them from your grandfather."
"Exactly."
McKay shrugged. "You'd have to raise that with Mr. Gorman, if he wants to see you, which is what I'll find out"
Squire was pointedly not looking at his brother. "It's just that a thing like this would be the peak of his life. He loves Kennedy." Now Squire did face Terry. "We all do. Gramps would donate the money right back, but the commercial transaction would get him a foot in the door at the Garden."
"That's bullshit, Nick Gramps doesn't care about the Garden."
"How would you know? When were you last in the store?"
"I know a crock when I—"
"Hold it, guys." McKay pulled Terry away, to a partition beyond the U-shaped tables. "This isn't a had idea, Terry. Gorman might go for it"
"I'm out of the flower business, Bright."
"Let it go, man. Whatever it is with you and your brother, let it go."
Terry looked back toward Squire with a vague sadness. McKay caught it and said, "Squire'll be one of those guys who has his name on his shirt First his letter jacket, then his green uniform."
"Mullen maybe, but not Nick He's a very ambitious guy."
"That's what you are. So you're more alike than you think."
"We used to be alike. Not anymore."
"Maybe that's what's bugging him. He holds it against you that you left."
"That's the problem, Bright. I
haven't
left That's what his being here means. It's a feeling I don't like."
"It's a feeling you should shake. This flower thing is a chance for
you,
Terry. It's a whacky idea, carnations in the streets, but Gorman might buy it And if he does, the connection with the campaign is
your
grandfather.
You
handle it
You're
where the action is. If Kennedy loves the sight of ten thousand people waving flowers at him, you're made. That's how we get ahead in this business, get an idea and go with it Either that"—McKay grinned and held up his hand—"or get yourself some black skin. We're talking How to Succeed in Politics in the Sixties."
Terry laughed. "You never quit, do you?"
"Hey, you mick meatball, take a look." Bright held his hands out "This train is leaving the station. I don't want to leave my buddy behind." He pumped his hands, choo-choo. "Come on, Terry. It's an idea. They fucking
love
ideas upstairs. Anything that turns up the volume, and this would. Come upstairs with me."
Terry glanced back toward Didi. She had returned to the mimeograph, but she was staring across the vacant room at him. Without effort he read what was written in her expression. Why did they do this to us, coming down here? And Terry wondered for both of them, Why had it seemed so important, keeping this world separate, keeping it only theirs? He faced McKay again. "Okay, let's go."
They started toward the stairwell, but Squire called out, "One more thing." When McKay and Terry turned back, he said loudly, "We could probably get the carnations dyed. They could be green, like for St. Paddy's Day."
McKay said, "Jesus, you're not kidding, are you? We'll go with the matador theme, Squire, not the leprechaun."
One of the Young Dems working at a postage meter machine by the wall snorted. McKay continued to make his way across the wide room toward the heavy fire door.
Terry remained where he was for a moment, staring back at his brother. He knew damn well that while Squire had not been kidding about dyeing carnations, he had not meant it either. Leprechaun, shit Squire had fired a parting shot was all, and now he stood there grinning, the friendliest brother a guy could ever want He had puffed his chest out to flaunt his puerile jacket, asinine name on his chest, and Terry saw him suddenly as a pot-bellied, strutting, middle-aged fart, turning the circuit from City Square out to Old Ironsides,
still
wearing that thing after all, a true Townie male forever.
Only Terry Doyle could read the question hidden in his brother's phony smile, his wearing 'o' the green: Who
thefook
do you think you are?
***
The "bull gang" at Boston Garden was famous for the speed with which it
"Exactly."
McKay shrugged. "You'd have to raise that with Mr. Gorman, if he wants to see you, which is what I'll find out"
Squire was pointedly not looking at his brother. "It's just that a thing like this would be the peak of his life. He loves Kennedy." Now Squire did face Terry. "We all do. Gramps would donate the money right back, but the commercial transaction would get him a foot in the door at the Garden."
"That's bullshit, Nick Gramps doesn't care about the Garden."
"How would you know? When were you last in the store?"
"I know a crock when I—"
"Hold it, guys." McKay pulled Terry away, to a partition beyond the U-shaped tables. "This isn't a had idea, Terry. Gorman might go for it"
"I'm out of the flower business, Bright."
"Let it go, man. Whatever it is with you and your brother, let it go."
Terry looked back toward Squire with a vague sadness. McKay caught it and said, "Squire'll be one of those guys who has his name on his shirt First his letter jacket, then his green uniform."
"Mullen maybe, but not Nick He's a very ambitious guy."
"That's what you are. So you're more alike than you think."
"We used to be alike. Not anymore."
"Maybe that's what's bugging him. He holds it against you that you left."
"That's the problem, Bright. I
haven't
left That's what his being here means. It's a feeling I don't like."
"It's a feeling you should shake. This flower thing is a chance for
you,
Terry. It's a whacky idea, carnations in the streets, but Gorman might buy it And if he does, the connection with the campaign is
your
grandfather.
You
handle it
You're
where the action is. If Kennedy loves the sight of ten thousand people waving flowers at him, you're made. That's how we get ahead in this business, get an idea and go with it Either that"—McKay grinned and held up his hand—"or get yourself some black skin. We're talking How to Succeed in Politics in the Sixties."
Terry laughed. "You never quit, do you?"
"Hey, you mick meatball, take a look." Bright held his hands out "This train is leaving the station. I don't want to leave my buddy behind." He pumped his hands, choo-choo. "Come on, Terry. It's an idea. They fucking
love
ideas upstairs. Anything that turns up the volume, and this would. Come upstairs with me."
Terry glanced back toward Didi. She had returned to the mimeograph, but she was staring across the vacant room at him. Without effort he read what was written in her expression. Why did they do this to us, coming down here? And Terry wondered for both of them, Why had it seemed so important, keeping this world separate, keeping it only theirs? He faced McKay again. "Okay, let's go."
They started toward the stairwell, but Squire called out, "One more thing." When McKay and Terry turned back, he said loudly, "We could probably get the carnations dyed. They could be green, like for St. Paddy's Day."
McKay said, "Jesus, you're not kidding, are you? We'll go with the matador theme, Squire, not the leprechaun."
One of the Young Dems working at a postage meter machine by the wall snorted. McKay continued to make his way across the wide room toward the heavy fire door.
Terry remained where he was for a moment, staring back at his brother. He knew damn well that while Squire had not been kidding about dyeing carnations, he had not meant it either. Leprechaun, shit Squire had fired a parting shot was all, and now he stood there grinning, the friendliest brother a guy could ever want He had puffed his chest out to flaunt his puerile jacket, asinine name on his chest, and Terry saw him suddenly as a pot-bellied, strutting, middle-aged fart, turning the circuit from City Square out to Old Ironsides,
still
wearing that thing after all, a true Townie male forever.
Only Terry Doyle could read the question hidden in his brother's phony smile, his wearing 'o' the green: Who
thefook
do you think you are?
***
The "bull gang" at Boston Garden was famous for the speed with which it
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