by Allan Levine
“Is it broke?”
“Don’t know.” Connolly spit a yellowish brown spew on to the road near Paddy’s boot. “I got here at about noon with Little Philly and Punk Tyler. About thirty minutes later, those damn Orangemen arrived with their banners and flags. There must’ve been a hundred of them. And behind them were soldiers cheering them on. As soon as they started singing the bloody Star Spangled Banner, the men and even some women beside us started throwing bricks and stones at them. And then all hell broke loose.” He paused to spit again. “The soldiers began firing at us. I don’t know what happened to Philly or Punk. I got clubbed on my arm with a bloody rifle butt. Lucky for me I had a bottle in my hand. Smashed it right over the arsehole’s head. Then I decided to take cover over here.”
“Damn it. Didn’t Fowler say there’d be no soldiers or police? That we’d be safe. That’s why the women came out.”
“I guess even the Boss can be wrong or maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” asked Paddy.
“Maybe Fowler lied to us.”
Paddy shook his head. “Why’d he do a thing like that? Mr. Fowler’s a great man, the greatest there ever was. He’s always taken care of us. Why would he ever lie?”
Frank Connolly laughed. “Paddy, you’re just a stupid Irish truckman. Now, help me up.”
The streets were quieter by the time Paddy found his way back to Queenie and his cart. He had taken Connolly to a nearby saloon. There was a barkeep named Shaw. He said he would have one of his boys fetch a madam he knew who could mend Connolly’s arm.
Before he left his friend, Paddy gulped down a glass of whiskey and then another.
“You can take the bottle with you if you want,” Shaw offered with all the sincerity the barkeep could muster.
“Probably not a bad idea,” said Paddy, his hand shaking. “But I better keep my wits about me today.”
Paddy had seen many people killed before—stabbed in bar fights, beaten to death in gang brawls, even shot at point-blank range over a stupid argument in a card game. Yet, the image of the dead woman stabbed by the soldier was stuck in his head.
Queenie was exactly where he left her. Paddy was climbing aboard his wagon, when he heard a rustling sound on the other side of the horse. He clenched his fists.
“Who goes there? Show yourself,” he commanded.
A young boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen years of age, dressed in raggedy pants and a torn filthy blue shirt, stepped from behind Queenie.
“Get away from my nag,” ordered Paddy. “What you doing here, kid?” he said more firmly.
“Hiding. Hiding from the soldiers and police,” said the boy looking downward.
“You hurt?”
The boy shook his head. “I came to throw a bottle at those bloody Orangemen. I hate’m all.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“You the truckman, Paddy Tritt, aren’t you?”
Paddy gestured to the sign with his name on the side of the wagon. “Don’t you read, lad?”
The boy didn’t answer him. “Speak up, kid,” said Paddy, his voice rising. “What the hell are you really doing here? You got shit for brains? You’ll feel my knuckles in a moment.”
“Name is Corkie,” the boy interjected, more bravely. “I was hiding, mister. Honest. But I also got a job for you. I was told you’re reliable.”
Paddy stepped down from the wagon. “You got a job for me? Is that right?” He sized the boy up and down. “You got five dollars? Because I don’t work for free, if that’s what you’re after.”
The boy reached into his pants pocket. He held a crisp five-dollar bill in his greasy fingers. He handed it to Paddy, who grabbed it.
“Where do you get that kind of money, kid? You steal it? I don’t want no trouble from the cops. Not after today.”
“I didn’t steal it and there’s another five for you when the job’s done.”
Paddy stared hard at the boy. Ten dollars was about as much as he could make in a very good month of business. “What do I have to do?”
Corkie climbed up on to the wagon. “I have to show you. Let’s go.”
Paddy shrugged and climbed up beside the boy. “Where to, sir?” he asked with a sly smile.
Corkie chuckled. “Turn around and head down toward the corner of Broadway and Broome. You know where that is?”
“Shit, kid, you think I’m a dumb Croppie? I’ve been to places in this city you’ll never see. You come with me down by the docks, I’ll introduce you to a few of my friends,” said Paddy laughing. “How old are you, boy?”
“Fourteen,” mumbled Corkie.
“You ever tasted sweet cunny before? Ever had your hands on a pair of teets?” His grin widened. “I’d bet not. Once this job is finished, maybe I’ll take you to see this gal I know. Her name’s Bridget. She’s got big eyes and long dark hair.” Paddy whistled. “She can cure any ailment I know of.”
Paddy reached under his seat and pulled out a small box. “Here. Hold on to these for a moment,” he said handing the reins to Corkie. “Don’t pull too hard, Queenie knows where she’s going.”
“I’ve led a wagon before, mister.”
“I’m sure you have, but you got to keep your eyes opened down Broadway. There’s liable to be some damn fool trying to cross the avenue when he shouldn’t. Or there’s cripples and stray dogs to watch out for.” He opened the box and took out two thin cigars. He lit his own and grabbed the reins back from Corkie. “Have one of these. About the best you can buy for a nickel.”
Corkie took the cigar, lit it and inhaled sharply. Immediately he started coughing uncontrollably. Paddy roared with laughter as he urged Queenie on toward their destination.
Corkie instructed Paddy to park his wagon in an alley off Broome Street, next to a two-story red-brick building—Anthony’s Carriage Supplies.
The building was squeezed between the neighborhood’s infamous tenements, where Paddy knew thousands of immigrants—most of whom were Irish like him—lived in the most crowded and fetid of conditions. He had seen the despair with his own eyes when he had recently visited Joseph Walker’s home. Walker was a pleasant enough fellow, who assisted truckmen loading and unloading freight at the St. John’s Square Station.
About three weeks ago, after an unusually busy day, Paddy had driven Walker home and could not refuse an invitation to join him for a drink. Walker and his family of six lived in a run-down tenement on Prince Street. They had one room and a small alcove where Walker’s wife, Frances, sewed dresses. With so many people in such a tiny space, it was impossibly crowded and even more so in the summer heat. The stench from the excessive garbage and manure in the streets below wafted throughout the building making Paddy even more uncomfortable. He drank his glass of whiskey quickly that day, fearful of contracting the consumption that the tenements were famous for spreading.
“You know what I’m supposed to haul?” Paddy asked Corkie. But he wasn’t heard.
Out and about on Broome Street there was a lot of commotion from the small army of men making their away along the cobblestone road with their pushcarts filled with food, fruit, cloth and metal utensils. Even noisier were the newsies—young boys hawking newspapers—as well as an assortment of girls selling flowers. Paddy glanced at one pretty lass with a green dress. He figured she could not have been more than fourteen years old and like the rest of them likely worked at a nearby brothel for such well-known madams as Red Light Lizzie and Hester Jane Haskins.
“What am I supposed to haul?” he repeated, shouting.
This time Corkie heard him. He nodded, but remained silent, and instead beckoned Paddy to follow him. Corkie threw down what remained of his cigar and stomped into the mud. Muttering, Paddy stepped down, lightly patted Queenie on her nose, and trailed after the boy into the alley. There were pieces of broken glass and furniture scattered about. Suddenly, Corkie stopped at a dilapidated wooden shed. He pointed to a black medium-sized trunk with a rope tied around it.
“Yeah, I see it. Now
what?”
“Here’s what I’m supposed to tell you,” the boy whispered. “You’re to deliver this trunk to the Hudson River Railroad Depot by three o’clock,” the boy continued, louder. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Paddy.
“What the hell is this?” He glanced at the card. It was a ticket for the eight o’clock train to Chicago. “What am I to do with this?”
“Show it to the baggage master. Deliver the trunk. Tell him the passenger, an old lady, will be by at about seven-thirty. Then, leave the check he gives you with a beggar who’ll be near the main door to the depot.”
“With the beggar?” asked Paddy. “That’s what I’m to do?”
“That’s right. His name’s Flint. He’s an old soldier, bald with a silvery moustache and bushy side-whiskers. You’ll see him, but don’t shit yourself. Just hand it to him and he’ll give you the rest what’s owed to you.”
“Sounds kind of peculiar to me.”
“Trust me, old man, Flint’ll give you another five when the job’s done.”
Paddy stared at the boy for a moment. He had to admit the kid had as much pluck as he had when he was that age. “I’ve delivered just about everything in this city,” said Paddy. “Chairs, tables, even a piano from Steinways to a fancy house on Fifth. But this is the strangest job I’ve ever had. You know what’s in the trunk, boy?”
“No, mister, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I’m being paid to talk to you and then keep my mouth closed.” At that, the boy turned and ran back toward Broome Street.
“Hold on,” yelled Paddy. “I could use some help lifting this damn thing.”
He kicked the trunk and tried picking it up. “Not too heavy,” he mumbled. “What I do for cash.”
He wiped his hands clean, grabbed hold of the trunk, and lifted it up off the ground. It was, in fact, heavier than he thought and had an unpleasant odor. As he loaded it on to his wagon, he thought nothing more about it. He climbed up on the driver’s seat, took hold of the reins, and got Queenie moving again.
An hour later Paddy was parked outside the Hudson River Railroad Depot on Thirtieth Street and Ninth Avenue. He was greeted by the usual hubbub of travelers, street vendors, cartmen, truckmen, and carriages. Paddy did exactly what Corkie had told him to. He unloaded the trunk and delivered it to the baggage master inside the station house. He handed him the ticket to Chicago and explained that the owner of the trunk, an elderly lady, would be by at 7:30 in the evening to retrieve it. The baggage master handed him a check, as was routine.
“There’s a strong smell coming from that trunk,” said the baggage master, a short and stout fellow with a white moustache and a full General Grant style beard. “You know what’s in it, rotten food or something of that sort?”
“I was paid to deliver the trunk, that’s what I’m doing.”
“All right, off with you.”
Paddy exited the station, bit off a piece of tobacco and scanned the street for this beggar named Flint. He spotted him by a line of carriages and wagons down the street.
“You Flint?” asked Paddy, as he approached him. For a beggar, Paddy thought he looked rather neat and clean. Like other veterans of the Civil War who took to begging on the streets, he wore a dusty blue uniform. Yet his moustache and side-whiskers were trimmed and he appeared to have all of his limbs. He wore a grey Confederate kepi that was pulled down over his eyes.
“You have the baggage check?” Flint grunted. His voice was deep and gruff.
Paddy handed him the piece of paper. “Now the rest of my money.”
“Don’t spend it on whiskey. Irish scum. You’re ruining this city.” He threw a five-dollar bill at Paddy’s face.
“You’re a shit-sack, anyone ever tell you that?” Paddy picked the money off the ground.
With a deft movement that caught Paddy by surprise, Flint pulled out a knife from his overcoat pocket. It had a black handle and its razor-sharp blade glistened in the sun. He grabbed Paddy by the collar and poked the knife hard against the bottom of the truckman’s chin.
“I’d advise to you mind what you say, otherwise they’ll be one less Irishman to kick around. Now get the hell out of my sight.”
Paddy drew back and without another word walked back towards his wagon.
Flint placed the knife back under his coat along with the rail check. As soon as Paddy was out of sight, he headed north toward the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street and Eighth Avenue. A driver and a private stage with pearl handles on the doors, pulled by two fine black horses, were waiting for him. He climbed in and immediately the driver snapped the reins. The horses turned east on Thirty-Fourth heading toward Fifth Avenue.
It was about five o’clock when the baggage master’s curiosity finally got the better of him. The stench from the trunk had become unbearable. Other passengers were clearly uncomfortable and more than one of his porters wondered if they should allow the trunk on the eight o’clock train.
“Lift it down and put it on the ground,” the baggage master commanded two of his men. He examined the trunk for a moment, cut the rope with a knife, and opened it. The strong smell almost overwhelmed him.
“So what do you see?” asked one of the baggage men.
“A red quilt.”
“That it?”
The baggage master reached for the quilt and opened it up.
He covered his mouth. “For the love of Jesus.”
“What is it? Let me see.”
Both baggage men moved forward and gingerly peered over the top of the open trunk. “God damn,” said one of them.
Inside was the naked body of a woman. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and her feet were twisted. It was as if she had been folded in half. Her long blonde hair swept around the bottom part of her face. But her eyes were wide open. This poor girl died in a terrible fright, the baggage master thought. He noticed, too, that there were no bruises on the body. He peeked a little more closely and abruptly stepped back when he saw the splotches of dry blood at the bottom of the trunk.
“Go fetch the police,” the baggage master ordered one of his men. “And hurry.”
Chapter Two
AT FOX’S WEEKLY
Charles St. Clair would have conceded that he did not look his best. He thought that if he wore his finest black suit, white shirt, and tapered vest, along with his summer white derby, no one would notice. He was fooling himself. His right eye was plainly black and blue and his face more than a bit banged up. He was thirty-five-years old, lean and trim, but he looked a little older on this day.
“Mr. St. Clair, my word, what happened to you?” asked Molly, as she rose from her chair.
Molly Lee warmly greeted each and every writer and client who stepped into the offices of Fox’s Weekly. She was twenty-seven, never married, and had been working at the magazine for more than three years.
“I had a bit of an accident, I’m afraid,” replied St. Clair. “I could tell you that I fell down the stairs at my flat.”
She smiled. “I suppose you could,” she said softly. Molly was not a beautiful or striking woman, yet she did possess a quiet attractive quality that St. Clair found impossible to ignore. She sounded as gentle as she always did, like a mother hen tending her chicks.
He trusted her discretion. He also knew that Molly would never pry into his private affairs nor was she prone to gossip—a noble characteristic in New York City, where in St. Clair’s experience, everyone talked behind his neighbor’s back if given the opportunity. At the same time, he could not stand there and lie to her.
“I’m afraid my poor luck at the poker table last night got me into a difficult predicament,” he said without hesitating. “You don’t have to tell me how foolish this looks.” St. Clair’s face reddened ever so slightly.
“You know I’d never do that, Mr. St. Clair. But you should take better care of yourself. There are people around here who care about your welfare.”
St. Clair smiled. “Your concern is much appreciated. T
ruly. And I shall make every effort to be more careful in the future.”
“Wonderful,” said Molly. “You’ve always been a man of your word, Mr. St. Clair. Now why don’t you see Mr. Fox and I shall prepare you a cup of tea.”
“An excellent idea, Molly. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“Your kindness and good sense. It’s a rare attribute, in my view.”
She smiled warmly at him.
In fact, St. Clair greatly appreciated the fact that Molly did not launch into a preachy Sunday school lecture about the evils of gambling. He knew all too well that he had shown poor judgment in this matter. And the consequences had been an altercation the previous evening with Captain Jack Martin, the meanest and most vicious thug in Hell’s Kitchen.
His dilemma now, and it was a ticklish situation indeed, was to find the money and get Martin out of his life. Perhaps his luck at the poker table would change—it couldn’t get much worse.
Until about a month ago, faro had been his game of choice. It was the most popular way to gamble in the city. St. Clair generally preferred a high-class gaming establishment on Park Row, where amidst exquisite paintings and rosewood furniture he could enjoy himself with fine food, whiskey, cigars, the company of some of the most beautiful women in the city, and the excitement of the game.
Yet St. Clair had had a terrible run of bad luck—he was simply unable to pick the winning cards no matter what he did. And so, after due consideration, he had opted for poker, a game that was becoming more fashionable. He reasoned that if he sat in on a game at Martin’s saloon, his luck would have to change. He always had been able to take care of himself, although he often carried a pistol with him when he ventured into one of New York’s many squalid neighborhoods.
Still, in retrospect, he realized that in his imprudent desperation to succeed, he had overestimated his abilities. His inexperience at poker proved costly. He had lost $1,500 in the past two days, betting far too much on cards he believed he could win with. Holding three jacks, he thought he had a winning hand and had foolishly borrowed money from Martin to increase his bet. Everyone around the table stayed in the game during this round, even those players he later discovered—curiously enough—were holding lousy cards. The pot was worth a few thousand dollars by the time the betting stopped. He was sure it was all his. Yet he was beaten by one of Martin’s cronies, who was holding three kings. His losses mounted.
