Evil of the Age

by Allan Levine

  St. Clair finally reached the corner of Water and Dover. Pushing his way past several drunken sailors, he descended the stairs into the Hole-in-the-Wall. A thick cloud of smoke greeted him, along with the stench of stale beer and rowdy noise peppered with a dozen different expletives. He looked around.

  Groups of unsavory characters huddled around tables in various parts of the saloon. Most of them had not touched a razor in weeks and bathing he guessed was certainly not part of their monthly routine. You only had to come within a few feet of any group to be hit with the pungent odors of human sweat and grime. Most of the men were embroiled in heated conversations, undoubtedly conducting some illegal transactions, thought St. Clair as he further scanned the surroundings.

  The Hole-in-the-Wall, as St. Clair and any journalist worth his salt knew, was notorious as the meeting place of thieves and fences, where stolen goods could be traded or sold. The unwritten rule here was that no man took his eyes off of his drink or turned his back. Because if you weren’t paying attention, someone was liable to slip knockout drops into your beer and, before you knew what happened you’d find yourself beaten, naked, and robbed in a nearby alley thanking God you were still alive.

  Along the far side of the room was the bar. A collection of unpleasant men stood drinking, smoking, and cursing. Beside them were several of the most unappealing harlots St. Clair had ever seen. Their dresses, if that’s what you could call the rags they wore, were filthy and their hair was stringy. Two of them were barefoot, while another one had her large right breast out—it nearly touched the top of the bar—easily accessible to men who cared to fondle it for a free drink and a few coins. The conversations among several of the patrons were loud and punctuated with finger pointing and pushing. Many of the men had their knives showing, tucked into their pants. He figured that nearly everyone in the place had a weapon of some sort.

  Standing behind the bar in all her glory was the Hole-in-the-Wall’s most infamous personality. St. Clair didn’t know her real name and didn’t care to. Everyone called her Gallus Mag, since she used gallus to hold up her skirt.

  She was unlike any woman in the city St. Clair had ever seen. She towered above six feet, had a long nose and large ears. St. Clair always thought she resembled an angry hound dog.

  He eyed the crowd, searching for his informant. After a few moments he found the man he was looking for in a corner of the saloon. Frank King was sitting at a table away from the main crowd.

  “You trying to get us both killed?” asked St. Clair, taking the chair opposite King. “Needless to say this isn’t one of my favorite drinking establishments.”

  “Just don’t stare at anyone. They won’t bother you. They’re too busy fighting with each other to pay attention to the likes of us. I needed to ensure that absolutely no one of consequence would see us together.” He sipped from a mug of beer.

  “Why? You think Fowler knows you’ve been talking to me?” St. Clair wiped the sweat from his palms.

  “I’m not certain, but Harrison has been asking me far too many questions lately. That last story you did about the initial courthouse contract and the reference to the amount of money that plasterer McWilliams might have to pay to complete the job made him angrier than I’ve ever seen him. He was swearing like a sailor. Sooner or later, he and Fowler are going to figure it out. Only so many people are privy to this information. To be honest, I’m surprised that they haven’t come after me yet.”

  Frank King was more stoical than usual. He was a tall thin man, clean-shaven, with a full head of light brown wavy hair. It had long struck St. Clair that he hardly fit the image of a dreary and sober bookkeeper.

  “You certain you want to talk in here?” asked St. Clair.

  Before King could reply, a knife fight broke out between a young man and a whore on the other side of the room. Immediately, the saloon erupted in screaming and shouting as a circle formed around the combatants.

  King motioned for St. Clair to follow him through the back of the saloon just past the bar. Gallus Mag was already on her way to break up the altercation. She held her trusty bludgeon up high, preparing to strike.

  “Someone is either going to get their head busted or lose an ear, if she gets really angry,” shouted one patron.

  Other men hooted and hollered for Mag to add another ear or two to the collection she kept in a pickle jar on a high shelf beside the bar. No one paid attention as King and St. Clair exited through a side door.

  It was dark outside and the August air was thick. The alleyway behind the Hole-in-the-Wall reeked of filth and urine. St. Clair nearly stepped on a half-dead rat.

  “King, where in the hell are you taking me? Let’s finish our business before the rats get us.”

  King said nothing for a moment.

  “Frank, do you hear me?” St. Clair asked, louder.

  “Sorry, Charlie, I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.” He pulled a small parcel of papers tied together by a string from his coat pocket and handed it to St. Clair. “Here, this should keep you happy for this week’s issue.”

  “What is it?”

  “Details about the renovations just finished at Harlem Hall,” King explained.

  “You mean the old armory that Fowler turned into a church?”

  “Right. There’s facts and figures here about the purchase and sale of the armory’s benches. Fowler pocketed about one hundred thousand in the transaction, money that should’ve gone into the city’s accounts.”

  “All in a day’s work at city hall, I suppose. But I was hoping for something a little bigger.”

  “Jesus, Charlie, I’m sticking my neck out here, you know. If that bastard Fowler found out what I was doing—”

  “Hey, easy, Frank. I only meant that if you and I really want to drive him out of city hall, then we’re going to need something that shows what a crook Fowler has become. The sale of a few benches isn’t going to impress very many people,” St. Clair said more gently.

  “There is . . . there’s something else,” said King moving closer. “I’m not certain of all of the details.”

  “You mean the courthouse contracts?” St. Clair’s voice rose.

  “That’s worth a lot of money to him, but, no, not that. He’s working on some other scheme. I’ve caught a few conversations between Fowler and Harrison. Let me look into it and I’ll get a message to you in a few days.”

  “But what about . . . ?”

  “Charlie, I have to go. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Before St. Clair could reply, King scurried down the dark alley and was gone. That was strange, he thought, but no stranger than any of his dealings with King.

  He often wondered about King’s motives. After all, from what St. Clair understood, King had known Victor Fowler for many years—they had been neighbors before the Fowlers relocated to their Fifth Avenue mansion—and Fowler had mentored young King. As the Boss rose to power he brought King along with him. He arranged for King to apprentice in a bookkeeping firm on Wall Street and then installed him as the city’s chief accounting officer.

  Although he had never provided St. Clair with specific details, it was his impression that King had shared in the millions of dollars amassed by the Ring. He was married to a lovely woman named Amanda, who, from what St. Clair understood, was a close friend to Ellen Fowler.

  Then, something happened to turn King against Fowler. St. Clair had pried only once, but was rebuffed.

  “It’s a personal matter,” was all King would say about it. King had contacted St. Clair with a request for a meeting and had been revealing confidential information about Fowler and the Ring ever since.

  St. Clair put the package of documents inside his pants pocket and was reaching for the door handle that led back into the saloon when suddenly the door swung open.

  Standing in front of him was Jack Martin’s right-hand man, Johnny ‘Fats’ Kruger, a 350-pound German hooligan, feared and celebrated in the seedier parts of New York for gouging out the eyes o
f anyone who dared cross him. Behind him were two other thugs, one of whom St. Clair recognized as a card player from his poker game at Martin’s saloon.

  “The Captain decided he wants the money you owe him now,” said Kruger. He was standing close enough that St. Clair could smell his foul tobacco breath.

  “That’s not what I was told,” replied St. Clair, his voice cracking. Slowly he lowered his right hand towards the inside part of his jacket and reached for his belt where his pistol was tucked.

  “Yeah, the Captain makes the rules, you little asshole. And he says he wants the money right now or—”

  “Or what?” asked St. Clair, searching in the dark for a possible escape route.

  “Or I’m to bring him your eyes in this.” Kruger held up an empty whiskey bottle. The two men behind him snickered.

  St. Clair could now feel the cool steel of the gun inside his belt. He felt emboldened. “You tell Martin that he’ll get everything I owe plus his goddamn interest within two days. And if that’s not good enough then . . . then, he can fuck himself.”

  St. Clair did not know what came over him. He was seething with anger and was determined that he would not be beaten again by Kruger or anyone else. It was true that he was not a fighter, yet there wasn’t a man living in the city, who at one time or another did not have to defend himself—and with a weapon if necessary. In his own case, he had fired his pistol on three occasions in the last year, although he had missed two of his targets—a pair of knife-wielding pickpockets—and only winged the arm of a thief he had caught in his flat.

  “You’re more of a fool than I thought,” said Kruger with a grin. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Before St. Clair knew what hit him, Kruger had sent him reeling backwards with a hard punch to his stomach. He could hardly breathe.

  “Take him by the arms,” Kruger said to his two men. “I was just going to scare you, St. Clair. Just havin’ some fun. But now you’ve gone and made me mad.”

  The two thugs each grabbed one of St. Clair’s arms and yanked him up. Kruger held him by the collar of his jacket. He had just cocked his arm back, when from out of the dark a wooden club struck one of Kruger’s men on the head and then the other. They slumped on to the ground.

  “What the fuck is going on?” yelled Kruger.

  Sufficiently recovered, St. Clair reached for his pistol. Before Kruger could react, he had it pointed at his head. From behind the fat hooligan walked Frank King, holding a wooden club.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Kruger roared. “You cocksucker, I’ll kill you for this?”

  King said nothing. He held the club at his side.

  “Another word, you fucking Dutchie, and I’ll plug your head with a bullet,” said St. Clair, surprised at his own ability to sound threatening given the circumstances.

  “You’re not that much of a bottlehead,” sniggered Kruger.

  “You want find out who the real bottlehead is, go ahead,” St. Clair snapped back. Beneath his clothes, he was drenched in sweat.

  Kruger relaxed his arms.

  “You tell Martin that he’ll have his money like we agreed. Two days from now. It’ll be sent to the saloon.”

  “That’s what you want me tell him?”

  “Tell him what I said. Now take your two friends and get the hell out of my sight.”

  As Kruger pulled his two dazed men to their feet, St. Clair kept his pistol trained on Kruger’s head. “Back through the door, go on you.”

  When the door to the saloon slammed shut, he turned to King. He had begun to shake. “Frank, I’m in your debt. If you hadn’t come back—”

  “Easy, Charlie. Put that pistol away, I don’t think they’ll be back. I reached the end of the alley and then heard the noise. When I saw them grab you, I figured I had to do something. So I found this piece of wood. Who is he and why’s he after you?”

  “It’s a long and, I’m afraid, tedious tale. I owe his boss, the nefarious Captain Jack Martin, some money, and I haven’t quite determined how I’m going to solve my debt problems.”

  “You say he works for Jack Martin?” King had a puzzled look on his face.

  “Why? You know of him. He runs a saloon in Hell’s Kitchen. I should never have stepped into the place.” St. Clair sighed.

  “Fowler introduced me to him four days ago. He’s a real likeable fellow.”

  “Martin has had dealings with Fowler?” St. Clair shook his head in disbelief.

  “Of course,” said King. “You know as well as I do that Fowler has an army of thugs and shoulder-hitters working for him ensuring elections are rigged, and contracts and payments are made. The money’s got to keep flowing. Hell, you should see Harrison’s office on payday. There’s a line down the staircase and out the front door. Laborers, hooligans, thieves and other Paddys all come for their cash. But, to be honest, from the little I heard of their conversation my impression was that Martin and Fowler had some other business. Come on, we’d better leave before that German comes back with more of his friends.”

  St. Clair brushed himself off and returned his pistol to his belt. So Martin and Fowler were partners in some crooked scheme, he mused. Was it merely a coincidence that a few days after King had seen them together, he had lost money in a poker hand that he should’ve won? Maybe, just maybe, Fowler had conveniently arranged his poker losses. Then Fowler pays off his debts, as he had offered, and St. Clair would be beholden to him. The question was why? Why would Fowler go to so much trouble? What was he planning?

  St. Clair followed King back to Water Street, where the revelry had quieted down.

  “Frank, I want to thank you one more time,” said St. Clair. “If you had not shown up—”

  King shook his head. “You’d have done the same for me. Tell me, how are you going to find the money you owe Martin?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” said St. Clair with a hint of resignation.

  “Charlie, I think I can be of some assistance. But first, there’s something else I need to explain to you.”

  Chapter Six

  PADDY AND CORKIE

  Seth Murray glanced at Paddy Tritt out of the corner of his eye, trying to decide how tough an approach to take with the truckman. For a few moments he said nothing, allowing Paddy to sweat it out. He perused Patrolman Westwood’s report again, looking for something he may have missed.

  Late yesterday, and following several hours of investigation, Westwood had finally determined, after speaking with dozens of truck and cartmen, that the driver he was searching for was called Paddy Tritt, not Tripp, as the witness at the Hudson Depot had told him.

  Paddy, he had been told, usually parked his truck and horse at a stand on Twenty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. But when Westwood and several other patrolmen arrived at the corner in a police wagon, Paddy was nowhere to be found. Further discussions with other truckmen eventually led the police early this morning to a Five Points boarding house.

  Accompanied by two other patrolmen, Westwood had found Paddy’s truck and horse in a stable on Baxter Street not too far from the old Brewery in Five Points, where Murray knew that a man’s throat could be slit and no one would notice for months. Paddy was asleep inside the adjacent boarding house when Westwood and the other patrolmen barged into his small and sparsely furnished room. According to Westwood, Paddy reached for his knife, but one of the patrolmen knocked it out of his hands. He later claimed that he believed the police were thieves.

  As per Murray’s instructions, Westwood had brought Paddy to the Fifteenth Precinct for questioning and confiscated his cigarette packet and few coins he had in his pockets.

  “Paddy, you’re not charged with any crime,” Murray finally assured him, “we only want to ask you some questions. But if you’ve done something wrong you’d better fess up.”

  “I done nothing to nobody,” repeated Paddy. His voice was strained.

  Murray poked Paddy in side of his head with his truncheon. “Save your soul and confess,” he whisp
ered in Paddy’s ear.

  He knew he sounded like a preacher, yet it was an approach that often produced results. Never underestimate the power of guilt, Murray enjoyed pointing out to any fellow detective or patrolman who’d listen—even when it came to the most dangerous of criminals.

  “Think of the girl’s family. Why did you put the body in the trunk? Why did you kill the poor woman?” asked Murray, louder. Beads of sweat dripped down the detective’s forehead as he launched into another tirade.

  “I didn’t kill no one,” said Paddy Tritt, his voice cracking. “Don’t hurt me. I didn’t do it. As Jesus is my witness.” Sitting on a wooden stool in a small hot room, he was sweating more profusely than Murray. “Damn it. What do you want to know? Gimme a cigarette and I’ll tell you something.”

  Murray tucked the truncheon under his arm and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small square metal packet and opened it, removing a hand-rolled cigarette. “You mean one of these?” he asked, dropping the packet and cigarettes on the floor. He grasped the truncheon and circled Paddy. Without warning, he brought the truncheon down hard on the truckman’s left arm.

  Paddy winced. “What in Sam Hill. What’d you do that for? Those are my cigarettes.”

  Murray picked up a cigarette and held it close to Paddy’s nose. “Tell me what I want to hear,” he said. He lifted the truncheon above his head again.

  “Bloody hell, you make me sick. If I tell you the truth, will you let me skedaddle outta here?” Paddy pleaded.

  “Go on,” said Murray. His truncheon fell to the side of his leg.

  “I delivered the trunk like you said,” said Paddy, dropping his head.

  Murray kicked the cigarette case towards him.

  Once Paddy started talking he could not stop. The detective listened intently as Paddy recounted that he had met a young street urchin named Corkie after the Orange Parade riot, that Corkie had directed him to the alleyway on Broome Street, that he had delivered the trunk to Hudson Depot, and how he had met a former Union soldier by the name of Flint, a nasty son of a bitch who had paid him for the delivery and then put a knife to his throat.