his mother surfaced with his Irish temper. Although it was a rare occasion for his temper to take control of his mood, it happened now. He noticed that his brogue seemed to anger her. He made it thicker, as thick as the head of an Irishman when told that he cannot have another pint and that he has had enough. She stared at him as if he was a foreigner in her country, when it was the opposite. She was the foreigner in his country. "How man I help you?" He repeated, yet, again. "Ehhh!" Like a gunfighter going for a gun, she jerked up her right hand and, tilting her head in the direction of the vault, said, "I needa to opena my box." She exaggerated the O of open and enunciated the word My like she owned the bank and hissed the X of box like a serpent at the ready to strike her victim with poison. "Do you mean that you need to gain access to your safety deposit box, Mrs. Enunzio? Or do you want an application to rent a safety deposit box." Michael knew what she wanted but repeated his series of questions just to annoy and, hopefully aggravate and agitate her. "Or do you have a lock box with the bank for business cash receipt deposits?" Michael thickened his brogue when she still did not respond to his question. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Enunzio, but I did not understand what you meant when you said, I needa to opena my box." "Wheresa Florentino? Getta me Florentino, nowa!" She turned from Michael and yelled in the direction of the branch manager's office, "Florentino! Florentino! Veni que!" Michael saw Mr. Florentino quickly approach." "Ahem," Mr. Florentino appeared behind her clearing his throat. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 03 She glimpsed at Michael's nameplate and with an upward lift of her nose told him where to go without a word. She turned to Mr. Florentino and, with the same pronunciation of O and of My and with the same inflection of X said, "I needa to opena my box." "Excusa, Signora Enunzio, excusa, uno momento piacere," he said bowing his baldhead to her. "I needa to opena my box," she repeated with impatient desperation to her voice. "Of course, Signora Enunzio, of course." He lightly touched her arm to redirect her attention to Michael. "This is Michael O'Leary, transferred from South Boston, he can help you with your—". With a look that wrinkled his tie, she stopped him from speaking any more about Michael O'Leary helping her. He straightened his tie, tugged his vest down over his bulging belly, and buttoned his suit coat. "But, I can help you, today," he said with a flourish of his hand in the manner of a Maitre d' seating an important patron. Mr. Florentino nodded Michael his exasperation. "Your son was here, Friday," said Mr. Florentino, "bright and early, as soon as we opened our doors and, as usual, I suspect he'll arrive Tuesday, as well." She continued walking toward the safety deposit vault without acknowledging his remark. "I noticed that," he persisted, "when your son comes in on Friday, you come in that Monday, and then he comes in again the next day." "Childrena, no matta howa olda, wanta money." She turned to him, "I puta in the money and he taka outa the money." Her faced cracked half a smile. "Ehh, whata ya gonna do?" They disappeared in the vault and Michael heard the cage door of the vault slam shut and lock. Two minutes later, he heard the cage door of the vault squeak open and slam shut. He again heard Mr. Florentino's solicitous, one-sided conversation as they walked by his window to exit the bank. "That's a beautiful shawl, Signora Enunzio, did you make it yourself or did you import it from the old country? It's quite exquisite. My wife would love to have something a beautiful as that." "Yes," she said as she fled the bank. "Yes, what?" Michael wanted to take her by the shoulders and scream in her face. Did you make it yourself or did you import it from the old country? He found it troubling that in the few minutes that he met Mrs. Enunzio that she could illicit that kind of hostile reaction in him. "Buon Giorno, Signora Enunzio," said Mr. Florentino waving his unacknowledged good-bye. "Ciao!" He returned to his office to await the arrival of the next widow of a terminated Mafioso Don." "I hope you fall on the sidewalk and break your hip, Mrs. Enunzio," said Michael for no one to hear. If nothing else, relieving some of the stress from her visit, it made him feel better. He waved to her as she walked on the sidewalk by the bank's window hoping that she would never come to his window, again. Chapter 13 Shannon Kelly-O'Day Mrs. Enunzio crossed Hanover Street from the North End branch of Earth Bank looking over her shoulder as she walked. She ducked down Richmond Street to North Street between Paul Revere's house and the Callahan Tunnel continuing her way across Commercial Street. Once out of the North End, she quickened her pace heading downtown. From the waterfront park, she walked past the Meridian Hotel and the New England Aquarium to where she parked her car in a lot behind Faneuil Hall. She found it difficult to walk in the old, black leather shoes she wore and paused at storefront windows to rest her feet and to view the reflection of those behind her. She noted every car, specifically watching for Ford Crown Victorias, the universal, undercover, cop car of the Boston Police and the FBI. As usually, no one followed her. She blended in with the people who passed by her without anyone giving her so much as a look. Despite Florentino's alertness of her banking routine, once again, she had deceived everyone at the bank and retrieved the envelope left for her. She disregarded Florentino's suspicion chalking it up to his busybody nature. Still, she needed to notify her people that it was time to switch banks and time for her to create another disguise, another character, and another identity. She pushed the traffic signal to cross and waited for the light to change. Without making eye contact, without calling attention to herself, she was aware of everyone who passed by her. A tall, well-dressed man stood beside her to the left. He had the gaunt body of an FBI agent; he could be a cop, but his shoes were too expensive looking and she surmised that he was not a policeman. A woman walking her dog tugged at the leash pulling her dog away just as the dog growled and lunged for her. Startled, Mrs. Enunzio stepped back and felt a light touch on her right side, as a hand took her by the arm. She turned to look at Father Kilpatrick from Saint Mary's Church in South Boston. Surprised to see him, she wondered what he was doing here so far away from his parish in Southie. She panicked when she remembered that she was dressed as Mrs. Enunzio. Did he recognize her? Was he following her? Does he know about her secret life? What does he want? Of all the people to see, Father Kilpatrick, she hurried to think of an excuse why she wore the disguise of an old woman. She thought to tell him that she was going to a masquerade ball held at the Meridian Hotel that she had just passed or she was hired as an actor in a movie that they are shooting on location in Boston or—" "May I help you across the street, madam?" They started across the street. "Oh, Jesus Father, youa frightened me," she said in the practiced voice of Mrs. Enunzio. He did not recognize her. He thinks that she is someone else. "I thought youa werea a mugger aftera mya pursa." She played him along thickening her Italian accent for the benefit of him. "Ita isa not safa to walka the streets alonea anymore." "You are never alone when walking with God, my dear, but here on Earth, it is safer to have an escort," he said smiling at her. "You looked like you could use some help crossing this busy intersection." He pointed to the light as the walk sign appeared and as they began crossing the street. "It's a quick light and the traffic does not allow you enough time to cross." He held up his hand to hold the traffic and deposited her at the curb. "Go with God, my child," he said walking away in the opposite direction. "Thank you, Father," she made the sign of the cross and said calling after him, "and peace be with you." Father Kilpatrick, who baptized her, performed her first communion, her confirmation, married her, and stood by her side giving her his spiritual support when she buried her husband and three children did not recognize her. Born in South Boston and living there most of her life, if Michael O'Leary did not recognize her, little Michael who joined the seminary to forget her, Shannon Kelly, she thought, how would Father Kilpatrick recognize her? She needed to calm down. She was experiencing heart palpations. She was wound too tight with all of this sneaking around in disguise pretending to be someone else. She continued to her car thinking of Michael. She thought about how she rebuffed him when he asked her to the senior prom. "You're too short," she had said to him, "everyone will laugh at me." That comment haunted her more than it hurt him, she believed. She wished she had never said that to him, especially after seeing him again after so many years. He turned out so handsome and so kind. She wished she could ask him for his forgiveness. She wished she could go out with him. She wished her life had turned out differently than it did. She wished she had peace instead of a mission. She thought of her three children and her husband murdered by terrorist as he started their car in front of a Belfast church. The terrorists knew that they were American and wired their car with explosives and murdered her family hoping to get the attention of the United States. She no longer cared if the murderers were Catholic or Protestant; her family was dead. She wished her husband had never gone there. He went with the hope of returning home to Ireland. He felt that the American way was poisoning his children. Besides, he could not find work and hated the hustle of city life. He treasured his memories of his parent's farm in Northern Ireland and thought that a slower, less materialistic life would benefit his children. Shannon wished her mother had not taken ill, so that she could have made the trip with her family instead of staying home to care for her. She wished she had died with them instead of living now only to seek revenge. She wished Mickey Donovan had never proposed a way for her to get back at those bastards who murdered her innocent children and her husband. What could she do, a grieving widow burying her husband, and inconsolable mother burying her three children; she was ripe for the advances of the IRA. She wished she had accepted Michael's invitation to the prom. She wished she had married him. She wished she were dead. Once in her car, Shannon removed her black lace shawl and gray wig unraveling her long, red hair. She turned the rear view mirror to see as she pealed off the rubber like skin that stuck to her face, ears, and nose like old chewing gum. She took out the brown contact lenses that concealed her blue eyes and removed the black dress that covered her shorts and top. She kicked off the uncomfortable shoes, finally, and put on her sneakers. She reached in Mrs. Enunzio's big, black handbag and removed a white envelope that contained a winning lottery ticket and placed that on the seat of her car beside her. She folded her costume in a duffle bag and dropped it on the floor on the passenger side of her car. With one hand on the door and the other hand holding the ignition key, she paused. She always paused before starting her car. No longer could she start her car without thinking of her husband and her three children. The horror of it overwhelmed her. Did they die instantly or did they burn to death in the fire? Did they receive the body of Christ in church that day before they died? If not, did they have time to ask God for his forgiveness for their sins and deliver them to Heaven? She waited wondering and hoping that someone had planted a bomb in her car. Gently, she inserted the ignition key. Gingerly, she turned it. Her heart erupted with the start of the engine. She shifted to drive and drove home to Hyde Park. Chapter 14 The North End Michael missed his customers and missed the neighborhood gossip that made South Boston, Southie. Most of his customers at his new branch were polite, but none were friendly towards him. Their looks of suspicion made him feel like an outsider. When walking about this unfamiliar neighborhood, he felt the stare of the people who lived in these huddled, brick houses. They made him feel like a trespasser. Sometimes, he caught the movement of a curtain or a blind slat and thought it odd, in a neighborhood this crowded, that he did not see more people about walking and talking. He believed that many residents hid in their homes watching out from inside. He could not help but feel that he was under surveillance from prejudiced eyes that hated him for his orange hair and freckled skin. He took to wearing hats that when pulled down far enough covered his hair and sideburns and he concealed his freckles by lowering his head and raising his collar. He found alternative ways to work to avoid those people who he felt gave him la maleocchio, the evil eye. Giuseppe, the cobbler, advised him to carry a red, plastic pepper to ward off the effects of the evil eye. Instead of parking in the lot on Cross Street and walking up Cooper Street, he parked his car on North Washington Street, cut through Stillman Street, across Salem Street, and turned up Parmenter Street to Hanover Street to avoid most residents. Sometimes, if he found a spot on Cooper Street he'd park there bypassing the marketplace all together, but those parking spots were permit parking for the residents of the North End, and he risked a ticket and/or a tow parking there. Besides, the neighbors policed their parking and were not happy with outsiders, especially those with bright orange hair, taking their beloved parking spaces. He used to park on Commercial Street and walk the length of Hanover Street to Earth Bank, but they made that street residential parking too, because too many tourists parked their cars all day to board the tour bus or to walk the red, white, and blue Freedom Trail line, which snaked it's way through the city as a path making sure that tourists never got lost, so long as they did not stray from the path of the Freedom Trail. Mostly, he parked at the Government Center parking garage and walked the mile to the bank. He had to arrive early to take advantage of the early bird special rate. He hated parking garages, traffic, and commuting and, as he did not need to be at the bank until 8:30 for its 9:00 am opening, he had nowhere to go to kill time. When he worked in South Boston, he had breakfast at Bonnie's Brew and Biscuit, now he sat in his car and read. He did not stop in any of the Italian coffee shops that littered Hanover Street. Once, he went in one for a pastry and everyone in the place turned to stare; he took it outside to eat. He felt he was under the constant scrutiny of the narrow minds of a small population of ignorant Italians who could not get by their dislike of his nationality, his heritage, his orange hair, and his last name, O'Leary. He hated how they watched him as he approached, stared at him as he passed them by, and without ever acknowledging his "Hello." Although he saw their glimmers of recognition as he passed by them, few offered him their "Good morning." In response to their ignorance, he stopped offering them his hellos and good-byes. Yet, uncomfortable snubbing customers and potential customers even when away from the bank, as per McCarthy's customer service training permanently was etched in his brain, he reverted to smiling his hello and waving his good-bye to all who he saw. He relieved his anguish over the issue of their ignorance by assuring himself that he was the better person for not playing their game of rudeness and ignorance. Now, his face hurt from the smiles that he saved for his most difficult customers, such as Mrs. Enunzio and now used on the Italian citizenry of the North End. He hated saying, "Hi, how are you?" whenever he recognized someone, especially when they walked by him without a response. Yet, he was glad for their silence, as he really did not care to know how they were, anyway. Still, he hated it when those who could speak fluent English, changed their conversation in his presence to Italian with a heavy Sicilian dialect, which he found impossible to understand. Their ignorance fueled his paranoia, and he believed that they were saying bad things about him. Their side-glances and their unintelligible conversation made him feel that he needed to defend his honor. He comforted himself with the belief that the years that he had invested in the seminary studying for the priesthood were not totally lost. Fluent in Spanish, comfortable with Latin, and able to read and order a meal in French, he had taken only two courses in Italian but, never having the need to speak Italian in South Boston and never having the opportunity to visit Italy, he had forgotten most of what he had learned. He promised to take a course in Italian to find out if they were talking about him and, if they were, to surprise them with Io parle Italiano. Come ti posso aiutare? I speak Italian. How may I help you?" Except for Hanover Hardware where he met Gabriella, a dark-haired, brown-eyes, olive skinned beauty; he stopped frequenting those neighborhood stores where the owners and employees made him feel uncomfortable. He would rather receive a cold shoulder than an insincere greeting. Obviously, they did not appreciate his business, so he decided give his business to those who appreciate him as a customer. Still, their behavior hurt his feelings and the only way that he knew to get back at them was to stop shopping in their stores. He wished that he could confront those who offended him with their coldness and unfriendliness but the slight was so subtle that they would surely deny it and sometimes he wondered if he imagined it. When he worked in South Boston, he enjoyed walking the half-mile to work from his house to his job at Neighborhood Bank. He would stop every morning at Bonnie's Brew and Biscuit for breakfast, for the newspaper, and for the latest gossip before heading off to work. Now, working in the North End for Earth Bank, he hated the walk to the bank from where he was forced to park his car because the residential parking made it difficult to park any closer than he did. It did not bother him as much if the weather was good but when it rained or was cold or it snowed, the walk seemed excruciatingly long. Admittedly, the walk from the bank to where he parked his car was better and he always had a bounce to his step because he was going home. No longer patronizing Angelo's Sub Shop or Maria's Pizza Parlor, he brought his lunch, a lunch that he bought in South Boston and stored in his refrigerator at home. No longer buying fruit at Gino's Market, he bought apples, grapes, and bananas in South Boston and carried them with him to work in his briefcase. He took different streets to avoid walking by their businesses, so that he could save the muscles in his face from freezing in a permanent smiling position after giving the owners his biggest smile. A benefit to his new regime of eating healthier and walking further, he lost ten pounds. He categorized most of the Italians who he became acquainted with as unfriendly towards anyone not Italian and toward anyone who did not grow up in the North End. Glad that those with red hair were no longer thought of as witches; the people of this neighborhood would have surely burned him at the stake. He wondered if he stayed with Earth Bank, where they would transfer him next, assuring himself that anywhere would be better than here. Chapter 15 Little Ralphie Every day of the week, he served the same customers. The customer he looked forward to seeing, the one who he had developed a friendship with was Little Ralphie, the newspaper boy who sold news papers on the corner instead of delivering them door-to-door. Called Little Ralphie, as opposed to his father, Big Ralphie, a thug who supported his family whenever he made money at the track, Little Ralphie came in daily to deposit whatever money had had earned from his paper-route towards the purchase of a new bike. A waif of a boy with a broken front tooth and a limp from a broken leg that did not correctly heal, Little Ralphie looked in need of a good mean, a long bath, and new clothes. Not regularly washing his hair, he had permanent hat hair from constantly wearing his Red Sox baseball cap that Michael had bought him as a birthday gift. Michael wondered if he wore the cap to bed. The type of kid who never could stand still, full of nervous energy, Little Ralphie complained about everything. Tired of listening to his complaints, Michael told him not to complain unless he had a solution to the problem. Now, with as many solutions as complaints, he looked forward to their discussions. Little Ralphie so awed him with his questions that Michael found it difficult to keep up with his quest for knowledge. For some inexplicable reason Little Ralphie was unaware, as Michael asked him, he developed the habit of licking his dirty right hand, only his dirty right hand and never his dirty left hand, as his hands were eternally dirty from the constant contact with newspapers. Then, he would wipe his moist palm across his right eyebrow, never his left eyebrow, and on upward across his forehead to his hairline, moving his cap back with his hand as he went. He repositioned his cap exactly the way it was before he moved it. In the course of a conversation, like a cat cleaning itself, he repeated the same quirky process several times. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 03 The odd behavior troubled Michael and he asked his doctor about it. His doctor told him to get permission from Ralphie's parents to bring him in for an examination, but Michael did not feel comfortable asking Big Ralphie if he could bring his son to the doctor for a physical examination. Fortunately, the habit disappeared when Little Ralphie showed an interest in girls. Little Ralphie adopted Michael as his foster father and Michael accepted the role with honor. He hoped to save him from the streets and from the fate of the lack of morals, principles, manners, ideals, goals, and standards that his parents failed to foster in him. Because he was so small, he looked younger than his age. At almost 16-years-old when Michael met him, he looked 9-years-old. Those who did not know that he was Big Ralphie's son thought Michael was his father. Michael had a relatively happy childhood and wanted Little Ralphie to have the same, hoping, he too, one day, would look back at his childhood with fond memories. He took Little Ralphie to Red Sox's baseball games at Fenway Park, Celtics basketball and Bruins hockey games at the Fleet Center, and Patriots football games at Gillette Stadium, as well as exposing him to reluctant Saturday excursions to the Museum of Science and the Museum of Fine Arts, and church for Sunday Mass. He took Little Ralphie to Wrestle Mania once, but the violence and sexuality so overwhelmed Michael that he never did that, again. During one of the matches, one of the wrestles knocked down a member of the audience who had stepped into the ring. In hindsight, she was probably part of the show, but when he picked the woman up, spun her around, and threw her down on the mat, her short skirt ended up around her waist exposing her panties during which time she, supposedly unconscious lay motionless on the mat. Another woman who was sitting next to the woman who ran up to the wrestling ring, entered behind her friend hoping to save her. The wrestler tried to grab her to give her the same over the head spinning ride but she pulled away from his grasp ripping off her top and exposing her naked breasts to the audience. This, Michael felt, was not an appropriate show to bring young children and to expose them to this kind of behavior at the expense of women. Over the years, Michael listened to Little Ralphie's endless enthusiasm about the features of this bicycle or that motorcycle or this computer or that car, which he was forever saving to buy. Now, Little Ralphie searched the Internet for scholarships to help him defray his college tuition expenses. He always contributed to Little Ralphie's savings whenever he fell short of reaching his goal. Like anyone else, Michael liked money, but he enjoyed using the money that he had saved to help others. What good was the money to anyone if it sat in an inactive account collecting interest? He witnessed for himself at the bank that the ones with the most money were the least kind. The sour faces of the tight wads became too stiff to smile. They excluded everyone and everything that interfered with their accumulation of money. Little Ralphie became a fixture in Michael's life until the day that he left to attend the University of Massachusetts. Michael could not be more proud of him if he was his son. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 04 Chapter 16 Like Father Unlike Son Determined not to be like his father, Little Ralphie ended the cycle of bad behavior by using his father, the male stereotypical image that feminists want everyone to accept as the norm for all men and as an example of how not to act. He hated how his father belittled his mother, abuse that escalated whenever he had been drinking. Then, when you combined that with when he had a bad day at the track, his behavior was worse, much worse. "You're stupid," he said with a look full of hatred. "Coma Connie," he said. Coma Connie is what he called her when he was full of booze. He called her Coma Connie because whenever he started his tirade against her, she always had a comatose expression on her face, a self-protection mechanism that she wore like a suit of impenetrable emotional armor that she developed after years of enduring his verbal and physical abuse. Although, she still heard every word and they still hurt as much, her self-imposed comatose condition emotionally removed her from the scene allowing her not to react to his words and antagonize him to beat her, again. She severed her emotions, otherwise; she might pick up a knife and stab him as he slept. It helped her not to feel the sting of his hatred now, nonetheless, later, after he left the house, it manifested in bad behavior on her part, and unfortunately; she directed that at the children. She yelled at and hit the kids for no good reason other than for not cleaning their room, picking up their things, a dropped dish, disobeying her instructions or challenging her authority. A challenge to her authority sent her in a rage worse than any hostility that Big Ralphie directed at her. The act of getting seven kids up, dressed, and out for school, children who had stayed up late watching television and eating junk food the day before, was emotionally disturbing for anyone within earshot, which included the entire neighborhood within half a block radius. The morning ritual of angry abuse charged with screaming, slapping, and crying traumatized anyone who experienced it, as well as witnessed it. "Too much smoking," he said picking up her cigarettes and flinging them in the sink full of dirty dishes. "It robs your brain of oxygen and makes you lazy, Coma Connie." "Don't touch my freakin' cigarettes." She made a grab for the cigarettes, but Big Ralphie's hands were too fast. Connie jumped up from the kitchen table and rushed over to the sink. She rescued her cigarettes, pocketed them in her housecoat pocket, and sat back down. That was her last pack of cigarettes and she had no chance of buying more until she stole money from Big Ralphie's pants pockets, as he slept. Big Ralphie never smoked. He boxed s a kid and preferred picking up his first rather than picking up a cigarette. "What do you do around here, anyway?" He surveyed the room. "You don't work, you don't cook, and you don't clean house." He picked up a dirty dish left on the table from the night before and flung it breaking it in pieces against the wall. "All you do is smoke and talk on that damn phone." He walked towards the phone. "I'd like to rip the Goddamn thing out of the wall and throw it out a freakin' window." "Don't you dare touch that fuckin' phone." Connie armed herself with scissors. Her faced developed the look of a patient angry with another resident in an insane asylum. She got up, stood beside the phone, and raised her scissors at shoulder level. The phone was her escape and Big Ralphie knew that when Connie said the word dare that he had better back off. He learned that when she gave him a concussion with a frying pan after he flung the cat out their second story window. A direct hit on the cranium, the blow sent him reeling to the emergency ward by ambulance. Big Ralphie went down for the count like a boxer taking a dive in a first round knockout. When he regained consciousness, he told the doctors that he fell in the kitchen and must have hit his head on the stove. The cat, Figaro, continually licked itself, licking its paw and wiping it across its face and up on to its head. They assumed it had fleas but, even after flea baths and flea collars, Figaro constantly licked itself, a nervous habit that unnerved everyone, especially Big Ralphie, which is why he flung it out the window. Figaro landed with a screech on all four paws and ran up the street. They never saw her, again. Although Little Ralphie had never seen his father hit his mother, he suspected that he had, when no one was around. Big Ralphie, an enforcer and collector for the local bookies, knew how to hit someone, hurting them internally, without showing bruises or bleeding. Little Ralphie did not like that his father was mean and that people feared him. When walking with his father, whom he avoided at all costs, people hid in doorways waiting for him to pass before stepping out or ducked down side streets when they spotted him approaching. Instead of having a normal conversation, his parents argued. They argued about everything. They argued about nothing. They argued when they woke up, during the day, and before going to bed. The circumstance that started the argument might differ but after arguing for only a few minutes, the heated dialogue reverted to the standard argument, an argument that neither Big Ralphie nor Connie ever won. Whenever Big Ralphie left slamming the door behind him or when Connie resorted to hiding herself in her comatose state, they put the argument on hold until they could return to it that night or the next morning. Little Ralphie memorized every word. He mimicked them, moving his lips without sound, as he lay in his bed listening with the covers pulled over his head to their inane and never ending argument. "You're never in the mood." "You're never here." "I'm here, now." "I'm not in the mood." "See." "See what?" She looked at him with a face full of hurt and contempt. "I'd be in the mood if you gave me the money that you give to your whore girlfriends." "I couldn't give you enough money to get you in the mood." "You give me a headache." "I'd like to give you something else." "You're too drunk to get up your something else." "I drink because you reject me." "You drink because you are a drunk." "You drink more booze than I do but, you don't call it booze, you call it wine." "Go fuck one of your whores." "Maybe, I will." "Fuck you." "Fuck you." They played this game of verbal hostility everyday. While some of their children huddled in corners with the same comatose expression on their faces that Mommy had, others showed signs of growing up just like Daddy. Ralphie did not hide, become comatose or imitate his father, he went out. Just as his mother could not wait until his father left the house, Little Ralphie could not wait to leave the house to roam the streets of the North End. He'd rather be working selling newspapers at the corner than staying at home listening to their bickering. As much as he hated being home when they argued, he hated being there when he was alone with his mother. She trashed Big Ralphie whenever she had his ear. He was the oldest and when Connie was not complaining to one of her sisters about Big Ralphie, she complained to him. He suspected that this was his mother's way of making him understand that he should not behave like his father and that his father was not how a man should act, especially to his wife and children. "He's a no good son of a bitch," she would say in-between sips of black coffee and drags of her unfiltered cigarettes when complaining on the telephone to one of her three sisters. "D'ya know what Big Ralphie did, that no good son of a bitch?" Even she called him Big Ralphie to distinguished him from her father, Little Ralphie's grandfather, who was just plain Ralphie and who was much smaller than was his son but much nastier in temperament. Big Ralphie's father hated her and had nothing good to say about any of the kids, except for little Ralphie, maybe because they shared the same name, and maybe, because he saw something in Little Ralphie that he saw in himself. He was small like his grandfather and was shrewd like him, too. "He's a no good son of a bitch," she said again taking a long drag of her cigarette and exhaling a cloud of blue haze that hung round her head like a rain cloud filled with thunder. The phrase, he's a no good son of a bitch, punctuated an hour-long conversation that ended only when one of her other sisters called or came to the door. She spent more time talking with her sisters than she did interacting with any of her seven children. The children took care of themselves with the eldest one raising and responsible the younger ones. While other kids were playing ball or hanging around getting into trouble, Little Ralphie worked a double paper-route. He did not deliver newspapers like some of the kids outside the city; he sold them while standing outside the subway station in the cold, the rain, the sleet, and the snow. He only had a thin sheet of plastic to protect him from the elements. He hawked the early edition before school to those customers going off to work and he sold the late edition to those coming home from work. He was always out there selling his newspapers and scrapping together whatever money he could to buy the things that he wanted. He was of the belief that if he did not take care of himself, no one else would. He only returned home between newspaper editions in time to make himself a sandwich. Then, after he sold his last late edition newspaper, around 6:30, he went home to do his homework, grab whatever food was available and collapse to bed hoping that he was tired enough so that he would fall asleep and not have to listen to their continual arguing. The newsprint that collected beneath his fingernails indelibly stained his fingers and hands. He smelled like a newspaper, and because of the pastiness of his skin, he looked like a newspaper. His pant legs saved the print marks where he wiped his hands. Even his clothes resembled old newspaper, wrinkled, torn, and with a dingy look. Because of his erratic sleeping habits, his continual diet of junk food, and his constant exposure to the traumatic verbal abuse that his parents freely shared, his eyes held dark circles and his skin a gray pallor. Sometimes, he took on the appearance of the waking dead. Although he saved most of his money, he could not resist the temptation of buying bicycles, skateboards, and roller skates for himself, as well as, for his brothers and sisters. He, as the eldest, was more of a provider and guardian of their needs than were his mother and father. He took it upon himself as his personal responsibility to make sure that his siblings, somehow, made it through their childhood even at his sacrifice and his peril. "Someday, I'm going to b somebody." He chanted his mantra to himself whenever there was no one around to hear. "Someday, my chauffer will stop my limousine, a big blue, Cadillac by a newspaper stand and I'll lower my window, call over the boy, and ask him for a newspaper. Then, I'll hand the paperboy a one hundred dollar bill and as he is reaching for his change, I'll tell him to keep the change." He smiled at his fantasy, the same one every day. "One day, I'll be rich," he said licking his dirty, right hand and wiping his moist palm across his right eyebrow and across his forehead and on up to his hairline, moving up his Boston Red Sox hat, the same hat that Michael had given him for his birthday and the hat the he slept in every night and never removed except to wash his hair when he showered, which was not very often. Again, Little Ralphie licked himself in the way that the cat did so many times. Perhaps, he hoped that his father would fling him out the window so that he could escape their lunacy, as did the cat. "One day," he said lifting the covers over his head and closing his eyes, his only filter against the noise of his parents yelling at one another, "I'll buy myself quiet." Chapter 17 Gabriella The only other person who Michael looked forward to seeing besides Little Ralphie was Gabriella from the hardware store. As if she was his personal alarm siren, she entered the bank daily promptly at 9:45am, just before the hardware store opened for business to make change for the cash registered and returned again at 3:45 to make her bank deposit. When receipts were high, usually over the Christmas holidays or just before a snowstorm or weekends when the handymen husbands are hoping to quiet their nagging wives by finally buying the needed supplies to do that fix-up project that they have procrastinated doing, Gabriella returned at lunchtime to make an early deposit and for more register change. She moved her 5'2" frame to the classical orchestra music that Michael imagined serenaded her as she entered the bank. The morning light that illuminated the glass doors of the bank silhouetted her form in an angelic glow like appearance. Her arrival made him forget what it was he was doing before he spotted her. So captivated by her when he saw her enter the bank and watching her approach his window, one would think that she sprouted wings, dawned a halo, and was naked beneath a transparent gown of white chiffon. She mesmerized him. He knew the first day that he saw her at the hardware store that she was the one. His palms perspired, his pulse raced, and he was so hoarse that he could not talk. Never had any woman had such an obvious effect on him. Her loveliness stopped him in mid-step and in mid-sentence and, although he had walked in ahead of two other customers, he allowed both of them to go before him, so that he could share the same space with her and gaze upon her longer if only from a distance. She was beautiful. Sure, he had seen beautiful women before but not one who had made him feel the way that she made him feel. He tried to look away, he tried not to stare, but he could not remove his gaze from her. She made his knees weak and his stomach flutter as if he had swallowed butterflies. He suddenly felt like a prepubescent boy who had a puppy love crush on a girl at school. "What can I get for you?" she said, after he was the only customer left in the hardware store and when it was finally, his turn for her to wait on him. You can start off by giving me your name and telephone number he thought about saying. He wished he was confident enough to ask her out even though this was the first time he had laid eyes on her. That behavior would send her the wrong message, he thought. She would mark him as a player and as insincere and he did not want her to think him a player and/or insincere. One never at a loss for words: he could not respond to her question. His brain could not formulate a thought to answer her. He grabbed at the first item that he saw, a package of thumbtacks and handed her a five-dollar bill. She put the thumbtacks in a small, brown paper bag, placed the bag on the counter, and handed him his change. "Thank you," she smiled and made eye contact. "Come again." Did she just ask me to cum? No, what the Hell is the matter with you. She asked me to return again. Everything about her made him want sex from her. She exuded sex, sexuality, erotica, and sexiness. Everything about her turned him on and made him want to fuck her. He wanted to push her back on the counter, rip away her clothes, and have wild sex with her. Never has any woman made him feel this way. She was just so damn sexy. Desperately, he tried to prolong his time with her by trying to think of something witty to say to engage her in a longer conversation. This was his chance. He was alone with her. Go for it, Michael. C'mon, you can think of something to say. "Thanks," he said fisting the money and without putting the change in his pocket and without picking up the paper bag that she slid across the counter towards him and taking his thumbtacks, he quickly walked towards the door. She laughed at his obvious nervousness. Oh, my God, he thought as he was walking towards the front door to leave. She's the one. Hindsight tempered his excitement. Why didn't you say something? What is wrong with you? She'd gorgeous and never have I heard such a sexy laugh. She's laughs with an Italian accent. He fumbled with the doorknob trying to get out without making himself look like the clumsy fool that he was. The money that he held in his hand fell to the floor. Gabriella came around from the counter and squatted beside him to help him pick up his change. He leaned into her to smell her perfume not realizing that her blouse fell forward exposing her ample bra covered breasts to his erotic delight. He had not noticed her display of cleavage until she looked down at her opened blouse, looked up at him, saw him looking, and gave him a I caught you looking you naughty boy smile. He turned as red as the plastic pepper that Giuseppe the cobbler told him to carry to ward off the evil eye. "No, no, I wasn't staring down your blouse and looking at your..." As soon as he said it he wished he hadn't. I, uhm, couldn't help but notice but only after you noticed, and I am so embarrassed. I'm sorry. I'm not like that, really, I'm not. I'm not a pervert or anything like that it was just, oh, God." She picked up his change, put a hand to her blouse closing it, and handed his change to him, again. "Thank you," he said realizing that she was so close to him that her perfume made him dizzy. She melted him with her look. Embarrassed that he was caught staring at her, again, he stood up the same time that she did and they bumped heads. "I'm so sorry," he said rubbing his forehead and then reaching over to rub her forehead. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine," she swatted his hand away and rubbed her own forehead, "just a little drain brammaged." She laughed and, tossing her hair back with a flip of her head, enveloped him with a sensual stare. "I'm not usually this clumsy." He tried laughing away his embarrassment. "Bumping heads is how I pick up beautiful women." "I see," she said, rubbing her head, again. "You head butt them hoping to knock them out before dragging them away by their hair?" She laughed that sexy laugh with the Italian accent. How could a laugh have an accent, but hers did. Her hair was so lushly dark, her eyes as brown and deep as maple syrup, and her olive complexion and small features gave her a doll like appearance. She was more strikingly beautiful than was Shannon Kelly with her flaming red hair, Irish features, and true blue eyes. "I'm shy so I found that head butting a woman is a good way to meet her," he said stuffing his coins and crinkled dollars in his pocket. He reached for the door and turned back for another look at her. Embarrassed caught staring again, he turned away. "Wait," she came around the corner, again and he watched her walk towards him with every part of her body moving towards him in sections. "What?" "You forgot your purchase." He could not remember what it was he had come in to the hardware store to buy. His mind raced with hardware items, nails, screws, rivets, clasps, clamps, locks, glue, and sandpaper. It was of no use, he could not remember what he had just bought. "Your thumbtacks." "Oh," he did not remember buying them. He did not know why he bought them. "I, uhm, need them for the bulletin board at the bank. I work across the street at Earth Bank. He held out his hand. "I'm Michael, Michael O'Leary. I work at —" "I know, you work at Earth Bank." "How did you know that I work at Earth Bank?" "You said that you did," she laughed, "twice." She shook his hand. "I'm Gabriella." Her name reverberated through his head like a melody, Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella. "It was nice bumping into you, Gabriella," he rubbed his forehead again and laughed. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 04 "My pleasure," she rubbed her forehead and laughed. He could not believe it when she came in the next morning to switch the hardware store's checking account from Bostonian Bank, the bank next door to the hardware store, to Earth Bank, the bank diagonally across the street from the hardware store. He thanked God for finally delivering him his angel and his angel's name was Gabriella. Unfortunately, his angel was married and had a 3-year-old daughter. Chapter 18 His Angel He could not remove his eyes from the rhythm of her walk. She enthralled him. He wished he had found her before. He wished she were not married. He wished she were his. For two years, she came to his window whenever he was free. When the time approached 9:45am and 3:45pm and he spotted her through the window crossing Hanover Street, he rushed his customer to free his window for her. Often, he was able to clear it to accommodate her and to look in her eyes, to fill his brain with the sound of her voice, and drink in her loveliness to take her away with him in a dream that interrupted his sleep that night. His pillow was her lips and his blanket bunched around him was her body. His imagination fueled his desire for her. He was desperate for her. Yet, she was his only in his dreams because she belonged to someone else. He saved such lust for her. He so much wanted to bed her, to touch her, and to see her naked. He so much wanted to make slow and passionate love to her while hearing her say those four words, "I love you, Michael." His dream of her always started and ended with those four words. It ruined his day when she had to use another window but, even then, she always caught his eye to say her smiling, "Hi, Michael, how are you?" When she used his window, he could not take his eyes off of her. Yet, every time she came to his window, she stole his tongue along with his heart and the conversation was the mundane same. "Hi, Michael, how are you?" "Fine, Gabriella, and you?" "I'm good," she said with that sexy Italian accent that drove him mad with desire for her. "It's a nice day, today." "Yes, it is." "But they said it might rain, later." Every time she came to his window, the sexual tension between them turned the conversation to the weather. He wanted to say more but could not. Is it hot enough for you, Gabriella? Do you like it hot? Tell me, Gabriella, how hot do you like it? Can I tie you up and blindfold you? Can I spank your ass? Would you take me in your mouth? Can I lean you over the counter at the hardware store and bone you up the ass? What if I bang you in the vault? Would you like that? She made him crazy. He was so horny for her. It only took a look from her, from those eyes to make him hot and hard. Oh, he so wanted to dip his prick in her tight pussy and fuck her until she moaned his name in that sexy Italian accent. "Oh, Michael, fuck me. Stick that cock in my mouth first. Let me make you hard with my tongue before you stick your dick in my pussy." Never has he had such impure and pornographic thoughts about a woman. He realized finally the reason why she made him tongue tied was because she was married, married to another man. Michael who was once almost a priest subscribed to the Ten Commandments, especially the tenth commandment, you shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, or his male servant, or his female servant, or his ox, or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor's. Okay, he did not want the neighbor's house nor would he ever covert his male servant, even if his neighbor had one, he was not gay. He would not covet his neighbor's female servant, that is, unless she was single and looked like Gabriella. And, he had no use for an ox or for a donkey, so there was no reason for him to covet those animals, even if his neighbor had an ox and a donkey, which fortunately, he did not. Unfortunately, it was the neighbor's wife that caused him the most guilt and that got him in trouble with God. Oh, yeah, he broke that commandment wide open by coveting his neighbor's wife. He saw Moses atop the mountain holding the Ten Commandments and yelling at him. "You of little faith shall not covet Gabriella, thou neighbor's wife, and that means you, Michael O'Leary." Then, one day, she patiently waited for him to finish with another customer, something she had never done. "Hi, Michael, how are you?" "Fine, Gabriella, and you?" Generally self-assured and confident in her demeanor, Michael noticed her nervousness. "I'm getting a divorce." She's getting a divorce. Did she just say that she is getting a divorce? Gabriella, the woman I have loved since the day that I saw her two years ago is getting a divorce. Suddenly, Michael saw Moses atop the mountain holding the Ten Commandments and smiling. "She's all yours, Mickey. Go for it." "I'm sorry to hear that, Gabriella." He loved saying her name but just as the ella rolled from his tongue a smile betrayed his sincerity. Oh, happy day, Gabriella is getting a d-i-v-o-r-c-e. Now, their secretive lustful relationship was free to blossom into love openly. Prolonged by conversation filled with flirting, teasing, coy looks, and innuendos from both, her transaction took longer each day. Yet, inhibited by his priestly manner for fear that Moses would somehow emerge from the mountain holding the Ten Commandments and break them over his head because her divorce was not final, yet, he never crossed the line of inappropriate behavior with a married woman. Before she told him that she was getting a divorce, whenever he saw her at the hardware store or away from the security of his teller's window, he was unable to reveal his deep desire for her. He could handle their relationship as friends but he could not summon the courage to take it to the next level and ask her out. And that frustrated him. She knew how he felt, he suspected, it was obvious. She always made eye contact with her sensual hello, engaging him in conversation with the musings of today, tomorrow, and yesterday. She offered him her good-bye with eyes as full as her breasts and with a smile as bright as the sparking medallion of the Virgin Mary that dangled from the shiny, Italian gold chain around her neck. Surrounded by Irish women with red hair, blue eyes and freckles, she with her mahogany hair, brown eyes, and olive complexion was exotically exciting to him. "Hi, Michael," she said his name in two distinct and melodious syllables. Then, with a wave of her perfect, little hand, she said when leaving, Ciao, Michael." Even when a customer waited for his attention, a violation of Mr. McCarthy's customer service policy, he watched after her as she walked through the lobby, exited the front door, and disappeared across the street before he helped the next customer. Even the customer turned to watch her leave the bank before expecting his attention and service. Her perfume teased his nostrils after she left the bank and he inhaled to savor the scent of her. Her voice lifted him to a higher place. The glow that he received from her visit made his day. He loved how she pronounced his name, accenting the second syllable more than the first, and allowing the hael of Michael to drift off her lips like smoke from a cigarette after making love. He wrote her name everywhere and everyone at the bank knew that he loved her. He frequented the hardware store everyday accumulating a collection of tools and hardware that any master carpenter, journeyman electrician or professional handyman would envy. The other tellers teased him whenever he returned from lunch carrying the seasonal sale items, a hose and spade in the Spring, a beach chair and suntan lotion in the Summer, a rake and leaf bags in the Fall, and a shovel and deicer in the Winter. Their fingers touched across the counter as she handed him his purchase or gave him his change. The sensations of her soft skin touching his created an excitement that traveled through his body like electricity, warming it more than the hottest hot chocolate could on the coldest day. He wanted to take her little hand and hold it. He wanted to lift her delicate fingers to his lips and kiss them. He wanted to kiss her and devour the feeling of her soft, full lips. He wanted to slowly undress her, to see her in her bra and panty. He wanted to lie next to her while staring at her in her underwear. Slowly, he wanted to remove her bar, caress her tits, and suck her nipples. He wanted to feel her through the fabric of her panty before he rolled them down and removed them exposing her pussy to him. He wanted to touch her pussy and feel her moist lips before playing with her clit and finger fucking her to make her wet enough to accept his hard cock. He so wanted to see her naked, to hold her, and to make love to her. He bided his time waiting for the day when her divorce was final and when he would see her away from the bank, away from the hardware store, and away from the spying eyes of the ignorance of the neighborhood residents with their stupid gossip before asking her out and divulging his feelings for her. Never did he see her anywhere by accident or by fate. When she came to the bank, there were always other customers and bank employees around. When he went to the hardware store, there were always other customers and hardware store employees around. He felt foolish. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for her, Gabriella, before her divorce, took the postal examination and passed it and, during her divorce proceedings, accepted a mail carrier's job with the United States Postal Service. She needed the income, the job security, and the benefits that came with full-time employment. A single mother now, the child support that augmented her part-time salary at the hardware store was not nearly enough to support her and her, now, five-year-old daughter, Angela. "This is my last day at Hanover Hardware," she said to Michael, her brown eyes as dark as Espresso and as invitingly warm searched his soft, blue eyes. "The Post Office sent me notification. I start work Monday at the South Station Annex." She waited watching him fidget with a broken piece of Formica on the countertop. "Ironic, isn't it? She said. He stopped his fidgeting and looked at her, his eyes searching hers for an explanation. "What's ironic?" He said, finally. "Your job transferred you from South Boston to the North End and, now, my job transfers me from the North End to South Station near South Boston." She flipped back her hair and laughed. "The irony is too funny." He loved her laugh. He loved how before she laughed, she flipped back her hair with a toss of her head and, after her laugh, always caught him enjoying her. She embarrassed him and, unable to avert his stare, he felt like the fool for reacting to her look, for not asking her out, and for not telling her how he felt about her. As always, she flipped back her hair, but she did not laugh and she did not give him the look that caught him enjoying her. Suddenly, he felt rejected. Devastated by her news that he would not see her every day and by her sudden inattentiveness towards him after not giving him her laugh and her look, he did not know what to say. Pressured to say how he felt, he could not talk. Instead, he stared at his beautiful Gabriella the same way that, as a boy, he stared at a beautiful butterfly before it flew away, forever. He wanted to cry. He wished he could be more like the leading man in a love story and pull her close with his arm around her waist and his other arm around her shoulders, but the counter separated them. He thought of leaping the counter to embrace her in a kiss, but he could never jump high enough to clear the cash register. He wanted so much to touch her, to hold her, and to kiss her. He wanted to brush back the hair that always fell across her right eye, caress her face, and declare his love for her. "Don't leave, I'll take care of you and Angela," he wanted to say. "I'll make you happy. The three of us will be a family. We'll have a wonderful life together." He wanted to tell her that he loved her and that he wanted to marry her, but he could not say it. His fear of rejection disproportionately looming over his diminutive dimensions in a dark shadow of low self-esteem and low self-confidence stopped him from revealing his true emotions. Instead, he asked for a package of picture hangers, paid for his purchase, and turned and walked towards the door. Before Gabriella, there was Shannon Kelly, but she did not return his interest. "You're too short," she said when he asked her to the prom. "We would look ridiculous dancing together," she said making a face. "Everyone will laugh at me." Even though he grew 3 inches to his present height of 5'3" tall, he figured still too short for Shannon's 5'7" frame. Besides, she went out-of-state to college and never returned to the neighborhood. He never saw her again. Crushed by her rejection, he did not go to his prom and his high school graduation, accepting his diploma by mail weeks later. For three, long and agonizing years, he sequestered himself in the seminary trying to forget Shannon Kelly, trying to give himself to God, trying to sacrifice himself for his religion, and trying to become a priest for the wrong reasons. There he stayed as long as he could, until the seminary felt more like a penitentiary. He dropped out of the seminary a year before giving his vows and years before hearing through the neighborhood grapevine that Shannon and her tall, but alcoholic and unemployed husband lived on welfare somewhere in New Jersey with their three kids. He went on with his life. "I'll miss you," he said with his hand on the door knob. He turned to see her reaction, to see if she would give him that look once more, that look that she gave him after tossing back her hair and before laughing, that look that he hoped she saved only for him, but she had disappeared around back. Gabriella, his beautiful butterfly had flown away forever. Chapter 19 Gabriella His Elusive Butterfly Gabriella stood in the aisle between the plumbing and electrical supplies waiting for Michael to leave. She did not want to cry in front of him. She did not want him to see her vulnerable and dependent upon the affection from yet, another man. She stood with her arms folded with her hand to her mouth listening for the door to open and shut and waiting for him to leave. She had never loved anyone as much as she loved him. From that first day when he entered the hardware store more than two years ago, she could not take her eyes off of him. He, with his orange hair, bright blue eyes, and radiant smile, was handsome. He touched her deeper in their first meeting than in all the years that she had known her husband. He touched her soul and, since that day, she could not think of anyone else but him. As soon as she heard the door close, her tears fell like rain. She walked with her head down to the far corner of the aisle in the rear of the store and hid her face in her hands in a quiet sob. She hoped that those pain-in-the-ass customers who came in just to leer at her would not come in today. She did not have the patience to ward off the advances of the army of horny, married men who were her secret admirers. She needed time alone. How could he leave without saying anything to me? The feeling of the loss of him sickened her. The way that he looks at me melts my heart, surely he feels the same way bout me as I feel about him. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, then wiped her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose. The times when I gave him his change, when our hands touched, surely, he must feel the electricity, too. She threw up her hands in exasperation. I wish he would take me in his arms, look me in my eyes so that I can see that he adores me, and kiss me. He must tell me that he loves me and wants to marry me, so that I know that he wants to live the rest of our lives together. She dried her tears and blew her nose, again. Except for Angela, I wish my life was different. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed. I wish I had met him before. I wish her were not so shy. I wish I were Mrs. Michael O'Leary. Michael, why can't you tell me how you feel about me? She never loved Vinnie like a wife should love a husband, Angela's father. They were best friends. They started their relationship rebounding from broken hearts, too needy and too dependent upon one another to understand what it was they started. The fact that they never argued should have been a clue that their sorrow, which they carried with them from their previous relationships, made it impossible for either one of them to begin a new relationship, so soon. Engaged within a month of meeting and married by twenty-one, they should have taken more time dating, developing their interests, and seeing other people. Too careful not to reopen the wounds in themselves that their prior lovers had inflicted, they became too comfortable with each other, too soon. The flame of lust that should have warmed their love later in their marriage never ignited. Too much like an old, married couple by age twenty-four, companionship replaced sexuality making her feel that she was missing something in her life. With Angela as their only bond, they soon lost interest in one another. "We must stay together for Angela's sake," said Vinnie. She was the only close friend that he had. "Gabriella, we must try to make our marriage work." "Maybe, we should have another baby," she said, but they never did, did not even try, both realizing that is was a bad idea and that their marriage was over. They knew that they needed to find happiness and that they could only find happiness with someone else. Once Angela was off at school and Gabriella was working part-time, Vinnie started having affairs. First with a woman at work, then with someone he picked up at a bar, and finally with Angela's kindergarten teacher, Gina. Gabriella received many offers from admirers who frequented the hardware store but remained faithful. Inevitably, the marriage was over. The final blow was the distance that she exhibited to Vinnie after she met Michael. She could only think of him. She dreamt of him and was consumed with the thoughts of him. With a look, he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. She felt so special when she was with him, even if they were talking business at the bank or talking hardware at the store. She loved being in his company and she just knew that he felt the same way about her. Michael, I love you. Chapter 20 Love Lost Michael saw little of her after that, an imagined glimpse of her rounding a corner, a passing car that drove her image across his mind, a scent of her perfume that exploded his senses or laughter that sounded like hers. Whenever any of those things happened, he hurt so much that he wanted to cry with the loss of her. Everything reminded him of her. He ran to the corner hoping it was she, trying to seize the scent or the sight or the sound but, always, it was someone else. Each time, excitement raced his pulse, lifted his mood, and quickened his step like the Michael of old. Each time, disappointment dashed his hope. His mind troubled with the lonely thoughts of him without her, he wished he had it in himself to say how he felt about her but, afraid of her rejecting him, he could not. His affection for her grew with the length of time that passed without seeing her and without talking to her. He had not had this feeling for a woman since after high school, just before he entered the seminary to forget Shannon Kelly. He could not eat, sleep, or think of anyone else but her. Unable to focus, he became depressed and irritable finding it difficult to make it through his day without his daily dosage of his Gabriella. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 04 He missed her smile, her intelligence, and her quick wit. He missed her accent and how she pronounced his name. No one has ever said his name the way she says his name. He missed her beautiful brown eyes, so happy and full of life. His heart ached so much that, at times, he thought he was having a heart attack. He missed her, his lovely Gabriella, his angel, his beautiful butterfly. It was too late. What could he do now? She was gone. She visited him every day, twice a day, for more than two years under the pretense of making change for the cash register and making deposits for the hardware store when, just as easily, she could have went to the bank next door instead of to his bank across the street. She even closed the account at the bank next door to open one at his bank across the street just to see him everyday. What was he thinking? Of course, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Now, he did not have her address or telephone number and, because the hardware store paid her in cash and did not give her a paycheck to cash at the bank, he did not even know her last name. He tried to remember if she had ever told him her last name; he could not remember. He felt pathetic. He thought of going to the hardware store, asking them for her last name, and demanding her telephone number, but he could not summon the courage to do that. They might think he was a stalker and report him to the police. It was hopeless. He was hopeless. He was a loser. He felt like the time when he stopped to buy Little Ralphie a hot dog and soda at the ballpark and, when he turned from the counter, Little Ralphie was gone. Although he searched all around and walked here, there, and back again, with panic in his heart and thoughts for the worse, he could not see what was in front of him the entire time. Little Ralphie stood at the souvenir vendor's stand not six feet away and he never saw him during those few, panic stricken moments, which to him, felt like a lifetime. Gabriella had been there waiting for him to ask her out and claim her and receive her love. Did she really leave or was she still there and he could not see her to find her? With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 05 Chapter 21 "I Needa To Opena My Box." Mrs. Enunzio came in the every Monday morning at 9am and Michael dreaded her weekly visit. "I needa to opena my box," she said in the same words with the same monotonic inflection. Never did she say please or thank you. He had nightmares of her suddenly appearing behind him in the shower, in bed, when he was getting dressed or undressed, and in his car and announcing herself with "I needa to opena my box." Never did she go to another teller. Instead, she impatiently waited for him to service a customer, reluctantly allowing customers behind her to go to other tellers who were free, just so she could abuse his good nature and ruin his day by waiting on her. He tried discouraging her waiting for him by prolonging the transaction with the customer before her, but that failed because she perched herself directly behind the customer, invading their privacy, coughing in their ear, and sighing aloud for them to hurry their transaction. Then, when it was her turn, she slithered up to his window and stare at him until he acknowledged her. He always made her wait, counting his drawer or pretending to be doing other banking business. Then, when he was good and ready, he looked up at her. "Hi, may I help you?" "I needa to opena my box." Michael took his time locking his drawer and clearing her desk before escorting her to the safety deposit vault. Like an owl that spied a rat, she watched him pull out her box and, like someone staring at a magician hoping to see the clue to the trick, she watched him unlock her box and stood aside while she pulled it out. She took her box to one of the private rooms and closed the door. Then, when she was finished, she waited for Michael to see that she was done so that he could escort her back in the vault to lock her drawer away. She remained staring at him watching him lock her box away before handing her the key. He never wondered about any of the other boxes, except for fat Mr. Girardi's box and Luigi Polli's box. Mr. Girardi's box weighed about 100 pounds and smelled like a delicatessen. Mrs. Girardi threatened to leave Mr. Girardi, who weighed more than three times that of his box and, even though he told his wife that he was on a diet, he never lost any weight. Michael believed that his box contained food, lots of food. Luigi Polli lost an eye in the war and had a glass eye. Luigi looked so old that Michael wondered from which war, the Korean or Vietnam that he lost his eye, and was surprised to learn that Luigi lost his eye in the Gulf War. Michael suspected that Mr. Polli kept a collection of glass eyes in his safety deposit box because every time he left the bank after visiting his box, he fiddled with his eye, rubbing it and gentling positioning it with his fingers. Every time Michael entered the vault, he imagined Mr. Polli's collection of glass eyes staring out at him through the confines of their metal coffin. He had nightmares of eyeballs flying through the air chasing him. He had nowhere to hide because wherever he hid, they could see. They followed him throughout the bank where, suspended in mid-air, they watched him work all day. Now, he wondered what secrets Mrs. Enunzio hid in the Earth Bank's vault. He figured it was money, and by her miserable attitude, a lot of money. Then, he figured that it is where she saved papers, perhaps, something that showed evidence on someone who did not want it made public. He figured she was blackmailing someone and kept the proof there, in that little locked box. That Monday, Mrs. Enunzio appeared before his window at 9:01am. He saw her enter the bank and tried to reach for his keys before she could say in that God awful voice, that voice that haunted him in his sleep, "I needa to opena my box." Yet, quicker with her feet and quicker still with her words than he was with his keys, she appeared before his window. "I needa to opena my box," she said. Her voice shot through him like a car horn and continued to ring through his brain like a fire alarm. He wished he were back in South Boston working with his neighbors at Neighborhood Bank. He wished he was serving customers who he enjoyed helping. He wished he had never met this Mrs. Enunzio. Michael's training in customer service was with the anticipation of the customers' needs. Although it was easy to anticipate her needs, she never gave him the chance to do that. She wanted control. She wanted him to jump and to take heed of her. She wanted him to serve her. Perish the thought that if Michael saw Mrs. Enunzio walking through the door of the bank on Monday morning that he would not surmise that she wanted him to open her freaking safety deposit box. Yet, here she is again as if it was the first time they had ever met and as if it was the first time that she told him that she needed to get in her freaking box. Instead or responding to her, he withdrew his reach for his keys and, looking at her as if he had never seen her before, said, "Pardon? How may I help you?" "I needa to opena my box, she repeated. Bewilderment replaced her look of suspicion. Her apparent puzzlement gave Michael the satisfaction that he needed to relieve the stress of complying with her rudeness. Mr. Florentino had a dentist appointment and would not arrive for at least another hour. Michael slid a signature card beneath the glass of his window to her. "Please fill this out and I'll need to see two forms of identification." Gina, the teller next to him, hid her smile by bowing her head to count her drawer. "Whatsa matta for you?" She looked at the card as if human excretion stained it. "Stupido!" "They knowa me," she said looking to the other tellers for help but they busied themselves with other customers. She looked back at him as if he had lost his senses. "I coma hera every Mondaya to opena my box." She turned and looked for Florentino, but his office was dark. She filled out the signature card and withdrew her driver's license and social security card from her handbag. "I'm sorry, but I cannot accept this," said Michael sliding the social security card back beneath the glass towards her. "Do you have something with both your picture and signature together on a form or paper, like a passport?" She rummaged through her handbag mumbling to herself in Italian. "Hera!" She shoved a yellowed picture back beneath the glass towards him. "Luciana Filomena Carmela Enunzio," said Michael reading aloud from the car, "born October thirty-first, nineteen hundred and—" "You opena mya box." The other tellers and customers turned to stare and she returned the stare that she received from the other tellers and customers before she redirected her attention back to Michael. "You opena mya box, nowa," she said in a hoarse hiss. Michael slid the picture back to her and took his time getting his keys. He gathered his paperwork and took more time locking his drawers. Mrs. Enunzio rifled through her purse for her key. Her obvious frustration grew with her impatient wait for him to comply with her need to open her box. She mumbled something in Italian that Michael believed was directed at his family, specifically to his mother, because he recognized the word Mama. He promised himself to take a refresher course in Italian. Mrs. Enunzio's demeanor appeared to soften when Michael walked out from behind his window with its raised platform. At 5'7" when standing straight and 5'9" with her 2" heels, she towered over him. She stiffened her backbone and, throwing back her rounded shoulders, straightened her postured to make herself appear even taller. He unlocked and opened the cage to the safety deposit vault escorting her in and, as she would only be in the vault for her customary two minutes, as was her weekly routine, left the door ajar. He carried Mrs. Enunzio's box to a partitioned booth for her privacy and stayed within her sight watching and waiting for her signal that she was finished and ready for him to return her box. Chapter 22 "No One Gets Hurt." Michael heard loud voices outside the vault behind him and turned to see a man wearing a hat, dark glasses, and a fake beard approach him with a gun. "Get down! And don't move!" He said. Michael fell to the floor and obeyed. "Park your ass on the floor, Granny," he said to Mrs. Enunzio. Mrs. Enunzio withdrew her hand from her box and concealed her closed fist behind her black dress hiding it from his line of sight with her body. The wall of locked boxes commanded his attention. He tried several of them and then nudged Michael with his foot for an answer. "Hey, you got keys for these?" Michael looked up from the floor to answer and saw that the man had been staring at Mrs. Enunzio who, still standing, stood as still as a cat stalking prey. "Don't look at my face," said the man looking away from Mrs. Enunzio and directing his attention back to Michael. "Look at my feet." He nudged Michael's ribs with his foot. "Keys, you got keys for these boxes?" He asked, again. "No, said Michael talking to the Nike log on the man's blue and white sneakers. "They require two keys to open. The bank only has one key and the customer has the other key." The thief tried a couple of boxes, jiggling, pulling, and pounding them with the butt of his gun, but the locks held tight. "C'mon, c'mon," said someone from outside the vault. "Seventy-five seconds." "Okay, I'm comin'," said the thief. "You stay down and don't move," he said to Michael. "We'll be gone in a minute. No one gets hurt, here. No one gets hurt so long as they behave themselves." "I know you," said Mrs. Enunzio without an Italian accent as the man turned to leave. "The fish eat the eyes of your no good bastard father for killing my babies." Michael wondered if, in his fright, he imagined Mrs. Enunzio had said that without her Italian accent or if someone else was with them in the vault. "C'mon, c'mon," repeated someone from outside the vault. "Forty-five seconds." The man turned to confront Mrs. Enunzio facing her flatfooted. He gave her a hard look. "And I know you." His hand kept his aim steady. "You had my father and my mother murdered, you vengeful witch." Mrs. Enunzio smirked a sick laugh, a laugh that Michael had not heard since he asked Shannon Kelly to the prom when she laughed and said, "You're too short. Everyone will laugh at me." "And why are you still standing" said the man to Mrs. Enunzio, "when I told you to put your ass down on the floor?" His voice interrupting her laughter became more enraged with each word. Mrs. Enunzio tilted her head left and back and like a quick-draw gunfighter going for a gun, she jerked up her right hand. Perhaps, the thief thought she had a gun. Perhaps, he looked for an excuse to shoot her. Yet, before she could say, "Ehhh," and before she could tell him where to go with a look and without a word, he fired a single shot. Mrs. Enunzio lay dead on the floor with a bullet to her forehead. Chapter 23 The Safety Deposit Box Michael tensed, expecting the thief to fire a bullet in the back of his head. Fear drained the color from his face and he sweated waiting while racking his brain on how to escape death. He tried to think of all of those police shows that he watched where there was a bank robbery. Stay calm he told himself. Don't do anything stupid. He thought of Gabriella, remembering her loveliness, hearing her laughter, and believing that he would never see her, again. He knew that just as he did not want to live without her, he did not want to die without having had her in his life. He wrote, Gabriella, I love you, in the dust on the floor with his finger. Now, when they found him dead, the whole world would know, Gabriella would know that he loved her. He hated how foolish he had been in not asking her out. He hated his shyness in not telling her how he felt and declaring his love for her. He imagined her working with all those men in the Post Office and talking to all those customers and tossing her hair and giving someone else the look that she saved only for him. He imagined them staring at her beauty and lusting over her. He imagined them wanting to kiss her. The thoughts of her kissing someone else sickened him and it made him angry when he imagined her in the arms of another. Bound to meet someone else, another man unafraid to ask her out and to declare his love for her, he feared the loss of her. Higher and farther away flew his beautiful butterfly, until he could no longer see her. She was gone. Was it too late? Why would I choose to spend my life alone pining for Gabriella, who I could have had if only I had asked her to marry me? What is wrong with me? He thought all of his in nano-seconds as his life flashed before him. He swore that if he came out of this alive that he would tell her how he felt. Only, now, he could not think of how to save himself. He felt sad that he never married and did not have a son like Little Ralphie or a daughter like Gabriella's Angela. "Please don't kill me," he said finally, his brogue filled voice heavy with fear. Angry that someone could come in his bank, threaten him with a gun, and murder him, he lay there in shocked disbelief. Still, he was not dead, yet. He had to do something to save himself, now. He had to say something to change the mind of this man from murdering him. "I'm a man of God. I'm a good Catholic. I'm very religious." The words came out of his mouth as if someone else spoke them. It scared him, until he realized that he spoke those words and not someone else. He did not know why he said it, but as ridiculous as it sounded to him now, it sounded more ridiculous to him later. "I believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I believe in good and not in evil." He waited, listened, thought, and said, "Surely, you can spare me. I did not see your face." Even as he begged for his life, using God as an excuse to spare him seemed weak and sinful. His desperate fright embarrassed him. He, who was almost a priest, should not fear death, but should embrace it in an acclamation to his God and to his religion. Yet, he did not want to die. He wanted to live. He wanted to live the rest of his life with Gabriella; nothing else mattered, now. Now, he understood why he could not become a priest. He did not possess the faith that he needed to carry him through a life that served the Lord. He felt like a failure and started searching within and questioning his life. "What am I doing working in a bank? I'm educated, almost a college graduate," he thought. "My friends and family are right. I should have finished college, I should have gotten married, I should have had children and, then, I would never have worked for a bank as a teller. That is a stupid job, the lowest job in banking. I could have done so much more with my life. Now, some thug is going to end my miserable life." He thought all of his in a few seconds talking to himself for no one to hear. "Go ahead! I deserve to die," he said. "What a fool I have been" he said thinking that he was talking to the robber. When he heard no response, accepting his fate, he prayed, at first silently and then, aloud. "Dear God in Heaven, please have mercy on my soul..." The louder he prayed, the more it dispersed his fear. Now, at peace with himself, it no longer mattered if he lived or died. Accepting his fate, he had given his soul to God. He wanted to die. What lay ahead of him in death had to be better than what he had on Earth, which was, he felt, nothing. He know he had had lived a good life and would go to Heaven. He would miss his family, of course, his friends, and his beloved, Gabriella, but he looked forward to seeing those people who had died and he missed. He remembered Mrs. Walsh who, as a child living next door to her, gave him candy every time she saw him. He remembered Mr. McCormick, who told stories so scary that he could not wait to see him again for his next installment of fright. He wondered if his old dog Angel was waiting for him in Heaven. He hoped that Angel did not annoy God and the angels, too much. Fear returned like a fever as soon as he stopped praying and thinking of those who waited for him in Heaven. He thought about Gabriella, again, and his heart hurt. His body burned with the love that he had for her. He thought of Little Ralphie and his stomach hurt. Who would protect him? His work here unfinished, he needed not to die, just yet. He thought of his customers at Neighborhood Bank. He wondered if Mrs. Sullivan with her endless scratch tickets scratched herself a winner. He wondered about Mr. Foley and if he got a job, finally, or if Mr. Shea was ever able to buy himself a car. He wondered if Mrs. O'Reilly ever had that operation or if Mrs. Duffy's twins ever made it to college. He smiled at the satisfaction that he would have the biggest wake and the grandest funeral at O'Connor's Funeral Home. He wanted to peek to see if the robber still lingered but he could not see without moving his head up and back. He listened for any movement, but only heard his own quick breathing. He looked for any surface that would reflect the image of the murderer behind him. The bank had painted the vault an olive green. Mr. Florentino chose that color because it reminded him of his hotel room where he stayed in Venice, but his shade of green looked more like pea soup. Nothing reflected. He closed his eyes and waited. It felt like hours before he had the courage to turn his head to look, when it was only a few minutes after the men had fled the bank. He never heard him leave. He crawled over to Mrs. Enunzio and felt her for a pulse. There was none. He crossed himself, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," and was about to pray for her when he saw her open safety deposit box on the counter above her head. Curiosity made him stand and larceny made him walk to it. With the knowledge that there were no security cameras in the vault, he reached inside and felt around with his fingers while keeping watch that no one walked by the vault. He listened and watched for anyone walking towards the vault. His heart raced. Perspiration ran down his face and disappeared under his collar. His fingers touched nothing but the cold metal bottom and sides of the box. His heart stopped racing. He stopped sweating. He peered in. The box was empty. He knew that the robber did not take anything from it, did not even know Mrs. Enunzio had her box out as she concealed it with her body. Even after he shot her and she fell, he may not have seen it due to his agitated state. He looked down at Mrs. Enunzio and saw a speck of paper peeking out from her fisted left hand. He knew that it must be important, must be of some value for her to conceal it from the thief. He eyed the open vault cage and listened for footsteps. He heard none. Again, his heart started racing and sweat appeared over his lip. He bent down to Mrs. Enunzio and twisting a small white envelope from her grasp, he stood and stuffed it in his pant pocket. He stepped back and covered his face with his hand. The horror of what he had just done sickened him. Had it not been for the small entrance wound her eyebrow and the blood that pooled around her head, Mrs. Enunzio looked like she slept. The contrast of her lying so peaceful with the vivid recall of her murder weakened his legs. Except for the countless murders that he had seen in the movies, he had never before witnessed a violet act. When he looked at her again, he saw bits of her skull and hair splattered across the wall behind her. He thought he was going to be sick, but he did not. He tried to erase his image of the gaping hole in the back of her head. He felt faint and sat on the vault floor with his back to Mrs. Enunzio. His ears ringing from the single gunshot, the sound of it that forever echoed in his head made him dizzy. The heavy stench of smoke hung from the ceiling like a dark cloud promising to linger over him for the rest of his life. The memory of her death, the conversation between Mrs. Enunzio and the murderer, he knew, would never leave him. He tried not to look at her, wanting to forget the image of her laying there dead. He put his arms around his raised legs and silently prayed for her soul. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 05 By delaying her transaction at the counter, by not closing the caged door behind her, as was bank procedure, he felt responsible for her death. Then, he recalled what the robber had said, "No one gets hurt her, No one gets hurt, as long as they behave," and believing that the robber would have left had she kept her big mouth shut; that thought relieved his guilt, somewhat. "I know you." He remembered she said to the thief. "The fish eat the eyes of your no good bastard father for killing my babies." He remembered her saying that without an Italian accent. He wondered about her identity, now, and about the history behind their conversation. "And I know you," he recalled the thief's response to her. "You had my father and my mother murdered, you vengeful witch." Obviously, the two knew one another and were responsible for or were accessories to some murderous spree. Already, guilt tormented him for taking the white envelope. Even as a child in Conroy's Five and Dime with Mitchell McCauley, forced to play lookout as Mitch shoplifted whatever he could conceal in his pockets, Michael never stole anything. Moreover, he faithfully confessed every sinful thought to Father Murphy each Sunday before Mass where, as the smallest alter boy, he looked like a cherub without wings. Then, after confession, he donated money to the poor box in an attempt to pay for whatever Mitch had stolen, but with an allowance of just one dollar, he never could donate enough to make up for his guilt. Just as he had the opportunity to take the white envelope, there alone with Mrs. Enunzio's stiffening body, he had the opportunity to return it to her clenched fist. He did not understand his impulsive compulsion to take her property. Perhaps, an envelope important to lock away in a bank vault overwhelmed his curiosity. In a morbid sense of revenge, he justified his thievery by her miserable attitude towards him. She made him feel smaller inside than was his height outside, and tired of people making him feel less than he was, unable to bring himself to give it back, he felt compelled to keep it. Still, he wondered who she was and what her connection was to the bank robber. He wondered what was in the white envelope that he was so afraid to remove from his pant pocket. Chapter 24 Sergeant Flaherty Sergeant Flaherty was the first detective to answer the silent alarm after a small army of police officers secured the bank minutes after the robbers had left. The police checked the identification of drivers leaving the area hoping that the robbers were still within the North End. Although SWAT, with their automatic weapons, helmets, body armor, and police negotiator, had already come and gone, yellow police tape tied to light poles and to rearview side mirrors of parked cars still cordoned off that part of Hanover Street. A huge crowd lined the sidewalk outside the bank and news vans filled the street while reporters impatiently waited for someone to interview. Everyone wanted to know what happened. Flaherty double parked his unmarked, gray, Ford Crown Victoria and got out. He unzipped his Celtics jacket to expose dual forty-fours, one his gun and the other his waistline. He removed his Red Sox baseball cap and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away the sweat from the hot Italian sausage that he had just eaten for breakfast. This was supposed to be his day off but, since he was in the area, he answered the call. He peered at the crowd and called over Butch Fitzgerald, the police photographer, before entering the bank. "Videotape the crowd," he said as Butch stepped away, "and try not to be obvious about it. I don't want to spook whoever is out there watching us." With a pencil no bigger than the one that he used at Emerald Isle Bowling Alley to keep an inflated score and a pad smaller than the one that the barmaid uses to take his beer order at O'Malley's, looking at everything, talking to everyone, missing nothing, and noting it all, Sergeant Flaherty skulked around the bank seeking evidence. Continually, he licked the lead from his pencil point writing down whatever he found and licked his finger each time he needed help from it to turn a page. "Tape that off," he said to one officer idly standing by. "Try not to touch anything," he said to another who knocked a calendar from someone's desk. "Don't allow anyone over here," he said pointing to the vault to another officer who passed the time talking with a cute bank teller. "I'm Mr. Florentino, the Branch Manager," he said to Flaherty shaking hands. "I need to preserve the crime scene," Flaherty said. "Which room did the robbers not enter?" Mr. Florentino looked around the bank turning full circle before he could answer Flaherty's question. He looked older, suddenly; the robbery had taken its toll on him. "My office," he said. "My office," he pointed. "They did not enter my office." "Please ask all of your employees to gather in your office and I'll be in momentarily to interview each one." "Everyone, please, everyone." Mr. Florentino addressed the employees who spread out in small groups talking as if they were at a cocktail party. "Everyone, please, everyone. The detective wants everyone to wait in my office. Please, come now." The employees filed in Mr. Florentino's office and, like fish in a crowded bowl, watched the police proceedings from behind the glass office window. Flaherty followed the group to Mr. Florentino's office and waited for the last employee to enter. "You are only to leave to go to the bathroom and an officer will escort you there and back," said Flaherty before closing Florentino's office door. Michael still sat on the floor with his back to Mrs. Enunzio with his head bowed in prayer when Flaherty poked his head around the vault door. "Michael, me boy!" "Flaherty," relieved to hear a familiar voice, Michael looked up with a smile. "It is nice to see a friendly face at a time like this." "You hurt?" Flaherty looked him over for wounds. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?" "No," said Michael standing and getting up from the floor. He brushed the dust from his pants and tucked in his shirt. "Stay where you are," he said to Michael, "and don't touch anything," he said looking around the vault. "You didn't touch anything did you?" Michael lied to the detective and nodded his head no and pushed the white envelope further down in his pant pocket. Flaherty turned back to look at Michael. "You okay?" "Yeah," he said nodding his head. "Who's the stiff?" Flaherty walked to Mrs. Enunzio and, like the alter boy he once was, knelt on one knee to put a finger to her neck. "That's Mrs. Enunzio." "Mrs. Enunzio, huh, spell it for me." "E-n-u-n-z-i-o." Flaherty wrote her name in his pad. Although his face showed no recognition of the victim, his voice betrayed him. "You know her?" Michael asked noticing Flaherty's inflection. Flaherty did not answer. He pushed back Mrs. Enunzio's black, lace shawl with his pencil and pulled her gray wig by a few strands of hair to reveal a hairline full of bright red hair. Just as he suspected by her youthful hands and quick mannerisms of walking and talking fast, Michael could now see the makeup line from her forehead to her hairline. Mrs. Enunzio or whatever was her name wore a mask of makeup to make her appear much older than she was. "Michael O'Leary, may I introduce you to Shannon O'Day, also known as Shannon Kelly, and, of course, the infamous and recently deceased Mrs. Enunzio." "Oh, my," Michael slumped to the floor against a row of locked boxes. "Oh, my." "You okay?" Asked Flaherty peering at him over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm okay." "You know her?" He turned to Michael watching for his reaction. "We went to high school together. She was my first love." He held his head in his hands resting his elbows on his upraised knees. "She was the reason why I almost became a priest," he looked at Flaherty, "and she was the reason why I didn't." "I'm sorry. You can wait outside with the others if—" "No, I'd rather stay." Now that Michael found Shannon, he did not want to leave her. The name Shannon Kelly ran through his brain like an electrical charge. A flood of memories raised the hairs on the back of his neck. She was the girl that he loved for so long, wanted to marry, and spend the rest of his life with. She was the girl that he had asked to the prom and the one who rejected and laughed at him because he was too short. "I don't understand," he said staring at her and then looking up a Flaherty, "Why the disguise?" "We believe," Flaherty stood, brushed the dust from his knee and looked over his shoulder before divulging police business to Michael. "That she cashes extorted winning lottery tickets that were coerced from their victims to surrender," he said lowering his voice. "They, they being the IRA, use the proceeds to fund their violence in Ireland." He shrugged, "But with no witnesses willing or alive to testify, with those willing to talk never making it to court, we never had enough evidence for an arrest," he said. "Especially now, since her case is officially closed with us, but open with homicide." Michael figured she must have been desperate for money. He heard her husband was an unemployed alcoholic. He heard that they were collecting welfare somewhere in New Jersey but this was ridiculous. Then, he heard through the neighborhood grapevine that her husband and three kids were targeted and murdered by protestors hoping to get the United States involved in their civil war of religion. Still, he wondered, how could she have done such terrible things? "Why don't they have security cameras in the vault?" Flaherty asked looking up and pointing at the walls with his pencil. "This is an area where the customers expect privacy. They feel that inside the vault is a secure enough area without having to have additional camera surveillance." He answered Flaherty's sour look, "Besides, we never leave the customer alone, that is, until they take their box to a private room, and we always close and lock the cage to the vault." The color drained from Michael's face. "What?" Flaherty looked at Michael. "I was supposed to close and lock the cage to the vault behind me, but she only took two minutes, every week, she had the same routine. I left the cage ajar figuring that we would be in and out." Flaherty scribbled Michael's words in his notebook. "It is my fault she is dead." "It is not your fault, Michael. It is her fault that she is dead." He put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. "She was the one who was involved in criminal activity. She was the one who put herself in harm's way and everyone else at risk. She was the one who chose this lifestyle. You were only doing your job." "Do you know what the robbers took from here?" Flaherty walked to Shannon's opened safety deposit box and peered inside. The question jarred Michael's thoughts and he answered without making direct eye contact hoping that Flaherty would not press him for any more information. "I don't know, cash and jewelry, I suppose. The guy told me not to look up, so I didn't." He took a deep breath and said, "Especially after he shot Mrs. Enunzio, I mean, Miss O'Day, I mean, Shannon, I did not want him to kill me, too." He tried not to look at Shannon stretched out dead on the vault floor, but he was unable to removed his eyes from her. "Yeah," Flaherty looked long and hard at him before folding over a new page in his notebook, "she probably kept undeclared cash and stolen jewelry." He folded over his page and looked again at Michael. "Did you get a look at him?" "Briefly, and as I said, he told me not to look up, so I didn't." Michael's eye for detail went into overdrive. The game that he played, noticing details about his customers, now proved invaluable. "He wore a disguise, dark glasses, a fake beard, and a baseball cap." "Which team?" "What?" Still in shock, Michael stared through Flaherty not understanding his question. "On the cap, which team logo was on the cap?" He removed his Red Sox cap and pointed to it for Michael's benefit. "Oh, Yankees, I think, or, yeah, Yankees, yeah, definitely, Yankees." "What about height, weight, hair and eye color, scars or tattoos, anything like that will help us to identify him. "He was tall, but not as tall as you." He shrugged a laugh. Everyone is tall to me. I didn't notice any scars or tattoos." When Michael pulled down his shirt cuff and adjusted his shamrock cufflink, he remembered. "Oh, wait, he did have a tattoo." Michael raised his left hand and, pointing with his right index finger, identified the exact location of the tattoo for Sergeant Flaherty. "He had a tattoo of a green shamrock on his left hand. I only noticed it when I looked up before he told me not to look up." "About how tall?" Flaherty, who towered more than a foot over Michael, held his hand palm down at shoulder level. "This tall?" "Yeah, maybe, an inch or two taller." "About 5'9" to 5'11"," Flaherty spoke as he wrote. "He had dark, brown hair and brown eyes, I think." "Hair brown, eyes brown," repeated Flaherty as he wrote. And he weighed about one hundred seventy pounds." "Weight one seventy." Flaherty scribbled as he asked, "What or black?" "Huh? "Was he a white guy or a black guy?" "White." "Did he have a gun?" "Yeah." "Did you notice what kind of gun?" "No, I don't know about guns. I never have had one and will never have one." "Well, we'll know the caliber of the bullet once we retrieve the bullet from the deceased, but any description that you can add about the gun, now, will help." Michael shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, no. "Was it big like this one?" Flaherty removed his gun from his holster and held it up." "No, smaller." "Was it squared off like this one or round like a cowboy pistol?" "I know," said Michael as a glimmer of recognition flashed though his eyes. "It looked like the one that Spencer used, but not the one he carried in his holster, the one he sometimes strapped to his leg as a backup." "My favorite show, Spencer for Hire, why they took that off the air, I dunno. Spence carried a blue steel, snub-nosed .38, as his backup piece." "Yeah, a blue steel, snub-nose .38. I remember the Lieutenant asking Spencer for his backup piece in one of the episodes and he referred to it like that. The same way that Robert Parker wrote it in his book, a snub-nose .38." "Did you see how many were involved?" "I heard only one other voice coming from outside the vault on the main floor. He kept a running count of time, 45 seconds, 75 seconds, like that, as he yelled, C'mon, c'mon." "So," Flaherty pointed to Mrs. Enunzio, "tell me what happened." "The robber shot her when she said that she knew who he was." Flaherty looked at Michael. "She recognized him." "The robber shot her when she recognized him?" "No, not right away, they had words first." "What words?" Eager to help Flaherty with his investigation, racked with guilt for not only leaving the cage door open but also for taking the white envelope from Shannon, Michael paused to think the make sure that he repeated their verbal exchange as it happened. "I know you, she said. The fish eat the eyes of your no good bastard father for killing my babies." Michael answered Flaherty's look with a shrug. "I don't know what she meant by that." Flaherty abruptly looked back down at his pad and Michael asked, "Do you know what she meant by that?" "And..." Flaherty did not answer him, did not look up at him, but scribbled every word in his small pad, filling the page with the one sentence that Michael said. "What did he say?" "He said, you had my father and my mother murdered, you vengeful witch." "Then, what?" "She had the fatal habit of giving everyone the Italian salute." Flaherty looked up from his pad to identify the quick motion that Michael made with his right arm. "Yeah, okay, continue." "Maybe the robber thought she had a gun." He looked at Shannon. "He fired once." Flaherty escorted Michael out of the vault and deposited him by Mr. Florentino's office asking him to wait in there with the other bank employees. Chapter 25 Four Leaf Clover Michael had to wait to be interview by the FBI and did not leave the bank until after 4:00pm, when they told him, finally, that he was free to go. He kept his hand in his pocket most of the time fingering the small, white envelope that he had taken from Shannon's hand, wondering about its contents and, based upon what Flaherty had said to him, believing it to be a winning lottery ticket. He wondered how to cash it without arrest and wondered what to do with the money when he did. He felt guilty for leaving the cage door open and for taking her property. More than once, he thought about tossing the envelope on the floor where the police would find it, but Flaherty had been over every square inch of the bank and would know that he had tossed it after having second thoughts. Besides, the bank had cameras everywhere. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck with Mrs. Enunzio's or Shannon Kelly O-Day's envelope, whatever was its content. Guilt riddled him for taking it and guilt riddled him for leaving the vault's cage door open. "Thank you," he said looking up to God. "The biggest thing that stayed with me, more than my ability to fall to my knees and pray for anything or anyone at any given moment, is guilt. The Catholic Church has instilled in me enough guilt to last me my lifetime." He wondered how much money the ticket was for and thought about all the things that he could buy with the winnings. He already had everything, he believed, a nice apartment that overlooked Boston Harbor in Mrs. Dooley's three family house, a dependable used car, a green Ford Mustang GT, that he bought from his best friend, Billy Ryan, and a dog, a Beagle named Casey that he adopted from the Animal Rescue League of Boston after Angel died. Still, the money from the lottery ticket would buy him is freedom, he hoped. Depending how much were his winnings, he may have enough that he would no longer have to work. He could retire with the proceeds and take control of his life. Cashing in a winning lottery ticket mean that he could to anywhere, anytime, and do anything he wanted. He imagined himself with Gabriella and her daughter, Angela, on a cruise around the world. It was not for the money that he took Mrs. Enunzio's, a.k.a. Shannon Kelly-O'Day's envelope, if it, indeed, was her envelope and contained a winning lottery ticket, it was for something else that he took her envelope. He figured it had to do with the torment that he received during his childhood due, in large part, to his small proportions, especially the extent that he suffered throughout high school and, even now, as an adult. He wanted to get back at Mrs. Enunzio, so he took the thing that she most valued. He took whatever it was she hid in the bank vault. He stole her lottery ticket. She would not need it anymore, anyway; she was dead. Besides, no one would know that he took the ticket. For all anyone knew, the ticket belonged to him, another lucky lottery winner. The ironic thing, he realized, was the he got back at the person who had scarred him the most, Shannon Kelly. Most people never made fun of him to his face. Most people, especially now that he was an adult, never called him names, but their looks pierced his heart. It was their looks and his distorted perception of what their thoughts were behind their looks that hurt him. The dumbest man walking down the street who, because of his gene pool, was born six foot tall, would give Michael that look that said that he was better than him, just because he was taller than him. Shannon Kelly-O'Day, as did Mrs. Enunzio, gave him that look. Shannon Kelly O'Day brought all of those emotions back. She always gave him that look. He wanted to scream at her, "Why are you looking at me like that?" With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 05 He knew that she thought less of him, when he was so much better than was she. Yet, he did not know how much of the look that she gave him came from the fact that he was so short or because she knew him long ago and was angry about something. He thought it funny if she were sorry for not going to the prom with him. He thought it funny if she wondered how better her life would have turned out if she had married him, the short guy, instead of the tall, unemployed drunkard. He thought it funny if, after all these years, she lusted after him, but he did not believe that. Still, how in the Hell was she to cast him such a look? In the way that she looked at him, she might well have said, "Hey, midget, open my box. Hey, little man, do what I ask, now." He felt sorry for her. He said a prayer for her. Mr. McCarthy never gave him that look nor did Mr. Florentino. Little Ralphie never looked at him in that way nor did his beautiful Gabriella. "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella," he read somewhere that if you said a word three times in a row and thought of that thing or that person, that your wish would come true. He said it again, "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella," and wished he was kissing her. "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella," he wished she was kissing him. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 06 Chapter 26 "Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella." They wheeled Shannon Kelly-O'Day out as Michael was leaving the bank. He held the door for the coroner and spotted Gabriella, as soon as he exited the bank. He had not seen her since the hardware store when she told him about accepting the job with the Post Office. The excitement of seeing her gave him tunnel vision and, even though she stood within a crowd of spectators, he saw no one else but her. She ran to him. He did not move, could not move. She threw her arms around his neck and, pressing her body close to his, kissed him hard on the lips. Suddenly, he forgot about the bank robbery and Shannon Kelly. He returned her kiss with passion allowing his tongue to probe hers. Finally, he got his wish; she was his. Michael surrendered standing with his arms slightly raised from his sides, immobilized by the sweetness of her lips. When he composed himself to put his arms around her waist and pull her closer hoping to prolong the kiss, she pulled back and whispered in his ear. "I'm so glad you are safe, Michael, my darling. I am so glad you are here. When I saw the coroner's car, I thought the worst. Thank God you are okay. Thank God for you." She wiped her tears on his shoulder and held him tight in her hug. "Thank God." He held her close feeling all of her body without moving his hands. His brain screamed; she kissed me. She called me my darling. Her words echoed in his head, I am so glad you are safe, Michael, my darling. "Gabriella," was all that he could say. Still, he loved saying her name. Her name was music. He said it, again, "Gabriella." "Oh, Michael, Michael, my darling," she said in response. He swooned at the sound of his name coming from her voice and her lips followed with my darling emphasizing his place in her heart and in her mind. "Tonight, you come to my house," she whispered her sweet breath that tickled his ear with promises of things to come. "I'll cook you dinner...we'll have wine..." she paused, "we'll make love." She pulled away from him, folded a piece of paper, and placed it in his hand. Her words, we'll make love, endlessly echoed his excited anticipation of the thoughts of finally being with her. He threw back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and seemingly grew 2". He unfolded the paper she put in his palm and stared through it. It read, Gabriella Pagliuca, 109 Charter Street, 617-227-5533. "No," he said not believing that he was saying no to her, "I can't, not tonight." Again, he could not believe his ears that he was turning down the chance of a romantic evening with the woman he loved. "I'm sorry, Gabriella." He met her gaze and said, "I have thought of no one else but you and nothing else but making love to you, and I would love to come to your house for dinner...for wine..." he paused, "for love, but I do not think that I can after..." He watched as the coroner's hearse drove off with Shannon Kelly-O'Day's lifeless body; her black attire now covered with a black, plastic body bag. He made the sign of the cross, mumbled some words in Latin, said, "Amen," and crossed himself, again. "Of course, Michael, I understand...another time...I just thought...how awful this is and how terrible you must feel. I did not want you to go home alone." She dropped her arms from around his neck and took his arm, holding him tight. "I'll call you tonight." Michael looked deep in her eyes, kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, "I love you." Finally, he said the words. Finally, he told her. "I have loved you since the first day I saw you at the hardware store. You left me speechless." "That was just from the drain brammage," she rubbed her head, "when we bumped heads." "I love you," he said, again, pulling her close and kissing her. "I love you," she said breaking away. "I'll call you tonight." He kissed her, again. "Ciao," she waved her little hand and disappeared through the crowd. Chapter 27 Charlestown Michael decided not to go home from the bank. Instead, he walked across the bridge that separated the North End from Charlestown. Although he felt safe in Charlestown, he did not feel as comfortable roaming their neighborhood streets as he did as a boy. Much like all the neighborhoods of Boston, Charlestown did not escape the evolution of a metropolitan big city experiencing the sprawling land development growth of a booming northeastern economy. A city in transition from the biggest construction project in the history of the modern world, the Big Dig, the local politicians enjoyed the money that flowed in their economies from the construction of it. Unfortunately, the people who lived in Charlestown for generations fell prey to those real estate developers and land speculators who realized early the value of the old neighborhoods that were so close to Boston's booming businesses. These deep pocket people descended upon the neighborhoods waving their cash beneath the noses of people who had nothing, sometimes, not even a job, but their houses, houses that were passed down from generation to generation. Homes that the people who lived there, lived there their entire lives were homes that the elderly, not getting by on fixed incomes, hung on to long after they no longer could afford to pay the water bill, the taxes, and the repairs. Developers and speculators bought entire blocks of homes for fair market value or below fair market value, gutted them, remodeled them, and resold them as expensive condominiums or exclusive townhouses. Young, affluent city residents replaced the elderly, poor neighbors. Cement sidewalks and asphalt streets replaced the old brick and cobblestone removing the charm with the modernization. New, black, iron fences replaced old, wooden, white ones. Foreign cars and SUV's from Germany and Japan replaced American cars and station wagons. French restaurants and coffeehouses replaced ethnic sub shops and taverns. Robotic ATMs and self-service gas stations replaced friendly tellers and chatty mechanics that pumped your gas, checked your oil, and filled your tires while filling you in on the neighborhood gossip. The Wall Street Journal and the New York Times replaced the Record American and the Boston Globe. Convenience stores owned and operated by foreigners from India, Pakistan, and other Middle Eastern countries replaced Mom and Pop corner stores that had been there as long as the neighborhood. The neighborhood changed from a warm, friendly, and familiar environment to a cold, unfriendly, and unfamiliar place. The changes made the few familiar faces that remained feel like outcasts in their own neighborhoods. Those undeveloped properties that remained, whose owners refused to sell and held out against the inevitable, homes that once were the neighborhood landscape, looked starkly out of place. Now, a two million dollar, three story, 4,500 square foot condominium stood alongside a dilapidated three-decker house. Eventually, through legal ramblings and money to grease hands, the city council declared those houses that remained unfit to live in and razed them, making more opportunities for developers to make more money and put more of their imprint on the neighborhoods. The composition of the neighborhood population changed from a collection of lower, middle class ethnic segregationist to upper, middle class integrationist. Those unfamiliar faces that left early for work and returned late replaced those familiar faces that sat on their stoops or hung out their windows. By displacing the poorest residents of Boston in favor of developing the skyline to attract the more affluent segment of the world population, the grapevine that fed the neighborhood its gossip suffocated and died. Yet, the politicians embraced the change. The Mayor and the Governor gave their speeches that Boston was changing for the better and moving along with the times. Only, no one took the time or had the interest to look at those loyal citizens who were no only left behind but who were banished from the neighborhoods that they had grown to love. For those who grew up there and who lived there, it was not a celebration but a funeral. Chapter 28 The Cliffs of Dover Michael sought a familiar place. The Cliffs of Dover Pub was the lone establishment left standing where the owner had refused the generous offers of developers to sell his land. They wanted to level his business to give the new breed of Bostonians moving into the neighborhood a skyscraping condominium complex with unobstructed and panoramic views of Boston Harbor. Spitefully, they squeezed two high-rise apartment buildings on either side of him and bridged the skyscrapers with an annex that hung low over his roof. The twin towers created a cyclonic wind tunnel around his building and cast such a shadowy gloom over the street that the pub looked like it concealed itself in a darkened doorway waiting to leap out at any passerby. No longer could the pub owner illuminate his tavern with the same green, neon map of Ireland sign that had guided the neighborhood patrons to its door for over 30 years. The city council vetoed that advertising display voting that it no longer represented the new neighborhood. Now, the weathered, hand-painted signage over the door of the pub was the only indication that the establishment was a bar and not someone's house. If you did not know that the pub was there, you would not see it until you walked by it. Business fell off drastically, but the owner riled against the unfairness that the developers had leveled upon his shoulders with the city's politicians in its deep pockets and, so long as he had his liquor license, he swore to stay in business, even if it meant losing money. Yet, because the sun no longer found its way to the Cliffs of Dover Pub, a musty odor permeated the outside of the establishment. No sunlight filtered through to warm the roof of the tavern and the sea breeze that blew in from the harbor played havoc with the front door and rattled the windows. Whatever trash lined the streets made its way to the pub's front door, littering its sidewalk in a tornado of papers. The city's inspectors, blaming the litter on him and his customers, wrote the owner trash violations daily. The regulars hardly noticed the blustery disturbance out front but for those strangers who happened in for a drink, they feared after downing a couple of Irish brews that they might fall off the real Cliffs of Dover as soon as they exited the front door. Michael entered the darkened tavern for a late lunch but an early supper, a chicken salad sandwich with a double shot of rye, straight up. Except for his two pints, which he nursed all Saturday night at O'Malley's, Michael did not drink. Too small to hold his alcohol, he did not like the lost sense of control that he experienced when he drank too much. Today, however, he needed a drink. He removed the white envelope from his pocket after the waitress left the table with his order and covered it with his hand when she returned with bread and water, and uncovered it, again, when she left. He reached inside the sealed envelope and pulled out a Massachusetts state lottery ticket back dated several months and remembered what Flaherty had said about Mrs. Enunzio cashing in stolen lottery tickets. He had no doubt that the ticket that he held in his hand was a winning ticket but for how much. He wondered about the payoff. He hoped the prize was enough to buy new tires of his Mustang. When he saw the waitress approaching the table with his order, he returned the ticket to the envelope and pocketed it, again. He downed the rye, wrapped the sandwich in a napkin and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, and placed $20.00 on the table and left. Michael walked the five miles home, keeping one hand in his pant pocket the whole way with his fingers in constant contact with the envelop and with his other hand holding the sandwich and eating it as he walked. The double shot of rye that he downed at the tavern calmed his nerves and long walks always made him feel better. His mind seemed clearer, better able to focus on what he needed to do. He thought about driving to lottery headquarters to cash the ticket, but worried about the FBI, the Massachusetts State Police or the Boston Police arresting him, as soon as he did. He looked to see if anyone followed him and, noting the cars around him, changed his route to see if any of those cars near him now were still there later. He noticed a car lingered, a dark blue, Ford Crown Victoria, the universal, undercover cop car. He dumped his half-eaten sandwich in a trash barrel, dashed down a one-way street, cut across an alleyway marked private, no trespassing, and hooked through a backyard and over a fence to remake his original route. He turned to see if he could spot the car. Gone, he had lost it. Reassured that he was alone again with his thoughts, anxious to develop a plan of action for cashing the stolen lottery ticket, he doubled back to continue the way he had come. Suddenly, the car pulled up in front of him and stopped. He froze. He stood watching the rear door of the car slowly open. His fingers grabbed the envelope ready to pitch it away. His heart pounded. Sweat appeared at his hairline. He watched impatiently waiting for someone to exit the car. The seconds that passed to see who would exit the car were almost as excruciating as waiting for the bank robber to fire a bullet in the back of his head. He knew that this was not a normal reaction but, after what he had been through, panic was his only reaction. An elderly woman with hair as blue and as puffy as cotton candy emerged from the back seat. "I'll call you when I'm done," she said to the white haired gentleman behind the wheel, probably her husband. She passed in front of Michael, glared at him for staring at her, and disappeared in the beauty salon behind him. Michael quickened his pace walking fast until he started running and did not stop running until he reached home. He thought about calling the police and surrendering the lottery ticket, but figured that they would arrest him for taking the envelope, for taking evidence from a dead woman's hand, and for interfering with the ongoing police investigation of an armed bank robbery and a murder. Home, finally, he stood by his kitchen phone unable to decide if he should call the police, surrender the lottery ticket and turn himself in or call the Massachusetts state lottery, ask how much was the prize, and cash the lottery ticket. The image of Shannon's dead body flashed across his mind. For so many years, the love he had for her had burned deep within his heart like molten lava rock within a volcano. New feelings smoldered for the anticipation of a long life with his true love, Gabriella. He erupted into action. He removed the envelope from his pocket and the lottery ticket from the envelope. He sat on his sofa staring at the ticket, curious about the payoff. He picked up the telephone and dialed information for the number of the state lottery agency. Chapter 29 The Lottery Ticket "Welcome to Verizon," said the familiar prerecorded voice of James Earl Jones. "What city and state?" This time, it was the prerecorded voice of a woman. "Woburn, Massachusetts," he said. "What listing?" Again, the same prerecorded voice. "Yes, may I have the telephone number for the Massachusetts State Lottery?" "One moment, please," said a live operator. A fourth recording gave him his requested telephone number. He dialed the number. "Massachusetts State Lottery, how may I direct your call?" "May I speak with someone to verify a winning lottery ticket number?" "One moment, please." He listened as the telephone rang. A man's voice answered on the third ring. "Mass state lottery, Bill speaking, may I help you?" "Hi, Bill, I think that I may have a winning ticket." "Which game, Sir?" "Mega Millions." "What is the date of the drawing?" "June fourth of this year." "Read the numbers that appear on the ticket, please." "6, 7, 8, 14, 26 and with a bonus ball of 27." "Please hold." "Okay." The man's voice disappeared and reappeared just as Michael was having second thoughts and was about to hang up. "Hello, Sir." "Yes." "Please read me those numbers one more time." "6, 7, 8, 14, 26 and with a bonus ball of 27." "And that was a Massachusetts Mega Millions ticket for June fourth of this year?" "Yes." "Please hold." "Okay." It was several long minutes before the man returned to the phone. The wait was excruciating. "Hello, Sir." "Yes." "Please read me those numbers one more time." "6, 7, 8, 14, 26 and with a bonus ball of 27." "And that was a Massachusetts Mega Millions ticket for June fourth of this year?" "Yes." "Please hold." "Okay." Again, it was several long minutes before the man returned to the telephone. "Hello, Sir." "Yes." "There are a long sequence of numbers that appear below the date of the drawing but just above the bar encoding information. Can you read those numbers to me, please?" "Two, one, double zero, six, one, double zero, two, seven, one, dash, zero, five, four, five, nine, double six, four, zero, dash, one, seven, nine, five, one, and zero." "Please allow me to read that back. Two, one, zero, zero, six, one, zero, zero, two, seven, one, zero, five, four, five, nine, six, six, four, zero, one, seven, nine, five, one, zero." Michael followed the numbers with his finger. "Okay." "Is those the numbers as it appears on your ticket?" "Yes." "Please hold while I confirm this information." "Sure." The time that lapsed between the conversation and the confirmation took even longer. "I do show that ticket as the winning lottery ticket for the jackpot prize on that day for that drawing." "That's great." Michael suppressed his emotion. "And that is for the jackpot prize?" "Yes, Sir." "Now, when you say Jackpot, you mean like first prize, I mean, the biggest prize for that drawing." "Yes, Sir." "Now what do I do?" "You can either mail it to us or come down to lottery headquarters to collect your check." "I think I'll come there instead of mailing it." Michael assimilated the information. "What are your hours?" "We are open Monday through Friday from 9am to 5pm." "Oh, and can you tell me how much was the jackpot payoff for that ticket?" "Yes, Sir. Please hold. "Sure." Another few minutes passed before the man returned to the phone, only this time, Michael did not mind the wait because he was daydreaming about all the things that he could buy with his lottery winnings. Maybe, there's enough to buy a new car, he hoped. "Hello, Sir." "Yes." "The amount of your payoff is three million, one hundred, forty-three thousand dollars." "Three million, one hundred, forty-three thousand dollars? Wow!" Michael sat and switched the telephone receive to his other ear. "Three million, one hundred, forty-three thousand dollars, and how much is that after taxes?" Forget the tires, thought Michael; I can buy myself a brand new car." "One moment, please." He heard an adding machine in the background. "Sir." "Yes." "Approximately, two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars after paying state and federal taxes due." "Wow!" "It is a lot of money. Congratulations." "Thank you. One more question, please." "Go ahead." "How much does that work out to per year over what is it, 25 years?" "That is the yearly payoff, Sir. Two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars after taxes, is your net amount that you will receive each year for 25 years." "I don't understand." "The jackpot total is for seventy-eight million, five hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. The two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars is your yearly payout." With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 06 "Oh, my God. I think that I may need to consult a tax attorney." "Many people do, Sir. Also, you have the option to take a one time payout instead of the 25 year payout." "How much is the one time payout?" "Approximately, Forty-five million before taxes but our accountants will give you an exact number when you claim your prize." "Wow!" "And, Sir." "Yes, Bill." "May I remind you that the ticket expires in a little more than three months?" "Yes, I know, thank you." "And, Sir?" "Yes, Bill." "If you have not already, you should sign the back of your ticket. Your ticket acts like a bearer bond with whomever presenting the ticket with their signature able to claim the prize." "Thank you, Bill. I'm doing that right now." Michael put the ticket in his sock drawer beneath a dozen neatly folded socks. There it stayed, consuming his thoughts like the dread that hung over someone waiting for their trial date at court. He had to get out. He needed to take a walk and to think. He leashed up Casey for a walk. Whenever he had something troubling his mind, walking made him feel better and he may as well take Casey along with him. Casey always enjoyed the exercise. Two millions, three hundred fifty thousand dollars ran threw his mind like a runaway freight train. Now, he could go anywhere, do anything, and buy everything. More than anything else, that money from the lottery bought him his freedom. He no longer had to work at a job he hated. He could ask Gabriella to marry him. He could buy a house. He could live anywhere. Exotic places flashed through his mine, a cottage in the French countryside, a villa in Italy, a country house in Ireland or a mansion that overlooked the ocean somewhere. Then, he thought of the McDonough's house for sale, the one with the glassed in balcony, bay windows, beamed ceilings, and finished cellar. It overlooked the Atlantic Ocean by Castle Island and they were only asking $799,900. An impossible amount before suddenly became a reasonably priced bargain, now. The more he thought of what he would do with his winnings, the more excited he became and the more excited he became, the faster he walked. Poor Casey could hardly keep up without running and until he felt a tug on the leash when his dog stopped at the fire hydrant to pee. "Oh, sorry, Casey." Michael headed home. He climbed the three flights of stairs, unlocked his door, and put Casey in before going out again to buy a newspaper. Chapter 30 Little Ralphie.com Ralphie now too big to call Little Ralphie heard about the bank robbery on the news. He drove to the bank and, having just missed Michael, drove to his house in time to see him walking to the corner store. He sat on the front steps and waited for him to return. When Michael spotted Ralphie from the corner store two blocks away, anxiety hit him like a gush of cold wind. He quickened his pace to his door expecting something to be wrong and preparing himself for the worse. Ralphie never waited for him at his doorstep, they always made their plans over the telephone. Besides, Ralphie had his own key; he could have let himself into Michael's apartment. It just seemed so weird to see him sitting on the front steps like that. What could it be? It has to be something terrible. He walked faster. Did he drop out of school? Was he in an accident? He took bigger steps. Was he in trouble with the police? Did he finally snap and murder his father? He broke out in a jog. Whatever it is, he will stand by him. He will help him, no matter what. "What's the matter?" Michael asked from three doors away, expecting and ready to hear the bad news. "Nothing." Ralphie looked hard at him. "Nothing. Really, nothing." He repeated his words and broke out into a smile. "You worry too much." "I can't help that. That's how I am and I am too old to change that behavior now." He shifted the bag of bread and milk in his arm and Ralphie took it from him. "That's the difference between you and the rest of the general population." He waved his hand. "You worry about everybody and everything, they worry about themselves and only what concerns them, and no one worries about you." He smiled, "But that's what makes you, Archangel Michael, St. Michael." "Ha, ha. Not only is that not funny, it is not accurate." He returned Little Ralphie's smile. "I don't worry about the bank robbers and I do worry about myself, sometimes, occasionally." He laughed. "Well, I worry about you, too," said Ralphie. "I heard about the bank robbery and wanted to see if you were okay and to see if you needed anything or if there was something that I could do for you." He threw an arm around his shoulders and looked at him. "You okay, Pop?" Ralphie had the habit of calling him Pop. Michael felt special whenever Ralphie called him that, which was not very often. Still, the word Pop placed Michael on a much higher level than Ralphie's real Dad, Big Ralphie, and that made Michael feel that Ralphie loved him. "I'm fine, a little shaken up, but—" He smiled with the revelation as to what Ralphie's visit was about. "Oh, you mean, you don't need any money, you just came by to see if I was okay." "Well, I always need money." "Come on up." He walked up in front of Ralphie. "Why didn't you let yourself in? You still have the key, don't you?" "Yeah, I have the key but I saw you walking to the store and figured you'd be right back." "Still, you could have waited upstairs. You scared the life out of me. I figured something terribly was wrong for you to be sitting there waiting for me to come home. I always imagine the worse things." They both laughed. "So, which did you think: that I murdered my father, dropped out of school, was wanted by the police or was in a car accident?" "Well," he said laughing with Ralphie, "all of those crossed my mind." "So, what's up with you and Gabriella?" "What do you mean?" "I heard through the neighborhood grapevine that you made a spectacle of yourselves, went at it like horny teenagers, and practically had sex on the sidewalk in front of the entire neighborhood." He looked at Michael and laughed. "Something that the peasants haven't stopped talking about since Crazy Tony beat up that black sailor for talking to his girlfriend, Maria." "Who cares what they saw, what they are imagining, and what they have exaggerated." Michael shrugged. "It is my personal business." "You know, Michael, you may think that the people in the neighborhood don't like you because you are Irish but they do. You are wrong about that. And they love Gabriella. She is one of their own." Ralphie smiled, "Mama mia." Michael looked over his shoulder as Ralphie moved his hands in the shape of an hourglass. "She's too hot for you, but they like the idea of you and her getting it on and being together as a couple." "Who are they? Moreover, why do they care about me and Gabriella getting it on and being together as a couple?" He stopped his ascent and turned to Ralphie. "They should mind their own business." "They are the North Enders, you know, your customers. And as far as them minding their own business, it will never happen. This neighborhood is too small for that. They live for juicy gossip like this. They'll be talking about this, about you and Gabriella making out on the sidewalk for years." "Now, they like me after working all of these years at the bank, after not acknowledging my presence when I walk their sidewalks and after they give me nothing but their indifference when I shop their businesses." "Ehh," Ralphie said with a shrug and threw up an arm just like Mrs. Enunzio, "it's a neighborhood thing. Get over it. They don't mean nothin' by it. You are one of them, now. You are accepted. They love their little Irish Leprechaun." "Don't call me that. It's a sore point with me. The kids used to tease me with that name when I was a kid." "Sorry, Michael. But, you live in South Boston; you know how it is. The same thing happens in the North End. Chalk it up to closed neighborhoods and being a product of your environment, if you know what I mean." "Yeah, I know what you mean." "Besides, it takes time for we meatball and spaghetti Italians to warm up to and accept a corn beef and cabbage guy with orange hair." "Yeah, unfortunately, I do know how it is." Michael remembered the reason why he wanted to become a priest, to help people treat one another with respect and with love. "But, it's a good thing that you and Gabriella are getting it on and are together as a couple." "Let's just say that our friendship has reached a higher level of mutual respect and adoration." "Yeah, with no help from you." "What do you mean?" "If Gabriella waited for you to make a move on her, she'd be an old woman." "Well, I'm glad that she's not as socially backward as I am. Moreover, I hope she feels the same about me as I feel about her." The darkened hallway concealed Michael's blush. "Moreover? You hope?" Ralphie laughed. "Moreover, you're nuts not to know that she's crazy about you and has been crazy about you since the first day she laid eyes on you. Moreover, you're nuts if you do not realize, as it was with you, it was love at first sight with her, too. Moreover, you're nuts if you do not know that she divorced her husband to free herself up for you. These are things that everyone in the neighborhood knows but you." He laughed, again. "Moreover, you're just nuts." "Well, that makes you nuts too because you are always hanging around me." "It doesn't make a psychiatrist a nut to be around crazy people. Just call me Dr. Ralphie." "Some psychiatrists are just as crazy as their patients." Michael reached the third floor landing, inserted his key, and opened the door. Casey greeted him with a tail wag, a jump, and a lick. Then, he gave Ralphie the same greeting. "How ya doin', Casey?" Ralphie rubbed Casey behind his ear. "Good dog. Good boy." Michael prepared Casey's dinner in the kitchen and Casey ran from Ralphie to his bowl of dog food. "So tell me," he said loud enough for Ralphie to hear him in the next room, "What is it that you need money for, books, tuition, or a girl?" Two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars sidetracked his concentration. "It must be important enough for you to come all the way here." He gave Casey his supper as Ralphie entered the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat at the kitchen table. "Yeah, it is." "What?" He turned his full attention to Little Ralphie. "What is it?" "The reason why I came all this way," Little Ralphie feigned a pained expression, "I was starving and I knew you'd have something to eat." "Don't you ever get serious? Is everything a joke to you?" He threw a dishtowel at him. "There's a muffin in the breadbox and a leftover donut from this morning in there, too." He walked to the sink. "Want some coffee?" "Coffee's good, so long as you are making it." Ralphie ate the donut before devouring the muffin, talking as he chewed. "I tried catching you at the bank, but they said you left already." "Yeah, I walked to Charlestown for a late lunch, early supper. I had to think and it helps me to think when I walk." Two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars ran through his mind, again. "The walk did me good. It always does." He lied, remembering the panic that set him to running home when he imagined that the police were following him. He wondered if he should tell Ralphie about the lottery ticket and about the two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars. He had to tell somebody, his mother, his father, his brothers, his sister, Gabriella, someone, but he decided not to say anything to anyone. "So, what's up?" He watched Ralphie gobble down the muffin. "I can tell something is on your mind whenever you eat like an animal." "You know how I've been" Ralphie talked as he chewed, "taking computer courses." "Yeah." "My school has this program called Entrepreneurship for Internet Startup Companies. I completed the course and finished top of my class." "Wow, top of your class. That is quite the accomplishment. Good for you. I'm proud of you, Ralphie." "As the final exam, we had to write a business plan for a company that we could establish as an Internet Startup business." He looked at Michael. "The teacher thought that my plan had so much merit that he persuaded me to enter it in the yearly contest that the school has to encourage newly emerging entrepreneurs." He swallowed the last bit of muffin. "Funny, but I never thought of myself as an entrepreneur but something clicked as I was going through the mechanics of writing the business plan. It was as if I was meant to do this." "Do what?" said Michael counting out coffee scoops. "Become another Bill Gates?" "Yeah, right." Ralphie laughed. "Well, I certainly hope you win the contest Ralphie, that would be wonder—" "I won the contest, first prize, actually, and it pays $100,000 in grants towards my Internet business startup." "You won $100,000?" Michael stopped what he was doing to stare at Ralphie. "Are you kidding or are you serious?" "I'm serious, but I only get the money if I actually start the company based on the business plan that I proposed and presented in the competition." "So, what's the company?" Michael pushed the button that started the coffee brewing, walked over to the kitchen table, and pull out a chair to sit. Again, two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars to control of his thoughts, he could hardly contain himself. "I have an idea for a company that helps other companies navigate the web. A way for them to find what it is that they are looking for within nanoseconds instead of hours, days even and without getting all of the bullshit pop ups." "Don't they have that already, search engines, they're called, right?" "Yeah, but this is different. This takes it to a much higher level than what a mere search engine does. With my company," he laughed. "I'm talking like I already have a company. Anyway, with my company, I link the information that they need in a comprehensive package, call it a super search engine with an emphasis on marketing, advertising, promotion, and customer service." "Still, don't they have that already?" Michael thought, "Amazon.com comes to mind, Google, and Yahoo, too. Every time I type in a search, I used one of those." "Yes, but my idea is more sophisticated than that and," Ralphie smiled his smug smile whenever he was about to say something that he thought was smart; "the software to my site has a catch." "Catch, what do you mean, catch?" "The customer completes an extensive questionnaire that includes their last three years of financial information. From it, we analyze similar businesses. My version uses artificial intelligence to learn their business and strategize their needs based on economic forecasts. It is their personal think tank. "That's scary." "Not really. It just thinks for the customer, as would another employee, albeit well paid employee with advanced degrees, only faster and more thoroughly than any human can. "I cannot keep up with the technology of computers." "It is an easy concept to grasp, Michael. Once you setup the database, the software, my invention, extrapolates the information that the company has inputted and spits out multiple reports, custom reports, even, within nanoseconds of the customer punching in his or her request. The software does their market research and defines their web site advertising, making their company more competitive and profitable. The software is perfect for not only a large scale company but also a smaller company." "So, this technology is here, now?" "No, the technology does not exist, yet, but it will. I have only conceptualized it and have done that before anyone else. Now, I have to develop the software to put it in place. That is where the prize money from the grant will help bring this all to fruition." "It all sounds great; Ralphie, but you're not a programmer. Pardon my disrespect, but you're not even an egghead." "That's okay, no disrespect taken. You are right. I know little about computers and computer software. I'm just the idea man who now has to deliver my concept to the people who have the technological expertise to program my ideas to reality." "And where do you find someone, anyone, with that kind of technical expertise?" "Harvard University and The Massachusetts Institute of Technology are directly responsible for more startup businesses than any other schools in the world." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I've been spending my weekends in their computer labs looking for potential egghead programmers." "And how do you do that? Do you walk around their school campus holding up a sign, Wanted Egghead Programmers?" "It is easy to identify the ones that have serious brainpower. They are the ones, the only ones, who aren't partying on a Saturday night." "So, where do I come in with your master plan?" "I want to go public to get the money that I'll need, but I need seed money first, to do that." "So, use the $100,000." "I don't receive a penny of the $100,000 until the business is operational. I need money now to pay lawyers, to file patents, to set up the corporation, to rent office space, and to buy computers." "That sounds expensive." Ralphie pushed his hair back with his palm and Michael knew that whenever he did that telling idiosyncrasy that he was burning out of his skin with enthusiasm. He wished he had a fraction of the fire that burned deep inside Ralphie. "It would not be a loan, Michael. I'd give you stock in exchange for your investment." "I do not mean to be negative, but someone has to be realistic here. Stock in exchange for cash is risky when your company is only a paper dream. I could lose my investment." "I know but," he looked at Michael. "I'm so sure about this that it is worth the risk and what you may earn in exchanged is huge." He flattened his hair again with his palm. "Imagine Steve Gates when he told the people around him that he was starting Microsoft, a software company when very few people had computers and when IBM had already given up on the idea of a computer in every home, concentrating more on business computers." He paused looking at Michael, again. "Those who believed in him and his idea are set for the rest of their lives. This could be as big." "How much is my investment?" Michael thought about his two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars. "Well," Ralphie looked up as if adding numbers on a sky calculator, "In addition to the small savings that I have and the $100,000 that they'll give me to proceed with my company and, hopefully, with much more from investors, I need $35,000." "Thirty-five thousand!" "I know you don't have that kind of money, but whatever you can give me, now, would go a long way to help." "Thirty-five thousand and that's just for expenses?" Michael looked hard at Ralphie. "Michael, I know this will balloon into something big, very big, and very quickly, within a year or two. Oh, and guess what?' "What?" "The school invited a Vice-President of Small Business loans from Earth Bank." "What's his name?" "Her name is Ms. Marilyn Davis. She's flying in from Seattle." "I don't know her." He looked at Ralphie. "It seems odd that they would fly a banker in from Seattle when they have local people here. You can throw a stick in the Boston branch of Earth Bank and hit a vice-president of something or other." He laughed. "Maybe, she is has special expertise in computer software and Internet startups." "Yeah, maybe." "Anyway, Earth Bank is very interested. I have an interview with them on Monday. They want me to present my plan to the loan committee." With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 06 "A personal meeting with the loan committee," Michael rubbed his chin, "I'm impressed." "I figure that I need an initial bank loan of, at least, five hundred thousand, one million if I can get it, to pay the salaries of the techno-heads who will write, develop, and debug the software." "That's great but you are digging a deep hole with a bank loan, especially if your company fails." "I know but there's always bankruptcy." "Yeah, but to ruin your credit at such a young age makes me wonder if the risk is worth taking." "Oh, it is, Michael, it is." Suddenly, Michael felt like his mother when she was playing Devil's advocate in not wanting a dog before he convinced her to allow him to get Angel, the demon dog. He hoped that this Internet startup was not Ralphie's Angel. "Well, you be careful with them. They are vulture like. Don't sign anything unless you have legal representation and your lawyer reads the fine print first." "Okay, I can do that." "Still, even a million dollars may not be enough money. That's why I want to show the bank that I have money behind me from other investors. That's where you come in." Michael felt the lottery ticket in his pocket and thought about the big payoff, two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars. He knew Ralphie and if he said that this was big, then it was. He believed in him. Michael got up from the kitchen table, went into the living room, and walked over to his desk. He sat down, opened his desk drawer, and took out his combination checking and savings account book. He wrote a check payable to Ralphie for almost his entire life savings of $35,000. Soon, he would have the two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars. Why should he care about a measly thirty-five thousand? He got up, walked over to Ralphie, and handed him the check. "This is how much I believe in you." Ralphie looked at the check, stood, and hugged him. "I won't let you down, Michael. You'll see. I'll make you proud." "You've already done that, Ralphie. I could not be more proud of you, if you were my own son." Michael figured that he was a lottery winner. What did he have to lose? It wasn't like it was his hard earned money that he was risking. It was someone else's; someone else's stolen lottery ticket, no doubt. For the next twenty-five years, he'd be getting a yearly check of two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars. That is, he stopped to calculate the total amount in his head, $58,750,000, more than he could spend. He did not feel bad about handing Ralphie $35,000, most of his life savings. Tomorrow, he would cash the ticket and join the lifestyle of the idle rich. Still, he could not allow himself to get too excited because there was always the possibility that something could go wrong. The police could be waiting to arrest anyone who cashed that lottery ticket. He wondered whom the ticket originally belonged to before Shannon got it and whom she worked for as a mule. Did they murder the original owner and gave the ticket to Shannon to cash disguised as Mrs. Enunzio? What happened to Shannon to make her turn her life to crime? What did she mean when she said to the bank robber that your father killed my babies and what did the bank robber mean when he said that she had his mother and father murdered? What else did Flaherty know that he was not telling him? He could not wait for the day when he could stop wondering and tell Gabriella and Ralphie about the lottery money. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 07 Chapter 31 Michael the Millionaire Michael lived a simple life, but winning that much money would make anyone want to go shopping and buy things that he did not need and could do without and he was no different. Now, that he learned how much the jackpot amount that he had won and, now, that he decided to keep the lottery ticket and cash it in, he, suddenly, felt like a lottery winner before he even received the check from the lottery. He bought himself a navy blue, cardigan sweater with a high fold-over collar, deep side pockets, and brown leather buttons. Widow Fagen made them as a side business from out of the materials shop that she opened with the life insurance money that her husband had put a little away each month to pay for and that he left her. It was not a huge sum of money but it was enough for her to open a little shop and not worry about paying her bills. Every time Michael passed by her shop on his way home from the bank after closing, he could see her feet resting on a footstool from the light of the small black and white television in the back of her shop. Her tea perched on a table beside her while she busily knitted Irish wool sweaters for the old money people who lived on Beacon Hill and in Back Bay or for the nouveau rich who lived in the South End or in the surrounding more affluent communities of Winchester, Wellesley, Newton, and Dover. Michael had always wanted a custom made Irish wool knit sweater but even at the reduced prices that Widow Fagen charged, it was a luxury and not a necessity that he could ill afford. Still, because of his boyish proportions, it was difficult to buy men's sweaters that fit him. Normally, he would have to buy boys sweaters and children's clothes, normally, did not have the quality or the fashion that he needed. Now, he could afford to buy dozens of Irish wool knit sweaters in all colors of the rainbow but as careful as he was with money in the years that he had none, he only bought one. He used his charge card to pay for the sweater. He would have the lottery money long before he received his charge card bill. Next on his list of things to do and things to buy was a visit to Galway Motors where he ordered a brand new Mini Cooper S. Although, he had lusted over a brand new Mustang GT, now that he had won the lottery, he could afford to buy any car and American cars were last on his list of new cars to buy. He always had a deep affection for the Mini, maybe because his proportions were mini in size or maybe because the car was made in England, but whatever the reason, he just loved the quirky cuteness of the car. Besides, since BMW had bought out Mini, the quality, as well as the price, increased dramatically. He had fun ordering the car because everything is custom and everything is an option. He ordered the best leather seats that they had and selected the exterior color, of course, British racing green with white bonnet stripes, white wheels, and a white roof. He was as excited about buying his Mini Cooper as he was when he found out how much the jackpot was on his winning lottery ticket. The salesman promised him the car in six to eight weeks. Next, he treated Casey to a new bed, one with his name engraved on the cushion, as well as a new personalized leash, personalized collar, personalized water and food bowls, and a yellow vinyl raincoat with hood for when it rained. Casey proudly proclaimed his status as Michael's pampered pet to everyone who entered his apartment or see him walking his dog on the sidewalk. He charged all of the above on his credit card with without worry. Already, he was living the imagined, sweet lifestyle of a millionaire. Even though he did not play golf, had never played golf, did not belong to a country club, and did not even know where the nearest golf course was to South Boston, he charged a deposit to have custom golf clubs made to fit his diminutive proportions. Mr. McNabe, South Boston's resident golf pro direct from Scotland, influenced his decision to have the clubs made after Michael spent countless hours listening to customers at the bank talking to Mr. McNabe about golf and about the custom-made golf clubs that he made from out of his business, Scotty's Golf Pro Shop, in East Cambridge. "Most people miss 90% of their shots because they are either using the wrong club or they have a club with a shaft that is too short or too long," Michael remembered Mr. McNabe telling an audience of amateur golfers at in impromptu meeting at the bank. "When you have a shaft that is too short, you lose power in your stroke. When your shaft is too long, you have a greater chance of hitting slices in hooks rather than hitting it straight." He passed out his business card to everyone who would take them and they all took them but few took his advice and bought custom-made golf clubs because of their expense. Although, every golfer lusted over custom-made golf clubs, most bought discounted and discontinued golf clubs at the discount stores. While Michael was there ordering his golf clubs, he bought golf balls, golf shoes, and furry, colorful animal heads, a lion, a tiger, and elephant, a zebra, and a giraffe to cover the woods that graced a custom-made green, leather golf bag engraved with his name in bold gold italics, Michael. The golf bag, made much shorter than that of a normal golf bag appeared wider than taller and with the heads of animals capping the shortened clubs sticking out from its top. The display more resembled Noah's Arc than it did a golf bag. Michael wasn't worried about paying for everything, so long as he could charge in on his credit card. He would have the check from the lottery soon, well before he received his charge card statement. He went to the neighborhood jewelry store, a business that Mr. Brennan and his family had established more than fifty years ago and now was owned and operated by his four daughters, Grace, Aileen, Irene, and Laura. He bought two Irish Claddagh rings in 14k gold, one for him and one for Ralphie and charged them on his credit card. While there, he charged a deposit for a flawless 2 karat, round, Tiffany cut, diamond ring in platinum and 18-karat gold. A ring he knew would bedazzle Gabriella's eyes and would be a small visual token of how much he loved her. Unfortunately, he knew that the Brennan women would herald the news of his purchase of a diamond ring throughout the neighborhood, along with the speculation of whom it was for, faster than he could return home. Sure enough, he returned home to six messages on his answering machine, five from neighborhood women asking him out, hoping and assuring themselves, no doubt, that he had purchased the ring for them, even though Michael had never dated them. The last call was from his credit card company, they wanted to ascertain that Michael O'Leary had authorized the sudden large amount of activity that appeared on his credit card. He called the credit card company and assured them, no problem, just send him the bill at the end of the month and he will pay the entire balance in full. Then, he called each of the women to thank them for their invitation and to let them know that he was involved with another, someone they did not know and who was not from the neighborhood. Finally, he removed the lottery ticket from its hiding place in his sock drawer beneath a dozen neatly folded socks, he had to; the expiration date loomed over him as if it were an executioner's sword. He carried the lottery ticket in his pocket every day, to and from work, with the intent of leaving work early one day, to drive to lottery headquarters in Woburn, but he never did. Every day, he procrastinated cashing the ticket. Every day, he said to himself that today was the day that he was making the drive to Woburn to cash in the ticket. Every day, he said, tomorrow, I will make the drive to cash in the ticket. Now, with only three months left to cash it in, risking arrest or allowing it to expire and forfeiting the two million, three hundred fifty-thousand dollars that he would receive yearly for twenty-five years, he had to make his decision. Tomorrow, he thought, again, he will drive to Woburn and cash it in and pick up his first yearly check. Tomorrow, he is a millionaire, but tonight he will celebrate his last day working at Earth Bank in the North End of Boston, a freedom that only money, lots of money, can buy. Chapter 32 Too Late, Too Little He had always wanted to buy a round on the house at O'Malley's but, afraid that one round would instigate a second and two rounds would provoke a third and a fourth, he never volunteered to buy a round on the house, even though he had been a recipient of many rounds on the house over the years. He remembered Brian Conroy spending his entire paycheck buying rounds and not having the money to give to his wife for rent or for food for his three daughters. The regulars took up a collection and delivered the money to his Misses the next day, but the collection was not nearly as much as the paycheck his spent in his drunkenness. The collection could not pay the expenses of a family for a week or remove the suffering from Mrs. Conroy's face and the hunger from her three daughters. The collection did not afford them the security when, inevitably, he broke his promise to never to it, again. Michael remembered Mrs. Conroy and her daughters appearing at the bank the next day trying to get a loan and the bank turning them away. He remembered that there were so many like them asking the bank to help and the bank turning them away unable to help, but that did not stop him from wishing that he could. Suddenly, he understood the obvious, as to what to do with the lottery winnings. Suddenly, it made sense and he understood why those who had so much were unable to help those who had so little; there were just too many people in need and not enough people who had the money to give. He understood that his inability to change the world, to free it from hunger, from poverty, and from injustice, was just as hopeless with his measly two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars, as if was if he had become a poor and idealistic priest. In all actuality, he was powerless to change the American socio-economic pyramid of classes. He needed power to influence change. Power could force the change more than could money. He had money or would have money, as soon as he cashed in his winning lottery ticket, but how could he get power, enough power to make a difference. Along with wealth, the power that came with political office or with a highly regarded position within business and within the community was what he needed to influence enough of a change. What he had came too late to understand, was that he had too little to make a difference. He was only a bank teller, after all, albeit, a bank teller who had stolen a lottery ticket worth fifty-eight million, seven hundred fifty thousand dollars over twenty-five years, an enormous amount of money for anyone to possess was not nearly enough for one man to make a difference to influence a change to the lifestyle of the masses. Confronted with the same frustration that he experienced in the seminary, a believer who did not have enough faith to become a priest and to make a meaningful contribution to the church and to society, he experienced the same frustration from the guilt of having too much money for himself, but not enough money to share with everyone else. Still needing so much more to affect a change to the cock-eyed distribution of wealth, influence, and power that pervades the United States, in the same way that it pervades third world countries, Michael's elation quickly soured to deep depression. Just as he no longer wanted to become a priest, he no longer wanted the ill gotten gain received from a stolen winning lottery ticket. Still, while he will have the proceeds of the money tomorrow, tonight, he will go ahead with is celebration. Chapter 33 "The Drinks Are On The House." Michael entered O'Malley's wearing his new Irish wool sweater and showing off his Claddagh ring, he felt like a millionaire. Accept for the acknowledgements that he received from the regulars, he entered the bar unnoticed. He made his way through the crowed at the bar and handed Tommy, the owner and bartender, five, crisp one-hundred dollar bills, enough to cover the three round maximum expectations of the patrons that he afforded himself for the occasion. "Drinks are on the house," he said to Tommy, "that is, until that goes," he laughed. "What's the occasion, Michael," Asked Tommy loud enough for Michael to hear over the roar of a barroom full of rowdy and thirsty men having a good time and having dozens of different conversations simultaneously. "I quit my job, today, at Earth Bank and I'm thinking about returning to school to get my degree." "Well, good luck to you," Tommy smiled, shook Michael's hand, poured him a pint and handed it to him. "Drinks are on the house," said Michael pushing the money toward Tommy. "Drinks are on the house," said Tommy snatching up the money and raising it over head. He cried out over the din. "Per Mr. Michael Patrick O'Leary, the drinks are on the house!" A cheer vibrated throughout the small establishment testing the strength of the window panes, as a crowd of men made their way to the bar to give Tommy their drink orders and encircled Michael to thank him for his obvious good luck that prompted his generosity and this celebration. Throughout the evening, the regulars thanked him for his free drinks, filling his nose with their stench of beer and weighing his thoughts with more hopelessness that, personally, he could affect little change for the good of mankind. "Thank you for the drinks," slurred Rory Callahan shaking Michael's hand as if it was a water pump and patting him on the shoulder, as if they were best friends. "Congratulations on your good fortune," said Sean Murphy with a grin as wide as his face was red. His life was so out of control with alcohol that Michael wanted to apologize to him for helping him to continue his drunken state by telling Tommy that the drinks were on the house. Yet, had Michael not bought him a drink, he would have bought himself a drink, so it really did not matter. "Let me call you a cab, Sean. You can't drive home in your condition," said Michael hoping that Sean had left his car home. "Tommy called one for me, Michael," he said slurring the sentence into one long word. "Besides, I haven't driven since I lost my license for DWI last month." He staggered away disappearing into the crowd. "Thank Mikey," said Kerry O'Sullivan with a wave as he stumbled out the door and into the street while singing his favorite Irish ditty. As the hour grew late, those who remained sang in Michael's honor, "For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, and that nobody can deny." Happy for the free drinks, they were happy that Michael, one of them from the neighborhood, had the luck of good fortune that made for this festive occasion of "The drinks are on the house." Chapter 34 "Michael, Me Boy." Michael kept rhythm to the song with his foot, occasionally raising his ale to toast a friendly face in the crowd who caught his attention. The jocularity spilled out the door until only a handful of regulars remained. Warmed as much by the beers as by the crowd of well-wishers, he found himself alone with his thoughts. He thought about the insanity of lottery tickets, remembering Mrs. Riley who scratched herself deeper in poverty, hopelessness, and despair. He believed that the lottery deceived people who had more hope than dollars into believing that they could change their cycles of gloom as big prizewinners. Sure, you must play to win, but if these people saved the money that they would have spent on the lottery, in twenty years, they would have something to show for their money instead of false hope. The Massachusetts lottery advertised multi-million dollar jackpots making it seem that winners were instant millionaires. When the jackpots, already reduced by the state' budget deficit, and the cities' and towns' allotted allocations, were usually shared with other winners and, after deducting federal and state taxes, never realized the big advertised payoff when paying out with an annuity over twenty-five years. Massachusetts's law states that anyone who advertises a prize must disclose how their prizes are paid and what the odds of winning that prize are, but not the state. Available at the lottery, the state assumes that their rules of disclosure are public knowledge, an advantageous assumption not given to anyone else doing business in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In effect, the state uses these questionable advertising practices to make the Massachusetts state lottery the most successful lottery in the country. How much of the $1.00 ticket that we buy to play the lottery goes towards the actual prize and how much goes to the administration? That is not public information. Sure, they would tell their citizens that it is information that anyone can find out by asking the lottery commission but I have never seen it printed anywhere for public inspection. Michael believed that the state of Massachusetts and the politicians who legislated the laws for the lottery purposely deceived its constituents by not only establishing the lottery but also by continuing it in its present form. He believed that those legislators responsible for the lottery owed everyone a full refund with interest and penalty for every lottery ticket purchased along with their deepest apologies and immediate resignations. Much like the Massachusetts Port Authority and Massachusetts Turnpike Authority, the Massachusetts Lottery was heavy with administrative costs, big salaries of managers who did very little, and theft of millions of dollars that is swept under the rug and never made public. It is a sham filled with fraud and deception. Michael considered using his prize money to sue the lottery on behalf of all the people like Mrs. Riley, who uses the little money that she has available to buy scratch tickets with the slim hope of scratching herself a winning ticket. Then, he realized that no lawyer who wanted to continue practicing law in Massachusetts would ever take the case. He was tired of, yet, another state run organization where corrupt politicians are allowed to use their patronage and favoritism by influencing the lottery to employ their friends and relatives. Never do you read about open management positions and jobs at the lottery. It is all word of month, someone's brother, sister, and/or cousin gets an easy and high paying job for life. He thought about Gabriella, about the kiss she delivered along with her invitation of an evening filled with intimacy, of dinner, of wine, and of love. He thought about the diamond ring that he could not wait to pay for, pick up, and give her. He thought about a lifetime of happiness with her and her daughter, Angela. He remembered his promise to call her, but tonight he needed time for himself and for his thoughts. He needed time to decompress. He has had a week filled with stressful situations that would make any weaker man run and hide. Tomorrow he would call her. Tomorrow they would plan their lives together. He thought about Ralphie and how proud he was of him in choosing a life of hard work over a life of crime like the one that his father had chosen. He raised his glass to drink more of his ale, his third one when he never has more than one or two within the course of a Saturday evening. He could feel the alcohol slowly weaving its way throughout his nervous system and numbing his senses to a nice, dull and relaxed mode. He thought about the bank robbery, glad that he was here to celebrate another day, glad that the robber did not decide to shoot him dead, as he did Shannon. He thought about his transfer from Neighborhood Bank to Earth Bank, feeling trapped, and hating every minute of his time away from his neighborhood and from his neighbors. He was happy that, now, with the lottery winnings, he was able to quit his job at the bank and get on with his life. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 07 He thought about Shannon Kelly, a pretty, Irish girl who he loved unrequited. For too many years, he saved a place in his heart for the chance of having a romantic relationship with her. For too many years, he thought of no one else but her. Finally, she faded when she left the neighborhood, married, and had children. Finally, the thoughts of her died with the death of her. Totally opposite in appearance to Shannon, a tall, Irish redhead with blue eyes and freckles, never would he have imagined his dream girl as a short, Italian brunette with brown eyes and olive-skin. Just thinking of Gabriella sent goose bumps over his body. She was so beautiful and when she called him, my darling and said that she loved him, why that was— "Michael, me boy." So beyond words in his realization of happiness that he had finally found his one true love, he was beyond words in describing his beautiful butterfly, Gabriella. He allowed his mind to drift with the vision of her naked. "Michael, me boy." She, with her smile and sensuous sexuality made him feel that he could do anything. He thought of her voluptuous body and full breasts. He thought of him with her naked in bed and— "Michael, me boy." Suddenly, Flaherty's voice echoed through his head like a car alarm, as it did in the vault when he sat with his back to Shannon-Kelly's, a.k.a. Mrs. Enunzio's, body. His voice replayed the horror that threatened to remain with him for the rest of his life. He raised his glass again hoping to erase the image of it all with the last bit of ale that numbed his mind of the reality of her when— "Michael, me boy," this time a hand touched his shoulder. "Michael, me boy." "Flaherty," said Michael choking on his sip, warm ale dripping from his nose and mouth. "Just came by to thank you for the drink." Flaherty sat in the booth across from him, his eyes focusing on him like laser beams. "It's unlike you to be buying rounds on the house." He looked at Michael's empty glass. "It's unlike you to be having more than two ales." "I'm celebrating," said Michael thinking that only Detective Flaherty would know that he never bought rounds and that only he would notice that he never consumed more than two ales. "What's the occasion?" Flaherty's stare was like that of Casey trying to translate to Michael his desire for him to give him a treat. In the case of Flaherty, the treat was information. Flaherty a cop 24/7, Michael wondered if he thought of anything else other than police work. "After the robbery scared the Hell out of me, I quit my job at the bank." "That's drastic, Michael, but understandable considering that Shannon, the woman you once had feelings for was murdered. "Yeah, drastic but understandable," said Michael raising his empty glass and sipping on nothing. He returned the glass to the table. "I can still see Shannon lying so still. I hear her voice before I fall asleep." He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. "I can still smell the stench of gunpowder." He picked up his glass, yet, again, and set it back down when he realized it was empty. "Do you want another?" Flaherty turned to look for Tommy, but Michael stopped him. "No, please, no more." "You sure?" Flaherty returned his look to Michael. "Yes, I'm positive, thank you. I'd be unconscious if I had another glass of ale." "You are smart to know your limit, Michael." He looked at the last of the drunks that remained, still chugging down mugs of ale. "That's something I wish more of them would learn. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen this crowd spending a night in the drunk tank for their own protection." "I decided to finish school." He waved his hand around. "This is my good-bye." "I wish you success on the occasion of your continued education, Michael, but before you go—" Flaherty lowered his voice. "This is an important private matter that I need to discuss with you, now." When Michael went to take another nervous sip from his empty glass, Flaherty gave him a look that told him that he was out of ale and out of time. Michael put the glass down, again, this time pushing it away. "We know you have the lottery ticket." Flaherty looked around, turned back to Michael, and lowered his voice, again. "You cannot cash it, Michael; it does not belong to you." "What?" Michael looked at Flaherty through glassy-eyes. Two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars suddenly burst in flames in a huge bonfire. "I don't know what you mean, Sergeant Flaherty." "It is not your lottery ticket to keep." Flaherty persevered to penetrate the fog of alcohol that blurred Michael's brain. "It is not your prize to claim. The money does not belong to you." "Who..." Michael gathered his thoughts before speaking. "Whom does it belong to, then?" In a feeble attempt to clear the haze, he nodded his head back. "You?" "I wish I were that lucky. I wish St. Patrick would favor me with a pot of gold." Flaherty leaned back. "If it was my ticket, I'd retire early from the force and never investigate anything other than the darkness of my tan and the body of a lovely who lay next to me on a white sandy beach while sipping dark rum." "If not you, who, then does the ticket belong?" Michael stiffened his posture trying to recapture his sobriety. "Shh," Flaherty looked around the room. "For God's sake, lower your voice, man. We don't want to be sharing our private conversation with the rats that patronize this bar." "Tell me," Michael banged his fist on the table, "who the damn ticket belongs to, then," he said in a strained whisper. "And tell me why Shannon just happened to have it in her possession on that God awful day." "The ticket," Flaherty looked around him and leaned in closer, "belongs to mutual friends of ours across the ocean." He gave Michael an apologetic look. "Just as was poor Shannon," he signed himself, "I'm just a messenger." He leaned back, again, watching Michael digest the information and leaned forward, again. "I told them that you were one of us, a son of South Boston and as Irish as your hair is orange," he said in a controlled whisper. The bloodied banner of the IRA flashed across his brain. He remembered Shannon lying on the bank vault floor with a bullet in her head with the blood pooled around her. He remembered what the bank robber had said, "No one gets hurt here; no one gets hurt." He thought about what she said to the bank robber, "Your father killed my babies." He thought about what the bank robber said to her in return, "You had my father and my mother murdered." Their exchange of dialogue made some sense to him, now. He wished she had remained quiet. He wished she had obeyed the bank robber. He wished Earth Bank had never bought Neighborhood Bank and he wished that Neighborhood Bank had never transferred him. Flaherty kept talking, but Michael only picked up bits and pieces of what he said. "Shannon Kelly-O'Day...the death of her husband and children...Mrs. Enunzio...lottery tickets...buying guns...during the bank robbery...a strange twist of fate...common thugs from Charlestown...the tortured and executed the bank robbers...still, they could not find the lottery ticket...until now." "I don't understand. What makes you think that I have the lottery ticket?" "Michael, how do you think we get the winning lottery tickets in the first place? We have people at the lottery headquarters waiting for someone to step forward with the ticket and when you called, your name and phone number appeared on the caller ID." "So, what are you saying to me?" "I'm saying that the ticket does not belong to you and that you must give it back. I've been authorized to tell you that because of all the trouble this has caused you that, once you return the ticket, we will give you a finder's fee of 10%." "They, whoever they are, will give me 10% of my winning lottery ticket." "Michael, both you and I know that is not your lottery ticket. Listen, they have enlisted me to get the ticket back and, as a friend, I'm trying to save your life. If you refuse to return the ticket, then I am talking to a dead man." Flaherty leaned away from Michael and stopped talking, suddenly. "Thank you for the drinks, Michael," said Mr. Foley, suddenly appearing at Michael's table with a tall, professional looking gentleman. The alcohol worked its magic and it took Michael a moment to register Mr. Foley's presence. "Thank you for the drinks," he repeated. "My pleasure, Mr. Foley, my pleasure," said Michael slurring his words. He stood to shake Mr. Foley's hand. Michael looked at the other man standing beside Mr. Foley and looked back at Mr. Foley, and then looked back at the man before acknowledging his presence with a smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, Michael. This is my son, Donald. He is with the FBI," said Mr. Foley beaming with a smile. "He is on vacation to spend time with his old father. He's a good son," said Mr. Foley looking up at his son and smiling and then looking back at Michael. "Donald, this is Michael O'Leary. Saint Michael, we refer to him behind his back. Almost a priest, he was. The kindest man you'll ever meet and an icon in the neighborhood. Everybody who knows Michael O'Leary loves him." Michael realized that the alcohol also weaved its way to Mr. Foley's brain and loosened his tongue and flowering his words with a touch of brogue. "Everything your father says is true except that even the people who do not know me love me." Michael shook hands and laughed with Donald. "This is one of Boston's finest. May I introduce Detective Sergeant Kevin Flaherty. Kevin Flaherty, Donald Foley." Flaherty stood, shook hands with Mr. Foley and with his son, Donald. "How do you do? How do you do?" "Won't you join us?" Asked Michael looking at Flaherty and watching for his reaction. Flaherty looked hard at Michael and then looked away. "No, thank you, no. Donald has an early flight tomorrow. He's due back in Washington. I just wanted to thank you for the drinks." Foley held out his hand, again. "Thank you for the drinks." "My pleasure, Mr. Foley, my pleasure." "I heard about the bank robbery, Michael, on the news. Are you okay?" Donald's attention perked. "I'm fine, but it scared me enough to quit the banking business. I'm returning to school to finish my degree. That's what this celebration is about." "Education will set you free," said Foley. He reached out his hand to Flaherty. "Nice meeting you detective." Then shook hands and Flaherty sat back down, but Michael followed Foley. "Mr. Foley." "I'll bring the car around, Dad," said Donald to his father leaving the pub. Michael walked up to Mr. Foley, but stayed within hearing distance of Flaherty. "Do you remember my promise to you?" Michael put a hand on his arm. He turned his head to look back at Flaherty and then looked Mr. Foley in the eye. "Promise? I don't recall you promising me anything, Michael." "Do you remember I said that if I ever came across a winning lottery ticket that it was yours?" "Oh, that, of course, I remember, but I was only kidding," he said looking back at Michael. "Well, I wasn't kidding." He looked back at Flaherty. "Don't do it, Michael," said Flaherty, "Don't do it." "You must cash the ticket soon or it will expire." Michael handed the envelope to Mr. Foley. "Buy why?" Foley removed the ticket from the envelope, checked the date, and returned it to the envelope, "Why would you give me your winning lottery ticket?" "Because it is not my ticket to keep, Mr. Foley." The owner died but would find peace in my decision to give it to you." He looked him in the eye. "Before you take the ticket, however, you must agree to my conditions." "Conditions?" Mr. Foley looked at Michael in such a way that Michael knew Mr. Foley was sober enough to understand. "What are your conditions?" "You must promise to share the money with Mrs. Sullivan so that she can buy her mink, diamond ring, and a Cadillac for her husband and Mr. Shea so that he can buy a new car. You must promise to pay for Mrs. O'Reilly's operation or funeral expenses, if it is too late, as well as, pay for Mrs. Duffy's daughters' college educations." "But, Michael, I don't know about all of this." He looked down at the envelope and back up at Michael. "I assure you that there is more than enough money for you to keep your promise, as well as leave you a handsome sum to last you and your son the rest of your days." "I promise." Mr. Foley shook Michael's hand and walked out the door. "You mustn't tell your son, however, Mr. Foley," said Michael stopping him at the exit. "He would be obligated to forfeit the ticket to the state. It is best that he believes you purchased the ticket months ago and forgot about it, if he was to ask you." "Yes, of course, I understand, Michael." Mr. Foley pocketed the envelope with the ticket. He left the pub and got into his son's waiting car. Michael returned to the table and Flaherty stood before he could sit down. "That was stupid, very stupid. These people will not allow you to give away their money." "Just as it is not my money to give," Michael sat in the booth, "It is not their money to keep. Besides, it is Mr. Foley's money, now. He will remove the curse put on it by the poor soul who the Irish Republican Army murdered to possess the ticket in the first place." "Why, Michael? Why?" "The biggest change that I could make within this twisted society with that money was to give it away and to deny the IRA to purchase more death and destruction." He looked up at the ceiling and signed himself. "Shannon would understand." "I have nothing more to say to you, except, good-bye." "Good-bye, Flaherty." Michael watched him walk through the few drunks who still lingered at the bar and disappear out the front door. Chapter 35 Lottery Loser It was more than three months since he had given Ralphie his life savings, quit his job, given away the lottery ticket to Mr. Foley, and had any contact with Gabriella. Everyday he waited for a sniper's bullet to part his hair. Everyday he waited for a knock at his door or a car to pull up beside him as he walked Casey. Everyday he figured was his last and was the day that the IRA would take their revenge. Everyday he thought about Gabriella, but he could not begin a relationship with her until he put his life in order. When not worrying about when the IRA would murder him, he worried about how he was to pay his credit card bill. Without a job, without a source of income, and without having any collateral, except for his retirement investments, investments that he would never touch under any circumstances, and investments that he would incur taxes due, he could not even apply for a loan. Always careful with money, a saver instead of a spender, securely investing in stocks and bonds for his retirement throughout all of his working career, his securities and his 401K were all that he had left. Cashing in a portion of his investment portfolio was not an option, especially now, with the current depressed state of the stock market. He would take a huge loss. Cashing in his retirement fund not only meant taking the paper loss but, also, paying the capital gains tax and suffering the penalties of early withdrawal. Moreover, he knew that once he cashed in his investments, he would never replenish the amount of money he withdrew. He thought of asking Mr. Foley for enough money to pay his obligations, his credit card, his rent, and his immediate expenses. He knew that Mr. Foley would happily help him to get back on his feet, until he found another job, but he felt uncomfortable accepting any of the lottery money. He felt that the blood spilt over the ticket by the Irish Republican Army with the assumed murder of its original owner, the murder of Shannon Kelly, and the murders of the two bank robbers, had cursed the money and that no good would ever come from him possessing any of it. He believed that Mr. Foley, not knowing about Shannon Kelly or about the connection that existed between her and the bank robbers, Detective Flaherty, and the Irish Republican Army, was exempt from the curse and that he could happily spend it without repercussions. He knew that Mr. Foley, good for his word, would honor the conditions and keep his promise. The fact that Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea now had a windfall of money made him happy with his decision to give the ticket away. Although he worried about it, he was mostly unconcerned about the IRA retaliating against him. He felt that they were cowards who hid themselves within their secret organization stepping forward to declare their love for their country and for their religion by murdering innocent women and children. He felt the same way about them as he felt about Osama bin Laden, and it did not matter if they were Middle Eastern or European, they were all evil terrorists. Still, he knew that one day, they would take their revenge on him. Yet, he had to go on with his life and could not allow them to paralyze his existence with fear and foreboding. He did not care about the IRA except he felt that he had to stand against them when they wrapped their murderous deeds in the Irish flag to justify their evil doings. Michael was not political. He refrained from taking sides. He did not like to stand against one or the other. It was not that he was a wimp and afraid to take a position, it was not that he was indecisive and did not have an opinion; it was that he could understand the argument of both sides. He believed that holy wars were an abomination without winners, with only losers, death, and destruction. He would rather stand on the bridge of enlightenment between each camp than to stand upon one shore of hatred with brother against brother. He would rather fill his mind with positive thoughts than with negative thoughts. He would rather think of the happiness that the ill-gotten winning lottery ticket has given to Mr. Foley, Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea, than to spend his day looking over his shoulder for the bullet of some Irish Republican Army thug, which, one day, would surely come. He would rather savor the good of humanity than to dwell upon the bad. He preferred the light instead of the dark and he carried that sensed proportion with him throughout his life. The thought of his current obligations crept into his mind. He had to address that and the only choice available to him, now, was to ask Mr. Foley for a loan. He did not want to have anything to do with that cursed lottery money, but what else was he to do. He could not return all of those items that he had purchased, and just as he could not ask Little Ralphie for his $35,000 back, he could not ask for his job back at the North End branch of Earth Bank. Chapter 36 Gabriella To The Rescue In honor of his dog, he bought Casey personalized accessories. In the extravagance of spending money on himself, he bought a hand-made, Irish wool, knit sweater, a 14k gold Claddagh ring, and custom-made golf clubs with all of the accessories, balls, golf club covers, and a custom-made leather golf bag. In a show of friendship to his best friend, he bought Little Ralphie a 14k gold Claddagh ring and gave him $35,000, nearly his entire life savings. His dream of wanting a new car, he ordered a Mini Cooper S, which, thankfully, the production of it had been delayed. In love with Gabriella, he charged a deposit on a 2-karat diamond, platinum and 18k gold engagement ring. In the desire to treat his pub buddies to a night of drinks on the house, he bought the expected three rounds of drinks. In the excitement of helping Mr. Foley, Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, and Mr. Shea, and in the heat of anger of rebuffing Flaherty and the Ira, he gave away the winning lottery ticket with its yearly net payout of two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Foley. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 07 Prior to this new change of attitude, paralyzed with anxiety, as to how he was to pay his obligations, feeling like a loser, he had not called Gabriella, as he had promised he would. Now that he had a plan to ask Mr. Foley for a loan, he hoped to rekindle his stagnant relationship with Gabriella. He checked his wallet and found the piece of paper she handed him with her name, address, and telephone number on it: Gabriella Pagliuca, 109 Charter Street, 617-227-5533. It was late afternoon. Hopefully, she was done with her shift delivering the mail. He hoped she was home. "Hello?" Immediately, he recognized her sexy accent. "Hello, Gabriella?" "Michael?" She sounded excited to hear from him and that made him happy. "I'm sorry that I haven't called you." He paused waiting to hear her reaction. "That's okay. I understand." Good, she understands, he thought. "I had some personal things to take are of and I ah..." "Michael, are you okay?" The lottery money no longer electrified his thoughts. Instead, the smiling faces of Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. O'Reilly, Mrs. Duffy, Mr. Shea, and Mr. Foley warmed his heart. "I'm more than okay," he smiled happy to hear her voice. "I could not be any better, right now, talking to you on the telephone, unless, of course, I was there with you." "Then, get yourself over here," she laughed. "Today is my day off." A vision of Gabriella naked in his arms elicited an excitement greater than the excitement that the two million, three hundred fifty thousand dollars had created in his mind. "I'll be right there." Again, a vision of her nakedness flashed through his mind. "I mean, it will take me some time to drive from South Boston to the North End—" "Michael." "And oh, I still have to take a shower, shave, and get dressed but—" "Michael." "And I have to walk Casey, again—" "Michael." "And, I almost forgot, I have to run an errand. I have to see Mr. Foley about—" "Michael." "Yes, Gabriella, what is it?" He loved the music of her four-syllable name. "I won't start without you." "Okay," he laughed, "I'll be right there, that is, as soon as I finish everything that I told you I have to do." "I'll see you soon. Ciao, Michael." "Good-bye, I mean, Ciao, Gabriella." "I love you." "I love you." With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 08 Chapter 37 First Public Offering Michael had to stop to see Mr. Foley before he could see his beloved Gabriella. He knew that if he put off his financial problems any longer his worry over them would preoccupy him and ruin his first visit with her. He hated asking Mr. Foley for any portion of the lottery money, but the idea of asking him for a loan eliminated the guilt, a loan that he would pay back with interest. What else was he to do? He had no other alternative. The credit card company threatened to ruin his credit and sue him. Moreover, Mrs. Dooley hinted at evicting him because he was three months behind in rent, and if that happened, he would have to return home and live with his Mom and Dad. He did not blame Mrs. Dooley, she was a single mother with two small children who depended on his rent to help pay for her mortgage. He stood on his stoop and closed his eyes trying to remember Mr. Foley's address from the checks that he cashed for him at the bank. While standing there with his eyes closed and his hands over his face trying to remember where Mr. Foley lived, a limousine silently pulled up to the curb in front of him. The huge automobile filled his line of vision and, when he opened his eyes, its tinted windows reflected his curiosity about it back at him. He wondered who died or was getting married, the only time you ever saw a limousine in South Boston, not realizing that someone inside the limousine stared out at him from behind its darkened windows. He looked up and down the street trying to see for whom the limousine was waiting. No one was around, the streets were devoid of people and nothing in the neighborhood appeared out of the ordinary. He put his hands in his pockets, whistled a tune, smiled at the chauffeur behind the wheel, and nonchalantly walked up to the passenger side window of the limousine inspecting the shiny vehicle. Too dark to see within, he leaned forward for a closer look pressing his face against the glass trying to see in the car. The rear window lowered and Michael jumped back in embarrassment. He could see only the chest and the legs of a man sitting in the back seat. "Sorry, I was just curious about who—" Little Ralphie poked out his head and smiled. "Do you know how ridiculous you look from in here with your ugly puss pressed against the glass of my window? You got smudges all over my clean window," he said laughing. "Ralphie! Where've you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you and have left messages at your house and on your cell phone." "I've been," Ralphie let out a big expulsion of air, "on Cloud Nine." "Cloud nine? What is that a new bar? That explains why you haven't returned my calls," said Michael scolding him. "You turn 21 and like all the other drunks, you start drink—" "Do you need a ride?" He said interrupting Michael's tirade. Ralphie moved his hand across the interior of the car, as if he was a model at a car show. "What's this?" "It's a car, Michael, a limousine, a brand new Cadillac." "Yeah, I know that it is a car but what is the occasion?" "Get in, Pop. We need to talk." With that, the chauffer emerged from the driver's side and appeared at the passenger side door opening it for Michael. Ralphie slid across the leather seat to make room for his best friend. "Thanks," said Michael looking at the chauffer resplendent in his stiff cap and navy blue uniform complete with shiny, brass buttons. He got in the car and the chauffer closed the door with a thud. The car felt like a sealed tomb it was so quiet. He sat back making himself comfortable and ran his hand across the blue, soft leather of the seat while admiring the shiny crystal bottles and glasses neatly arranged at the bar. "First time in a limo, huh?" He asked Michael while holding a champagne glass like a trophy. "This is my first time riding in a car that did not have a meter running driven by some middle-eastern man named Ahkmed." Michael played with the power door locks, power windows, and the power partition that separated the chauffeur from the passengers. He opened the sunroof and stood up looking out. "Wow, this is nice. I feel like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman." He sat back down and closed the roof, as the car pulled away from the curb. "Yeah," said Ralphie, "only the limo in Pretty Woman was a white Lincoln. This is a Cadillac done in Pearlescent Metallic Midnight Blue." "Oh, still, it's a limo." The car pulled from the curb and Michael buckled his seatbelt. "Michael, no one wears a seatbelt in a limo. It's sacrilegious." "I do," he said giving Ralphie a look that made him turn and reach for his seatbelt. "You would," said Ralphie buckling his seatbelt. "If Princess Diana and her fiancée had been wearing their seatbelts, they would have survived their horrible crash and would be alive and well today," said Michael. "Michael," Ralphie said giving Michael a look of old money, "sometimes, you just have to go along for the ride without the worry. Sometimes, you just have to let go and trust others." "I'll remind you of that when the EMT's pick your lifeless body off of the pavement." Michael looked around the car. "So, what's with the limo?" "I'm celebrating and I could not think of anyone else who I would want to celebrate my good fortune, correction, our good fortune with, than my best friend, my mentor, my idol, you." "Thanks, but what are we celebrating?" "We are celebrating," Ralphie put down his champagne glass, handed Michael a glass, lifted a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, vintage 1984, from the ice bucket and poured. He waited for the bubbles to settle and topped off Michael's glass before refilling his own. Michael picked up the bottle from out of the ice bucket. "This is the good stuff. This must have cost you a few hundred dollars a bottle." "Chump change, my dear man, chump change," said Ralphie taking a sip of champagne. "We are celebrating my decision not to go into business, after all." "Not go in business, but why, Ralphie?" He paused, waiting for Ralphie to answer him and continued when he did not. "That's crazy. Won't you lose the one hundred thousand dollar prize money? What about your idea? Don't you want to see that to fruition?" "The one hundred thousand dollars is a mere pittance, my surrogate father, a mere pittance." "A mere pittance?" Michael smiled with relief. Now, he would not have to ask Foley for a loan. "Then, you can give me back my $35,000." "Sorry, that's impossible. I can't do that. That was the money you gave me to invest in my idea." "Hey, easy on that stuff," said Michael reaching for Ralphie's glass but Ralphie pulled it out of his reach spilling some of it on the thick blue wool carpet. "I am 21, I am not driving, and I am celebrating." "I'll remind you of that when your hangover doubles the size of your already too big of a head in the morning." "Cheers," Ralphie lifted his glass to his lips and took another sip. "What do you mean impossible?" "The money you gave me is long gone, long gone," he said looking at Michael. "I spent all of that and more on attorney fees, court costs, registration fees, patent fees, copyright registration, and all of that other legal mumbo jumbo that goes along with the protection of my legal rights that is required under the Securities and Exchange Commission with the intent of a First Public Offering." "First Public Offering? Ralphie, I trusted you with my money, and now, that I quit my job, I can't pay my credit card. I don't even have money to give Mrs. Dooley for rent and I am three months behind on that. She is ready to evict me." He made eye contact with Ralphie. "I don't want to have to return home to live with my parents. Now, I have no other alternative than to ask Mr. Foley for a loan." "Foley? Who is Foley?" "Foley is a long story for another time." "You worry too much, my friend." Ralphie threw an arm around Michael's shoulders, "you always have and you always will worry more than necessary" Little Ralphie smiled at him. "Perhaps, I can change things for you so that you do not have to worry, anymore, at least, not about money." "What do you mean?" "Hey! Stanley!" Ralphie leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition that separated him from the driver. "Pull over here," he yelled. Ralphie pressed the button that lowered Michael's window. The driver pulled along side a newspaper stand. A boy of about 12-years-old approached the car and stuck his dirty face inside the window. "D'ya want a newspaper, Mister?" He asked Michael. "No," said Michael leaning back in his seat. "Yeah," said Ralphie. The kid handed Michael the newspaper and he put it on the seat between him and Ralphie. Ralphie put his champagne glass down, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a neatly folded stack of newly minted one hundred dollar bills. He peeled one off and leaning over Michael, handed it to the kid. When the kid reached in his pocket to change the large bill, Ralphie said, "Keep the change, kid." "Wow!" The kid held the bill up to admire it and said, "Thanks, Mister." Ralphie raised Michael's window with a push of a button and the car slowly inched out in traffic. "Ralphie, you gave that kid one hundred dollars for a fifty-cent newspaper." "Oh, my God! What the Hell was I thinking?" Ralphie leaned over Michael, lowered the window and yelled out. "Hey, kid." The chauffeur stopped the car. "Yeah?" The kid ran over to the limo. "I forgot to pay your for the paper." Ralphie handed the kid two quarters. The kid walked back to his newspaper stand smiling. "You gave some kid," Michael looked at Ralphie, "my hundred bucks for a newspaper. I don't get it." "Correction." Ralphie closed Michael's window again and signaled the driver to drive. He held up his wad of cash to Michael's face. "This is my money." He pocketed the cash, reached in his jacket pocket, and withdrew an envelope. "And this," he smiled his smug smile that he smiles when he thinks he is being so smart, "is your money." He handed Michael the envelope. "What's this?" Michael looked at the envelope, opened it, and pulled out a cashier's check. It looked real enough, but even after having worked for two banks, Neighborhood Bank and Earth Bank for all of those years, he had never seen a check with so many zeroes before. "That is your return on the $35,000 investment that you made on me." "Ralphie," Michael stared at him with mouth gaping. "This check is for thirty-five million dollars." He looked at Ralphie and then looked back at the check, again. "Is this a joke?" Again, he looked at the check and then back at Ralphie. "No," Ralphie took another sip of champagne. "I assure you that," he pointed to the check that Michael held in his shaking hand, "is no joke." He raised his glass in toast to him. "That is your money to keep and to do whatever you want with it." "It's a Hell of a return on my investment, but I don't understand." He looked at Ralphie. "What am I going to do with thirty-five million dollars?" He stared at the check, again. "Retire and live it up," Ralphie smiled, and then in a flash of enlightenment, he gave Michael a hard look. "Yet, knowing you as I do, you'll probably do something really stupid like start your own bank in that loser South Boston neighborhood where you grew up." Ralphie's insight flashed across Michael's mind like an electrical charge. He could hardly contain his excitement with the thoughts of starting his own neighborhood bank, but Michael controlled himself. He did not like the idea that he was so predictable to his friend. "Are you going to help your community? Surely, there is something that you could—" "No. What did those people do for me except make fun of me and buy a lousy newspaper from me and most times without even giving me a tip? They are all such assholes." Michael gave him a long look but, not wanting to ruin his celebration with a lecture, he let Ralphie's hostility pass uncontested. Besides, he knew that Ralphie was an even bigger softie than was he and, no doubt, would eventually come around and enjoy playing the big shot philanthropist. "So, tell me, how this all came about." "Do you remember the meeting that I had with Earth Bank's loan committee?" "Yeah, you had an appointment with Ms. Davis, Vice-President of something or other." "Yeah, Ms. Marilyn Davis, Earth Bank's Vice-President of Entrepreneurial Internet Creative Start-up Development something or other." Ralphie emptied his glass of champagne. "Well, it turns out that she is more than just another Earth Bank Vice-President. She is Earth Bank's West Coast personal banker for a very important customer." Ralphie looked at Michael raising an eyebrow, "A very important customer." He poured himself another glass of champagne. "Who?" Michael glared at Ralphie pouring more champagne. "Who is the customer?" "I signed an agreement to keep the identity of the buyer confidential, but it does not take much of an imagination to know who has the wherewithal to afford such an extravagant payment for just an idea, the technology to create the product from concept to reality, the personnel to develop it to product, and the markets to sell it world-wide." "Buyer? Who do you mean? Do you mean Bill Gates of Microsoft paid you all of this money for an idea?" "I never heard of the man or of the company." Ralphie gave Michael that smug look and took another sip of champagne. "You sold an idea?" Michael grabbed at the glass and Ralphie pulled it away. "That's enough. You'll be sick." "Yes, I sold the idea," said Ralphie putting down his glass. "Can you believe it? He, I mean, they bought my idea." "They are willing to give you all this money for an idea? I don't understand." "Do you remember I said that the software had a catch? The catch is that a third party can examine, manipulate, and download the customers' proprietary information for their own personal benefit. "It sounds illegal." "It is more unethical than it is illegal. Yet, now the ball is in their court. I came up with the idea and sold it. What they do with it, is up to them and not me. Chances are that they are working on this type of computer spy stuff already." He lightly punched Michael in the shoulder. "And that's not all," said Ralphie looking at Michael and waiting for his appropriate attentive response. "What else more could their possibly be, Ralphie. This is already too much for my brain to assimilate." He looked at Ralphie. "I cannot even imagine what else." "They want me to work for them. I can work when and wherever I want. They'll even set me up with a terminal in my limousine, in my house or on my yacht." "Yacht, what yacht? You don't have a yacht. Don't tell me you are going to buy a yacht. You can't even swim." He looked at Ralphie's smug smile. "I don't believe that you, of all people, someone who is afraid of the water is thinking about buying a yacht." "Nah, I don't want to buy a yacht." "Good because that is a waste of—" "I already bought one. I bought it yesterday. Actually, that was my first purchase. The limousine was my second purchase." Ralphie ran his hand across the blue leather seat. "I bought this today." "I'm dreaming," said Michael. This is so unreal." "So, I'll be connected to the private network of other egg-headed techno-geeks where—" "I'm afraid to ask but how much did they give you for your idea?" "One hundred fifty million, well, one forty-nine million after I paid my attorney to help negotiate the deal and to set up a tax shelter so that I would not owe half of the one hundred fifty million to the government. With all that in place, now, I should receive a sizable refund from this year's taxes, as well as a nice return on my investments." "And why are you giving me so much, thirty-five million?" "I could not have done it without your help and without your money, Pop." Ralphie reclined back in the softness of the leather seat placing his hands behind his head. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be working for my father collecting betting slips and breaking legs and busting heads when the bums who waged their bets could not pay their losses." He sat up straight. "Besides, I have one hundred fourteen million, before taxes, that is, with more to come, once they release the software some time in a year or two, in a percentage of the profits, world-wide. More than I could possibly spend in my lifetime." He smiled. "I'm set for life." "This is nuts." Michael held the cashier's check up to the light looking for the watermark and rechecking its validity. "I can't believe this. This better not be a joke, Ralphie." "No joke, Michael." Ralphie snapped out his hand flashing a shiny gold Rolex. "Matter of fact, I'm late for a meeting with my tax attorney." "Was that your third purchase?" Michael asked pointing to Ralphie's watch. "No, this was my fourth. He looked over at Michael and smiled. "I paid cash for a house in Manchester-by-the-sea, four million, this morning, after I bought the limousine. Do you want take a ride to see it?" "No, I can't, not today." "Why not?" "I'm seeing Gabriella. I haven't seen her in weeks, since that time when we were in front of the bank," he smiled at Ralphie, "making out." "Yeah, you are such a dog, Michael, and she is such a hot sweetie. She is too good for you." He looked over at Michael. "Maybe, now, that I am so rich, she may want a younger man." "Fat chance. She loves me." Michael looked at his watch, the same one that he had since seminary school, the one that had the crucifix at twelve o'clock. He liked it better than Ralphie's new gold Rolex watch. "I'm late." "Where can I drop you?" "She lives on Charter Street, 109. Drop me off there." Ralphie leaned forward and rapped on the glass, again. "Sir," The chauffeur's voice sounded over the intercom, "you can use the intercom by depressing the red button on the center console to speak to me without yelling." "Oh," Ralphie looked down at the center console that housed the four-dozen buttons that controlled the stereo, TV, DVD, climate control, intercom, and car phone, as well as the door locks and windows, and the power seat, power headrests, and seat cushion heaters. "Where'd you find your driver? He's awesome." "The dealership put me in touch with Stanley. I hired him on the spot." Ralphie winked at Michael. "He's also my bodyguard. He has a black belt in Judo or Karate or something like that. Plus he is licensed to carry a gun." "Impressive." "Drive to 109 Charter Street, please, Stanley." "Yes, sir." "No, wait." Michael grabbed Ralphie's arm. "I can't go there empty-handed." He threw his head back in the seat. "I need something—" "Stanley," said Ralphie depressing the intercom. "Yes, sir." "Drive to Winston's Florist on Newbury Street." He looked at Michael. "Calm down. You look like a heart attack." He laughed. "You act like this is your first time." He looked over at Michael, again. "Oh, my God! Tell me that you got laid before. Tell me that this is not your first time. Tell me that you are not a 29-year-old virgin." "Ralphie, not everyone requires sex to satisfy them," said Michael turning away and looking out the window. "Yeah, right, even the priest gets a little release from the nuns, sometimes." He turned to Michael making a hand gesture like someone giving a blow job. "You are going straight to Hell for thinking that, let alone for saying that." Ralphie laughed, pulled another unopened bottle of 1984 Dom Perignon Champagne from out of the ice bucket and wiped the wetness off with a towel. "Here," he said handing him the champagne. "Take this with you. What kind of flowers does she like?" "I don't know." He looked to Ralphie for help. "We never discussed flowers." With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 08 "Roses, we'll get her roses. All women like roses." He touched Michael's arm. "And in consideration of the purity of your sexuality, or lack thereof," he laughed, "we'll buy her white roses for the occasion." "I'm not ashamed of my abstinence from sex. I am rather proud of it, actually. There is something to be said about saving yourself for your true love, about being a virgin on your wedding night." "Yeah, okay, Michael. Fortunately, the women who I date do not subscribe to that point of view." Ralphie reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He stuck two fingers in a secret compartment and pulled out two condoms. "Here, you're going to need these more than I will." He handed them to Michael. "I was saving these and the extra bottle of champagne for the Roselli twins, but after all of this," he waved his arms around the limousine, "they don't appeal to me anymore." Michael looked down at the condoms turning them over in his hand. "You do know who to put a condom on, don't you?" said Ralphie laughing. "I think that I can figure it out," said Michael stuffing them in his pocket. Chapter 38 "Gabriella...Gabriella...Gabriella." The limousine snaked its way along the narrow streets of the Italian section of Boston's historic North End. The driver had to go over the sidewalk to make the tight left turn from Salem Street to Charter Street and slowly rolled down the hill until he saw the number 109, the second to the last house on the street before hitting Commercial Street and directly across from Hull Street. The front of her house overlooked Copp's Hill burial ground, the cemetery that interred both British and Colonial soldiers who fought and died in the Battle of Bunker Hill on June 17, 1775, across the Boston Harbor in Charlestown. Now, a 221 foot monument stands, the Bunker Hill Monument, a grey monolithic structure that tourist can climb its 294 steps for a panoramic view of Boston. From her living room window, Gabriella could see the steeple of the Old North Church, built in 1723, is where on April 18, 1775, Robert Newman, the church's sexton, hung two lanterns from its steeple warning the citizens of Boston that the British troops were coming by sea, one lantern if coming by land and two lanterns if coming by sea. The occasion is famous for Paul Revere's "midmight ride" to Lexington and Concord that warned Samuel Adams and John Hancock that the British were coming. From her kitchen window, Gabriella had a view of the U. S. S. Constitution docked in Charlestown, launched in 1797 and nicknamed Old Ironsides, because its hull was made from thick oak and cannonballs could not penetrate it and bounced off. Straight ahead, she had a view of Boston Harbor and across the way, the Navy Yard. Then, looking off to the left, she had a view of the Logan Airport runways with the Mystic Tobin Bridge in the back ground. Away from the restaurants and cafes that dotted Hanover Street and about a mile walk to the marketplace on Salem Street, this section of the North End was less frequented by tourists. It was a nice place to grow up because, living in the North End of Boston; you did not need a car. You could either take public transportation to anywhere that was not within walking distance and most of Boston was in walking distance from the North End. The limousine, an unusual occurrence in the neighborhood, usually the sighting of a limousine, as in Michael's neighborhood, meant a wedding or a funeral, slowly made its way down Charter Street. The blue Cadillac had residents hanging out their windows and coming out of their front doors. When it stopped at a parking space a few doors from the front of Gabriella's house, Michael had an audience. Stanley pulled the car to the curb, hopped out his door and made his way around the car to open the door for Michael. Michael emerged from the car holding a dozen white roses and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. He felt conspicuously obvious when he saw so many people looking out their windows, standing in their doorways, and loitering on the sidewalk. "Go get her, you animal," yelled Ralphie out the window as the limousine pulled away and headed down the rest of Charter Street and turning right on Commercial Street. Suddenly, Michael found himself amid a crowd of Italians, many of whom had been his customers at Earth Bank. Suddenly, he felt taller, as many of the Italian men were his height or just a little taller. As more and more residents recognized him, they applauded and cheered. "Bravo! Bravo! Bravissimo!" He smiled and nodded to those whom he recognized and walked down the hill heading for Gabriella's house a couple doors away. He figured that her house was the one where the crowd congregated in a semi-circle. As he approached closer, more people came out to see what all the commotion was about and Michael found himself walking through a gauntlet of Italians. Some residents stopped him along the way to shake his hand, which was not easy, as he had to continually switch the champagne bottle to his arm holding the roses to free up a hand. Others patted him on the back while others just smiled, cheered, and/or clapped. Finally, he found Gabriella's front door. He rang the bell waiting for her to open the door. He felt a little foolish with all of these people watching everything that he did. Impatient and eager, he rang her doorbell again, mumbling under his breath, "Open the door, Gabriella." She opened the door. "Oh, Michael, my darling," she said accepting the roses. When she leaned forward to kiss him, she saw the crowd that gathered in front of her house. "Michael, what is all this? Did you have to bring the entire neighborhood with you for support?" "I don't know," he said turning around to look at the still growing crowd. "I think when they saw me pull up in a limousine and get out with roses, they wanted to see your reaction to the flowers, the champagne," he held up the champagne and outstretched his arms "and me." "Limousine?" She looked behind him. "What limousine? Where's the limousine?" "It's a long story. I'll tell you later." "Well, if they want to see something," she said with a shrug and with a hint of an Italian accent, "then, I cannot disappoint them. I must show them something." He found her accent almost as sexy as he did her. She put her arms around his neck and pressed her body close crushing the roses between them. He moved the roses away and stood with his arms out at his sides, his hands at hip height. She moved her other hand around his waist and behind him, gently squeezing his ass and melted her lips to his in a long, wet, tongue probing kiss. "Bravo! Bravissimo! Encore! Bravo!" A neighbor who had been outside drinking espresso rapped his spoon on his cup, as soon as they stopped kissing and more people tapped on anything that would make the clinking sound of metal hitting glass, as if at a wedding. Gabriella, eager to accommodate her neighbors' every expectation, wrapped both arms around his neck and swallowed his tongue, again. Then, she reached down her right hand and felt his growing penis through the material of his jeans. She reached up and stuck her hand in his pocket fingering his cock. Then, breaking off his kiss, she pulled out her hand and with it, the two condoms. "You won't need these," she tossed them to the crowd. The crowd cheered. "Nothing, not even condoms, comes between me and you ever, again" she nibbled his ear, and then sucked his neck giving him an instant hickey. She reached her hand down, again, feeling the length of his cock up and down and up and down, practically giving him a public hand job. Michael, out of breath and flushed, pulled away from her, pushed her inside, and covered his erection with the champagne bottle. The crowd cheered when he made the attempt to cover his obvious erection and laughed when he disappeared inside behind her and slammed the door. "Gabriella, I—" Again, she pressed her pelvis to his and stuck her tongue in his mouth against his tongue. He could not resist her passion. She blanked his mind her kisses and weakened his knees. Just the feel of her heavenly body pressed against his was like nothing he had ever felt or ever imagined. It was intoxicatingly exciting. She wiped his mind clean of anything but the feeling of her tongue, her lips, her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands touching his back, neck, shoulders, and arms and her pelvis pressed against his body. "I love you, Michael, my darling," she said pulling away. "I love you," she said with another kiss. The way she said his name with her Italian accent and followed by my darling made him swoon. "I love you, Gabriella," he said still holding the roses and champagne and resting his wrists on her hips. "I love you," he said returning her kiss. He handed her the roses and he cradled the champagne. They climbed the stairs together. "My mother is picking up Angela from school," she said looking at him with her big, brown eyes that were so inviting. "She's staying overnight with her," she smiled. "We have the weekend to ourselves. I don't have to go back to work until Monday morning." They made it to the second floor and made out more in the hall. The landlord lived on the first floor and another tenant lived on the third floor. When they heard voices in the hall coming from the third floor, they fell into Gabriella's apartment still kissing. Once inside the apartment, she pushed him against the door, pressing her body to his while kissing and kissing him. She was not to be denied his lips. She was ravenous of him. Her kisses blanketed his mind with bliss and he wanted more, but he broke it off. He was ready to cum in his pants; he was getting so hot and so excited. He could not take it. She was too much for him. It took every ounce of self-control that he had to resist her, but he had to do it. He needed a break from her. He was too aroused. "Maybe, you could put the flowers in water," he said hoping that she would give him a few minute to recover. "Later," she said tossing them on the drain board of the sink. Again, she reattached her lips and her hips to his. He lips so soft, her tongue so exciting, and her body so warm against his, he swooned with her in his arms. Still, again, he somehow found the self-control to free himself from her. "Gabriella, may I pour you a glass of champagne? Where are your champagne glasses?" He walked to the sink. "I'm hot and I'm thirsty." "Michael, what's wrong?" She said eying him with her hands on her hips. He turned his back to her and tore the foil off the top of the champagne, working with his fingers and struggling to remove the bit of metal that caged the cork. He looked at her and then looked away. "I've never been intimate with a woman." He worked trying to pop the cork from the bottle. "You are the first woman I have French kissed, even." He looked at her again and turned away again. "I've never been this excited and aroused." The cork popped and the champagne gushed foam. She walked over to him and he put down the champagne. She enveloped him in her arms hugging him and holding him without saying anything. They stayed like that for a while. "I'll take it slower, my darling," she said whispering in his ear. She hugged him, and then took him by the hand leading him to her bedroom. "Don't worry, Michael." She grabbed the champagne bottle as she passed by the sink and stopped. She took a long sip from the bottle, wiped her mouth with her hand, laughed, and said, "Don't worry, my Darling, I'll be gentle." She took another long sip and again wiped away the bubbles beneath her nose with the back of her hand. She handed him the bottle and he took a long guzzle. She took the bottle from him and placed it on the bureau in the bedroom and pushed him back on the bed. She straddled him lying forward to kiss him as she unbuttoned his shirt. "You are the first man I have ever been with who wears a t-shirt," not that I have been intimate with many men, but I had some boyfriends before I was married. "I'm not comfortable wearing just a shirt without a t-shirt," he said "it itches." She helped him remove his shirt. "C'mon, this, too, I want to see your body." Michael leaned himself up to remove his t-shirt and she helped him pull it off. He fell back on the bed and she ran her fingers through his chest hair. "I like a man with chest hair. It is very masculine." She leaned down and kissed his chest, neck, and shoulders before giving him another long, wet kiss. She popped up and slid her buttocks to his thighs and reached up and undid his belt buckle. "I thought you were going to take it slow, Gabriella." He put his hand on hers to briefly stop her unbuckling his pants. "I am, Michael, my darling. I count to ten before I remove any of your clothing," she laughed. "Relax and enjoy." She laughed, again, "I am taking it slow. If I wasn't you would have been naked already." She finished unbuckling his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled down his zipper. "I've always wondered if you were boxers or briefs." She felt his cock through his pants. "Really, you wondered that about me?" "You don't think women wonder about men's underwear?" "I guess. I just thought it was only men who wondered about women's underwear." She opened his pants and felt his cock through his underwear. "Good, I am glad you wear briefs but I like colored briefs. I don't like the white so much. I'll buy you new underwear." She lowered herself forward sliding her body along his and kissed him, again. "Tell me what you want, lover," she said breathing in his ear as she kissed and licked the inside of his ear with a flick of her tongue. Instinctively, he tried to roll her over to get on top but she resisted his movement. "I don't know what I want. I want you, only," he said breathlessly. "I want to know what it feels like to be inside of you." "Now, who is in a hurry? Slow down, lover. Not, yet. She slid down the length of him and kissed his cock through his underwear. She took the head of his prick in her mouth through the cotton fabric of his briefs making it all wet with her saliva. "Oh, my," he gasped. She stopped, climbed off him and off the bed and helped him off with his jeans. "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, I was about to suck your cock." She climbed back between his legs and returned to sucking his cock through his briefs. "You are going to make me cum if you continue teasing me with your mouth." "You had better not. We've only just begun. Think of something that will distract you. Think of Earth Bank," she said laughing. "Well, that will make me lose my erection if I think of Earth Bank," he said laughing. "I want to see what you look like." She tugged at his briefs and Michael raised his hips so that she could remove them. "You have a beautiful penis," she said wrapping her little hand around his cock. She stroked him while staring at him watching him getter harder. She looked up at him. "Does that feel good?" "Oh, yeah, that feels incredible." "So, I am the first woman who has ever touched your cock?" "Yes. No one has even seen my cock, except for my mother when I was a baby." "Michael, that is amazing. Why? You are a man. Why are you so inexperienced?" "I was saving myself for you, and I was in the seminary for three years." She leaned down moving her head closer to his penis. "I want to taste you." Before he could react, with a deft movement of her hand, she took him in her mouth and devoured him with her tongue. "Oh, my," he gasped. Michael grew to a length and to a thickness that he had never been. "You are a big man," she said removing him from her mouth "for such a small man," she said reinserting his cock back between her lips. She started stroking him as she was blowing him. "Please, no," said Michael reaching down and taking her head between his hands. "I don't want to cum, yet, and I will if you continue. Earth Bank, Earth Bank, Earth Bank." "Okay," she said removing his cock from her mouth and laughing. She slid her body up to meet his lips. He slid his hand across her back and left his hand at the side of her breast. She took his hand and moved it to the front of her breast and clasped his fingers around her tit. "You are so shy." He felt her tits, first one and then the other through her clothes. She sat up and looked down at his nakedness and his throbbing cock standing tall. She looked down at her fully clothed body. "Don't you want to see what I look like, Michael?" She gave him a smile and a wink. "Don't you want to see my body?" She uncovered her shoulder with her blouse. "Don't you want to see me naked?" "Oh, God, yes," he said in a trance. She slowly started unbuttoning her blouse. "Wait," he reached up and took her hands in his stopping her. "I want to do that. Let me undress you." "Well," she said sticking out her chest, her nipples testing the strength of the material, "go ahead. What are you waiting for?. He fumbled with every button and smiling as he pulled one arm out of her blouse and then the other. He paused to stare at her pink bra. Other than his mother and his sister, he had never seen a woman in her bra before. He fingered the lace that surrounded the cups of her bra, resting his hand on the exposed upper part of her breast and his wrist and forearm in constant contact with her tit. She reached behind her to unsnap it. "No, please don't," he said reaching around her to stop her. "I want to do that," he said staring at her bra covered tits. "I want to savor every second of this moment, the first time with you; I want this memory to stay in my mind the rest of my life." "Okay," she smiled. "You are in complete control of my body. Do with me whatever you want." As if he were a child allowed to play with the most expensive toy in the toy store, he felt her breasts again through her bra. He took his time feeling her tits, kissing her breasts through her bra, and hugging her with her tits pressed against her face. "They feel wonderful." He caressed her breasts again feeling the weight of them in his palms. "Okay, I'm ready," he said, as if done with the main course and ready for desert. She turned so that he could reach behind her. He struggled with the clasp but managed to unsnap her bra. Slowly, he slid the straps from her shoulders while she held her bra in place with her hand. Again, he felt her through her bra before slowly peeling her bra from her breasts. He stared at her naked tits, poking at them and then cupping them. He slid his palm across her nipple, first one, and then the other, then, he gently fingered her nipples with his index finger and thumb. He watched in awe as they responded to his touch and popped out. "Your nipples are huge." He felt her breasts in his hand. "Your tits are so big, so firm, and so perfectly symmetrical." He cupped her tits, again. "I use to dream about your tits, about this day, and about you naked when—" "Stop," she said covering her breasts with her hand, "you're embarrassing me." She looked down at herself. "They are just tits, Michael." "Yeah, but they are your tits. They are the first tits that I have ever touched and felt." "Oh, you sweet man," she said removing her hand and allowing him access to her breasts. "I'm sorry, but except for the time that I accidentally walked in on my sister; your tits are the first naked breasts that I have ever seen." "Poor boy," she laughed pulling his head towards her tit and meeting his mouth to her nipple. "How's that? Do you feel better, now? Do you like sucking Gabriella's tits?" He nodded his head taking her tit in his mouth while feeling her other tit with his hand. Then, he switched, sucking her other tit while fondling the one he had just sucked. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 08 "They are so beautiful. I love sucking your tits. I love your tits, Gabriella. You have absolutely beautiful tits." "Thank you, Michael." He reached down and unzipped her jeans. She stood to help him take off her pants. "These pants are too tight," she pulled away from his reach and stood. "You will never get them off of me without my help." She wiggled out of her jeans and when she got back on the bed angled her body next to his so that their chests touched. She took his hand and guided it down her stomach. He felt her pussy through her panty, and then reached behind her to feel her ass. "You have an amazing body, Garbriella. I always wondered what you looked like naked. I always imagined. You are so beautiful." She took his hand and slid it inside her panty. She gasped when his fingers felt her wet warmth. She guided him directing his touch as he explored all of her with his fingers. He removed his hand from her underwear, sat up, and rolled her pink panty down her legs. "I want to see," he said. I want to see your pussy. I want to see your body. I want to see you naked." He looked at her loveliness noticing her pubic hair trimmed in the shape of a heart. "Hey, this looks like a heart," he said pointing to her pubic hair and looking up at her. "Are all women's pubic hair shaped like a heart?" "No, silly. You are such a goof," she laughed. "I trimmed it in the shape of a heart just for you." Except in medical books at the library," he ran his fingers through her trimmed patch of pubic hair, "I've never seen a vagina before." She sat up and spread her legs a little to give him more of a view. He reached out touching her, cupping her pussy and exploring her with his fingers. "Now, my turn. I want to taste you." She leaned back as he positioned his head between her legs sliding his tongue up and down. She helped him moving her hand down to direct his movements along her clit. She came within minutes of moaning his name. "Michael, oh, Michael, my darling. That was so incredible. I spent so many lonely nights wishing and hoping and longing for you." She pulled him up to her, as he wiped her wetness from his mouth and chin with his hand. She wrapped her legs around her body and reaching down, positioned his cock inside of her. He moaned with pleasure. She stuck her tongue in his ear and he moaned more. She humped him rhythmically fucking him until he returned her action and he humped and fucked her. He cam almost immediately but stayed hard inside of her until she came again, and he cam, too. For the next two days, Saturday and Sunday, they never left the bed except to eat, shower, and use the toilet. It was like a Honeymoon. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 09 Chapter 39 O'Leary's Savings and Loan Michael did not tell anyone about the thirty-five million dollars or about the idea of starting a new neighborhood bank. He wanted to wait until after the wedding when he would tell Gabriella everything while away on their honeymoon in Ireland and Italy. They had agreed that they wanted to show one another the countries of their ancestors. Although, Michael was born in the United States at Boston City Hospital, Gabriella was born in Milan but her parents now live in Rome. Nonetheless, they both thought it a great idea to include their traditional backgrounds in the marriage early hoping to showcase the positives in their differences rather than to dwell on the negatives that may surface later when someone marries out of their ethnic background. Then, when he returned from his honeymoon, he would tell his family and friends, and solicit the city of Boston and his community of South Boston with his idea for starting a neighborhood bank asking them for their support, for their advice, and for their suggestions. Unfortunately, the newspapers broke the story months before the wedding and, now, Michael felt pressured to act before he was ready. He knew, though, that if he waited to make decisions regarding the establishment of his bank, the exaggerated gossip and public speculation would inflate the price of the land that he wanted to buy for his bank. He figured that Ralphie must have told friends, neighbors, and relatives about his sudden windfall of money, as well as, him giving Michael thirty-five million dollars and Michael's plans to start a neighborhood bank with the money that he had given him. As part of his now pressured actions, he married Gabriella sooner than planned but, unfortunately, postponed their honeymoon until after he discussed his idea for a neighborhood bank with the local politicians. He did not want to disrespect those in the neighborhood who had power and influence. He knew that he would have to have their support to succeed. He figured a heavy donation to their campaign chests would be all that was required in most instances. Next, with the help of his congressman, he had his attorney research federal funding for the acquisition and the financing of the land he proposed to purchase and the building he proposed to build. Secondarily, he asked his congressman to help him identify which employment incentives, those which could benefit his bank and his community, were available. His questions and subsequent research uncovered several federally funded programs that applied to small banking businesses, programs that helped shelter his capital investment while helping to insure the success of his venture. Unbelievably as it sounds, thirty-five million dollars, money that he had not yet paid federal and state taxes on, was not much seed money when starting a bank. When he presented his idea to the community leaders, everyone received his plan with excited enthusiasm. Michael O'Leary, their home town hero, was the biggest gossip that hit the neighborhood since the failed court imposed school busing of the 1970's. He built his savings and loan bank on the same bit of ground where Earth Bank had razed Neighborhood Bank and thrown up a seven bay ATM station on East Broadway in South Boston. Located in the heart of the neighborhood, the ATM station was Earth Bank's begrudging attempt to satisfy the banking needs of all of their unimportant and underestimated South Boston customers. The management of Earth Bank thought because the South Boston was not as affluent as Newton or Wellesley, where they opened bright, white banking branches that an automated customer service solution over a human one would suffice. Ironically, Earth Bank had to relocate their ATM station after too many customers complained that their money came out of the ATM machine scorched around the edges, as if someone had tried to light their cigar with their money. One person who received 2nd degree burns on her hand sued the bank. Earth Bank settled for an undisclosed amount of money without accepting responsibility for the accident. Other customers complained of hearing a man singing Sweet Chariot. The bit of land where Neighborhood Bank once stood and where their ATM stations stood before being relocated down the street remained vacant. Most commonly, customers stopped using the ATM machines at that location and others closed their accounts all together to open them with other banks that did not have ATM machine problems. It did not take long for Earth Bank to realize that, unlike the more affluent neighborhoods of Winchester and Andover, South Boston was not a neighborhood that appreciated ATM machines. The residents of Southie, spoiled by the service of Neighborhood Bank, preferred human contact when handing over their hard earned money to a bank. Earth Bank wasted money on repair people, electronics technicians, computer engineers, and manufacturer's consultants who could not fix the problem with the ATM machines scorching the money or even identify the source of the heat that scorched the money. They replaced circuit boards, computer chips, wiring harnesses, and finally, used machines with new machines. Their repairs worked for a while but then the new machines mysteriously malfunctioned like the old machines. Security cameras disproved the suspicions of the bank's management that vandals were responsible for the sabotage. The old-timers remembered the story of Horace the custodian who haunted Neighborhood Bank and believed that he now haunted the ATM machines. The customers who missed Neighborhood bank were glad that Horace wreaked havoc with Earth Bank's ATM machines. "Serves them right," said one former customer of Neighborhood Bank over a glass of ale at the pub. "They angered Horace is what they did when they closed and razed Neighborhood Bank," said another. "He put a curse on Earth Bank and those lousy ATM machines," said another. "Three cheers for Horace," they said laughing and clinking their glasses together. "Hip, hip, hooray!" Due to his immense popularity and because his institution would benefit the community long-term, the city council supported Michael's effort in establishing a new neighborhood bank. They even took it upon themselves to pressure Earth Bank to sell Michael the land. The people in the neighborhood who believed in Michael said that Horace would finally rest in peace again once he found his new home in the basement of O'Leary's Savings and Loan. Earth Bank reluctantly sold Michael the triangular piece of vacant land that scarred an otherwise congested community when they closed their newly constructed ATM station after only six years of its completion. The condominium gladly sold Michael the remaining original land of Neighborhood Bank that Earth Bank had sold them for parking after the owners of the condominiums complained that the neighborhood thugs routinely vandalized and stole the cars of residents parked in the lot. They wanted secure underground parking, so the condominium developers relocated the heating, ventilation, and air conditioning machinery from the basement to a utility room built on the roof and dug out the basement for a two story garage below street level. The sale of land to Michael helped the condominium recapture some of the cost of building a garage. Now, Michael with his new found wealth was back in the banking business, this time for himself, his friends, his neighbors, and his community. He appreciated Ralphie's insightfulness because, if the though had been left to him, he probably would have given away most of the money before thinking of starting his own neighborhood bank. He believed that starting his own bank and helping the poorer people of his neighborhood was a better idea than donating his money to charity that would not exclusively target his community. In this way, he felt that he could help more local people while controlling whom and by how much he wanted to help give his support. Not that he wanted to play the role of the almighty philanthropist, but he felt that he better knew the needs of the people of his community. Specifically, he was to target the people of his nationality with the hopes of increasing their chances for a financially secure life. Chapter 40 Michael Patrick O'Leary Michael looked out his office window at the people eager to open an account at his new bank. The line that formed along the sidewalk outside the bank curled around the corner and down the block. Even though he hired twelve customer service representatives, nine more than they had at Neighborhood Bank, to handle new accounts, the wait was as long as the line. Still, the community was happy to have another neighborhood bank and was happy to have Michael back, this time for good. After his first day of business, O'Leary Savings and Loan had opened more accounts than Neighborhood Bank had in their busiest years, 1980-1988, during the Regan administration. After his first week of business, he had more deposits than Neighborhood Bank had during their most profitable years, the building boon years of the 50's when the GI's returned home after the war, married, and started families. After one month of business, O'Leary's Savings and Loan had more depositers than Neighborhood Bank had forecasted in their most optimistic financial reports to the stockholders. At their peak, in the sixties, Neighborhood Bank had 39% of the community as customers. Now, O'Leary Savings and Loan had 68%. As Michael O'Leary's Savings and Loan grew, so did his fame, fortune, and influence. Customers from surrounding communities wanting to get in on Michael's celebrity closed their accounts at other banks to open them with his bank. No one expected the deluge of customers from outside of the community, as far south as Rhode Island, as far North as Maine and Vermont, and as far west as New York, who wanted to open an account. His private bank was a success on Wall Street, where, even though his bank was not publicly traded, The Wall Street Journal depicted him in a cartoon, as a Leprechaun standing over a pot of gold beneath the flag of Ireland. Quicker than his customer services representatives could say, "I can help you?" Michael's thirty-five million dollar investment mushroomed into more than five billion dollars in customer deposits. Reporters from national newspapers wanted to interview the "Guru of Banking". Financial magazines offered him a monthly column to write articles on investing. Publishers tempted him with advances to write his memoirs. Movie producers wanted to recreate his life story, would even cast him and anyone else who he wanted in the movie. Celebrities invited him on their talk shows, to their parties, and to donate to their charities. Political organizations wanted his support. Community organizations wanted him to accept their awards. Charitable organizations wanted his donations. Colleges and universities wanted to give him an honorary degree in exchange for his funding a building, a research project, or a scholarship in his name. Hospitals wanted to rename a wing in his honor. Students wanted him to speak at their graduation. Graduates, with the ink on their advanced degrees from Harvard Business School and Babson College still wet, wanted to intern at the bank without salary. Mothers used him as an example to entice their children to go to school and to church. He refused the interviews, declined the invitations to appear on talk shows, and rejected the book and movie offers. He supported the politicians and charitable organizations that he would have supported anyway, gave money to his college and to his church, and did not hire any of the MBA's. He found his success without them and did not need them to continue his success now. The difference with his bank was that he was not there to make money. Of course, he needed money to grow his banking business, but he was mainly there to help the people of his community prosper. His bank was as much of a social institution as it was a bank. It doing so, customers helped his bank succeed; a simple formula that only worked when the bank in the community cares about its customers. Just as there were still a place for neighborhood hardware stores, meat markets, grocery stores, and gas stations over the big one-stop national chains, he knew that there was a need for a neighborhood bank that believed in the people who lived in the community and that believed in the importance of personal customer service. Michael sat in his ergonomic office chair. He ordered similar chairs for all of his bank employees, believing that a comfortable employee was a happy employee and that their happiness directly translated into better customer service. He sat behind a working desk instead of a display desk typically found in a bank president's office. His desk had pullout trays to expand his workspace and custom-sized drawers that fit whatever he wanted to file without wasting space. He had similar desks constructed for his employees so that they found whatever they wanted at a fingers touch and never appeared disorganized or flustered looking like they did not know what they were doing when helping customers. Barely 30 years old, he lived his chosen life and was happy with himself. Pleased that he was back among his friends, neighbors, and customers, finally, he felt that he could make an impact upon the good and growth of the community. Chapter 41 Sinn Fein Shawn Flynn, the local representative of Sinn Fein, made his weekly visit to Michael's bank. He insisted on doing his personal banking business with Michael directly using that as an excuse to solicit his help with whatever was happening in the neighborhood and expanding that to whatever was happening across the ocean in Ireland. Michael knew that the years that he had remained neutral towards joining Sinn Fein and the Irish Republican Army were over and, now, he had to take a stand one way or the other. A decision made tougher when he gave the lottery ticket to Mr. Foley. He knew, now, that he must join or suffer the IRA's retribution for costing them the millions of dollars they needed to buy more arms, to recruit new soldiers, and to continue their ugly war of religion. Shawn entered the bank and headed towards Michael's office. Michael saw him, moved out from behind his desk, and waved him in meeting him at his office door. "It is always nice to see you, Shawn." The two men shook hands. Michael walked over to the window that overlooked the outer office, closed the blinds, and closed the door behind Shawn. He offered him a seat on the couch across from his desk and joined him at the opposite end. "How are you?" "I'd be better, Michael, if you gave me an affirmative answer to the same question that I have been asking you for too long, now." "As I have said to you before, Shawn, I prefer helping people in my own way without an organization looking over my shoulder." Michael laughed. "I'm not political, but if I wanted the umbrella of an association, I would have finished seminary school, became a priest, and stayed behind the sacred walls of the church." He smiled. "I do not know of a more powerful organization than that of the Catholic Church." "You realize, Michael, of course, that you need us as much as, if not more than," Shawn smiled smugly; "we need you." "What do you mean?" He knew what he meant but wanted Shawn to spell out the implication and to tell him exactly what it is he wanted. "I haven't said anything before about it, but that foolishness you did over the lottery ticket put me in an awkward position." Shawn reached in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, pulled it out, opened it, and offered it to Michael. "No, thank you, Shawn, I do not smoke." "Ah, yes, I forgot you are Saint Michael and have no dirty habits." He removed a cigarette, closed the case and tapped the cigarette on the case, "A jackpot that big is a rare thing, Michael, and rarer still that we nearly acquired it, until those two renegade jackasses robbed the bank, and of all banks, the wrong bank." He searched his pockets for a light. "Wrong place, wrong time," he said unable to find a match and looking to Michael for one, "shit happens." Michael reached for the lighter that stayed perched upon his desk for such occasions. "Thank you," Shawn took a puff and exhaled a blue haze between them. He pocketed his cigarette case and sat back in the softness of the couch. "As soon as Flaherty gave them the bad news of your decision not to hand over their property and told them what had happened with Foley, the hotheads wanted to snuff you out that night." He took another long drag, "But I interceded on your behalf," and blew out more smoke that billowed around them like a little cloud. "Thank you, Shawn, for your support," he smiled. "Your friendship is appreciated." "Actually, Michael, it was my mother who overhead the talk of the retaliation against you. She was beside herself with anger, and you know her temper. She would not hear of it, of anyone hurting an orange hair on the head of her Saint Michael." He paused to look at Michael. "There is not a better person who walks the Earth, she said about you." "Thank you," said Michael knowing that the only reason he was still alive was due to his recent financial success and sudden political influence and power. "And thank your mother for me." Shawn put a hand up stopping Michael's feigned gratitude, leaned forward, and made eye contact. "Even before all of your successes," he waved his hand around the room as if to encompass all of his wealth with one pass, "you were more valuable to us alive than dead." He settled back again in the comfort of the couch. "People respect you and listen to you and to what you have to say. Those are important qualities in a man when recruiting young soldiers for our cause." He smiled, "Now," he threw up his hands, "especially now, after all of this," he waved his hand around the room, again, "your endorsement of our organization to the youth of this community is worth more in advertising than what any lottery ticket could buy." "I did not know that the IRA advertised," Michael chuckled. "We don't. We must maintain a low profile in this country otherwise our enemies will shut us down, which is why your influence over the sons of Ireland is so valuable to our struggle." He waited for Shawn to finish and watched him take another drag of his cigarette. "I made them understand your value is worth much more than the lottery ticket you gave away to Foley." More blue smoke wafted up between them and around them. "They agreed after a while." He smiled. "They even agreed to allow Foley to keep the ticket and play your game of philanthropic benevolence on your behalf with our money." "A wise decision on their part," said Michael crossing his legs knowing that they only based their decision upon what he could do for them, "considering that his son is with the FBI and the suspicious death of his father would surely cause the bureau to open a case. We both know that the IRA does not want to FBI looking into their affairs in this country, as well as in Ireland." "Agreed, we don't need another messy investigation into our personal affairs, especially after the Coast Guard intercepted that boat leaving Boston Harbor loaded with munitions earmarked for Ulster." He exhaled more blue smoke. "Still, an eye for an eye, they want their pound of flesh, whether it be money, arms or your assistance helping to get one, the other or both." "You may as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger, now, Shawn," Michael leaned back in his seat, "because I will never help the IRA kill more innocent women and children." He leaned forward. "In good Christian conscience, I cannot do that. I do not care about your misguided and ill-conceived holy war that has survived generations giving excuse and to murder and justification to rape. I only care what I can do today to help people find God and peace in their lives." With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 09 "You can help—" "Yes, I can help. I have the money, the power, and the influence to help, but I won't." Michael put his hands on his knees. "Your way is not helping anyone. Your way is a continuation of pouring fuel on a fire that burns hotter and never goes out. I'm not saying that what you stand for is wrong. I am not saying that your organization needed not to exist. I am saying that the bloodshed must end." He leaned in to Shawn. "The Irish have always been a thickheaded group, but someone has to lay down their arms." He touched Shawn's knee. "Someone has to be rational. The violence has to stop." He stood and walked to his desk and sat behind it. "I am sickened to read about another car bomb killing another child." He leaned forward. "Tell me Shawn, how does killing women and children and the feeble and elderly forward your cause?" "And how do, one man, even a saint of a man, propose to stop the violence that has continued between the Irish and the English and the Catholics and the Protestants for more than four centuries." "I am not proposing that I can stop the war. I am just as powerless to do that as is the IRA. What I am proposing is that I refuse to help enable you in your war. Yet, what I have the power to do is to shelter those who want to leave Ireland. I have the money and the power to help with the legal representation and the influence to cut through the red tape of immigration. I can give those who want them, jobs and loans for a mortgage or to buy a car. I can educate their children." "I see." Shawn mashed his cigarette in Michael's ashtray and waved his hands in the air in an effort to take back control of the conversation. "You must use me for what I can do for you and not for what I cannot do for you." "You're proposing that the Irish abandon their country, forsake their inherited rights, and flee to America where, once here, you will finally help them." "I can see no other way to make my people stronger than by using my money, power, and influence to hire them and educate them so that they can live and prosper in the greatest country in the world. Perhaps, one day, those who want to return, will return better armed with knowledge and money instead of with guns and hatred. Then, they can return to claim what is legally theirs. For now, I see no other alternative than to retreat until the Irish become more powerful, in every way, than their enemy. Shawn stood and offered Michael his hand. They shook hands and Shawn held onto Michael's hand. "You are a good man, Michael O'Leary and I understand your sentiments. Clearly, I do. You, almost a priest, but we've had many men of the cloth helping us in our war and crusade against the Protestant English for four centuries." He let go of Michael's hand. "I'll tell my brothers what you have offered but it won't be well received. There will be those who will not listen to reason and who will want to silence you for good." Shawn turned and headed for the door and Michael met him there. "You must make them understand that my power and influence is more for the long-term than it is for the short-term. He whispered, "Sure, I could launder their cash to finance their arms deals, but for how long do you think that I can do that before the FBI arrests us and closes us down." He touched Shawn's shoulder, "I am more powerful to you if you accept my help without having me forsake my Christian beliefs." "I'll try, Michael." He turned and reached for the doorknob. "I'll try." "Only a man who did not want peace and who wanted to continue the fight would vote against the assistance of another man who offered them their committed help unconditionally and without obligation towards a cease fire and towards an eventual peace. Chapter 42 At 5'3" Tall, He Was the Biggest Man In South Boston The residents of South Boston deemed Michael their financial savior. Happy that he had made much money in his absence from Neighborhood Bank, everyone wanted him to make more. They wanted him to make more money than Bill Gates, Sam Walton or Ted Turner did. They wanted the bragging rights that the richest man in the world lives in their neighborhood. They knew that the more money Michael made, the more likely he was to help his people find good paying jobs, and build affordable housing, better schools, safer playgrounds, and top rated hospitals. They wanted the bragging rights that the richest man in the world is an Irish American Roman Catholic. They were grateful that he returned to South Boston to share his financial success with his neighborhood by opening a neighborhood bank. Usually, those who had made it big leave South Boston for the bright lights of New York or the fast life of Hollywood never to return. Friends and family with their familiarities in their hearts, mothers and fathers with their babies in their arms, and politicians and business owners with their hats in their hand all hoped to appeal to his kind spirit and generous nature. Those who looked for a leg-up figured that their Irish heritage and their South Boston address entitled them to something that those who were not Irish and who did not live in South Boston were not entitled to, and those Irish residents of South Boston were not too proud to go to Michael with their hand out and ask. They hoped that their name and Irish face took precedence. After all, they thought of his success story as the luck of the Irish and as their birth right. Indeed, his story seemed no more plausible or real to them than their dreams of winning the lottery. The word about Michael and his new neighborhood bank spread through the neighborhood faster than the floodwaters, which broke through the seawall more than fifty years ago and flooded the streets of South Boston. Friends told their friends and relatives told their relatives. The local newspaper, as soon as they found out about Michael returning to South Boston to open a bank, splashed his name and picture across the front page. Every day, his name, photo, and stories about his public successes and his private life were heralded somewhere in the newspaper. Everyone could recite his biography; they had read it so many times in the newspaper. He was their hero. He was the good Irish, Roman Catholic boy from Southie who had made it big in the world outside of South Boston, and instead of disappearing with his wealth to some luxurious hideaway palace, he returned home to help his friends and neighbors. He was to the neighborhood what John F. Kennedy was to Boston, to Cape Cod, and to the nation. More of a local hero than Johnny Kelley for winning the illustrious Boston Marathon six times and for running in it sixty-one times, Michael's name was synonymous with success and prevalent, respected and said with awe within the community. More of a local hero than Sean O'Donnell for saving a block of families from the fire that they had on A Street a dozen years ago, the community that gave Sean their gratitude for their fire safety gave Michael their hope for their financial security. Michael had indelibly written his name within the history of South Boston. They loved him. Bigger than life, at 5'3" tall, he was the biggest man in South Boston, in all of Boston, and in all of Massachusetts. More influentially powerful than the Mayor and the Governor, he was the voice of the people. He was the common man's dreams and hopes. He was the one who everyone sought for help. He was the one who everyone asked a favor. He was the Godfather and the Pope all in one man. He was Michael Patrick O'Leary, nicknamed, Saint Michael. They wanted him to run for office. There was already a grass roots organization started to put his name on the ballot for Mayor, for Governor, and for President. A vote for Michael O'Leary is a vote for the American Irish. A vote for Michael O'Leary is a vote for the people and for the common man. A vote for Michael O'Leary is a vote for you and me. You could not enter a pub, barroom or tavern in all of Boston without hearing the name of Michael O'Leary bandied about. Many brawls have started from some drunkard insulting Michael O'Leary. "Ah, he's just a man who puts his pants on just like me." "Don't you be saying anything against St. Michael, the son of South Boston." That was all it took for the police to break up a drunken riot. That was all it took for the citizens of South Boston and Boston proper to rally to Michael's defense. There was a wave of support for him that transgressed any sense of logic. They all wanted to grab on to his coattails hoping that he would pull them all up the ladder of success and if anyone dared kick out one of the rungs of their ladder of dreams, they had better be ready to fight. Outside of South Boston, the rest of Boston Proper, from Beacon Hill to the South End and from East Boston to the North End, Dorchester and Roxbury, Mattapan and Hyde Park even, anywhere there was pockets of Irish and those who were not Irish but who supported his ideas and ideology embraced him and his new bank. In the minds of his supporters and fans that had followed his personal success story, he could do not wrong. A living legend, a champion of the Irish, a new hope for the little man, his every public success was their personal success. His every personal success was heralded in the daily news and, by the end of the news day, grew to monumental rumored proportions throughout the neighborhood, the City of Boston, the State of Massachusetts, and the country. His feats of success grew larger and he loomed larger with each downed draft of ale at the pub. "To Michael O'Leary, I wish him every success." He lived the charmed life. People perceived him as possessing the secrets to personal success and financial freedom. The proclaimed overnight prince of banking, they too wanted to realize the magic that made him the darling of Wall Street. Tired of their lack of service and indifference, once they opened their accounts at their big banks, the little people wanted customer service, the same customer service that the wealthy people demanded and received and Michael was all to willing to accommodate them. The banking customers from outside of South Boston pressured O'Leary Savings and Loan to open branch offices in their communities or, at least, offer on-line banking, so that they could be a part of the miracle of the O'Leary Savings and Loan success story. Happy to be the bank of his neighborhood and no more, Michael refused outside pressure to expand his bank to the size that made the big banks effective at making money but ineffective in servicing their smaller customers, the entire point of his reason for returning to South Boston to open a neighborhood bank. He could have retired with the thirty-five million dollars that Ralphie gave him and lived very comfortably in some exclusive community with Gabriella, Angela, and their new baby boy, Ralphelle. He could have invested in the stock market, lived out the rest of his life clipping coupons and cashing dividend checks or he could have started a new venture, as a silent partner with a high tech dot com firm in need of capital, but he chose not to do that. Instead, he chose to return to the community that he so loved and to give back of himself. He chose to fill the hole that Earth Bank had blasted when they dynamited Neighborhood Bank to the ground. He wanted to give his neighbors something that the community had been missing since Earth Bank closed Neighborhood Bank. Neighborhood had been the community lifeline for 100 years and when Earth Bank silenced it, the community withdrew. Earth Bank, with their impersonal service to those customers whose deposits amounted to less than five figures, did not care about the community. The east side of South Boston, the side even the residents hated admitting was part of Southie, no longer had a neighborhood bank, one that would reach out to help those who needed it, really needed it, and he wanted to give them one. He wanted to give all the citizens of South Boston, especially the ones who needed it the most, the opportunity to buy a house, a car or to payoff their credit card debt. Now, without a bank that cared, the residents of the community did not have the opportunity for a mortgage, a new car loan or lower their unsecured debt. Besieged with requests for help, for favors, and for money, Michael could no longer walk the streets of his beloved neighborhood in peace. Now, flanked by bodyguards and centered within an entourage of personal assistants, Michael became too busy and too important to be accessible to those who needed the help and who he wanted to help. Removed from the every day community gossip, now a support staff briefed him on what he needed to know to make his philanthropic decisions. Every move choreographed by secretaries making appointments, his success removed him from the people and replaced them with a delegation of community, business, and political leaders. Chapter 43 No One Turned Down For A Loan NO ONE TURNED DOWN FOR A LOAN. The orange, white, and green banner that hung over the door of O'Leary Savings and Loan proclaimed its mission. No one turned down for a loan satisfied Michael's need to help his people exclusively and placated the Massachusetts Banking Commission and Federal laws banking requirements with three simple rules. Rule #1: You must be a customer of O'Leary Savings and Loan for more than one year. Rule #2: You must possess the ability to repay the loan. Rule #3: You must reside in the community of South Boston for three years or more. No one turned down for a loan had only those three stipulations. Every customer who opened an account received a laminated index card that stated the three rules on one side with a portrait of a smiling Irish face on the reverse side; every customer received this with their first deposit. Michael made Rule #1: You must be a customer of O'Leary Savings and Loan for, at least, one year. He made this rule because he did not want those who shopped around for the best interest rates to use his bank only for loans. He wanted his customers to have a full banking relationship with O'Leary Savings and Loan. He wanted his customers to have a savings account and a checking account, an automobile loan, a home mortgage or equity loan, a personal loan, a college loan, and a credit card with the bank. He wanted his bank to be the communities' one stop bank. He made Rule #2: You must possess the ability to repay the loan. He made that rule to protect him from those who did not intend to repay their obligation to his bank. Otherwise, he would have any bum or thug demanding money as stated in his motto, no one turned down for a loan. Then, if he did not satisfy them with a loan, he would have to defend himself in court over the avalanche of nuisance, false advertising lawsuits. Rule #3: You must reside in the community of South Boston for three years or more. Rule #3 was his way of giving preferential banking treatment to his Irish Catholic customers, legally. As it is illegal for him to grant loans based on nationality and religious preference, since most of South Boston's residents were Irish Catholics, this was his way of circumventing the law. This was his way of fulfilling his desire to help his neighbors, his community, and the downtrodden and hard working people of Irish heritage. This was his way of giving back and his way of proving that there, truly, is the luck of the Irish, if indeed, you are Irish. Michael broke the first rule, that you must be a customer of O'Leary Savings and Loan for, at least, a year for those customers who had just opened accounts at his newly formed bank. If he did not do that then, theoretically, he would not approve any loans until this time next year. He broke the first rule for those second and third generation residents who left the community for college or careers and now wanted to return to the neighborhood and wanted a mortgage to buy a house or a loan to buy a new car. Michael employed or found jobs within the community for those who could not satisfy the second rule, that you must possess the ability to repay the loan. In the evenings, he held classes in the basement of the bank for those who never had a checking account, for those who could not balance one, and for those who wanted to learn how to buy a car or a house. He arranged for financiers to teach those who wanted to learn about the stock market, investments and investing, taxes and deductions or anything else that was related to banking and to their personal finances. Willing to bend the first two rules to help the community grow, thrive, and prosper, he never broke the third rule. You had to be a resident of South Boston for three years or more. A basic rule that protected his continued help to his group of favored people, he felt that breaking that rule would sabotage his plan of giving preferential treatment to the Irish Catholic residents of South Boston; the same people who were denied financial opportunities from the big banks and that did not appreciate their banking business. He believed in the long-term over the short-term and preferred to grow his institution from the inside out rather than from the outside in. He did not care about growing his bank into a mega-global institution. He only cared about the people who comprised his beloved community; he only cared about the Irish. Yet, he did have a soft spot for some of his Italian customers who e had become acquainted with while working at Earth Bank in the North End and who now became loyal customers of his bank. Chapter 44 Customer Care From his maintenance personnel, to his bank guards, to his tellers, and to his customer service personnel, Michael trained all of his employees in the art of customer care; the same style of customer care that he had learned form Mr. McCarthy and that he embellished with kindness, understanding, and sensitivity towards others. A service lost with voice mail, automated telephones, electronic mail, automated teller machines, and online banking, he knew that people preferred talking to a person rather than a machine. Mixed with what he learned about people from Mr. McCarthy, with what he had learned from his study of the Bible, and from what he learned in the seminary with the Catholic religion, people care was an inherent art form in him. The transition from people care to customer care was a natural progression. Soon, every teller's lines were no longer than any other teller's lines. Customers knew that they would receive the same courteous and caring service from all of the employees of O'Leary Savings and Loan, even if Michael no longer personally serviced them. With portraits of the Irish decorating every wall of the bank and for sale by Irish artists within the community of South Boston, Michael's Irish art gallery was for the benefit of the Irish people of the neighborhood but, surprisingly, attracted attention of artists and art lovers from all over the country. He felt that the landscapes of Ireland, lush green hills dotted with cottages with thatched roofs and stone fences deceived those who did not know the real Ireland. The real Ireland should have a canvass with a red sky or with its green grass dotted with red to signify the blood that it spilled from its children for the lunacy of the hundreds of years fighting a war where there were no victors, only spoils. The real Ireland should show the hatred of brother against brother, of Catholics against Protestants, and of the Irish against the English. To him, there was nothing worse than wrapping your religion within the flag of your country in violence, in rape, and in murder. To him, there was no excuse and no bigger oxymoron than a holy war. Whenever he looked at the landscape of Ireland, he could never look at the paintings without seeing the people and feeling the oppression that the painting ignored and did not reflect. The paintings only showed the beauty. They never showed the reality. He preferred portraits of the faces of Ireland to the landscapes because, imagined in the artists' eye, landscapes gave the beholder a false view of the scenery of Ireland. Whereas, a portrait of a face and of the eyes can never lie and the artist is bound to paint what they see. Unlike scenery, the face may be beautiful but behind the beauty, he could see the suffering in the eyes and with that, he carried a reminder of every dead child when he passed out those portrait cards to every new customer. He did not want anyone to forget the travesty of war. Sure, some customers may never notice what is behind the beauty of the face, only concentrating on the surface beauty but, others, especially those who lost a loved one in the ugly war of religion, could see the pain and the suffering that Michel saw. They could see themselves. Michael's index cards were his calling cards letting his people know that, by leveling the playing field, he would make things better and he would make wrongs right. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 09 He continued his collection at home decorating his walls with rosy cheeked, redheaded children that any mother would love to call her own and with weathered, wrinkled faces of the elderly who he imagined boasted about their grandchildren. For the starkness of their reality, he preferred black and white portraits to color portraits. Forever haunted by the faces of the countless generations who had witnessed hatred, poverty, death, and destruction, he never wanted to forget his reasons for wanting to involve himself. He never wanted to forget his reasons for caring. Chapter 45 "I Can Help You." Always available, as was his mentor, Mr. McCarthy, to give his smiling hello, to listen to a complaint, and to voice his opinion about an issue, Michael knew every customer by name rather than by account number. As did Mr. McCarthy, he waved to his customers who walked by the windows of the bank on their way to work in the morning or during their lunches in the afternoon. As a priest would shepherd his flock and listen to the confessions of his devoted followers, he availed himself to helping his customers not only financially but, also, emotionally, as well as spiritually. This time, he had a free hand to help the ones who he loved and who needed his help. This time, he was there for good and for their benefit. Instead of asking his customers, "How may I help you?" as he did when he worked at Neighborhood Bank in South Boston and continued to do so when he worked at Earth Bank in the North End, he replaced the question with a statement, instead, instructing his staff to say "I can help you." "Good morning, Mrs. Sullivan. I can help you." "How are you, Mr. Foley? I can help you." Good morning, Mrs. O'Reilly. I can help you." "Hi, Mrs. Duffy, I can help you." "Hello, Mr. Shea. I can help you." Michael's staff serviced their South Boston banking customers at O'Leary Savings and Loan in quick succession taking more time with one whenever his or her transaction required. Now, the help that they offered them was the help that they wanted and needed, he believed. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 10 Chapter 46 The Legacy of Archangel Michael Michael's bank flourished and he prospered personally and financially as well as emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. When he prospered so did his community of South Boston because, unlike other patron saints of the people who helped their neighborhoods only because they grew up there and leaving when they made their successes, Michael remained there, living and working in the community that he helped to thrive. At all hours of the day, you could always find Michael sitting in his office behind his desk or walking the floor of his bank greeting customers and/or listening to their comments and/or complaints. In growing and managing his 35 million dollar investment, the money he had received from Little Ralphie, he had amassed a personal fortune of nearly 3 billion dollars. Even after amassing that kind of wealth, he was just as unpretentious, good, and kind now as he was when he was studying priesthood in the seminary. There were many communities seeking the same limited resources from the state and federal government but few of those communities had someone in the scope, influence, and power of Michael O'Leary, who could help shine a spotlight of attention on South Boston and direct the funds he needed to help his cause. As far as his personal fortune, he looked upon his wealth as a means to an end. He constructively used his money, power, and influence, to help direct city, state, and federal monies that he needed to augment other monies and to support his causes by helping to fund the building of schools and hospitals, police and fire stations, and community centers and playgrounds in his neighborhood. After all, whatever he did within the community of South Boston benefited not only the state in reducing crime and unemployment but also the federal government by helping the economy and developing solid citizens for the future. Michael was a big believer in applying for grant money from the state and federal government. Each year, as are college scholarships for individuals, grant money is made available to private individuals from the city, state, and federal government, and to cities from the state and the federal government, as well as to the state, from the federal government. Each year, hundreds of millions of dollars in available grant money goes unclaimed, mainly, because the grants are not advertised and/or marketed in such a way that makes it easy to find. It is up to you, the individual, or you the town, city, or state to discover them and apply for them. It is up to you to wade through the paperwork tied tightly in red tape and to persevere through the process. It is up to you to state your case, why you should receive the grant money hoping that they approve you and not someone else going through the similar process. Michael, with his network of consultants and grant writers, was very successful with this process in not only finding available grant money but also successfully applying for it and winning it. That, along with his influence, encouraged and enabled additional monies received from legislation written on behalf of his community. Michael had quite the political machine working behind the scenes to land the big bucks. Additional monies pouring in to his small community meant more, higher paying jobs that further boosted his local community. The lifestyle of South Boston, suddenly, took a giant jump up the success ladder. Before Michael, the average median income for a South Boston resident was approximately, $35,000 per year. Now, with the help of Michael O'Leary, the average median income for a South Boston resident jumped significantly, to nearly $60,000 per year. That increase allowed people to buy the things that they needed, such as a new car, a new home, to send their children to college, and/or to plan their retirement. Certainly, because of Michael O'Leary, life in South Boston was good. Now, because Dad was able to earn a good living, Mom could afford to stay home with the kids or only take a part-time job, which translated to better family development. All of the hard work that Michael put forth, over 30 years, helped to lay the groundwork that contributed to the cycle of success. His personal favorite projects to fund were community centers and playgrounds. He had three separate and distinct community centers, one specifically for children, one specifically for families, and one specifically for the elderly. With three of each type of community centers conveniently sprinkled throughout South Boston, for a total of nine community centers, they all had his name prominently displayed, Michael O'Leary's Community Center for Children, Michael O'Leary's Community Center for Families, and Michael O'Leary's Community Center for the Elderly. He viewed children as the most malleable and moldable and those who he could make the most impression with to make changes in their personal makeup that would last a lifetime. This, on the children, is where he spent much of his time, money, and energy. "Get them while they are young," he always said, "before they develop the stubborn nonsense and unfounded opinions that they carry with them throughout the rest of their lives." The one thing that you would not find at the children's community center was boredom. At the children's community center, children could play board games or table tennis or play basketball at the indoor and outdoor basketball courts. They also could sign up for woodworking, sheet metal, cooking, model airplane, ship, and car building, and/or arts and crafts classes, as well as Cub Scouts or Brownies and Boy Scouts or Girl Scouts and Explorers. There was summer camp, Christmas parties, and family outings. Everything was free, paid for by the donations of community businesses, with Michael personally picking up the shortfall tab. There were few fights in the children centers because if you fought, both combatants, depending upon the severity, were barred for a day, a week or a month from attending the center. No one wanted to get barred because if you were barred, there was no one to play with, as all the other kids were playing in the community center. Being barred from a community center was worse than being suspended from school. Generally, once a child was barred, even for a day, they never behaved badly, again, while on the community center premises. Further, they encouraged other children to change their bad behavior for fear that the directors of the center would misidentify them as troublemakers and include them when barring others. The family community centers were, chiefly, there to disseminate information, to help families find information on important issues, and to advise them where and how to get further help from state and federal government agencies. Basically, this community center, as was the elder community center was primarily used to untie the endless knots of red tape that dissuaded most from even attempting to find the information that they needed. Whether it was birth control, finding after school care, seeking information on health care issues, or counseling on parenting and/or marriages in helping couples to stay together as a family, Michael's family community centers were there to help families through difficult periods. Additionally, the family centers all had pool and ping pong tables, as well as a huge fireplace with comfortable chairs for those who wanted to hang out and read and a giant screen television for those who wanted to watch a sporting event with neighbors instead of having to trek down to the local bar or tavern and drink beer to watch a giant screen television. It was a place for families to come together to socialize. Now, in this neighborhood of South Boston, there was no excuse for not knowing your neighbor. In his Elder Care Centers, he offered hot meals, emergency medical assistance and referrals, cool day trips or just a place to go to hang out with their peers and talk. Again, this was the place to come to when needing to find information on social security, health care, nursing homes, visiting nurses, meals on wheels program, or any topics important to the elderly. More than that, the counselors who worked there would make the telephone calls to the state and federal agencies on behalf of the elderly. They had a game room with a pool and ping pong table, as well as, a shuffleboard court, board games, and card games for those who wanted to pass their time of day, that way. No longer were elderly citizens shut in their homes and shut out of the happenings of the neighborhood. Now, they were an integral part of the daily events with announcements of neighborhood happenings such as deaths, births, and graduations, along with notices of meetings, events, swap meets, and tag sales posted on the large bulletin board when first entering the center. All of his community centers had exercise rooms. No matter if you were 9 or 90, Michael believed that there was no excuse not to exercise. If only he had taken his own advice, though, as he had stopped his regimen of exercise, mainly walking, once he married Gabriella with her delicious Italian cooking and with him working long hours required to grow his expanding empire, now, he was rather portly. Later was always his answer when it came to making the time to exercise. Yet, Gabriella had hired a personal trainer to follow Michael around to help change his eating habits and to make him find the time to exercise, even if it meant going for a walk while he talked on his cell phone. At least, now, he had an interested party, albeit his personal trainer, to walk with him. His walks around the neighborhood were not much of a routine in exercise as it was an event in socialization. No matter where he walked, people would come out of their homes to greet him, invite him in their homes, pay their respects, thank him, and give him baked goods. It was apparent that if he was to take exercising seriously, he could not do it by walking his streets. He would have to work out in his personal gym, which the personal trainer was happy to help give his suggestions for the construction of it. Still, it meant that Michael had to make the time each day and maintain the commitment to exercise. Even though he was winding down his career in the hopes of retiring soon, it was still impossible to find the time to exercise. In addition to his community centers, he still offered classes at his bank for those who wanted to learn how to use a computer, how to navigate the Internet, how to develop their own web page, how to use specific software, how to balance their checkbooks, how to research investments for retirement, or even something as complex as helping them with their taxes, filling out college financial aid forms or how to write a business plan to get a small business loan to start their own business or to help fund the business that they have now. His classes were always full and his classes were as much as a social center as they were an educational center. He helped to build playgrounds for kids of all ages to play. Because of Michael's intervention, South Boston had six very large playgrounds complete with swings, slides, jungle gyms, baseball and soccer fields, basketball and tennis courts, and swimming pools. You did not find children hanging around on the corners with nothing to do anymore in South Boston. Now, they were either participating in organized sports or involved in the children's community centers or both. Further, even those kids who grew up in little league and in Pop Warner, now that they were older, studying in college or working in the business world and were married with their own children, gave of themselves with their time and energy, as volunteers and/or as coaches to help children, as they were helped by others. It was a remarkable experiment and a living experience in humanity. Teachers attributed the sudden and dramatic decrease in truancy and the increase in better grades to Michael's children's community centers and the family focus that Michael encouraged in everything that he did. Suddenly, a higher percentage of children were graduating from high school instead of dropping out. Suddenly, the MCAS tests were no longer a concentrated issue but an expected reality that, truly, no child in South Boston was left behind in education and in being educated. Moreover, every child knew that if they wanted to attend college or a vocational school to learn a trade, Michael would personally make it happen. Michael's staff was able to find, apply for, and win obscure college scholarships that would otherwise go unclaimed to help fund the education of hundreds of South Boston residents. For the first time, children felt as much part of their community as did their parents. For the first time, community pride was more than just bragging about territorial turf, it was those who lived in the community being proud to be part of the community. For the first time, the community came together as a whole. Even something as simple as litter was reduced. Now, people who saw litter on their sidewalks would stoop to pick it up and throw it in one of the hundreds of wastebaskets that dotted the neighborhood sidewalks. No longer did pet waste decorate the sidewalks. Owners were responsible for disposing of their own pets' waste or they would feel the vocal indignation and wrath of their neighborhood. Now, his neighborhood, once, a neighborhood with one of the highest unemployment rates in the state, was now the lowest. Crime, especially violent crime, was a thing of the past, assaults, robberies, rapes, and murders were all dramatically reduced. Even drugs and prostitution declined because there was not the hopelessness and despair that pervaded the community before. State and federal funds, earmarked before to other neighborhoods, were now a regular addition to the fiscal budget of South Boston. As violent crimes decreased, property values increased and more people wanted to work, live, and thrive in South Boston. It was a downhill snowball positive effect that mushroomed in a win/win situation for everyone whether it was as a resident, business owner or elected municipal employee. With new lighting, more police, and good paying jobs with benefits for all who wanted to work, South Boston was seeing good times, thanks to Michael O'Leary. Unlike the politicians in power, he asked for nothing in return other than for those of his neighborhood to live, work, and to thrive in peace and harmony. Unlike others who used their great wealth, influence, and power to make a name for themselves hoping to elevate them and highlight their political aspirations to the national spotlight for a campaign to run as governor, senator, or president, Michael had no hidden agenda, political aspirations or ideas of grandeur. He only wanted to help the Irish people who lived in South Boston hoping to make a better life for those poor Irish immigrants who came to this country with nothing but hope in their hearts. Now, instead of passing one another by on the streets, people greeted one another with a smiling, "Hello, how are you, today?" It was nearly an utopian community, a working experiment of what can happen when you give people the opportunities to earn a good living and to help them when they need help and when they ask for it. It was an experience in the community working together as a whole that was validated by the obvious and proven success that if it can work here, it can work anywhere. Now, instead of people lining up with their hand out, as they did in the beginning when Michael first publicized his desire to open a neighborhood bank, albeit with the help from Michael O'Leary in finding employment, subsidizing their job training and/or education, people were taking control of their lives. Now, the residents of South Boston saw the reality of changes for the good and saw real hope that, one day, they too could afford a home or could have their children continue their education after high school or could afford to retire without worrying about money. Personally, he donated to the church and various civic organizations, charities, and causes that caught his interest over the years. His favorite thing to do was when reading some tragedy in the newspaper, a story that tugged at his heart; he would arrange to anonymously take care of a medical bill, a funeral expense or anything that his enormous wealth could help to lighten the load of the people who suddenly found them suffering in hopelessness and despair. He very much enjoyed playing, Archangel Michael, the angel of mercy helping people through their darkest hours. Michael the Archangel of careers, courage, achievements, ambitions, motivation, and life tasks, was the angel who helped his people. Archangel Michael's colors of orange, gold, and white are the same colors as orange for his orange hair, gold for all the money he amassed to help his people, and white for the purity of his spirit. Now, truly, everyone who knew Michael loved him. They referred to him as Saint Michael. On the occasion of his 60th birthday, in a surprise ceremony, the city erected a statue of him in the middle of the square. The statue was of him standing beside a huge pot of gold and passing it out to everyone. Although, Michael first took offense at him being symbolized as a Leprechaun, even though his likeness looked nothing like a Leprechaun, he grew to love the statue that depicted his generosity to those less fortunate. Just as the Mafia, in their twisted sense of community spirit begot illicit monies through crime to help the Italians grow and prosper, albeit with a price as selling your soul to the devil, Michael through his good and sincere intentions helped the Irish people help themselves with no strings attached. He showed them the way to take control of their destiny, so as to improve their lot. Whether it be putting out money to help them receive the job training they required and to get the job they wanted or pay for the college education for the children, so that their futures were markedly brighter with opportunities than their parents, or giving them somewhere to go to pass their free time instead of sitting in a bar and drinking beer after beer until they were numb and unable to do anything but pass out. Michael gave them viable alternatives. Sure, there were still those unduly proud and/or densely ignorant sort who refused the help of any and all of Michael's organizations and attempts to improve their lives, those were the ones who were unemployed, collected welfare, and drank at the bars until they passed out and were arrested for public intoxication and drunk driving. Those were the ones who muddled through life making the same mistakes over and again and never getting ahead. Those were the ones who, finally, came to him with hat in hand asking for his help when it was too late to make a significant change in their lives. Yet, with all of the opportunities that was available to them now, the ones who refused his help were fewer and far between. Now, with the upscale improvements that transformed the neighborhood of South Boston, bars and taverns gave way to sports bars and nightclubs where families could come together have a drink, relax, and meet other families, who had the same need for relaxation of socialization. The difference was, instead of solitary men going out to get drunk; families went out to have a good time. Deemed a safe community, more people from other neighbors frequented the shops and restaurants of South Boston taking back with them to their neighborhoods the dream that, one day, their neighborhood could be like that. He helped a lot of people and his generosity spilled over into a free flowing fountain that overflowed to not only the residents of his community but also to the residents of other communities. His philosophy of good karma begetting good karma reached out to and washed over those who would never think of helping anyone else but themselves, until someone helped them. Now, those who were enriched with Michael's spirit of kindness and generosity reached out to help total strangers for no reward in return other than to realize the good feelings that they received from helping someone in need. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 10 Michael, with his altruistic behavior, made the holier than thou evangelists look bad. Thumping their bible with one hand while reaching in their followers' pockets with their other hand, they enriched no one but themselves. Michael believed in God but he did not force his beliefs or the teachings of the Gospel down the throats of those around him, making them feel guilty if they did not get down on their knees numerous time of the day to pray. Instead, he showed them options and alternatives, always leaving the free choice to them, which path they wanted to take. With the help of free and positive press, published stories, and televised spots paid by those who wanted to interview the guru of banking, Michael's noble activism and community spirit spread to other cities throughout the country and was copied in cities throughout the world. He was an inspiration, as to what can happen when you have someone dedicated to change for the better. Of course, it helped that he had unlimited resources, power, and influence, as it helped that he had the focused, determined dedication to make real changes in the community that would benefit the residents of South Boston. In his success in relieving the tensions in Ireland between the Irish and the English, he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize but did not win. Nonetheless, just to have his name nominated for his unselfish actions was reward enough for him. He had traveled a long way down that road of hatred between the Catholic Irish and the Protestant English, especially when considering the stolen lottery ticket, which he gave away to Mr. Foley, and the threats upon his life. After seeing the magical results of what one man can do for the betterment of a community and for a group of people, other philanthropists and other communities wanted to adopt Michael's way to change the direction of their communities from stagnating and languishing in the economical indicators, that record economic growth and crime, to flourishing in every way of every day life. Because of Michael, there was a wave of community pride and neighborly spirit throughout the country. Now, those who were recipients of Michael's help of money, of power, and/or of influence were in positions to help others be it friends, family, or strangers. With his motto changed from "How can I help you?" to "I can help you," much like what President John F. Kennedy stated in his inaugural speech, "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country", he turned the focus of what can I do for me to what can I do for you. In the thirty years since he established his bank, he grew his bank from one neighborhood bank branch in the east side of South Boston to sixteen O'Leary Savings and Loan bank branches throughout Boston. He had three O'Leary Savings and Loan branches in South Boston, two in the North End, two in Charlestown, four in Dorchester, two in Hyde Park, and three in downtown Boston. Wherever there was a contingent of Irish, he opened a branch. Yet, all of his branches were not the cookie cutter branch offices that so many other banks copied over and again. Different in their interpretation of design and color based on everything Irish, and by highlighting and showcasing Irish traditions and the culture of Ireland, yet keeping with the flavor of the neighborhood, every one of Michael's branch offices had its own personality. As much as he used his bank branches to profit financially, he used his bank branches through photos and print to help educate those about the Irish culture and traditions. He opened his satellite branches not to grow his bank any bigger than it was; it just happened that his bank snowballed into a financial success story, mainly from all the free press and good comments that he received from his present customers who told friends, neighbors, and relatives to close their accounts at their bank and open one with O'Leary Savings and Loan. It was more of a grassroots word of mouth phenomenon more than anything else that grew Michael's empire from where it was then to where it was today. Besides, the fact that what he did to help his customers was unprecedented in the banking business, unprecedented in any business, fortune 500 companies used his company as an example to follow when conducting their business practices. Schools studied his business plan and marketing plan always shocked to find that he had none. His plan, if he had any plan at all, was if he took care of his customers, they would take care of him and he did and they did. So many businesses, especially customer driven businesses, perhaps, because of stockholders and the pressure to earn profits, forget that it is the little customer, lots of little customers, who make their business the success that it is and not the one or two big customers who bully their agendas with threats of buyout and takeovers. Once, these businesses concentrate on retained earnings, net earnings, and market share, once they value numbers more than they do people, they are doomed to be pushed aside when someone like Michael O'Leary comes along. Additionally, working in conjunction with the community centers that he helped build and establish, just as was his old Neighborhood Bank, his bank was as much of a neighborhood family friendly outreach as it was a financial institution. He opened the fifteen other branches as extensions of his main neighborhood bank in South Boston and as a community outreach institution rather than as a bank branch to attract and to make it more convenient for those customers who would not, ordinarily, make the drive to South Boston to do their banking business but who wanted to be part of the phenomenon of O'Leary Savings and Loan. He did not have to hire consultants to do a market study, as to where to open a branch office; his customers told him where to open his branches. Nor did he have to waste his money on advertising; his customers knew where to find his bank and why they needed to go there. If you build it, they will come and they did, every time. Michael's bank was, first and foremost, customer driven, as opposed to other banks that were profit driven. Michael cared more about the customer than he did about the money. "You know, Michael, you should open a branch in downtown Boston. There are a lot of our people working in the financial district and if there was an O'Leary Savings and Loan branch there, then they could cash their checks at lunch time instead of having to wait until they got home or having to go out and cash it Saturday." That was how it started and that is how it is remained. Because his bank branches were more for customers' convenience and customer service than it was for the profits, it was customer driven and not profit driven and still small enough that he could react to anything new instead of being weighed down with board meetings or internal discussion, as to what to do. He knew what to do because his customers told him what to do. You could tell the difference as soon as you entered one of his banks. Tellers smiled, customer service people smiled, and customers smiled. Those who were part of O'Leary Savings and Loan, whether you were an employee, a customer or both, all felt like they were part of the success and all contributed in helping to bolster and foster the success of not only the bank but, also, the community by whatever small contribution in effort and/or spirit that they made. Employees felt good about working for O'Leary Savings and Loan, as did the customers who did their banking business there. His customers' suggestions never fell on deaf ears. Matter of fact, the same suggestion box that was a mainstay at Neighborhood Bank took up sentry at O'Leary Savings and Loan's main banking branch. Mr. McCarthy appeared with the suggestion box that he saved from his beloved Neighborhood Bank and presented it to Michael the first day of his grand opening. Every branch had one and, every day; it was filled with suggestions, ideas for improvements, advice, comments, and/or compliments. Customer suggestions were so important to Michael and to O'Leary Savings and Loan that each branch had an employee who was responsible for reading, commenting, bringing the suggestions to Michael in report form, and for writing letters to customers thanking them for their suggestions explaining why their suggestion could not be used or when it would be implemented. If a suggestion was implemented, Michael deposited $100, $500 or $1,000 in the customer's account depending on the value of the suggestion. Whether his customers knew it or not, all of his customers worked for him as independent consultants. Michael picked their brain but paid them for the privilege. Why not use his customers to grow his bank. It was a win/win situation. His bank was there for the customers' convenience, anyway. Besides, his customers were just as smart if not smarter than he was so why not use them to help guide his bank the way that they wanted it to grow. One customer received a $10,000 cash reward for suggesting an improvement that corrected and better directed the flow of traffic in his parking lots and to the drive up windows, along with suggestions on how to lay out the parking lot for increased parking and better egress and exit. No other bank offered the sincere customer service that O'Leary Savings and Loan offered. No other bank truly cared about its customers, and if they did, they did not show it in the way that O'Leary Savings and Loan made it obviously apparent. No other bank understood its customers. O'Leary Savings and Loan was more of a life institution than it was a financial institution, which is why other banks were unable to copy and compete with the phenomenon that was O'Leary Savings and Loan. Now, 60-years-old, he was at the point where he wanted to slow down, move away from his beloved South Boston, retire, and take life easy. He had as much money as he did goodwill, and there was nothing left for him to prove. Matter of fact, if you counted wealth in friendships and good relationships with people, then Michael was indeed a very rich man. What Jimmy Stewart was to the fictional story "It's A Wonderful Life" Michael was to the people of South Boston. He was their real live living and breathing hero. He could do no wrong. He had helped tens of thousands of people improve the quality of their lives with banking service, bank loans, financial advice, job training, charity, generosity, and education and, for that, he had their undying loyalty, love, and respect. If South Boston had a President, he would have been elected. If South Boston had a King, he would have been their royalty. With his financial support, political influence, and public and private power, he helped the IRA be not as violent an organization that they once were. Sure, there were still some hotheads in the organization who just wanted to shoot someone or blow something up, but the focus of their movement turned more politically non-violent than violently anti-government. Now, with the representation that the IRA had in parliament, thanks in part to the support of Michael' money, power, and influence that stretched across the ocean to Ireland, they had a strong voice, influence to suggest change for the improvement of the quality of their lives, and power to forward their agenda. They were now, for the most part, a more powerful group and a group not to be ignored or denied. Five years ago, Michael and Gabriella celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary. He bought her dream home, a 20 room villa in Tuscany by the water with its own private beach, landscaped grounds, salt water pool, and fountains, which was to become their retirement home. He had hoped to retire to the lush green, rolling hill landscape of Ireland but Gabriella convinced him otherwise. She had more family in Italy than he had in Ireland. Actually, being born, raised, educated, and employed in South Boston all of his life, except for the few years that he worked in the North End of Boston, he had no family in Ireland other than some forgotten and distant cousins living somewhere unknown throughout the countryside. She, on the other hand, had uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews throughout Italy. She, on the other hand, wanted to give back to her country, as he had given back to his neighborhood. Where she was born, outside of Milan, Italy, where there were still pockets of poverty. Because of Michael's wealth, she had the money to finance schools, build hospitals, and help those Italians who were unable to help themselves. Besides, now fluent in Italian due to her patience and sense of humor, he enjoyed their culture, especially their food. Michael had suddenly become the fat banker. He looked more like Mr. Florentino, the rotund branch manager or Earth Bank's North End branch when Michael worked there so many years ago than he did Mr. McCarthy, the slim branch manager of Neighborhood Bank in South Boston, where Michael started his banking career. Chapter 47 Raphael He was leaving it all to Raphael, his son, now thirty-years-old, who was Michael's age when he started the O'Leary Savings and Loan banking empire from the thirty-five million dollars received from Little Ralphie. Only, Raphael did not share Michael's vision, dream, and passion to help the poor, downtrodden Irish. Why would he? Although, he was half Irish and half Italian, he did not feel the connection that his father felt. Further, he was raised in wealth and sheltered away in private schools. He did not know what it is to be poor and what it is to do without. Michael was priestly in his sensitivity towards the plight of those less fortunate than him, whereas, Raphael was more of an opportunist. Because of the wealth, influence, and power that his father had accumulated and handed over to him, Raphael had plenty of opportunity. Registered as an Independent, Raphael's ambitions, presently, were more self-serving, that is, until he could throw a blanket of hope and of change over the American voters. Still, like his father, money did not motivate him, the ability to make change, to eradicate the country of the Democratic and Republican parties by making one party, the American party, was his dream. At only 30-years-old, he was already fed up with self-serving politicians who did little else but grandstand and point fingers. He hated the corruption, the no bid contracts, the patronage, the nepotism, and the campaign contributions to political coffers that fattened the wealth of those already too wealthy and already too greedy. He hated the midnight sessions where the House and Congress secretly passed legislation on the pretense that it was helping the masses when in reality, there were bills tagged onto the legislation that forwarded the personal and self-serving political agendas of those Representatives and Congressmen and Congresswomen who passed the laws. He hated the double standards of laws that made legislators exempt from the realities of the common people, the people who they were supposedly serving. It was time. It was his time. He had or would have, once his father handed over the keys to the kingdom, the power, the influence, and the money to make real changes that would benefit the citizenry, and not only the Irish citizens of South Boston but all the citizens of the United States for generations. He wanted to return the power to the people where it belonged in the first place and how our designers and drafters of our Constitution had envisioned and originally intended. Raphael did not have the dreamy eyed, holier than thou illusions of his father. Not much of a dreamy and, certainly, not the unselfish visionary that was his father, he was more of a realist and a pragmatist. He had a broader vision that encompassed a much larger spectrum of people. He knew that with his realistic viewpoint of how things operated nationally and globally, that he could exert more change to the country and to the world than did his father to a small group of people, namely the Irish. Notwithstanding, had Michael not laid the groundwork and had the financial foundation to hand over to his son, Raphael's shooting for the moon may have focused him closer to home and vying for a seat on the city council. Not to take anything away from his father or to detract from his wealth of accomplishments, Michael, in the opinion of his son, Raphael, was too myopic in his views and focus in helping the Irish and excluding all others, especially minorities. Raphael hoped to carry his father's work to a national level instead of a neighborhood level. He hoped to help everyone in the country by broadening his scope and focus thereby influencing change in the world. Who knows, if he was as successful as was his father in accomplishing his desire to help the American people, as his father did with the Irish people, perhaps his son or daughter would help those around the world and not just in his country. Helpfulness has its own way exploding in different directions. Raphael was savvy enough to know that change, dramatic change, takes time. Nothing happens overnight. What he proposed needed a wave of public support, otherwise he would fail. Certainly, he could not do it alone, no matter how much money, power, and influence he inherited from his father. To start the ball rolling in the right direction, he started with a change that he already had in his power, a change that would develop his financial foundation. First off, instead of keeping O'Leary Savings and Loan as a privately held bank, Raphael wanted to take his bank national and to do what he needed to make it a public organization with shareholders. A place on the New York Stock Exchange would give him the necessary capital along with the public exposure to take his bank not only national but also global. A Political Science major, he wanted to use his father's success, influence, money, and power as a launching pad from which to jumpstart his political career. He had his eye to the senate, and then the presidency. Raphael was as ambitious as Michael was modest. Yet, he still had the good intentions that his father had instilled in him and because he was the son of Michael O'Leary, would have the support, too, of those who wanted change and of those who believed in the continuation and in the growth of the Michael O'Leary legacy. What Michael accomplished on a smaller scale, Raphael wanted to accomplish with broader brush strokes. If Michael was perceived as the Archangel, Raphael wanted the public's recognition that he was their hope and their savior. Half Italian and half Irish, Raphael shared his father's work ethic but had his mother's quiet strength. At 6'2" he dwarfed his parents. He inherited his father's intelligence, good nature, and kindness and his mother's commonsense, dark hair. and mahogany eyes. He was handsome. Raphael had his pick of colleges with Harvard soliciting him the most hoping to receive the generosity of an O'Leary endowment. Yet, he chose a small but prestigious university that was a few miles north of Boston, Tufts University, where he was a welcomed celebrity on campus. Instead of being another just another son of a famous capitalist, he wanted to maintain a low profile, staying under the radar, and figured that Tufts University would allow him to quietly matriculate without receiving a lot of fanfare and celebrity status. Yet, everyone knew that he was the son of Michael O'Leary and everyone wanted to befriend him. When you meet Raphael for the first time, there was something about him, beyond the obvious good looks, engaging personality, and intelligence. You knew that he was going to be big and those who shined in his light did not mind staying in his shadow and riding his coattails, so long as they could go along for the ride. With Help from Michael O'Leary Pt. 10 As a right of passage, he opened a branch office of O'Leary Savings and Loan on campus. The school wanted him to live on campus and it was inconvenient for Raphael to drive around Boston to a branch of O'Leary Savings and Loan to do his banking, so he had his father open his own, small personal branch. Surprisingly, the branch was a good idea and did well on campus. Many of the students who went there had money and opened an account there. Now, they could run out their dorms in their pajamas if they wanted and use the ATM across the campus yard. Now, their parents had a bank that was convenient to wire transfer money to their children while attending the university. The small branch office gave Raphael a first hand taste and some ground floor experience of what it is like to be a banker. When he was not taking classes, he was working at his father's bank, albeit the branch office on campus. He did not party like some of the other students. Calling upon the commonsense that he inherited from his mother, he was smart enough to know that if he made an error in judgment, the embarrassing episode would follow him throughout his life and throughout his political career, haunting him later, when he was trying to organize his campaign and collect political contributions. Mature for his age, he knew what he wanted and because of his father's success, he had the means to get it. Like much of the surprises and unexpected things that happen in life, Raphael fell in love. Literally, he bumped into her rushing out of the campus bookstore nearly knocking her down. She dropped her full cup of coffee and her books and papers scattered everywhere. "Sorry, I didn't see you," he said stooping down to help her pick up her books. "I should be more careful, but I was in a hurry. I'm late for class." He inhaled her with his eyes all at once looking at her long blonde hair, slender body, and her angelic like face. She had beautiful complexion and the bluest eyes. "I'm Raphael." He stuck out his hand. "I know who you are," she said smiling. "Everyone knows who you are." She stood up and accepted his handshake. "I'm Rachel." "I'm sorry, but I'm really late," he said turning to leave. He turned back suddenly. "I owe you a cup of coffee. Meet me at the café around 4pm." He waited for her accept his invitation. "Okay?" "Okay," she said with a smile and a look that melted his heart. As Gabriella captivated Michael, it was love at first sight when Raphael saw Rachel. He forgot about Lillith, the woman he had been seeing regularly on campus and having sex with. He broke up with her that night, before he even found out anything more about Rachel, other than her name. "What do you mean you don't want to see me anymore?" Lillith's eyes became black poisoned darts. "I thought we had something." She was an unusual beauty with raven hair, coffee and cream skin and violent eyes. Her mother was Egyptian and her father was English. The name around campus for her was Cleopatra because she was such a bitch. Because her family had lots of money, she thought she was special. Raphael was attracted to her because, well, she was beautiful. Never had he met another woman like her and when she was around him, she was soft and lovable until now. Now, the real Lillith came out with her anger. "You're just confused," she said reaching her hand down to massage his cock. "I know what you want," she said pulling down his zipper. "I know what you need," she said reaching her hand in and pulling out his cock. He grew hard in her hand and she stroked him. She looked down at his cock, fell to her knees, and took him in her mouth. "Do you like that, Baby," she said taking him out of her mouth to look up at him, "when I suck your cock." Raphael took a step back releasing him from her grasp. "Please," he said. "Stop," he said, putting his cock in his pants and zippering his pants. "It's over." She stood to meet his eyes. No man has ever denied her. She stood silently before him staring at him. "There's someone else. You met another woman." "No," there is no one else, he said, telling a half truth. "Then, why?" "I don't love you and it is wrong for me to keep you from loving someone who can give you—" She slapped him hard across the face. "You don't break up with me," she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "I break up with you. Get out!" He left as a vase hit the back of the door. It was only another month until graduation and he avoided her and, except for the promised date of coffee, he delayed his contact with Rachel until after graduation.