Philadelphia Noir

by Carlin Romano

  At that moment, Martha turned her back on us all, took Becky’s arm, and began to stroll away. Kelman brought up the rear of the trio, keeping a slight distance between himself and the ladies so they could discuss Becky’s future in private. At least that’s the way the tableau appeared.

  “You bitch. See what you done? All this woo-woo shit? The actors think you’re a loony-tunes too. They put court orders or somethin’ on weirdos like you. You better hope they’re not headin’ off to find a cop.”

  I would have argued with the jerk, but I was worried he might take out his anger on my dog. Besides, he had a child with him. He began to trot after Thomas Kelman.

  “Hey, buddy, I’ll make it worth your while. All of yous. The kid likes this stage-type shit, what can I say? Just finish up what you started before that kooky dame started bustin’ your chops. I’m no sensitive Sally; if your friend wants to off her hubby, that’s fine by me. Hey, maybe I could help yous out with that … Audience input, you know? I know some guys … Hey, what can I say? Connected. Know what I mean?”

  Kelman didn’t answer, which tickled the hairy charmer to no end. “Yous guys are good! It’s like you don’t even hear me. I could use that on the missus. I can’t yak now, hon, I’m acting.” He chortled as he and his kid chugged to keep pace. Then the boy, who was half as tall as his father and a quarter his heft, began to complain about being hungry. “All right already. So we’ll quit. You wanna quit? Let’s do it.” There was kindness in his voice. Playfully, he cuffed his son on his skinny shoulder. “Who’s the boss?”

  It wasn’t a question, but the boy replied with a pleased and chirpy: “Me, Pop.”

  “You bet.”

  The pair started to amble south toward Walnut Street while the remainder of the audience dispersed, rebuking both me and the cast with varying levels of indignation. There’s nothing like canceling a free performance to get people’s dander up. My failed effort at city boosterism made me want to slog home and return to the pitiless computer screen. It may be a harsh critic, but it’s a silent one. Despite my bruised ego, I stuck close to my mystical pals, waiting for an opportunity for a private dialogue. Which, if you think about it, could have turned into a ventriloquist’s monologue/pantomime.

  I didn’t get the chance for a confab, though, because William Taitt rushed onto the scene, charging in from 4th Street and almost barreling into the parent-child duo. The electric streetlamps hadn’t yet winked on, so visibility was reduced. Fortunately, Dad spotted Taitt as he strode forward, oblivious to anyone but himself. It was clear that Becky’s husband was infuriated, and that decorum had been thrown to the winds. As he drew closer, it was equally apparent that he was inebriated. I’m sorry to say that’s sometimes the case with William Taitt. I blame myself.

  Becky, my brave Becky, blanched and turned her head away as if expecting a blow. Martha squared her shoulders, preparing to give Taitt a piece of her mind. Kelman stepped forward to block the man’s approach.

  “Kee-rist,” the father gushed while his son burbled an impressed: “Cool.”

  “Didja see the guy’s shoes? High heels. Like a dame’s. I’m tellin’ you, this is somethin’ you’ll never forget. Them dopes that left early are missing a real good show. NYC don’t have nothin’ like this. You’d pay big bucks up there for an act like this.”

  Parent and child returned to the center of the action while Taitt bore down upon his wife. As always, he was dressed in the latest style: the shoes that had caught the dad’s attention as well as a plum-colored jacket and trousers the hue of a fawn’s soft hide. The piping around his coat’s lapels was syenite-blue. Were he a few years younger, Taitt would have been viewed as a dandy. His hair beneath his hat was wild, however, and his shirt and cravat askew.

  “You make a mockery of me, wife,” he seethed. “I won’t permit it. And hiding behind your Amazon warrior. Mistress Martha Beale’s no mythic queen who’ll guard you from—”

  “Have done, Mr. Taitt,” was Kelman’s quiet command, which drew immediate ire from Becky’s drunken husband.

  “Do you dare to countermand me, sir? This is a private matter. I insist you—”

  “And I insist you behave in a civil manner toward your wife and Miss Beale—”

  “Civil, Mr. Kelman. I doubt you understand the meaning of the word. You, a mere Johnny-jump-up who hopes to pluck golden coins from your heiress while laying her in your feathered nest. Here hen, hen, hen. Produce some shiny eggs for me, pray do.” He attempted to push past Kelman, who stood his ground. The scar on his left cheek twitched; his hands curled themselves into fists.

  “William, please. Desist. I’ll come home presently—”

  Naturally, Martha objected. “Becky, what did you just tell us? Besides, remember the pain he has inflicted in the past under similar circumstances. I won’t allow you to be battered again.” She put a protective arm around her friend’s shoulder, which further enraged Taitt.

  “You three can go to the devil! I’m William Taitt. My family built this city. I won’t be denied my conjugal rights.”

  “Your rights don’t include assault, sir.” This from Martha, which drew a sneering condemnation from Taitt: “How would you, a spinster, know anything about marital rights, madam? Or fornication, unless it’s with a—?”

  “Taitt. Silence—”

  “Lay a hand on me, Kelman, and I’ll make certain you’re hounded from the city. I am aware that you are in the mayor’s employ, but his relationship with me is one of friendship and camaraderie.”

  You may wonder where was I while this altercation unfolded. The truth is that I stood stock-still and slack-jawed. My characters speaking for themselves? Carried along by their own volition? Like the father and son, I watched the scene in silence.

  “I’m waiting, wife. You have a child at home, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t, William. How could I?”

  “Ah, contrition, Becky … A new guise. But I think not spoken with sufficient sorrow.”

  “My sorrow is in seeing you under the influence of drink. You make a spectacle of yourself in front of our friends—”

  “You call these people friends? Well, I do not. And I won’t have my spouse hectoring me.” He held her arm tightly as he spoke.

  Martha snatched at his sleeve when he attempted to lead Becky away; Kelman grabbed Taitt’s shoulder. Kelman’s fingers may be as long and tapered as a pianist’s, but he’s accustomed to using force when necessary. He’s also tall; when roused he appears taller and even more imposing. Becky’s husband looked puny beside him, as if his fine garments were sturdier than his limbs.

  “Let her go, Taitt. Your threats have run their course. She told you she’d return in due time.”

  “I ordered you not to touch me, Kelman.” At that, William Taitt yanked a pistol from his jacket, a new derringer manufactured in the Northern Liberties. If you’re a history buff, you’re familiar with the weapon and its eponymous inventor. If not, this is no time for an aside on the Gold Rush of ’49, or the romance of the Old West. Deringer, Henry. Look him up.

  When the gun was whipped out, everyone except Taitt froze. This included the dad and kid. I was already doing my zombie impression.

  “Not quite the cock-of-the-walk, are you now, Mister Kelman? Unhand me at once, or I’ll do some damage.” Taitt waved the shiny weapon aloft, pointing randomly at the purplish sky. “This is no fowling piece, I assure you. Oh, I know, gentlemen don’t arm themselves on our city streets, but you see, I’m in the vanguard of taste. I set style, I don’t follow it. Who knows, someday derringers like mine may become de rigueur accessories like hats or walking sticks or ladies’ parasols. I intend to have my wife obey me.” He lowered the gun to shoulder height and smiled. “Don’t think I’m not sincere. The pistol’s loaded.”

  With that he discharged it, the retort so loud that even the pigeons accustomed to backfiring motorcycles and belching city buses flapped upward in alarm. Above the bank, the starless air filled wit
h the frantic flutterings of their wings. I watched them circling, as black and swift as bats; then I heard a groan and the thud of a body falling while Becky implored: “William, don’t.” Her voice was now whisper-soft, an echo of what it had been. “I’ll do as you say.”

  My focus returned to earth, but she and my embattled creations had vanished. In their place was nothing, no muzzy wavering of ectoplasmic matter, no faint entreaties from on high. Night had descended, but it wasn’t darkness that hid my friends from view. They were simply gone, as if they’d never stood on the soil in front of me.

  “Don’t leave,” I whispered, but my plea was too late. However those four had managed to materialize, they’d chosen the same means of escape.

  “Coo-ool,” the boy said. “Dad, that was waaay cool.” He stood beside his father, who was now lying on the pebblestones, facedown, his head inches from the entrance steps to the Second Bank. The child’s expression as he gazed at his father’s prone form couldn’t have been prouder. Reflecting the glow of an exterior floodlight, the boy’s eyes shone white and enormous.

  “Blood and everything. Wow. Just like on TV. It’s on the dirt too. How’d you guys do that? Like, how’d you know he was gonna shoot you, and not the other dude? Wait’ll I tell the kids on the block. Wow. Mom’s gonna be pissed about your shirt, but hey, it’s like reality TV. Or something, right? I’ll tell her the badass dude with the gun did it. All right? That’s what we’ll tell her, okay? I mean, she won’t care if it’s like a famous person who made a mess. Dad? You can get up now. The other actors left. It’s just the crazy lady and me. Dad? Hey, Dad.”

  THE RATCATCHER

  BY GERALD KOLPAN

  South Street

  Finlayson blinked in the sun. He would normally be asleep at close to ten in the morning, but old Mitford had told him to make the sacrifice. Whoever it was that wanted him was willing to pay, and as Finlayson needed to pay Mitford, he was keeping the appointment in both their interests.

  Standing outside the Hippodrome, Finlayson realized he had never been inside it, or any other theater. But then, entertainment cost money and there wasn’t much of that in his line of work. He figured that any week he could keep his belly from talking and get drunk enough to stand his life, he was on velvet. Play-actors and Chautauqua speakers were for Rittenhouse Square ladies and fairy boys, anyway. Besides, he did his business at night when they did theirs, and his quarry wasn’t about to wait around while he sat through the last act of Alice Sit-by-the-Fire.

  Until today, Finlayson’s routine had seldom varied: he woke at three in the afternoon, made up his pallet on the floor of Mitford’s stable, and ate a buttered roll purchased from Kelem’s delicatessen the night before. Then he grabbed his canvas duck bag and headed for the Franklin Refinery docks. This was, in his opinion, the place to find the city’s best rats, fed on the sugar that came in from Cuba until their small eyes fairly crusted over.

  Last night had been good. His traps contained four large brown captives, all alive and fit to kill. The average Norway weighed about a pound, but you could always count on a Franklin rat to go four to eight ounces more than that. They were lively fellows too: full of sugar for energy and fresh vegetables for strength and stamina. He always said that a Franklin rat was the king of the Delaware, able to jump right from the river to a ship’s deck or swim across to Camden using only its tail as an engine. Putting one end of each trap into the bag, he tripped a spring to open its gate and dumped the screaming occupants inside. The sack vibrating like a saloon on election night, he walked down Delaware Avenue to Pemberton Street and turned left into Pier 34. Once inside, he made his way to the office of Jimmy O’Mara.

  Jimmy ran what was probably the last rat-baiting operation in Pennsylvania, maybe the last in America. On Wednesday nights, he would welcome between fifty and sixty diehards to his pit in an unused storeroom. The first hour was devoted to beer and whiskey, so by the time the trainers arrived, they were greeted with whistles and applause. As the men cursed and cheered, each trainer would place his dog on a cargo scale to be weighed. Jimmy would then step to the edge of the pit and deposit a corresponding number of rats onto its dirt floor. If the dog weighed fifteen pounds, he would fight fifteen rats; twenty pounds, twenty rats, and so on. Based on each dog’s reputation and breeding, the spectators would place bets on the amount of time it would take for the dog to kill all the rats. The man who came closest won.

  Finlayson’s rats were highly prized for their size and ferocity and Jimmy could always count on them to go down fighting, lunging at an eye or tearing at an ear.

  Ordinarily there was not a word exchanged between O’Mara and Finlayson. The ratcatcher unloaded his prisoners into a large barrel and Jimmy counted them. He paid twentyfive cents for each one, thirty-five if a rat was particularly large and aggressive.

  His earnings in his pocket, Finlayson nodded and left. He crossed Delaware Avenue and walked up Kenilworth Street to Front, arriving at the Schooner Tavern just as Henry Kulky was opening up. He sat down at the bar, downed two double whiskeys and a beer, and ate whatever sandwich Kulky felt like making. He paid, walked up Bainbridge to 3rd, and returned to the stable. Mitford usually just grunted at him and collected the twenty cents that was his night’s rent. But today, the old man actually spoke to him.

  “You know where the Hippodrome the-a-ter is?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Don’t crack wise with me, Fin,” Mitford said. “I’ll shovel you out of here with the rest of the horseshit.”

  “Yeah, I know where it is,” Finlayson said, “up 6th and South.”

  “Well, that bum Bobby Monoldo was in here last night. I figured he was gonna try and put the bite on me so I was ready to chuck him into the street, but he said he had some info for you. That you was to show up at the Hippodrome ’round ten in the a.m. and that if you did, a guy there would make it worth your while.”

  “He say who this guy was?”

  “Didn’t I just get finished tellin’ ya what he tol’ me? That’s what he said. No names, no numbers, no angels singing alleluia. And if that’s not enough, mebbe you should hire a secretary.”

  “Okay,” Fin said. “I guess I ain’t got time to clean up.”

  Mitford laughed. “Ten o’clock’s in ten minutes. Cleaning you up would take until St. Patty’s. No, I’d say you ain’t got time to get dainty. I’d say you should get the fuck out of here.”

  Now, Finlayson looked up at the huge marquee. It was the kind that had giant letters bolted to a framework attached to the building’s archway. He figured that the letters spelled out Hippodrome, but the only word he could read was printed boldly on all of the exterior posters: RATS.

  He walked up to a tired-looking woman sitting inside the box office. She was reading a copy of Aunt Sally’s Policy Player’s Dream Book.

  “My name’s Finlayson,” he said. “Somebody here wants to see me.”

  The woman glanced up from the book and immediately remembered the days when someone like this would never have been allowed near the Hippodrome, not even to haul away the garbage. Her mouth turned down in disgust at the torn coat and blackened shirt collar, the matted red hair and filthy hands. She could smell him through the glass of the booth.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’s expected. Go t’ru the lobby and where it says Lounge, head downstairs. Make a right and you’ll see another sign says, Artistes. Walk t’ru that and it’s the first door. Don’t talk to none of the patrons.”

  Fin did as instructed. He walked quickly past the few customers milling about, waiting for the eleven o’clock matinee. When he got to the bottom of the steps he spotted the sign and opened the heavy iron door.

  The first thing he saw in the corridor was a rat. It was dressed in what looked like red and gold silk. Almost by instinct, Finlayson jumped toward it. In the old days before he could afford traps, he caught hundreds of rats with his bare hands. Terrified, the rodent scurried through the first door on the left. Fin followed i
t into what appeared to be a dingy dressing room, just in time to watch it vault into the lap of a man sitting in an old caned chair.

  Had he been standing, the guy probably would have measured only five-three or -four, but he had the confident air of a man twice his size. He wore a splendid suit of brown gabardine intersected with thick chalk stripes. His pale blue waistcoat was of silk floral brocade and his dark blue necktie was stuck with a good-sized sapphire. Black patent leather shoes peeked out from gray buttoned spats and his left hand rested on a silver-headed cane. Sitting on his shoulder, his arm, both his thighs, and the crown of his cream-colored Stetson were rats; each one attired similarly to the first, in shining silks of multiple colors. On closer inspection Finlayson noticed that every tiny outfit bore a number on its back.

  “Ah, thank you for coming. I see you’ve already met Commodore Dutch. My name is Professor Alois Swain. If you are indeed Mr. Finlayson, then I am the one who sent for you.”

  Commodore Dutch peeked out from beneath Swain’s jacket and then turned and ducked inside.

  “You, sir, come highly recommended,” Swain continued. “I have been told in every saloon along this fine thoroughfare that you are Philadelphia’s finest rat man.”

  “Thanks, mister, ” Finlayson said, “but it looks like you’re doing pretty well along that line.”

  Swain frowned. “As of now, yes. But these few little fellows may not always be sufficient for the daily practice of my art.”

  “Art? What, do you draw them or something?”

  Swain laughed. “No, Mr. Finlayson, I am not that kind of artist. But even though I do not sculpt or paint, the adage remains true—one picture is worth a thousand words. So if you will be kind enough to accompany me onto the spacious stage of the Hippodrome, I will be only too happy to illustrate for you that which has made me and my little charges a household name amongst those who demand the unusual in their entertainment.”