STORY 7, PART 3       IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT

Annie lived with her grandmother. She wouldn’t tell him what happened to her parents, and neither would Rita. There was no rumor, because he didn’t really know her friends. Of the ones he’d answered “yes” to of the question “Do you know…”, he didn’t so much know them as know who they were. And Annie, with her blond hair and brown eyes, wasn’t of Irish ancestory, she was Polish and Italian. When she told him that, he’d asked “How did that happen?”,  and she replied “The Bronx”. All he knew of them was that they were native New Yorkers, not immigrants. Annie brought him one night to meet her old country Polish grandmother, who was supporting both of them on her retirement money. What he noticed most about their sparsely furnished but spotless living room was that there was no TV. Everybody had one by then. There was the old console radio Annie had mentioned, though it was muffled and staticy.

      Vincy Quigley would never have impressed Rita with “Volare”---she was Romanian. Neither girl was a certifiable BIC,  just a  prototype..  It was,  as Annie had said, da Bronx. In 1956, even as they listened to black music, the only thing any of them might think of to do to be correct politically would be to advise their parents to vote for Eisenhower .  He campaigned once in the Bronx, on the Concourse, and Denny saw the great man in the flesh, America’s wise and kind grandfather.

                                                              PART 2   (real Part 2)

     Late one Sunday night, after school was out for the summer, about eleven o’clock, after he’d walked Annie home and come back, and most of the other girls were gone, there were still a lot of guys in the park circle, .the circle lined by benches and trees and a wrought iron fence, but no gate. The gate to the playground that the circle fronted was locked for the night, though that never stopped anybody from entering

They’d pooled their cash from part time jobs and bought beer, they were getting a little loud, those standing were grinding cigarettes into the red brown flagstone tiles, others sat on the bench backs with their feet on the benches, a basketball bounced with slaps as it got passed between the benches, they razzed, they cut up, they laughed raucously..

     And then Denny saw THEM. He knew right away who they were, about six of them, black DAs with sideburns, hair sheened back, no chinos or white T-shirts, they wore dark blue denim bell bottoms and flashy sports shirts or T-shirts of different colors and patterns. The clothing gave less suggestion of a team than the Gillespie’s crowd, it was selectively individual, yet they appeared organized, and they were different.

     They were Blades, and were just outside the entry to Gillespie circle. He hoped, please everybody, just leave them alone, let them go through their motions, do their performance, and they’ll leave and never come back. They’d have to have walked a long way to get into this neighborhood. They wouldn’t come back unless given a reason.

      One of them, the one most intruding from the street, now crossed the line---there was a line, a crack between tiles and sidewalk pavement---and was in the circle, combing his hair. It was nothing but a challenge Vincy Quigley had a lot of beer in him, and he was the closest of the circle regulars to the guy with the comb. No, Vincy. Vincy said to the guy, “Nice hair.”, then tousled it with his left hand. As the guy tried to smack his hand away, Vincy swung from the hip, not with a fist, but with a beer bottle palmed in his hand. He struck the hair comber’s face with the broadside of the bottle, and Denny heard the crunch of glass breaking inside a brown paper bag.

     He suddenly felt very lucky to come out of his altercations with Vincy so clean. Vincy screamed, “Shit! I cut my fuckin’ hand.”

     The Blades were in retreat. What Denny knew of them was that they didn’t stay if outnumbered, and there were a lot on Vincy’s side.The guy who got hit didn’t seem able to see, and one was holding his hand to guide him as they ran.

     They’d be back, though. Probably not tonight. It was too late already, but they’d be back. The summer of ’56 was just beginning, and already he almost wished it was over. Yeah, he seemed to have Annie, but he had no reason now to believe that anyone in the Bronx could ever experience anything resembling love on a blue lagoon.

      The Blades came back the following night early, still daylight, 7:30, when there were only a few guys yet out at the circle, Denny and four of his friends, and three older guys who’d just finished a basketball game in the park and were still around talking. Everybody among Denny’s friends was expecting something would happen tonight, but later, when they’d be ready, and their numbers alone would mean the Blades would have a battle .The guys from the basketball game knew nothing of anything.

       But at 7:30 they seemed to come from nowhere, or more precisely, came from behind parked cars, it seemed a hundred of them. How could they have come so far, sneaking along in the street, without the police seeing them? Denny would learn an answer to that later, but right then, they were there. They all had rocks and sticks. They separated the eight Gillespie guys from each other. Nobody resisted at first. See what this is first, what’s going to happen, maybe it’ll be talk. But then, as if on signal, probably on signal, they all began hitting the Gillespies on the head with the rocks and sticks. The four Blades around Denny just seemed like any other kids, but looked scared, as scared as he was, and when they delivered, they seemed to be doing it so no one could say they hadn’t. They didn’t hurt him, they may as well have hit him with balsa the blows were so light  Most of the others with him weren’t so lucky. Heads were bleeding, and the Gillespies fought back. It was a melee, the outnumbered fighting for survival, forcing back the invaders by attacking wildly

     Denny was beside a full garbage can, and, though he wasn’t sure he could, he picked it up over his head. He had only one motivation, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, as he flung the can, scattering everybody near him, and almost hitting some of friends. At his feet he found an umbrella some woman must have left  as she fled the circle, and he picked that up and swung it in an arc in front of himself. While he was driven by self preservation, somewhere on a back cylinder he also beginning to think, I can’t be looking too bad doing this. Move Skinny Dinny up a couple of notches in neighborhood esteem.

     It was over as abruptly as it began. The Blades knew to arrive early, and they knew when to disengage, like just before the police would arrive. They didn’t want to get arrested either. As suddenly as they were there, they were gone, invisible again.

      The 1950’s was a decade of teen gang warfare in New York City that saw sensational headlines, with the columnist Walter Winchell waltzing into courtrooms during sentencings to demand long prison terms.. The Blades were careful to build their rep, but also to not get caught, avoid  Winchell..A 16 year old was charged as an adult in New York State then The city grew you up fast---in the bars at 16, an adult offender at 16.

     They thought they were fighting a gang called Gillespie’s Galleons.. The gang was non-existent. Within the park circle crowd itself, there was Ron Galleoni, the biggest and toughest of the group. He hung around with three other stand up  ass kickers, Tommy Deutsch, Bobby Anderson, and Billy Hara, and together that quartet was dubbed the Galleons--- but only by the park regulars .Somehow disinformation had found its way to the Blades, and as with the everything passed word of mouth,

the rumor warped along the way, and to the Blades everybody at the circle was a Gillespie’s Galleon. Poor Donald Gillespie, an Army seargant who lost his life in World War II, and was remembered by being attributed to a gang that didn’t exist at a park named after him.

     What they were called didn’t really matter to the Blades. A bunch of guys wearing the same black and white attire seemed to be some king of organization, and there was revenge to be had. The irony was that none of the actual four Galleons, nor Vincy Quigley, whom  the Blades wanted though they didn’t seem to know his name yet, were there at 7:30  The previous night, when Vincy hit the guy, Ron Galleoni and the other three were present, but way inside the circle at the gate to the park, the farthest point  from where it happened, and by the time they’d figured it out, the Blades had fled.

     Denny Scanlon wasn’t without parental supervision. There were seven terrifying words no Irish American kid ever wanted to hear: Your father wants to talk to you.

In a time when corporal punishment was routine, yes, when the people who hit you loved you, that often meant the belt, though Joe Scanlon, a construction foreman, was more sophisticated with guidance than to resort to the physical. Joe Sr, Denny’s grandfather, had been a strike activist in the 1930’s, partook in picketing that saw brutal beatings by Pinkertons and other private police goons, demonstrations that turned into riots blamed on the workers.

     To Denny, that explained his father’s description of what happened a couple of nights ago.

      “I understand there was a riot at the playground.”

     Jesus! Adults! Not a riot, Dad. A gang war .And not our doing. Or not the doing of all of us. Not me  Hard to explain nuances like that to parents who want you to stay out of trouble so if you don’t go to college you’ll be clean for the cops or fire department or some other kind of civil service. And Denny could see, considering the strikes of the 30’s, how people getting hit over the head with sticks by others could be construed as a riot.   

     And then he heard, “With those black chinos and white T-shirts you look like the hired thugs that used to beat up your grandfather.” He couldn’t talk back, but: We didn’t have the sticks and rocks, Dad.   

     “No more fake uniforms on you, and no more of that playground circle this summer. Understood?”

     Yeah, Dad. No argument.

     “And Johnny wants a few works with you too.”

     Johnny, 17, almost 18. Joe Scanlon was a man who tempered discipline with compassion .Johnny Scanlon wasn’t a man yet, he was an older brother, and older brothers hadn’t  grown into philosophical concepts like wisdom and compassion.

     He’d met his father in the living room, and now went to the kitchen, to where Johnny waited, as Dad went out, leaving them alone in the apartment.

     Johnny got right to the point.

     “Why are you hanging around with them.”

     He’d TRIED hanging around with Johnny’s friends, but Johnny got jealous and ordered him not to.

     “What’s wrong with them?”

     “They’re shmucks, that’s what’s wrong with them.”

     "They’re my age. I go to school with them.”  .

     “Find somebody else.”                                                                       .

     “There isn’t anybody else.”

     “You have that girlfriend now…” More street intelligence. “Sit with her at Swing Patch.”

     “The Blades can find me there too.”

     “Maybe they won’t know to get you if you’re not advertising with your colors.”

     Black and white are shades, big brother. Better not to say it..

      “And cut your hair.”

     “Johnny!”

     “A little. Shorten the sideburns. You can keep that DA if you modify it a little. I guess Annie likes it.”

       Maybe Johnny was growing into something like Joe Scanlon after all. Denny wasn't his hair, but it spoke of a style. Would Annie still love his radio if he had a GI  crew cut? He didn’t want to explore such territory, because she might. The would be the most devastating, if it really was just his radio.

     Staying away from Gillespie Park meant missing all his friends, but he was with Annie every night at the Patch  Three swings are a crowd, and Rita and Carolyn were a couple, but in the Bronx of 1956, maybe even today, they couldn’t smooch publicly. (Annie got better at that, but would only go so far, like all the other girls. That was probably why there was a lot more public passion then than you’d see today. Some unmarried people may have been having sex in the 50’s, but Denny Scanlon wasn’t among them) The arrangement, when the swings were available, was that Rita and Carolyn got them, and when they weren’t free, they just took another bench.

     There were more problems at Gillespie with the Blades, but they never showed up again in the numbers they had the first retaliation. Word was they had used enclosed trucks that night, owned by the cousin of one of them who had a delivery business, and they’d gotten dropped off to approach the park from four directions, each group a block or two away from the destination. The street buzz also said that the guy Vincy hit wasn’t hurt that badly, but his nose was broken. The bottle had broken towards Vincy’s hand, and he’d needed four stitches in his palm. Vincy Quigley had a broken nose of his own, from previous fighting. Denny Scanlon had a broken nose from sleigh riding, being the front rider on the front sled in a tally-ho-- a line of sleds tied together--- going down Snake Hill so fast on ice that they couldn’t navigate one of the S curves, and what he got was a sled in the face by a kid from the previous wipe out, running away in the dark with his sled held up behind him as shield.

     So, broken noses were in that year. Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. They learned the guy Vincy hit was called Joe Hero. The Blades had colorful names without explanations of, ,so Denny could only conjecture:. Joe Hero because he usually did better than in his encounter with Vincy, or because he made a mean hero, of because that was really his name? There was Joe Motorcycle (that couldn’t be his name). Because he had a motorcycle? Not many had back then. Because he persued fleeing  rumblers on one to catch up and waste them? Another was nicknamed Little Nicky Knife. He fortunately didn’t seem to have been in attendance the night they came with all those guys. He heard the guy who owned the luncheonette where they hung around was Eddie Egg Cream. (If you’re not a New Yorker, you might need Google for that one.)

     They didn’t come back for any more big events, but they really knew how to fuck up a summer. They switched to late night ambushes, getting guys coming home alone, busting heads, breaking bones. One night after leaving Annie, on his own way home, Denny saw a bunch of guys, shadows under streetlights, that, even at a distance, he knew were not from the neighborhood. He turned the other way and they began chasing him. He ran three blocks to the precinct police station. The main room of the building was a cavernous chamber, with always a beefy uniformed officer sitting majestically at a huge marble desk, wrought iron around the edges, and his roaring voice would reverberate off the walls as he gave his standard greeting to any adolescent who crossed his threshold, such words unfailingly being,

     “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?”

     He told him. The Blades chased me here. The desk cops always had a second question when you answered the first one.

     “Whaddaya want me to do?”

      “I don’t know, but I can’t go out there.”

      He called to others, and they came. He repeated what Denny said, and they all laughed at him. They told him to go home. He said that’s what he’d been trying to do, he couldn’t. They told him to sit in a row of chairs along a wall, which he could see were leading to cells.

     They left him alone for a long time. Then one came and asked, “You been booked yet?” He told him why he was there. He heard others laughing. After two hours or so, they had a shift change, and one, dressed like a regular human now, said, “Come on, asshole, I’ll drive you home. This aint a hotel.”

     There was another night at Swing Patch, when he and Annie were there, but Rita arrived alone. She warned them that the Blades were on the block across from the patch, then left. Denny figured he’d be as conspicuous leaving as staying, and they probably wouldn’t mess with a guy making out with his girlfriend!

     Wrong about that.  As he was…occupied…he heard, from a voice that sounded a bit familiar, “He’s one of them.”

     And another rougher voice, “Do you know Vincy Quigley?”

     When he looked up, there were three guys there. That first voice had come from a guy he knew as Al, who’d hung around Gillespie for a while. Denny didn’t even know his last name, he never really got taken in, then started hanging around his own neighborhood again. The rumor was he wasn’t Blade material either, they wouldn’t let him call himself one, but it seemed they were letting him hang around with them tonight.

     Al didn’t say anything else. One of the two who looked liked they could be problems, who sounded to be the same one who asked first about Vincy, said again,

     “Do you know Vincy Quigley?”

    Denny had to catch his breath, undergo the emotional track switch from kissing his girl to feeling his adrenalin flowing, and the same time compute, They know Vincy’s name.  Al just gave me up to them as “one of them”. A squealer. Al wasn’t there the night Joe Hero got hit, but did he have something to do with that information too?

     In response to the question  Denny replied,

      “I know who he is, but I don’t hang around with him.”

      Not a lie, though Al could immediately refute what he said. Denny was prepared to add “anymore” if he did, but Al said nothing.

     “Are you a Gillespie Galleon?”

     It was getting to be too much. Looking for UFOs.

     “They don’t exist.”

     Exasperation was in the Blade’s voice.

     “Everybody says that! How can there be so many of you if you don’t exist?”

     Denny knew this was not a metaphysical question like, If an acorn falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound? They did exist. They just hadn’t named themselves anything, It took the Blades to define who they were.

     “When you see the rest of that gang that don’t exist, tell them we want to talk to three guys---Vincy Quigley, the guy who threw the garbage can, and the guy with the umbrella. Tell them to meet us at 8:00 o’clock tomorrow night at Gillespie Park”

     Was he playing with Denny, a little like the cops in the police station? Did he know Denny was two of the guys they wanted to meet? He did if he was there that night.

     Then they left. Maybe seeing he was scared was enough for the time being, and if they knew he was two of the three, they knew he hadn't hurt anybody. As they were leaving, the Blade who hadn’t spoken said, “Hey, we’re nice guys,” but in a tone that indicated they weren’t much inclined toward being nice guys.

     Why didn’t the Gillespies retaliate in kind, do the same? For the reason Joe Scanlon had expressed. They were supposed to stay out of trouble. That was a neighborhood ethic, an unchallenged convention with the power and authority of community, a mandate that had the presumption of its correctness among his elders and peers---though a few ot the latter did see to it to repay some of  the late night street visits. As to the bar drinking, if Denny’s parents knew, they pretended not to. He always left the taverns early enough that they might not suspect, and  Johnny, whom he often encountered coming home in the wee hours himself, drank enough  on weekends not to detect it on anybody else

.

     The Blades didn’t come back again to Swing Patch, except for Al, who came alone a week later. He had a black briefcase with him, nice and shiny and cheap, stood on the grass in front of their bench, smiled at Annie and said, “Hi, babe.”.

     Denny knew this reject was irrelevant to anything. He was using power by assoctation to intimidate.They didn’t send him back. He was on his own mission. He’d already heard the Blades had tagged him Inferior Specimen and thrown him out of the camp again. The nicknames they gave were usually affectionate or admiring, but not always, and they had even more contempt for informers than everyone else, even when it was to their benefit. That may have been why the two Al was with last week left hm alone. A snitch was a snitch. If he'd hung around the Gillespies and informed on them, under other circumstances he might do the same to the Blades. Denny knew his neighborhood’s new moniker for him, and used it now.         

     “Al the Rat. What do you want, Al?”

     “Nobody showed up for the meeting.”

     “Of course not.. Neither did the Blades.”

     “I was there.”

     “You were going to take on Quigley?”

      “I was in a car. Going to shoot the three of them.”

     Could that even be a possibility? The Blades busted heads and broke bones, and though that could easily lead to somebody getting killed,  they didn’t set out to kill, didn’t assassinate from cars. Could Al be so deranged he might believe that if he got his bones, shot some Galleons, he’d become a neighborhood celebrity and thus a Blade?

      He stepped back several paces in the grass, getting closer to the swings where Rita and Carolyn were tonight, set his briegcase down, opened it  and took out a contraption he held in his right hand. Guns weren't readily available in New York City, with maybe the strictest state gun law in the country, the Sullivan Law. Denny had only heard of zip guns, never seen any, but assumed this was one. Probably they all looked different, but this had to be one of the poorest of designs.It had a section of plumbing pipe for a barrel, the handle was a piece of wood from a crate, and it was held together with duct tape. It had no trigger or hammer. For ammunition, Al pushed an arrow shaped stone into the pipe from the front end, the way a mortar is loaded. He could have dropped a dozen of those stones in to have  a kind of zip gun buckshot, but he probably knew Denny wouldn't sit there all night while he prepared to shoot him. He then pointed the pipe more or less in Denny's direction.If he tipped the pipe section too far forward, his ‘bullet” would fall out. He could have had a wad ofl firecrackers or a cherry bomb jammed into the pipe as a firing cap, and God know what he was using as accelerant, maybe powder from firecrackers, or even lighter fluid, because for ignition he now had a Zippo lighter that was in his left hand. He had planned to shoot people from a moving car with this?

     Denny said, “You’re just going to burn your hands and face with that, Al. You’d do better with a slingshot.”

    Al lit the lighter, and Denny prepared to dive on top of Annie if by any chance this piece of shit actually made a bang or a whoosh that could propel that pebble toward them. But Annie surprised him. She said, in a tone that seemed very admiring, seductive and quite unlike her, “A-al” She smiled at him. She surprised Al  too. It distracted him. The lighter blew out and he smiled back. He’d impressed Denny’s steady.

     She said, still as sweet as could be, what Denny had been about to say.

     “Why don’t you get the fuck out of here.” Girls didn’t talk like that then, and it wasn’t a question.

     Al began flicking the lighter again, but unsuccessfully, and asked, “Why can’t your boyfriend make me?”

     Denny could charge him from the bench before he got his Zippo re-lit .Al wouldn’t be much of a contest, and if hitting people on the head with rocks wasn’t stone age---not that he wanted the Blades using deadly violence--- this device  was no technological improvement.

     Denny had a better idea. He shouted over to the swings, forty feet away.

      “Hey, Rita”

     “What’s happening?”

     “Have a problem.”

     She stood up. Rita was through growing in height, but not in depth. She’d gotten wider this summer, and had shoulders like a guy. Al saw her, and fiddled some more with his piece, while shaking the lighter. Forget fluid, Al? She advanced, and his maintenance effort caused him to move at the same pace away from her. He was gradually disappearing like sky writing. When they looked again, he was gone..

     Denny knew Al wouldn’t bring the wrath of the Blades on him. If they wanted to come back, they would, they wouldn’t need an excuse, but what was Al going to tell them? I went to shoot Denny Scanlon, but two Gillespie debs ganged up on me, and my zip gun malfunctioned?

         The Blades were having real problems, with gangs from Harlem and the South Bronx, gangs that had given themselves names and wanted to engage, that kept them from continuing to bother much with a group of guys that didn’t want to gangfight. And probably they felt they’d gotten their revenge. They kept up the occasional late night incursions for a while, when they weren’t occupied elsewhere, but it began to settle down.

     At the end of the summer, he was going to be a senior. He would graduate in a year. By September, the circle was becoming the realm of younger kids. Annie was moving after Labor Day to Woodlawn. Her oldest cousin got married, and there was room for her and her grandmother.Woodlawn is a Bronx neighborhood at the northern end of the Bronx and New York City that looks more suburb than  Bronx, but to most Bronxites,  its Woodlawn Cemetery, and end of the line for the IRT el too. When she first told him at the Patch, he asked,

     “Will you still keep hanging around here?”

     She said, “I don’t know. A lot of people go up to Woodlawn and never come back.”

     It took him a moment to get the joke.

     “Then I’ll have to go up to see you.”

    “Take your chances.”

     And later, the same night, she said.

      “My cousins have a bungalow in Rockaway Beach for the summer. I’m going out there Labor Day weekend with my grandmother. You’re welcome to come if you don’t mind snoozing on a sofa.”

     When he accepted on condition his parents let him, she said,

     “When we go to the beach, you’ll see how skinny I really am.”

     He said, “You don’t want to see me in a bathing suit.”

      She gave that smile again that always led him to believe there was more in this for her than just listening to his radio, and this time she said, “Don’t be so sure of that.”

     Annie did move to Woodlawn in September. He thought, it was just a summer thing, the first time with a steady for both of us. We’ll move on. Different neighborhoods. Different friends. Whatever comes later, we’ll remember all of that summer. He wanted to give her a present. The radio. She was an orphan, for Christ’s sake. But there was his mother. She’d sacrificed to buy if for him. So, before he could do it, he’d have to ask her. When he did, she kissed him on the cheek.

     After she moved and he was back in school, he hung around the Ascot luncheonette on the Concourse during the week, listening to the jukebox (most played, Mickey and Sylvia's "Love Is Strange" and  Pat Boone's "Don't Frobid Me" ---yes, him). There was also swing, Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw,still on that jukebox from another time, and "In The Mood" got its share of three for a quarter plays. He wanted Annie listening to that with him. On the weekends  he frequented a pizzaria restaurant and bar on Burnside Avenue, prospected for a new girlfriend.

    For a while. He missed her so much, he went once to Woodlawn to take her on a date. Then he went again. Then he saw her every weekend. Sometimes during the week.

     They all grew up. 1956 had been a summer of teen gang warfare in New York that saw kids killed in various sections of the city, in incidents that became tabloid sensational, but Denny and his neighborhood were spared the worst of that.

     Denny married Annie, and they had four skinny kids and seven grandchildren, some of whom are quite stout, spousal  influence fattening up the gene pool. Denny became a real estate broker, no doubt influenced by his construction father, who  knew about the value of buildings and the ownership of them. Annie was intermittently a school teacher and a co-broker with Denny, but mostly a mother.

     Rita became an interstate big rig driver, is now retired, and enjoys ocean cruises with her long time significant other, who shared the cab and long hard hours of driving with her.

     Vincy Scanlon was a cop for a while, but his disinclination to taking orders and frequent intoxication on duty got him thrown off the department. He lived on New York streets for a long time, and through that life, discovered crack, until he finally got himself clean and sober. As part of his recovery, he went one time to see Joe Hero, in an effort to make his program amends .He offered to let Joe hit him in the face with a bottle. An uncle of Joe’s, about a hundred years old, was there, and said, “Hit him.”

     Vincy had a caveat planned in case Joe accepted, that the bottle break and Joe get four stitches in his hand. It didn’t become necessary to state that condition. Joe was in the same program, and accepted his amends.

      They are now co-secretaries of a recovery meeting on Briggs Avenue, where Vincy is known as the Gentle Bear, and before each meeting The Bear and Joe Hero put the tips of their fingers to the ends of their noses, and press, so you can see the crooked nose bones. It has nothing to do with their program, and maybe everything, but also, just before every meeting, as they do that nose show, they play an old record.

     Yes, it’s the Five Satins, and it begins:

     “Sho-doe-din-sho-bee-doe / Shoe doe-din-sho-bee wha….”

      And it ends…well…it doesn’t end.

the story above is for Bobby...those who were there know, and know this is mostly a bunch of b.s. ( ie. fiction)  but based on the way things were....

....and to all those who will be city teenagers in 2056. I'm willing to bet not much will have changed, except maybe the weaponry and sexual mores. That may seem like a lot, but more things change,the more they stay the same

Copyright July 2011, US Copyright Office, by Patrick Breheny, all rights reserved