The Green Bloods: Resurgence

By Catherine Villari Best

In the early part of the 20th century millions of Irish citizens made their way to America in one of the greatest ethnic migrations in recorded history. Some came to escape poverty and hardship, others to avoid religious persecution and the violence that accompanied it. If pressed, most would say-“To Build A Better Life.” But Jack Nolan came for guns. In doing so he set in motion a series of events that would shatter one family and bring another to the very heights of power.

THE GREEN BLOODS- RESURGENCE is part of a multigenerational saga that follows the fortunes and the failings of the Nolan's and the O'Leary's from the year 1914 to present day, set against the historical events that shaped twentieth century Ireland and Irish Americans.

As a new country struggles to emerge from centuries of oppression, old friendships are tested and ultimately destroyed. Love is found and lost. Greed, corruption, drugs, and violence defi ne lives and darken even the purest of souls. And now, three generations later, two siblings once separated by an ocean, each committed to inheriting an empire, with one sibling bent on destroying the other.

THE GREEN BLOODS.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665749312

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Copyright © 2023 Catherine Villari Best.

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Cover design concept by Justin Blauvelt and Catherine Villari Best

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-4930-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4931-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023916242

Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/28/2023

CONTENTS

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About the Author

DEDICATION

In memory of my grandfather, John Jack Fitzpatrick,

and my two great-aunts, Margaret Weenie and Lenora

Linnie Fitzgerald, for loving me unconditionally.

In memory of my cousin, William Peter Fitzpatrick.

Thank you for bringing me home to England and Ireland.

In memory of my beloved Aunt Mela, my cheerleader.

Thank you for your support and words of encouragement.

*******

For Caitlyn and John, my amazing children.

How wonderful life is while you are in the

world…...You are my everything. I love you.

For Steve, the unexpected person, my

confidant. Thanks for believing in me.

For Debbie and Betty Ann, you are living proof that blood

is not thicker than water. My sisters. My forever friends.

For my tribe, you know who you are.

CHAPTER

ONE

G ood morning, said Jack to his longtime friend and neighbor, tipping his green Donegal patch baker boy cap.

Sitting comfortably on the front porch smoking a cigar, Jack was casually dressed for an afternoon filled with frivolity, wearing grey flannel pants, a long-sleeved green polo shirt, and a beige cashmere button-down sweater vest. He glanced at his pocket watch, the one his Grandfather Pierce gave him, an eighteen-carat-gold Irish Verge Fusee Key Wind with a tortoiseshell case, and deeply exhaled. These were the best of days, well worth the professional and personal sacrifices he made along the way: the grueling work hours, the cavorting with unsavory associates, and a myriad of illegal business transactions. Today, Jack Nolan was in fact sitting on top of the world and living his best life.

Good day to you, replied Mr. Timoney with a forced smile, corralling his large and boisterous Irish family into the brand-new, metallic-forest-green Chrysler Town and Country parked alongside the cobblestone paved road.

Jack chuckled to himself and shook his head in disbelief; the scene was always routine and quite entertaining.

Longtime neighbors, Jane and Alfred Timoney, were your typical Irish parents, giving their ten children entirely too much freedom. Claiming the lack of discipline and parental guidance fostered integrity and independence, they lived in utter chaos and were perpetually late for Sunday mass. Today was no different from the rest, anarchy.

Unlike the Timoneys, the Nolans ran a tight household and were strict disciplinarians. So to avoid hurt feelings and offense toward some of their closest friends, Jack and Moira kept their opinions and parental advice to themselves and looked the other way. Albeit their parenting style, the Timoneys were the best friends and neighbors anyone could have hoped for, but not just because they shared an alleyway or shoveled the front sidewalk after a major snowstorm. It was because Jane and Al Timoney were devout Irish Catholics that worked hard, kept their mouths shut, and loved Megan as if she were their own. And for that reason alone, they were, in every sense of the word, family.

Where does the time go? Jack thought, inhaling the savor of springtime on this quiet Sunday afternoon in April 1968: the fragrance of freshly mowed grass, the heavy scent of blooming hyacinth flowers, and the sounds of children playing stickball in the street. Birds chirped, bees hummed, and butterflies danced on flowering trees.

More than twenty years ago, Jack Nolan had moved his family and thriving business to Throgs Neck, New York, a quaint suburban Bronx neighborhood less than twenty miles north of Manhattan. It was a fine location to raise a family with manicured lawns, purple rhododendrons, and towering elm trees that cast cool shadows in the blazing summer sun, where friendly neighbors lived in semidetached two-story brick houses lining both sides of the street. On Sunday, the milkman delivered fresh cream and eggs to the front door.

Jack gazed at his neighborhood with amazement and pride. God works in mysterious ways. They were living proof that dreams really do come true, though there were times he thought they might never make it out of the concrete jungle alive, let alone affluent and living in the lap of luxury.

A hazy memory came to him. Money was scarce back in the day, especially when they first settled in the Five Points. The neighborhood was crowded, dirty, and riddled with crime and prostitution consumed by immigrants, a mix of Irish, Germans, Italians, and Scots with some native-born Americans, African Americans, and Asians. Overpopulated tenements were borderline inhabitable: low-rise, narrow, rotten, and decrepit. Living conditions were atrocious; the stench from overflowing communal outhouses suffocated windowless, drafty rooms. Thankfully, they used Bill’s political connections to gain an unfair housing advantage.

Jack and Moira secured suitable living quarters in a recently constructed two-story brick home with indoor plumbing and two windows. It wasn’t Ireland, but they made the best of it because Jack envisioned more. You see, the Five Points may have been an unsuitable place to live and raise a family, but it presented some appealing razor-sharp advantages: an abundance of crime, unethical participants, and ample opportunities to make money, that is, illegal, untraceable money.

Taking advantage of a bad situation, Jack and his business partner, Bill, made abundant money to share with the people in Ireland. His mission, their mission, Murphy’s mission, was finally complete. And that was precisely why Jack Nolan was comfortable today, living his best life confidently perched on top of the world.

Ready, Grampa. Megan’s sweet little voice tugged on his heartstrings and snapped him back to reality. Megan’s wish was always his command.

Ready, sweetheart. Jack placed his copy of the Irish Times on top of the steel-insulated milk crate by the front door. Zip up your jacket before you go, he said lovingly. Then he swallowed the last drop of warm Schaefer beer and tossed the empty can into the garbage pail behind the white picket fence.

Yes, Grampa, she replied, fumbling with the zipper on her pink-and-white plaid jacket.

The zipper snagged the wool on her cozy Aran sweater, a treasured handmade birthday gift from Auntie Greta in Tipperary. It came with a matching hat and a scarf with little fluffy tassels. Megan shook back her rippled mane of glorious red hair. She was an impatient child by nature, especially when it came to brushing her hair. With all the excitement this morning, there was little time to braid it today. So naturally, it was in quite a disheveled disarray.

Megan hopped on her bike and feverishly pedaled away. I’m gonna beat you, Grampa! she exclaimed with sheer excitement. A fast ride down Bradford Avenue and a quick wind brushed color into her milky-white, freckled face.

Jack quickly followed behind her, taking long, rapid strides. Slow down, love, and remember to wait for me at the corner, he shouted firmly.

A brisk walk had shifted into a mad dash, trailing after Megan. Jack was out of breath; age had finally become an unwanted foe. Wrinkles and frown lines settled upon his face. The sands of time had caught up with him. The once-vibrant and virile young lad had evolved into an old man. His back ached, and his knees creaked, but there was still plenty of fight left in him and carefree days to be shared with his beloved Megan.

At the corner of Bradford and Waterbury Avenues, a busy, well-traveled intersection, Megan eagerly waited for Jack’s hand to cross. Hurry, Grampa, you’re so slow, she stated, leaning toward him. Tiny, frail fingers intertwined with his thick, calloused hands.

And you need to have patience, my love. Grampa is an old man, he whispered, gently kissing her forehead.

Megan hopped off her bike. Look both ways, she instructed.

Yes, ma’am, he replied and chuckled with a smile.

After the traffic cleared, they quickly crossed the street and entered the park through the main gates to the left of the abandoned pool. Safely on the other side, she let go of his hand and darted toward the swings.

Push me, Grampa! Push me, please!

Megan, slow down and take a deep breath. First, we take care of the bike, he replied, using a shackle lock to secure the bike to the park’s chain-link fence.

Ok, now down to business. Up you go, my wee un, he declared and lifted Megan onto her favorite swing, the one with the red plastic seat and blue chain. Hold on tight. And remember, keep your legs straight and still!

Jack pulled the swing back and then let go. Megan swished through the crisp spring air. Warm rays of sunshine danced on her curly auburn hair. Pump your legs. In and out. In and out, he carefully instructed.

I got it, Grampa. Look at me!

Yes, you do, sweetheart. Yes, you do.

Jack was bursting with pride. She is my likeness in every way, he thought, the apple of my eye.

Seven years ago, Megan was born to Jack’s only daughter, Erin. For that reason alone, the cards were stacked against her, for it was well-known throughout the Irish community, both in America and Ireland, that Jack’s daughter was troubled. The lass struggled with numerous addictions and had a vibrant police record and a less-than-savory reputation with the boys. Desperate to save their daughter, Jack and Moira tried everything, from doting on her with lavish gifts and exotic vacations to hiring first-class physicians and psychiatrists to control the addictions. At the end of the day, the girl was defiant and simply unmanageable.

After Megan was born, Erin’s troubles and addictions became more frequent and dangerous to both her and the child. So it came as no surprise to everyone that after Erin’s third disappearance with another reckless lad, the judge awarded full custody of Megan to Moira and Jack.

Disowned by her affluent socialite parents, Erin alienated herself from everyone, including her only child. Megan became the daughter Jack always wanted but never had. She was the perfect likeness to Jack, with curly auburn hair, light-green eyes, and a wicked Irish temper. Megan was the last of his bloodline, the heir to the Nolan trust and family empire. Yes, Jack was confident the business and his legacy would thrive well into the future with this tenacious lass at the helm. But for now, while he still walked this earth, even as an old man, he was very much in charge and calling the shots.

Grampa, did you have swings in Ireland?

Maggie, we had swings, slides, and fields of green grass to run and hide.

Did your grampa take you to the park?

He sure did.

Did he talk funny like you do, Grampa?

Everyone in Ireland talks funny like me. We drink lots of tea and ride our bikes everywhere just like you, he replied, tickling her side as she flew by on her favorite swing.

I want to go there someday to Ireland and meet the people that talk funny like you. Will you take me to Ireland … please?

I will take you to Ireland one day. I promise.

Yay, she exclaimed with sheer delight.

Jack’s heart overflowed with joy. Crystal clear memories of the homeland he left behind, forever etched onto his mind, flashed before his eyes. He was a young man of promise living in Howth on the outskirts of Dublin. The city was economically stagnant, starved and controlled by the British Empire. Friends and neighbors were unemployed and ruthlessly exploited, even his own family. For the few lucky enough to be employed, wages were low, barely enough to put food on the table. Housing conditions for the working classes were poor, and emigration was high and on the rise.

In the hallowed depths of it all, Jack witnessed suffering and acts of discrimination beyond measure. It fueled his vision and devotion to the Irish Republican Brotherhood until they drove the British out of Ireland. Truth be told, Jack Nolan sparked new hope. He was the path to Ireland’s freedom and one thing the British didn’t see coming.

Jack glanced at his watch. I wonder what’s keeping your Auntie Sheila today.

Behind a forced smile were curious and suspicious eyes. Sheila was never late, and old habits die hard. Even after all these years, Jack was guarded and still felt the need to look over his shoulder, especially when his little girl was by his side.

There she is, said Megan.

Sheila Donnelly, Megan’s godmother, entered the park through the La Salle Avenue entrance gate by the handball courts. Long, black, curly hair danced on her slender shoulders. A warm and gentle smile bloomed across her porcelain face.

It’s remarkable, Jack thought, admiring his best friend’s wife. After all these years, after all she’d been through, Sheila Donnelly hasn’t aged one bit.

Lord knows that being married to his best friend and business partner, Bill, was never easy. In fact, everyone in America knew Bill wasn’t easy. Everyone in Ireland knew Bill wasn’t easy. And of course, Sheila knew firsthand that Bill wasn’t easy, but she understood the assignment. Moira Nolan understood the assignment. And Jack, an integral part of the plan, understood the assignment the day the Brotherhood and the Sinn Fein handed down the orders.

During the early days, Jack proved himself to be a natural-born leader. As a single child coming from a strict Irish Catholic home, he was something of a rarity. With no siblings to call his own, he found kinship in his two longtime trusted best friends, Paddie O’Leary and Conor Sweeney. The friends were polar opposites but balanced by Jack, charming with a dry sense of humor, adventurous, and, beyond all else, loyal. But among the upper ranks of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, Jack was the chosen one and destined for greatness. History was made on that cold, rainy Sunday night when Murphy, prominent Irish nationalist and high-ranking IRB member, secretly escorted Jack and Moira, a Romany Irish gypsy, to the birthing docks in Howth.

Together, the young couple walked a small gangplank leading to a coffin ship operated by several seedy deckhands and heavily guarded by Murphy’s men. Cast into the unknown, they never flinched and never looked back. On that same night, down in the steerage deck, he and Moira slipped gold wedding bands onto their ring fingers, simply because married couples in America were more respectable in those days, even more so because the Irish were not so respectable.

Also on that same night, Jack fell head over heels in love with a woman he barely knew when Moira bravely fought off three intoxicated men molesting women on the ship. Those blokes got more than they bargained for when they locked horns with this redhead. In the blink of an eye, she pistol-whipped the first bloke with a gun tucked within her undergarments. Blood spattered everywhere. Like cowards, the other two bullies ran off into the darkness. Together, Jack and Moira endured the long and grueling journey, lured by the promise of a better life in America and with a defined mission.

They were crammed onto a ship where life above was just as dark and dangerous as below. They lived in cramped, crowded, and quartered conditions. The smell of brine and mildew suffocated the air. Fast-forward through the endless weeks of torture, they finally arrived in America. While the ship idled in the Hudson, a small boat guided by two armed men approached the hull to retrieve Jack and Moira and then headed toward the New York City shoreline.

When the boat reached the dock’s pylons, three more armed men greeted them. A small black-and-white photograph provided by Murphy prior to their departure from Howth confirmed that one of them was Bill Donnelly. The group walked in silence off the docks, through dark alleys and angry streets, straight into their secret warehouse flanked by more guards. Crates filled with guns and ammunition lined the warehouse floor. Several crews were working, packing, and sealing boxes for loading into unmarked lorries. Off-duty police officers and government officials were drinking, smoking, and gambling around a large poker table.

Then there was Sheila, standing at the top of the stairs in front of an enormous safe door above the warehouse floor, unusually dressed in brown herringbone-patterned trousers and a cream silk blouse. With her hands firmly planted on her hips, she was looking very much pregnant with the same bright smile on her face, much like the one that greeted him today.

Never let that smile fool you. She is hard and cold as Connemara stone, were Bill’s first words as he introduced his young wife to Jack and Moira, and he meant it.

Sheila was generous and kind but very unpredictable with a vicious temper that could turn on a dime and a passion for espionage. In fact, prior to her emigration, Sheila Donnelly was one of Mick’s infamous lady spies in the castle. For that reason alone, she was fearless and impenetrable, except when it came to Megan.

Sorry, Jack, busy morning. Sheila handed Jack a stack of mail bound with twine, hidden under her tartan plaid shawl. Good morning, my sweet angel, Sheila said, embracing her godchild. Well, aren’t you the lucky one? I see that James Michael is here today. And guess what? He is heading this way. Why don’t the two of you run along and play for a while?

While you and Grandad talk about boring stuff, Megan replied sarcastically and then rolled her eyes.

Shelia laughed out loud. Yes, love. While we talk about boring stuff and your grouchy Uncle Billy.

Megan giggled. She stretched out her arms and embraced her best friend, James Michael.

Hi, Megan! Hi, Poppa Jack, said James Michael with a glorious vibrant smile. Can you tell us the story about the devil playing cards?

Jack laughed out loud. Again?

The pair of friends eagerly nodded yes.

Ok, you two. Come sit beside me on the bench and be sure to make some room for Auntie Sheila. Jack paused for a moment and cleared his throat. In a beautiful green land far, far away called County Wexford, Ireland, there was a grand mansion called Loftus Hall. On a cold, dark, and rainy night, there was a loud knock at the door. The owner opened it and was greeted by a man wearing a dark hooded cloak. Lady Anne Tottenham, the owner, was quite smitten with the guest and welcomed him into her home. Later in the evening, the pair sat down in the parlor to play cards when Lady Anne dropped a card onto the floor. When she reached down to retrieve it, Lady Anne saw two animal hooves instead of a pair of gentleman’s shoes on the feet of her houseguest. Her screams prompted the beast to shoot straight up into the ceiling and out through the roof. A cloud of smoke and the scent of sulfur filled the air. It was … the devil! Jack shouted and laughed out loud.

James Michael and Megan darted off toward the sandbox, shouting and screaming with laughter.

Never gets old with those two, Jack said to Sheila.

Aye, thick as thieves they are. He is a good lad, even if he is Italian, she replied.

His family is our kind of Italian.

In fact, James Michael was old-school Italian from Sicily. After several profitable business interactions with the Rizzo family, Jack quickly learned there was an enormous difference between the two. The family was well-respected and connected in America, so for that reason alone, he was Megan’s only playmate outside the