Bloodlines by Jan Burke

to the paper.
    Jack insisted on driving him home, although O'Connor protested more than once that he didn't live so very far away and could walk. O'Connor didn't often ride in cars, and under other circumstances, the offer of even the shortest trip in Jack's Model A would have been snapped up in a minute. Instead, O'Connor was busy seeking the intervention of all the saints and angels, praying that his father had downed enough cheap whiskey to fall asleep, and that Jack Corrigan would let him off at the curb and drive off before seeing the hovel where they lived.
    The small apartment building wasn't far from downtown. O'Connor hated the place. He was glad Corrigan was seeing it at night--when he might not notice that its dull pink paint was peeling, that the lawn was brown, that the walkway was choked with weeds. As Jack, in defiance of heaven, not only pulled over to the curb but turned off the motor, O'Connor thought that even in darkness, everything about the place said no one would live there unless he couldn't do any better for himself.
    Corrigan was watching him, though, and not the building. "Would it help if I went in with you, explained--"
    "No," O'Connor said quickly, for though the place was kept neat and tidy, his father did not allow strangers past the door, would not let anyone who was not a priest or a family member see what he had become. "No, thank you. I'll be all right."
    Corrigan put a hand on his shoulder. "All right, then, kid. Maybe you know best. If I can make something of what you've told me about the juror, I'm in your debt."
    "I could be your secret agent," O'Connor said quickly, voicing the hidden, impossible hope that he had held all afternoon and evening.
    To his credit, Corrigan managed not to laugh or smile. "It's an idea worth considering," he said. "But listen to me, Conn. Mitch Yeager's not someone to play games with. This is serious business, and if you're going to be my secret agent, you can't take risks like following gangsters' cars and writing down their license numbers while you're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."
    "I didn't," the boy said. "I memorized it, then went into the restroom to write it down."
    Jack stared at him, then started laughing. "Oh, forgive me, kid." He grew quiet, then said, "Conn, if there's one mistake repeated by generation after generation of men, it's that they underestimate their boys." He looked toward the dimly lit porch of the apartment building. "You be careful all the same, kid. Be careful all the same."
    Jack Corrigan's stories on jury tampering in the Mitch Yeager trial sold a lot of copies of the Express over the next few weeks. This made Winston Wrigley happy, which meant that both Corrigan's and O'Connor's bosses were happy. This happiness extended to almost everyone who worked in the Wrigley Building, except, of course, the staff of the News--most especially its star reporter, the woman who came to the corner of Broadway and Magnolia one afternoon and stood watching O'Connor for fifteen nearly unbearable minutes.
    The newsboy felt more nervous than the day he had seen Corrigan jostled on the street by one of Yeager's men, not long after Jack had stopped by to talk to him. A policeman had seen that and prevented a fight. He didn't think a copper would defend him against Helen Swan.
    This wasn't the first day she had watched him, but this time, to his horror, she was walking straight toward him. With great effort, he prevented himself from making the Sign of the Cross as she approached.
    He had asked Jack about her, and Jack had laughed and said, "Swanie? Brother, when they made the first pair of trousers, they had Swanie try 'em on to make sure they'd be tough enough for any man." Then Jack winked at him and said, "She's the daughter of a suffragist, you know."
    It was a word O'Connor didn't know the precise meaning of, but thought it probably meant her mother made people suffer. Helen Swan didn't exactly look mean, O'Connor thought as she