The Fall

by Sean Moynihan

  “Well, nice work, boss,” Winter said with a smile. “That little rat knew what was good for him.”

  “But can we trust what he says?” Waidler asked. “He might have just been telling you a lie to stop the pressure on him.”

  “You’re right there,” Falconer replied. “But the way I see it, we have no choice—we have to approach this as if he gave us the truth. We can’t just ignore it.”

  “Agreed,” Waidler said.

  “So, here’s what I propose,” Falconer stated, making sure that there were no patrons listening nearby. “Tomorrow night, I enter the basement of the church and take the path down into their headquarters. You all wait outside for any stragglers after I flush them out. We’ll have you positioned across the street behind any cover you can find, and you will have authority to use deadly force, if necessary. It’s clear that any member is now a conspirator to murder and kidnapping, at the least, and they aren’t playing around. So, don’t hesitate to bring them down, understand?”

  “But you can’t go down in there alone,” Waidler interjected. “There’s likely to be dozens of them—if this meeting is really taking place. You won’t have a chance against those numbers.”

  “It’s all right,” Falconer reassured him. “I won’t directly confront all of them—I’ll just roust them a bit so that they feel the need to get out of there, and then I’ll join you up on the street. We can hopefully get lots of them rounded up and free up our friends.”

  “I gotta’ say I agree with Detective Waidler here, boss,” Winter said. “At least take Kramer and me down with you, just to give you some backup.”

  “I appreciate that, Winter,” Falconer said, “but it’ll be all right—trust me. Just be ready with your rifles up top.”

  “Well, you got it, boss,” Winter said resignedly.

  “Falconer and his boys,” a voice said from behind Falconer. He turned around and saw Brackley, the jocular longtime owner of the tavern, walking towards the table while drying his hands with a dishrag. He was around fifty, with a tanned complexion and a thick mop of wavy, brown and gray hair, and was built like an aging yet still formidable middleweight prizefighter from Limerick. Although known to oftentimes engage in hilarity and barroom antics with his workers and patrons, he could also be irascible at times, and occasionally took it upon himself to physically remove drunken reprobates from his establishment.

  “Ryan,” Falconer said. “How’s things?”

  “Oh, not too bad,” Brackley answered, resting his hands on the top of Falconer’s chair.

  “These are my men from the bureau,” Falconer said. “Waidler, Halloran, Winter, Kramer, and Schlager. Gentlemen, this is Ryan Brackley, owner of this place.”

  The men all nodded at the barman, who grinned back. “So, what brings all you gents in here this evening?”

  “Oh, just recapping the events of the day, I suppose,” Falconer said. “Good beer, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Brackley said. “Only the best for you boys. I always appreciate it when there’s a few cops nearby.”

  “You’ve had problems in your place in the past?” Winter asked.

  “Oh, on occasion,” Brackley replied. “You know how it is. These gangs and the no-good drifters…they come in here and try to get wise with me every now and then.”

  “But Ryan here usually can deal with them on his own, believe me,” Falconer said.

  “Yeah, but I’m getting old now, Falconer,” Brackley said, smiling. “I’ll leave it to these young guys here for now on.” He pointed at Halloran and Schlager. “All right, back to work—thanks for coming in and I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes, we’ll see you,” Falconer said, and the tavern owner turned and walked back towards the bar.

  “All right,” Falconer said, “are we all set for tomorrow night?”

  The men nodded.

  “Let’s meet at the bureau tomorrow night at 8:00,” he said. “We’ll get squared away and then head over for the operation. And, needless to say, no one else hears about this.”

  The men all nodded again and indicated their approval.

  “I have somewhere to go right now,” Falconer then said, “but I’ll be back at the bureau in about an hour. I’ll see you all later.”

  He then grabbed his hat and headed out to the street with the intention of making his way over to the wharves on the West Side.

  111

  The 9th Avenue elevated train came to halt at the 14th Street station and Falconer hopped off and joined the multitude of other passengers moving down the staircase to the street. Arriving at the bottom, he turned and walked west a couple of blocks on 14th until his destination appeared on his left right before the street terminated at the bustling dock of the Hoboken ferry: the Empire Hardware Company.

  Moving inside the large building, he dodged various customers as he worked his way to the front desk. Behind it, he could see the cavernous store full of employees addressing customers’ requests down the many aisles separated by large shelves containing sundry items or machinery parts, or up on the second-floor landing that went around the entire perimeter of the establishment.

  Stopping for a moment to observe the hectic goings-on inside the vast building supply center on the West Side’s crammed docks, he likened it to an anthill that swirled with the activity of thousands of frenetic worker ants, each completing a designated task amidst the overarching chaos of the whole.

  Scanning the front desk area, he was unable to spot the object of his search: friend and manager of the store, Ralph Hartwig, a man he had met a few years earlier when he was called upon to help stem the tide of graft and extortion that was quickly enveloping the wharves courtesy of several power-seeking gangs.

  He walked up to the counter and hailed a wiry clerk with a full, gray beard and a seemingly immovable grin. “Afternoon,” Falconer said. “I’m looking for Ralph. Is he around?”

  “Yeah, sure,” the man said, still smiling. “But maybe you want someone who actually knows what they’re talking about?” The man chuckled at his little jibe, and Falconer smiled, too.

  “No, it’s okay,” he said. “Ralph will do just fine—mind grabbing him for me?”

  “No problem, pardner,” the man said. “Be right back.”

  The man walked off and disappeared behind a doorway on the side of the store, and Falconer leaned against the counter, admiring all the men at work around him. These are the men who are truly responsible for the growth of cities like this, he thought. It’s not the millionaires and the boards of directors—it’s these men who come into the stores and gather the necessary tools and supplies and equipment, and then struggle inch by inch, bead of sweat by bead of sweat, to turn the plans into reality and lift those amazing buildings and immense ships up to fruition. It’s these men who actually get it done—the builders and creators. The men who give us this modern world but get none of the credit.

  A burly bear of a man suddenly walked through the side door into the front counter area followed by the gray-bearded clerk.

  “Falconer,” the man said, smiling. “What brings you here, my friend?”

  “Hiya’, Ralph,” Falconer said, grinning. “I was just in the neighborhood and I remembered that I had a little request for something and thought you might be able to help me.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Hartwig said. “But first, did you get any problems from my guy here, Jeff?”

  Falconer looked over at the clerk, who was still grinning wide, and then turned back to Hartwig. “Nah,” he said. “He was very helpful, and very complimentary of you, Ralph.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Hartwig said, smiling. “He’s a barrel of kindness. Ain’t that true, Jeff?”

  “Who, me?” the clerk said. “Only the highest of compliments from me, Ralph. Don’t you know it.”

  “Falconer, meet Jeff Navarre,” Ha
rtwig said. “He’s been here a few years after we found him on the doorstep one rainy night. I’m still not sure what he does here, but I’m told we gotta’ keep him. So here he is. Jeff, this is Detective Sergeant Falconer from police headquarters.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, detective sergeant,” Navarre said, saluting Falconer.

  “Same here, Mister Navarre,” Falconer said.

  “So, how do you two gentlemen know each other?” Navarre asked.

  “Well, a couple of years ago,” Hartwig explained, “we had some of those Whyo creeps cracking skulls down here if people weren’t playing their game, and they dropped by one day and threatened to sink some of us in the river if we didn’t cough up some cash every month. Well, we got word over to the local precinct and Falconer here came down with some of his boys and ended the problem. So, ever since, he’s been on my list of special customers, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, that works for me,” Navarre said, smiling even larger.

  “So, what do you need, Falconer?” Hartwig asked. “We’ll try to set you up.”

  “Well, it’s a little strange, Ralph,” Falconer answered, reaching into his pocket and handing him a slip of paper, “but I assure you, it’s important and needed. What do you think?”

  Hartwig looked at the paper for a few seconds and, by the look on his face, appeared slightly taken aback. “I see what you’re saying,” he said, “but I think I can take care of this. I have a guy down the block who owes me a favor, and he can come up with this, no problem. Can you give me ‘til tomorrow, say…two o’clock?”

  “That works for me,” Falconer said. “I appreciate this, Ralph.”

  “My pleasure, Falconer,” Hartwig said, handing the paper to Navarre. “Jeff, take this down to Morgan’s on Bank and West, and ask for Tom. Tell him I need it by tomorrow at two o’clock, and it’s important. We can settle up later on. Got it?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Navarre said. “We’ll get you what you need, detective sergeant.”

  “Thanks, gentlemen,” Falconer said. “I know it’s a big request and I appreciate your discretion in the matter.

  “We understand,” Hartwig said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Falconer said. “‘Til then, gentlemen.”

  He then turned and started walking back towards the door.

  “Hey, Falconer!” Hartwig shouted.

  Falconer stopped and looked back. “Yeah, Ralph?” he said.

  “Be careful…know what I mean?” Hartwig said.

  Falconer tipped his hat and smiled, and then turned and exited the store to the street.

  Friday, October 7, 1892

  112

  Falconer sat at a table in Benedetti’s Café on Mulberry Street, quietly sipping his coffee. He looked down and checked his watch: 8:05 PM. He would sit for a little while longer, alone with his thoughts, and then would head over to meet Waidler and the rest of the men on Christopher Street, near the unfinished church that was currently the focus of his mind.

  He pondered the haphazardness of it all. What if the information that the wounded suspect had provided to him was all fabricated? What if no one would be down there beneath the church this evening, and his friends, Penwill and Levine, Houllier and Miss Goldman, and Nellie Bly were simply gone—dead somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again, perhaps floating out in the river?

  He felt for his revolver at his side, and then for the smaller one fastened to his belt on his back. He had brought extra rounds, and had two knives and a blackjack, as well, but he felt that it might not be enough down in those caverns. He had made his plan, had thought it through for several days, and believed that it could work, but perhaps he was just heading into a disaster instead, and very soon he, too, would be dead—tossed into the river by some low-level soldiers from The Fall.

  It was too hard, he thought—too hard to try and bring down a powerful, secretive organization with no help from the police department or the city authorities. He had his men, but that was all. They were just six in total—six men arrayed against a well-funded and well-organized, vicious group of perhaps hundreds, led by some of the most powerful figures in the country, and bent on molding the country to its corrupt vision. How could he succeed? How could he save the others, if, in fact, they were even alive now?

  He took another sip of his coffee and glanced around the small café that contained only a handful of patrons at this hour. He placed the cup back down on the table and felt angry—overwhelmingly angry, bitter, desperate, and lost.

  “How are you, Falconer?” a female voice asked from his left. He looked over and saw Madame Benedetti, the proprietress of the establishment, walking slowly over to him from behind the counter.

  “Madame Benedetti,” he said, forcing a smile, “I’m very well. And you?”

  “Oh, you know how it is,” she said. “Getting by. But to be honest, you don’t look so good tonight. Something troubling you, Falconer?”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” he said, looking at his cup on the table. “I guess I just have a job to do, but I don’t think I can do it.”

  “You mean police work, eh?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you have any help? You got the big police force—lots of detectives and officers to help.”

  “No, unfortunately. I’m not getting help on this one—just me and five other men. That’s it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because people can’t make the tough decisions,” he answered cryptically. “They want to hide unpleasant things and act like they don’t exist. And some people even like the bad things and want them to continue. So, they use their power to do that.”

  “Ah, politicians, hm?”

  “Something like that,” he said, laughing.

  “Well, you got those five men.”

  “Yes.”

  “Five good men, I can tell. There’s a lot that five good, decent men can do in this world. And with you, that makes six.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You see, Falconer, they can’t take a stand for the innocent people,” she said, pointing an index finger for effect. “They are too soft or too concerned with retaining their power and prestige. They are too weak and afraid. They cannot make the difficult decisions that are necessary, and they need you to do it for them. You understand? They need you.”

  He sat back and thought about what she had just said and wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “They need you to step forward and do what is necessary,” she continued. “You. The city—the people out there on the streets and in the tenements—they need you, too. That’s why you joined the police and became a detective. But I think you already know that.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, perhaps. Thank you, Madame Benedetti.”

  “You be careful, Falconer,” she said, slowly turning back towards the counter. “But I know that you are ready for this job, whatever it is.”

  She then walked off and he sat quietly for a moment, contemplating what lay ahead and what he intended to do on this night. He reached into his pocket for some change and placed it on the table before him, and then stood up and walked out the door.

  Part III

  113

  The men up ahead were standing close together on the dimly lit sidewalk as Falconer approached them on Christopher Street. It was approximately ten minutes to nine and he could see that Waidler, Halloran, Winter, Kramer, and Schlager were ready at the appointed place and hour. He strolled up and waved and Waidler signaled for the others to gather.

  “Gentlemen,” Falconer said, “how are things?”

  “All stable, boss,” Waidler replied. “Very quiet and no signs of anyone going in.”

  “Well,” Falconer said, “clearly, if there is a meeting tonight, they’ll be entering from some other location.�
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  “Right,” Waidler said. “We’ve gone around the perimeter of the church a few more times and couldn’t find anything. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Falconer said. “We’ll find it eventually, and, in fact, I’ll bet it’s somewhere down near the wharves. You men ready?”

  The men nodded, and Winter held up a hammer and screwdriver he had procured at headquarters. “Took care of the door lock over there, as you asked, boss,” he said. “It’s open.”

  “Thanks, Winter,” Falconer said. “And your weapons are ready?”

  “Yeah,” Waidler said, walking into the middle of the group. “We’ll have Schlager and Kramer here with the rifles, standing just down inside these two stairwells for cover.” He pointed to a couple of stone stairwells that led down from the sidewalk to the basements of two adjoining buildings, then directed Falconer’s attention to a large pile of heavy burlap bags that stood like a small pyramid off the curb ten feet away. “Winter and I will be at either end of that pile of sacks with the shotguns,” he continued. “And finally, Jimmy here will be down at the corner with his revolvers.”

  “Good,” Falconer said. “As I’ve mentioned, I don’t know how things will turn out tonight, but you just need to be ready in case they come out from their hideout and appear up here on the street. You are to arrest any of them who show their face, but if they raise their weapons in any way, shoot them. Understand?”

  The men all nodded in unison, and then Waidler spoke again: “I really think you should reconsider your plan to go down there alone, boss. It’s too unsafe.”

  “I know what you’re saying, James,” Falconer replied, “but we can’t risk being found out too soon if a few of us go down together. I’ll be careful, as I’ve said, and I’ll only try to roust them. But your point is well taken.” He then turned and looked across the street at the unfinished church. “Well, it’s about time, I suppose,” he said. “I’m going to head over now. Good luck to you all and stay alert.”