Jamey shot me a patronizing look. “Everybody knows Bull.”
He meant this Wall Street Bull, who I’m fairly certain is human. The other one weighs seven thousand pounds and doesn’t move, although he seems ready to: gouging and snorting, his bronze horns lowered threateningly. Tourists had fallen hard for the Wall Street “Charging” Bull. His creator, the artist Arturo Di Modica, had parked him right in front of the exchange one night last Christmas, like a present under the big tree. City Hall had demanded the “gift’s” removal. But tourists speak loudly with dollars. I heard the city refused to buy the Bull from Di Modica but, to keep the tourists happy, will soon shift him—the bull, not its creator—to Broadway in front of the small Bowling Green Park, but facing uptown. Both he and the copper we called Bull … well, certain resemblances, that’s all I’ll say in mixed company.
Emil shivered as his sun disappeared, then he glanced up to view the Bull blocking all light. Emil’s face glowed with delight! “Bull, my boy! Sit down!” (As if the Bull could fold his vast bulk and perch on a narrow step. Sometimes Emil doesn’t think things through.) “I’m just about to tell these two gentlemen about the roller skates!”
Bull nodded, as if impressed. Even his thin lips curved at the ends as if trying to remember smiling from his younger days. “Yeah? That’s a good story. You’ll like it, Jamey. Mind if I hang close ’n hear it, too?”
The Bull was big, as his name implied, and he also pursued the occupation implied—he was Wall Street’s cop. The NYPD kept the other Wall Street posts in rotation, but for some reason, Bull was permanent here. Maybe because he was due to retire soon? Just a guess. His name also fit perfectly, because if anything happened that he didn’t like, he’d beat the living bejeesus out of you. Never laid a fist on me, I assure you. But like some, the Bull couldn’t get enough of Emil’s stories. I figure that’s why he’s never more than twenty feet away from the old man. Touching, isn’t it?
The Bull, displaying rare affection, patted Emil on the shoulder. “Thanks, but I gotta stay standing, Emil. In case. You know. Duty.”
Oh, yeah. The Bull—protector of Wall Street—had to be ready on his feet to chase down wind-blown umbrellas or give directions to tourists.
Emil nodded in grave sympathy. “Always duty first, Bull. God bless you.”
I turned my head, suddenly happy I’d missed lunch.
“Enough of this. A stack of chores’re waitin’ for me.”
My eyebrows shot up. Was Jamey making demands? Of Emil? Of me? Kid had moxie. A bit of pride tickled my chest.
Jamey folded his arms, the bill still crumpled in his fist. He braced his thin legs and stuck out his chin. Kid meant business.
Bull’s eyebrows rose. He winked at Jamey. “He’s serious, Emil. Jamey delivers his mother’s mending every day over to the club girls. That’s how they get on.”
Emil smiled at Jamey. “I’ll try to hurry, then, son. A good boy.”
I patted Jamey’s shoulder. “All will become clear soon. Trust me.” Oh dear. I hated that phrase. “Give Emil the fiver.”
He almost didn’t … then he did. If he weren’t only eight, I’d have been fearful of crossing him in business. Thankfully, he was only eight.
Emil took the bill, sniffed at it.
I cleared my throat. “It’s a bill, Emil. Not something to eat.”
Emil bobbed his head gently. “Habit. Different times.” He chuckled at himself, then stretched his long arms and filled his lungs with air, and finally began. “Zis young woman—”
I interrupted, “Long time ago, right Emil?” Bull frowned at me, but I didn’t care. Emil needed direction.
“Oh, yass. Long ago. Forty years, I am tinking. Her name vas Rose. Because of her hair, I’m sure you understand.” He directed this at Jamey, who nodded as he shoved grubby red bangs out of his eyes. “See, this young lady vas truly a lady, believe me, but as ve all must do things to keep da beer on the table, so did she. She verked in a musical bar, and instead of valking around, she roller-skated on the vooden floor. It vas a novelty of da time.”
Jamey gasped. “Really? I’da liked to seen that!”
Emil leaned forward and grabbed one of Jamey’s paws. “A good son like you, I vould not lie.” He settled back again and sighed. “One day, she, uh … she died.”
I almost fell into the street. “She didn’t die. She married you. Remember, Emil?”
Emil looked at me, eyes unfocused for a few moments. Then they cleared. “Yass. You are right. Da lovely Rose consented to be my vife. She retired her skates and verked to make a good home for us. Ve both hoped for a son.” His voice trailed off in sadness. “Like zis dear boy …”