Boston Jacky

by L. A. Meyer

  My two so-called enforcers shamble shamefaced into the cabin, caps in hand and eyes cast down.

  “So,” I say, my gaze level and stern, “you could not handle the simple job of making indentured laborers pay for their passage?”

  “It’s not like that at all, Skipper,” says John Thomas, twisting his cap in his big hands and looking as miserable as any schoolboy caught by Teacher, doing something wrong. “Any micks what won’t pay that we can get our hands on is convinced to pay up real quick. It’s gettin’ our hands on ’em is the problem.”

  “Go on,” I say, warily tapping a pencil on the edge of my desk and waiting for him to get on with it.

  “Y’see, most of ’em pays up right cheerful, glad to be here and all and makin’ an honest wage, and thinkin’ to be sendin’ for their wives and kids back in Ireland, but some lowlifes don’t and they fall under the spell of this Captain Tooley what has set hisself up at Skivareen’s.”

  “Right,” says McGee, tossing in his two cents. “He kicked out the old landlord and set hisself up as boss. There’s tons of rooms in that dirty hole and he takes the scofflaws in and tells ’em they don’t have to pay back no Jacky Faber who deceived and cheated ’em, as long as they sticks with him and buys drinks at his bar.”

  “Right, and fights for him against the other gangs,” echoes John Thomas. “So we can’t even get in at the buggers.”

  “Right, and the place is usually a riot every night, too. He’s got a mix of both low-life bogtrotters and native scum. And some right tough henchmen always at his side.”

  “All right, pull up a chair, lads, and sit down.” Apparently this is a tale that will be long in telling, and I have made them squirm enough.

  The two gratefully grab chairs and sit down in them, happy to be at least partly forgiven for their failure to jerk the money out of the deadbeats.

  “Y’see, Miss, they ain’t like regular gangs of thugs, decent criminals like, no. They puts on airs like they be noble firefighting crews, like Tooley’s bunch is called The Free Men’s Fire Company Number One, but the word is, mum, that they set more fires than they puts out.”

  “The police?” I ask, already suspecting the answer.

  “You can find Constable Wiggins at Skivareen’s bar every night, drinkin’ for free . . . His fat old lady, too,” says McGee. “And they say the Mayor is in Tooley’s pocket, also.”

  Ah, Sin and Corruption. I guess this is what makes the world go ’round, and I reckon I shouldn’t be surprised . . .

  “Aye,” says John Thomas. “And they sells in-shure-ance, too, which means they won’t set your place afire if you signs up with them and pays the hefty fees.”

  Hmmm . . . Insurance, another word for extortion.

  “And the other gangs?”

  John Thomas leans in, all earnest, and says, “There’s the Sons of Boston Firehouse, run by a Captain Warren, over on Winter Street in the East End, all local men who purely hate the Irish. They tried to recruit me, but I would have none of it. No, I got but one loyalty, and that is to Faber Shipping.”

  I reward him with a warm smile and a nod of thanks.

  “They sure didn’t try to recruit me, not with my name,” says Finnbar McGee. “But I did sign up with a new company formin’ up in the Fourth Ward. Irish only. Called the Shamrock Hose, Ladder and Pump.”

  “Oh, and who’s in charge of that fine pack of micks?”

  “Feller named Arthur McBride. Ever heard of him?”

  Oh, Lord . . .

  I sit and think for a moment on all this information, and then I stand. They look at me expectantly.

  “Let’s go, lads.”

  “Where we goin’, Skipper?”

  “Get your clubs, boys, we’re going to Skivareen’s.”

  I knew Skivareen’s was a low dive back a couple of years ago when Gully MacFarland, deep in thrall to French absinthe, tried to pimp me out to a bunch of scumbag sailors, and it sure ain’t got any better looking. There’s garbage in the street outside and the Skivareen’s sign above the doorway just shows a poorly drawn mug of ale in a grubby paw. There’s a board propped up outside that says . . .

  The Free Men’s Fire and Insurance Company

  Captain P. Tooley, Pres.

  I put my foot to the door of Skivareen’s and kick it open, with Thomas and McGee at my side, belaying pins in hand and grim expressions on their faces.

  The interior is smoky and dark and smells of dank mildew, old vomit, and piss. As I stride in and my eyes become accustomed to the gloom, I see that, sure enough, there’s Constable Wiggins standing at the bar, Goody Wiggins beside him.

  “Well, well,” says Wiggins, “look at this. If it ain’t our wicked little schoolgirl, back on my turf.” His beady little eyes peer out at me through the folds of his fat cheeks.

  “My business ain’t with you, copper,” I say, slipping into the rougher way of talkin’ as it seems fitting to this place. “Where’s this Captain Tooley character? He’s been hiding some blokes what owe me money and I means to have both the blokes and the money. Now.”

  “Why, the gentleman is right over there in the great room, dearie,” says Wiggins, coming over to stand in front of me. “You can’t miss him. He’s the big fellow with the beard. But leave yer men here.” Wiggins has his truncheon in his fist and he slaps it against his palm. There are a number of other men at the bar, and I know who they’ll fight for if it comes to a ruckus.

  “One wrong move, little schoolgirl, from you or your men, and I’ll have you up before Judge Thwackham again, and then you’ll keep your appointment with my whipping post. I owes you a dozen with my rod. It’s been a long time coming, but I got a feelin’ it’s gonna happen soon.” Goody chortles into her beer, as if laughing at some private joke.

  I nod to my lads—Stay here, boys, come to me if I call—and march into the next room with murder on my mind. There I receive one of the greater shocks of my life, for at a long table against the far wall, seated in squalid grandeur, is none other than . . .

  “Pigger!” I gasp. “Pigger O’Toole! No! It cannot be!”

  At his side is a slattern I knew from before as Glory Wholey, a prostitute so down and dirty Mrs. Bodeen wouldn’t think of letting her into her well-run brothel up on State Street, and around him are about a dozen toughs, at the table or leaning against the wall. They all gaze at me as I enter.

  “Well, well,” says Pigger, upon seeing me. “Could that be our own Little Mary from dear old Cheapside? Why, bless my soul, I believe ’tis. Ye’ve turned out to be a right trim little piece o’ ass, Mary, ye have. Come ’ere and give yer old friend Pigger a kiss.” He licks his thick lips and grins a big toothy smile at me.

  “A kiss?” I hiss, and immediately fall back into the old way o’ talkin’. “Iffen I had brought me pistols, Pigface, which I wish I had, I’d be puttin’ a bullet inta yer ugly face right now!” Pigger sure ain’t got no prettier.

  “And ye’d hang for that, f’sure,” says Pigger, complacently picking up his glass and taking a swig. “Ye noticed Constable Wiggins on yer way in here? Yes? Good friend to me, he is. Real good.”

  “Last I heard o’ you, Pigger, you was runnin’ wi’ a freak show up in Liverpool, doin’ a geek act, bitin’ the heads off live chickens,” I snarls, “and pouring the blood from their necks down yer throat, you miserable piece of—”

  “She shouldn’t be talkin’ to you that way, Cappy,” pipes up Glory. “She—”

  “My, my,” says Pigger to me, seemingly unperturbed. “You all rigged up proper and pretty enough in a scrawny sort of way, but you still got that mouth, don’t you? Have to do sumthin’ about that, won’t we?”

  “I got rid of you once before, Pigger, and I’ll do it again, mark me,” I promise, well steamed.

  Pigger settles back and reaches out to a plate of what looks to be fried pork skins and shoves a big greasy hunk into his maw.

  “I don’t go by Pigger no more,” he says around that particularly disgusting mou
thful, “now that I’ve gone all respectable. It’s Captain Percy Tooley now, man of business: fire control and insurance.”

  “Respectable cannibal, you means, you squattin’ there and eatin’ what is prolly the sorry remains of your own piggy mother’s belly fat,” I say as I spin around and look over the crowd of lowlifes spread around the room.

  “Now, is that any way to talk to an old friend,” asks Pigger, with no pretense of a smile. “Why don’t you sit yer ass down in that chair and have a drink on me and we’ll talk over the good old times we had back in lovely Cheapside?”

  “I don’t want none o’ yer swill, Pigger. What I wants is me money.”

  As I run my eyes over those in the room, I can tell by the look on some of them that they’re pure bog Irish.

  I recognize them as the usual drunken scum-suckin’ batch of bottom feeders, but one man stands out—if he is indeed a man. He sits alone, in front of a bowl of burnt-out matchsticks, off to the right of Pigger. He is small, but he is not a child. Oh no, for beneath his shock of white hair he has the grinning face of a wizened goblin. He strikes yet another match and gazes rapturously into the flame. When it burns down to his fingers, he drops it into the bowl with the others, where it burns itself out.

  I tear my eyes away from the creature and single out another man, one who looks profoundly stupid but appears, at least, to be sane.

  “You there!” I call out, pointing at him. “How did you get to this country?”

  “Oi come across on the Blue Anchor Line.”

  “My name is Jacky Faber and I own the Blue Anchor Line. Have you paid me for your passage, as contracted?”

  “Captain here says I don’t have to pay ’cause the food was bad and the ship was sloppy and badly sailed. Was sick the whole time, I was.”

  “The Lorelei Lee is the finest ship on the Atlantic and you were treated better than you have ever been in your life, you miserable bogtrotter, yet you go back on your word. Have you no sense of honor?”

  “But Captain says—”

  “I don’t care what this mound of putrid flesh says,” I says, pointing a stiff finger at the man’s nose. “I have your indenture and indentures can be sold. I have men, strong men, at my command, and they can take you and bind you and send you to places that are not as cool and pleasant as this. Do you know that not all the slaves in this world are black?” The man is starting to look uncomfortable, darting glances in Pigger’s direction, plainly looking for backup, as I continue. “How’d you like to chop sugarcane in Louisiana under the broiling sun? How’d you like to be sold off to Tripoli? Lots of blue-eyed slaves there, I hear, and I know where the slave markets are. And I got contacts there, I do, and they’ll take all the action I can give ’em!”

  Many in the crowd are looking mighty uneasy as I conclude. “And of course you know, lads, the Arabs and Persians castrate their male slaves ’fore they set ’em to work in the fields. Keeps ’em off the womenfolk. Hurts like hell, I hear. Course it wouldn’t worry me none, not having any balls to cut off, but you gents . . .”

  This gets Pigger out of his chair.

  “Now, you men don’t listen to her. She’s just a jumped-up little tart with two leaky boats and maybe twenty men. With you and other upright lads behind me, I’ve got over a hundred, and I’ve got political connections, too, as you well know,” he says with a smirk in the direction of the bar where sits Constable Wiggins. “And he ain’t the only one.”

  Pigger lowers his voice and says to me, “No, he sure ain’t the only one. In fact, I got this whole town in me pocket, and I think you’re pure out o’ luck, Little Bloody Mary, so get used to it. Now get yer ass out of here ’fore I call in the copper to arrest you for trespass and malicious slander.”

  Fuming, I turn on my heel and say, “This ain’t over, Pigger, not by a long shot!”

  Pigger laughs as I go. “Y’know, I knew you had somehow got real big in these parts. Y’know what else I know?”

  “What, Pigger, do you know ’cept for the fact you’re a greasy low scoundrel what ain’t worth a bucket of warm spit?” I say, pausing at the doorway.

  “I know that little Polly Von is in town, too. You remember her? Pretty, pretty, little Polly Von. Member o’ your Rooster Charlie Gang? Actress, she is now. I seen her. She’s good. You come up lookin’ all right, but she is somethin’ else in the way o’ beauty. Sure wouldn’t mind gettin’ close to her again, no I wouldn’t . . .”

  I storm out of Skivareen’s, my mind seething. Randall Trevelyne is off on the Chesapeake as a Marine lieutenant, while his Polly is back here all alone. Damn!

  You lay one grubby finger on Polly, Pigger, and I swear I’ll cut that finger off and stuff it up your nose!

  Chapter 3

  “And here, Miss,” says Ezra Pickering, leaning over his desk and handing me a document, “is the duly executed and registered deed to the establishment known as the Pig and Whistle, the ground thereunder, and the adjacent property. You now own a down-on-its-heels tavern. And a barn, and the place in which we now stand. As to the wisdom of those investments, Lady Landlord, I will not attest.”

  “Missy Memsahib very important person,” says Ravi from his perch on my lap. “Many papers, much confusion.”

  “We’ll see about that, Ravi,” says Ezra ominously, “when we get to the bottom line.”

  I had picked Ravi up at his school soon after I had landed, the academic year being over. All schools, be they grammar or college, fear the yellow fever, and free their students for the warm months, in hopes that they might survive till the fall session. Ravi, of course, was ecstatic upon seeing me again, and me him. His headmaster pronounced him an excellent student . . . “He is a very bright lad. He had a bit of trouble with the other boys when he first arrived, but his essential goodness eventually won them all over. Of course, the girls all love him, and as regards the rather jealous boys, well, apparently he had learned some handy survival skills in the place where he grew up. I look forward to seeing him again in the fall. Good day, Miss. I remand him into your custody.”

  Yes, Sir, the streets of Bombay are every bit as harsh as those of Cheapside.

  I take the papers and give them a brief look-over. Fuss, fuss, legal fuss, and more fuss, but all is in order, of course. Thank you, Ezra.

  “Well then, we must get to work on the place, mustn’t we?” I say, very pleased with myself. “I believe the carpenters are on their way, hammers and saws in hand, even as we speak.”

  We are in the new and bigger offices of Faber Shipping Worldwide, attending to business. It is a fine, three-story brick building at 143 State Street and overlooks the harbor. My maroon, black, and gold sign hangs above the entrance, and some of my people are already living there.

  I had directed Ezra to find me a suitable office building, close to him but separate . . . because I’ve got plans. He was delighted to do so for I suspect he’s tired of Faber Shipping trash like Thomas and McGee hanging around his office, scaring away customers. He found for me this splendid place in no time at all.

  The second floor is divided up into four apartments, one of which is occupied by Jim Tanner and family, while the third floor is a wide-open loft and attic that I intend to turn into an art studio for myself, and perhaps conduct classes in beginning drawing and painting there. I shall call it the Lorelei Academy of Art. After all, I have studied under Mr. Peet of the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, as well as in the studio of Señor Francisco Goya, Spanish artist of great fame, so I do have the proper credentials. I shall teach the classes when I am in town, and when I am not, hey, good artists are a dime a dozen and they work cheap.

  The first floor, of course, houses the corporate offices, the front room being a well-lighted space containing a polished wooden counter facing the door, with open ledgers upon it, and inkwells and pens all about for the taking of shipping orders and conducting other such business, Chloe Cantrell, presiding. A painting of the Lorelei Lee in full sail, done by a Mr. Peale, adorns one wal
l, and one of the Nancy B. Alsop rests on the other. There is a bronze plaque below each with the artist’s name and title of the picture, and I like them both a lot. Good job, Mr. Peale. I rather like your work.

  There are private offices in the back, and it is there that I sit with Ezra Pickering, going over the finances.

  As we proceed through the seemingly endless stack of papers, Clementine Tanner appears with a tray of tea and cakes. I murmur my thanks as she pours, and we exchange significant glances. We have a history, Clementine and I, concerning an event-filled trip we both took down the Mississippi River not too long ago. She has recently been delivered of a fine baby boy, named James, of course . . . after his father.

  As Clementine leaves the room, Ezra sits back and continues. “As Treasurer of Faber Shipping Worldwide, Incorporated, as well as Clerk of Records, may I ask what you intend to do?”

  “Well, first I intend to get the Pig back into the pink of condition—new paint all around, new varnish on the tables and bar, nice overhead racks for the mugs and wineglasses. The small stage will be expanded and elevated, the floors sanded and primed. Some small stained-glass panels will be installed in the outside walls to let in a bit more light, and the exterior will be given a bit of a brush up in the way of new clapboards. The upstairs will be converted into modest living quarters for Maudie and Bob, as well as a suite for myself. Additionally, there will be six rooms up there to house responsible patrons and travelers.”

  “And the barn next door?” probes Ezra, an eyebrow cocked, his knowing smile in place.

  “As for that, I intend to convert it into a theater, a playhouse, for the performance of various theatricals. Since the Haymarket Theater was torn down two years ago, there has been scant venue for such things around town, and I think the cultural life of Boston suffers for it. As soon as it is completed, we shall stage a musical revue—songs performed by Solomon Freeman, Enoch Lightner, and myself. And, of course, fine poetry and stories, and a staging of my playlet, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril.”