by Allan Levine
No man can sit and allow a woman to stand.
Fowler laughed harder.
“By the way, Mr. Fowler, I don’t believe anything I read in those rag sheets,” said Hill pouring Fowler a shot of his finest whiskey. “You can count on me as sure as the Lord will make the sun rise tomorrow. I know all of the good deeds you’ve done for this city. Not to mention that you’ve single-handedly started a building boom for which there doesn’t seem to be an end. Who else in the city can match that? Come election time, you have my vote.”
“I appreciate that Harry,” said Fowler, swigging down the whiskey in one gulp. “Tell me, is Amelia working this evening?” he asked more quietly.
“She is, yes. Do you want me to fetch her? I think she’s upstairs.”
“Not quite yet, a little later,” said Fowler with an air of contentment, “I’ve some important business to attend to first.”
“We’re with you, Mr. Fowler,” shouted a patron sitting on one of the many benches and chairs scattered about the saloon. He was a bulky man, with dark greasy hair and a diagonal gash across his left cheek. His two front teeth were missing. Surrounding him was a small group of similarly rowdy drinkers, who Fowler knew were former Union soldiers. They were wearing wide dark cloth pants and stained white shirts whose odor—a repulsive mixture of sweat, alcohol and tobacco—was a sure sign that none of them had bathed in weeks.
“Nothing’ll change that. We’re ready to do whatever you’d like,” said the man with the gash.
Fowler sauntered towards them, patting several of them on their shoulders and shaking their hands. His two guards moved closer, their hands never far from the wooden clubs tucked in their belts.
“That’s not necessary,” Fowler instructed the two men. “We’re among friends. These boys are my shoulder-hitters,” he said introducing his guards. “They’re Tammany’s most loyal supporters and they make sure that everyone votes the right way. In fact, I think some of them have even voted for me more than once. Isn’t that so?” Fowler chuckled.
“We do what we’re told,” said Nick.
“You’re Little Philly, aren’t you?” asked Fowler, directing his question to one of the assembled, a husky man with dark hair. He prided himself on always remembering the names of his shoulder-hitters.
“That’s me,” said Philly, puffing his chest. He shoved another piece of chaw into his mouth. “This here’s Freddie the Barber, Snake Manfred, Punk Tyler, and Big Frank Connolly.”
“Glad to see all of you again. Your support, as I said, is appreciated.” He shouted in the direction of the bar. “Harry, a bottle of whiskey for these gentlemen.”
A moment later, a pretty waiter girl in red boots and low-cut dress brought over a bottle of whiskey and some clean glasses.
“That’s mighty kind of you, Mr. Fowler,” said Philly. “Why don’t you join us for a spell? Snake was about to tell us a real screamer.”
Snake Manfred, as thin and slimy as his nickname suggested, grinned. “I heard this happened at the courthouse the other day,” he began. “Murphy’s brought before the judge. ‘Murphy, you’re drunk again?’ asks the judge. Murphy replies, ‘Yes, Your Honor.’ The judge says, ‘Did you solemnly promise me, when I let you off the last time, that you’d never get drunk again?’ Murphy looks down at his boots and says, ‘Yeah, Your Honor, but I wush drunk at the time. Your Honor, I wushn’t sponsible for what I shaid.’” Manfred slapped the top of his right thigh. The men howled with laughter.
“Shit, Snake,” said Philly, “you’re going to make me piss in my pants.” He looked up at Fowler. “You sure you don’t want to help us finish this fine bottle of whiskey. After all, you’re paying for it.”
“Philly, nothing would give me more pleasure. However, I see the person I’ve come to speak to has arrived.”
“Mr. Fowler, sir, I have one more question for you before you leave.” asked Big Frank Connolly.
Fowler turned around, a look of annoyance on his face. “What’s your name?”
“That’s Big Frank,” said Little Philly.
“Right. Big Frank, what would you like to know?” asked Fowler.
“The other day at the Orange parade. I was there. I got hit by a soldier right on the arm,” he said, rubbing his elbow. “Didn’t you say we’d have nothing to worry about? That the soldiers wouldn’t hurt anyone. Jesus, they were shooting at women and children.”
Little Philly gave Big Frank a scowling look. “What are you bothering Mr. Fowler for?” He punched Big Frank on his sore arm.
Fowler’s face reddened slightly. “That’s fine, Philly. To be honest, I was as shocked as anyone by what happened. I tell you, Frank, there are some things that even I can’t control. But I aim to speak to the police chief about it real soon. Now, boys, I have some business to attend to.”
Standing at the end of the bar was a tall man in a fine-looking dark suit with a black silk tie and bowler hat. His peppery beard was trimmed and it looked as if he had visited the barber in the past day or two. He was smoking a fat cigar and had his left hand firmly planted on the derrière of one of Hill’s waitresses, a petite and adorable woman, who stood beside him holding a tall glass filled to the rim.
“Flint, you’re a hard man to track down,” said Fowler approaching him.
Flint shrugged. “I’ve been busy. I know I work for you, Fowler, but don’t ever think you own me the way you do those other fools over there.”
“Fools they might be, but they do what I tell them to do,” said Fowler evenly.
“You mean what Jack Martin tells them to do.”
Fowler ignored the comment. By now Isaac Harrison and Fowler’s two bodyguards had joined them. “I need to speak with you about a private matter,” he said. “It’s rather urgent.”
Flint pinched the waitress on her arse and shooed her away as a man might his pesky dog. “And what about those two?” he asked, gesturing towards the thugs beside Harrison. “I thought you said you wanted to talk privately. You’re not afraid of me, are you, Fowler?”
“I wouldn’t want to be lost at sea with you, if that’s what you mean,” Fowler responded. “But I’m hardly fearful of you, Flint. It’s merely that I’ve become a cautious man of late and these two,” he pointed at his men, “provide me with a certain degree of comfort.”
“Get rid of them or I’m leaving,” said Flint matter-of-factly. He gulped down a shot of whiskey and poured himself another glass.
“No one orders Mr. Fowler around,” said Harrison, his voice betraying a lack of calm.
“Bite your tongue, Harrison. I wasn’t speaking to you.” Flint moved closer to Harrison, a short man. He barely reached Flint’s chin.
“Your breath is most foul, sir,” said Harrison, lightly pushing Flint away.
Instantly, Flint grabbed Harrison, spun him around, and put a knife to his throat.
“Let’m go,” barked one of Fowler’s thugs. Both men were now holding their batons out, ready to strike.
“If those two fuckers so much as twitch, I’ll slice his throat wide open.” Flint’s voice was restrained, but threatening all the same.
By now a small crowd had gathered around to see if any blood would be spilled.
“Go on, cut him open,” someone yelled from the back.
“Yeah, slice that bottlehead,” another man said. “Don’t worry, Harry, we’ll mop up the blood.” A roar of laughter echoed through the saloon.
“There’ll be no fighting in here, mister.” It was Hill and he had a pistol aimed at Flint’s head. “I don’t tolerate this sort of thing in my place. Now put away your knife and have another glass of whiskey.”
“There’s no need for any trouble, Flint,” Fowler responded calmly. “I’m sure Harrison is mighty sorry he pushed you like that. Aren’t you, Isaac?”
Harrison winced. “I apologize if I gave any offence.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” said Flint, stepping back. He tucked his knife back in his belt.
“Drinks are on me, fe
llows,” shouted Fowler to great cheers. “Harry, whatever they want.” He turned to Harrison, whose face was flushed. “Take Nick and Johnny and wait for me outside.”
“Do you think that’s—?” Harrison began.
“Just do what I say, Isaac” Fowler barked. He lightly wiped his brow with the white handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket.
Harrison mumbled a few words under his breath and walked toward the door. “Let’s go,” he growled to Fowler’s two guards who followed behind.
“You should control that nasty temper of yours, Flint.” Fowler reached for a glass of whiskey, then removed two Havana cigars from a metal case. He offered one to Flint, who grabbed it. Fowler struck a match, lit Flint’s cigar, and then his own.
“My temper’s kept me alive,” said Flint, puffing hard.
“I’m sure it has, but one day someone’s going to fight back.”
“I don’t worry too much about that.” Flint smirked. “Most of my enemies don’t live long.”
Fowler stared at him for a moment. He had no idea how many men Flint had maimed or killed, but he was certain that the number was high. From what Fowler knew, until recently, Homer Flint—though no one dared called him by his first name—had lived in Chicago and before that somewhere out west. Fowler was not certain and Flint rarely spoke of the past. All he knew was that Flint had worked with a notorious Chicago hoodlum named Frankie the Sheeney, an infamous Russian Jewish thief and fence. Together they robbed upper-and middle-class homes, beating or murdering anyone who stood in their way.
A year ago, according to what Fowler had been told by his associates in Chicago, Frankie was discovered behind an alley near Maxwell Street in Chicago’s West Side. His throat had been sliced so badly that his head was almost severed from his body. Rumor had it that Flint had found Frankie with his woman, a blonde prostitute named Celeste. No one had seen her since Frankie’s death and she was presumed to be dead as well.
Naturally enough, the Chicago police did not spend much time investigating the murder of someone of Frankie’s reputation, nor did they concern themselves with a missing whore. They questioned Flint, even roughed him up some, but he told them nothing.
Fowler had recruited Flint with the promise that he would never have to worry about the police bothering him again. Thereafter, he used Flint for special assignments that required his unique talents—arson, debt collections, and beatings. He paid him a substantial retainer of more than fifty thousand dollars a year to ensure his loyalty. Flint also agreed to stay out of trouble when his services weren’t required.
“Your private matters are just that . . . private. I’d rather not know the details,” said Fowler.
“What is it you want?” Flint asked, then added with a leer, “I’ve got an appointment upstairs and I don’t like to keep her waiting.”
“I’ve got a job for you, but I must ask you to show some restraint.” Fowler reached into the inside pocket on his suit jacket and took out a small piece of paper. He slid it across the bar towards Flint.
“So what’s this?”
“The names of two people who need a reminder that they have crossed a line,” said Fowler. “But, Flint, I don’t want them to be found behind an alley with their throats’ cut. I’m merely trying to convey a message. Do you understand?”
Flint said nothing. He unfolded the piece of paper and glanced at the two names—Tom Fox and Charles St. Clair.
“You know who they are?” asked Fowler.
“I do. Never did like St. Clair much. He asks too many questions for my liking. I’ve seen him over at a whorehouse on Wooster Street once or twice. Fox, I’ve never met, but I know where I can find him.”
“Good then, it’s all settled. You can look after this soon?”
Flint threw his cigar on to the floor and stamped it out with his boot. “Yeah, I can look after it tomorrow if you like. But it’ll cost you an extra five thousand.”
“Why should I have to pay you extra?”
“It’s a lot easier to slice their throats. So if you want me to show some restraint, well, I need some extra incentive for that.”
Fowler shook his head. “Very well, Flint, another five thousand. But only after I see some results.”
“You’ll see some results, I can guarantee that. How do you feel about broken arms and legs?” Flint chuckled.
“I’ll leave the details to you. Do as you like. Keep in mind that I’ll need to speak with Fox in the near future. I have an offer for him that I don’t think he’ll refuse. As for St. Clair, he owes Jack Martin a few thousand and you may be able to use that to your advantage.”
“How do you know he’s in debt to Martin?”
“Flint, I’m surprised at you. Who do you think arranged it? I find that confusion is always a good way to keep someone of St. Clair’s intelligence off balance. Now, if our business is done, I also have an appointment with a young lady.”
Fowler shook a few more hands as he crossed the dance floor again and headed up the stairs. He suddenly felt more at ease. He had no ethical concerns about either ordering Flint to deal with Fox and St. Clair—two thorns in his side—or about seeing Amelia. He and Ellen had not had sexual relations in months. She was either sleeping off the laudanum or too depressed to act as a wife ought to.
Amelia was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She was young—only twenty-two years old—with ruby lips, a thin nose, and glossy long dark hair. She was wearing nothing but a red corset with matching red boots, which left little to the imagination. Her body was voluptuous and for a moment Fowler was almost mesmerized by her beauty. He quickly threw a few coins on her dresser. “That’ll cover Harry’s rent of the room,” he murmured.
Amelia smiled at him, pushed the coins into the dresser drawer, but said nothing.
Content that his immediate problems would soon be solved, Fowler allowed his head and heart to fill with lust. Amelia’s hand slipped into his, then his mouth went dry as he anticipated what came next.
Chapter Ten
DETECTIVE MURRAY MAKES AN ARREST
“Charlie, is that you?” Seth Murray’s eyes squinted in the dim light of Madame Philippe’s basement. Patrolman Westwood and four other constables crowded around him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Seth, what’s going on?” St. Clair asked. “I’m working on an assignment, or at least I was.” He avoided looking at Madame Philippe.
“An assignment about the good Madame?”
“In part, yes. It’s a story about abortion in New York. About how easy it is to obtain one and how dangerous it’s become.” Now St. Clair gazed into Madame Philippe’s eyes.
If this fazed Madame Philippe, she did not show it. “Mr. St. Clair, it’s a pleasure to meet you finally. I’ve read and admired your work. I should’ve realized Mr. Fox would attempt such a stunt. I’m afraid your anger and moral superiority betrayed you, sir.”
“Maybe so. But my conscience is clear. Can you say the same?”
“I can, but I fear we may have to have this conversation another time.”
“And who’s this, Charlie?” asked Murray, looking in Ruth’s direction.
Ruth introduced herself. Her voice betrayed her nervousness.
“Miss Cardaso has come all the way from San Francisco to assist us,” St. Clair explained
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss,” Murray addressed Ruth, conscious that there was something vaguely familiar about her.
“This was our first appointment and it may be our last,” she responded with a pleasant smile. “Once news of our visit here is spread, I doubt any midwife or abortionist will want to talk to us.”
“This intrusion couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. But be patient, there may be a much bigger story to cover than you imagine.” He turned to St. Clair. “This is quite a coincidence, Charlie. I wanted to discuss with you later the very case that’s brought me here.”
“And that’s what exactly, Detective?” Madame Philippe interjected hotly.
“Why have you and your men descended on my home like a pack of wolves?”
Murray’s body stiffened in response. “What do you know about the woman found dead in the trunk at Hudson Depot the other day?” He glared at her. “She has blonde hair and had a handkerchief in her hand with the letter L sewn on it.”
“Why should I know anything about something so horrific?” Madame Philippe’s hand fluttered to her breast. Her tone softened. “Who was she?”
“That’s what we’re still trying to determine. We have good reason to believe that she was one your clients.”
“Do you think I murdered this poor woman and stuffed her in a trunk? Is that what you believe, Detective?” She began to shake. Hector, who had led the police to the basement, moved closer to her and steered her to a chair.
“I read something about that in the Times this morning,” St. Clair interjected. “Seth, why do you think Madame Philippe knows anything about this?”
Murray reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. He laid it down on a nearby table and carefully unfolded the covering. He held up a tattered piece of newsprint.
“Looks like newspaper?” St. Clair commented.
“That’s exactly what it is,” said Murray. “This is a Herald advertisement for Madame Philippe’s services. It was found on the victim.”
“Found on the victim?” St. Clair repeated. “I understood that she was discovered in the trunk without any clothes on.”
“It was on her person, that’s all I can say about it.”
“What does that prove? That she read the newspaper.” Madame Philippe shook her head in disbelief. “Tell me, Detective, does Inspector Stokes know you’re here troubling me?”
“He ordered me to do so,” said Murray, with an uncharacteristic grin.
“And Mr. Fowler?” asked Madame Philippe.
“That I can’t answer, Madame, one way or the other. But I’d expect if Inspector Stokes approved this search, then as sure as eggs Boss Fowler approved it, too.”
“I see.” Madame Philippe grimaced. “Trust is a rare gift. Betrayal, on the other hand, comes easy for most people. Would you agree, Mr. St. Clair?”
