“How do you plead?” asks Hizzoner.
“Innocent as hell,” says Joe, turning to me. “Take off your shirt and get up on the stand.”
That one caught me by surprise. Because in an Irish household nobody sees you without your shirt on, nor obviously your trousers, not even a wife her husband or a hubby his spouse. We undress in the closet, like decent folks.
I balked like one of them pitchers for the Highlanders, which is what the Yankees was called back then, when they was in last place, and who knew a change of name and venue could make all the difference? We all sure did.
Shalleck coughed. Not just a little cough, but a great big loogie one, so that the judge musta thought he’d had a shock and was about to keel over. As he was bent over, with everybody all solicitous-like, he suddenly coughed once more, real loud, and at the same time he give me a shot in the ribs with an elbow I never saw coming, but which message I received loud and clear. I took off my shirt and took the stand.
I had no sooner got up there, and the courtroom was still gettin’ over what everybody thought was a shyster’s seizure, when there was an even louder collective gasp and who should waltz in at that moment but the Mayor of the City of New York his own grand self. Down the center aisle comes William Jay Gaynor, big as life. I’d never seen a Mayor up close before, but I knew that he was a pal of Charlie Murphy down the Wigwam, or at least that Charlie thought he was.
The thing about Gaynor was he was reform. What, you might ask, is one of them reformers doin’ runnin’ on the Tammany ticket? But that was the Tiger’s genius—if it was reform that the city, or at least the damn newspapers, wanted, then by God Tammany’d give it to them. Which it did in the person of W. J. Gaynor. Tammany-style reform.
Gaynor strode up to the front row and, his bullyboys having cleared a place for him, plunked his hoity behind down and stared at my poor half-naked self about to testify.
“Can you tell the court that you was only playin’ cards last night when the coppers busted in and beat you about the head and shoulders, inflicting the grievous wounds that everybody who’s got at least one eye in his head and ain’t drunk can plainly see?” asked Joe, now completely recovered.
“I sure can.”
“And furthermore can you tell the court that this attack was completely and totally unprovoked in any way, shape or form and that furthermore to my previous furthermore you did nothing whatsoever and in no wise to provoke said wanton attack upon your person or the persons of your friends, nearest and dearest and so forth and so on?”
“You betcha.”
“Did you at any time discharge a firearm in direct contradistinction and violation of state law number”—here he mumbled something—“better known as the Sullivan Law?”
“Umm—”
“Let me rephrase that. Is it your testimony that you at no time were in possession of the Colt .45 automatic that was found on said Winonan premises, whether discharged or not, and that furthermore and so forth you are fully cognizant and aware of the provisions of the Sullivan Law, having had them explained to you by none other than Big Tim himself in the precincts of the Society of St. Tammany, otherwise known as the Columbian Order or more popular as Tammany Hall?”
“If you say so.”
“Yes or no?”
I had to guess, but Joe helped me out with another explosive cough, which made his head bob up and down like something out at Coney.
“Sure.”
“No further questions. Mr. Mayor?”
I was still sitting in the dock, shirtless, as Mayor Gaynor stepped forward to address the court. I thought the judge was going to faint dead away, but he propped himself up pretty good after he leaned down and took a stiff one from a flask beneath his robes.
Shalleck spoke directly to the judge. “If it please the court, the Mayor would like to say a few words, maybe even issue a proclamation or general order or two, I dunno, take it away, Yer Honor sir.”
I got to admit Gaynor looked like a Mayor, which most of the Tammany Mayors did. But Mayors, I knew, was considered small parties by the Wigwam: its goal was to elect a Governor and maybe even a President.
Instead of saying anything, Gaynor stuck out his hand and one of his dangling flunkies smacked a piece of parchment into his paw. W.J. unfurled it like it was a flag or something and began to read:
“Order Number Seven. I, William J. Gaynor, Mayor of the City of New York, do hereby declare that it is henceforth illegal and unlawful…”
All Tammany pols were masters of the pregnant pause, and Billy Gaynor was no different.
“…unlawful,” he repeated solemnly, “for any…patrolman…to use his nightstick, daystick or billy club…”
The courtroom was all ears now, as was I. The only person who didn’t seem to be hangin’ on every word was Shalleck, who knew it all by heart already.
“…billy club on any person or personage resident in said City of New York, under any circumstances…”
Another gasp and shuffling of feet amongst the spectators. One of them, probably a Printers’ Row hack, got up like he was hit by lightning, with half his arse out the door and his ears still in the room, listening for the punch line.
“…unless that patrolman or officer of the law, in the lawful pursuance of his duties, is prepared to testify in a court of law”—he looked around the room to let everyone know where he was—“that use of said club or implement was in defense of his life.”
I could see Gaynor was enjoying himself tremendously. The reporter followed his arse out the door and so missed the next bit:
“God help any patrolman, lieutenant or even captain if a citizen—honest or otherwise”—and I guessed that included me, even without his fisheye—“makes a complaint of an unlawful clubbing.”
Gaynor lateraled the parchment to the flunky, who rolled it up. “There’s simply no place in a civilized society for such behavior.” He looked at the judge, who didn’t need to think twice.
“Case dismissed,” he said.
May was waiting for me outside the courtroom. She threw her arms around me and kissed me like she had lost me for twenty to life. Shalleck stood off to one side and I was about to introduce him to my sister when there was a tap on my shoulder and who should it be but Jimmy Hines.
“You caught a break today,” says he.
“No thanks to you,” says I, still a little bitter.
“Yeah, well, politics ain’t beanbag, as they say.”
I woulda thought Jimmy woulda been happier, but he was all business, and it was about this time I realized that the courtroom was no place for sentiment or weeping and wailing and gnashin’ of teeth, as it says in the Bible, but instead was an arena where the law was a football and the various accusers and accuseds were the fellas whose job it was to kick it around until it bore no resemblance to whatever the solons had in mind when they thought it up.
“Cost the Tiger some money,” says Jimmy.
“I’ll bet.”
“You’ll bet. You’ll pay. We ain’t runnin’ no charity.”
“I get the picture.”
“Be sure you do. Otherwise, there’s plenty of yeggs who will.”
I don’t want you to think that Jimmy was angry. On the contrary, he was as even-keeled as ever, a little smile on his face. From a business point of view, this was perhaps the most valuable lesson I ever learned, and haven’t I done my damnedest to pass it on to my boys, right down to today.
“No hard feelings, huh?” said Jimmy; punching me in the arm and winking to Joe as he left.
Shalleck watched him disappear as he handed me back my shirt. “Trust him?”
I buttoned up. “Sure. Why not?” I asked.
“Schmuck!” he said, and socked me even harder.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Loretta and I got married a couple of days later. Our daughter followed along in due course. Loretta wanted to call her Dorothy, which being her own unused real name made some sense, although why she didn’
t use it was beyond me. My superior choice was Margaret Mary Madden, which turned out to be her name, although we sometimes called her Marjorie, in the Irish way of givin’ a body one name and then callin’ him or her another, just for variety’s sake. Loretta fought me on this for a couple of minutes, but I made it up to her in the way boys do and never once did she suspect that just maybe my thoughts of Margaret Everdeane might have had something to do with baby Madden’s moniker.
Which brings me to Willie Henshaw.
Willie was a clerk in a dry goods store—Wanamaker’s, I think—and somehow in the course of his duties he chanced to encounter and take a fancy to the selfsame Margaret Everdeane, with whom I was more or less regularly indulging my amorous proclivities on an unofficial basis after my nuptials.
For I must confess that Loretta I was well and truly tired of even before she got in the family way, and when I tried to slake my thirst with Freda, I learned she had toddled off and taken up with a Duster who called himself Little Patsy Doyle just to spite me for Loretta, which meant I had no other course but to resume relations with Miss Everdeane. Marriage and childbirth, however, have a way of cramping a man’s style, so I was back at the old flat on 32nd Street more than I cared to be, which got me plenty sore, and well, when the cat’s away…Margaret met Willie, with what consequences for all of us you’re about to learn.
I only met Willie once, and that was the day I put a bullet in him on the Ninth Avenue streetcar, coming back down from the Amsterdam Opera House, whence I had trailed both himself and Margaret as he was escorting her to and from a performance. Art was driving and Hoppo was in the front seat of my new Ford T, which wasn’t much but was the best they had, and I sat in the back smoking, waiting, thinking, until Art give me the signal and I sighted Willie and Margaret coming out of the theater.
“Beat it,” says I, getting out of the car and squishing my fag under my heel.
I don’t know what sort of bill of goods Margaret was retailin’ to Henshaw, but it was plain as day even though it was the middle of the night that Willie was mighty sweet on her. I knew from experience that it didn’t take much to engage Margaret’s affections, so I figured I’d better cut Willie off before affections turned to passions and what have you. One of my rules has always been what’s mine is mine and God help the man who tries to steal from me.
I got on after them at 60th Street and settled into a seat several rows behind. I even paid the conductor when he came by, which ordinarily I wouldn’t have done, except that I didn’t want to cause trouble until I wanted to cause trouble.
Margaret lived over 39th Street between Ninth and Tenth, while Willie was a Villager, as I had gleaned from Tanner. I hated the Village because every time I thought about it I thought about this Little Patsy Doyle bum and the fun he was having with my Freda, whom I guess you could say I was still sort of in love with, if I was ever in love with anybody.
The tram hit Margaret’s stop, and I waited to see what they were going to do. I was surprised and Willie disappointed when Margaret only gave him a peck on the beak and he just waved good-bye as she hopped off and headed for home. It woulda been so simple for me to jump off right behind her, stroll her home and visit awhile, but the trolley had started moving again and I stayed aboard.
Willie was looking up at the ceiling, oblivious to all around him, as boys in love will be, which was another reason I had decided never to fall in love, at least not the crazy moony kind. He was a nice-looking kid, fresh-faced, but his mind was elsewhere, which is never a place you want your mind to be when you need it.
“Sixteenth Street,” said the conductor.
Willie got up and so did I. As the door opened I reached into my waistband and took out my Smithie.
“Hey, Willie,” I said.
He turned back to look at me and I could see his eyes widen as he grasped his fate and then I shot him in the belly, his guts splattering the doors and windows and even an old lady snoozing nearby as his body tumbled out the door just as it started to close and the streetcar started to pick up speed again.
Here’s the thing about firing a gun in close quarters: nobody can believe it’s happening. Which is why so many yeggs get away with it. The noise, the smoke, the shock, the blood—they have a way of anesthetizing the witnesses, so they don’t know if it’s Tuesday or Killarney by the time the bulls get around to grilling them. In this particular instance, I could have waltzed outta there. But I didn’t.
Call it the showman in me. Just as the trolley started to roll, I yanked the emergency cord and sent a couple of nickel-nursers who’d blown their supply of nickels at the corner saloon sprawling into the aisles, wondering what hit ’em. Some say it was Henshaw’s body rolling under the wheels that brought the car up short, but don’t believe ’em.
As the car slammed to a halt I marched toward the driver’s station. I think the poor schnook thought I was going to blast him too, but instead I shoved my piece back into my pants and reached for the trolley bell, which I tolled a couple of healthy clangs for poor dead Willie.
Everybody on the tram was looking right at me. “I’m Owney Madden of Tenth Avenue!” I shouted. “The Duke of the West Side.” I glared at everyone on the tram, to make sure they never forgot my face and never remembered my name.
When you jacked a trolley, the doors stood open until the crate got rolling again and so I sauntered out into the night, cucumber-cool. They say the first murder is the hardest and by my lights they’re right on the money. This one was a piece of cake.
The hell of it was ’twas Willie what gave Margaret the dose. Which is what she told me when I showed up at her door by way of an alibi. Which is why she hadn’t let him come visit her that evening. Which is why I spent the rest of that night enjoying Margaret’s company not in her boudoir but in Bellevue, so modern medicine could work its magic.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As usual, I got up the next day around two in the P.M., having been out most of the night thanks to Willie. Loretta had taken baby Margaret out for a push in her pram, so I had the luxury of lying in bed half-awake for a half an hour or so, with no squalling babies or whining women to bother my reveries.
I dressed, breakfasted on some cold rolls and an apple and then sauntered out into the street. I guess you could say I was feelin’ more than a little cocky that day, what with a second scalp on my belt and me feeling like not just the Duke of the West Side but the king of the whole damn town. I was runnin’ through my mind just how, or even if, I was going to mention what had happened last night to May, and had pretty much decided that I wasn’t going to when these pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the blast of a police whistle and somehow I just knew it was blasting for me.
If it seems like my life was at this period more or less one run-in with the Law after another, you would be right, because it was seeming that way to me as well. Before my ears had registered the sound of the cops’ klaxon my feet were already in motion, instinctively. My brain, meanwhile, had turned to thoughts of which of the passengers on board the trolley the previous evening might have ratted me out, and I was already figurin’ revenge as I sprinted like hell up Tenth.
The problem was they had me pretty much out in the open and there were plenty of them too. When this many bulls showed up all at once, it made you wonder whether there wasn’t something else going on, such as for instance a double cross, but there was no time to fret about that. If I managed to get away clean, there would be plenty of time for settling scores, and if I didn’t, well, I would have plenty of leisure time in the Tombs or up the river to chew things over.
I hit the intersection of 34th and Tenth flying. I could have sprinted right and headed east, hoping to lose myself in the crowds that started milling proper once you got past Seventh. Instead, though, I kept on across the roadway and then dashed left, barreling toward Ninth, making for the safety of a place I knew well, namely, Mr. Mike Callahan’s bar.
The thing about me in them days was that I was some kind of
quick and I knew the beefy bulls were as likely to catch me as they were to jump to New Jersey. So damn me to hell and gone if here don’t come more pigs, lurching and blowing hard around the corner from Ninth.
I had to judge fast and I did. I could make it down the service steps of Callahan’s before the first of the blue lugs could take a swing at me, and I did that too.
Five or six steps and I hit the door hard.
It crashes open and there I am, in Mike’s cellar.
I almost skiddooed on some beer foam down there in the dark, but this was no time to lose my balance because I could hear the shouts from street level and the heavy footfalls of some brave rounder chasing me.
Through the long dark cellar, up the stairs and into the bar.
Mike, wiping some glasses, sees me, sizes me and nods over his right shoulder at the stairs up.
Through the half-glassed door, hoping I wouldn’t shatter it because I didn’t want to cause Mike no damage, and then a flat rush up and up and up.
Noises behind, heavy breathing, more than one breather, whistles, Jesus, you woulda thought I was a menace or something.
Three floors up, four, then I was through the door and onto the roof.
The big wide city sprawled before me, ripe. I took in the view while I caught a brief breather and then the door clangs and bangs once more and this time it’s not one bull or two, but at least three, or maybe half the damn force, and one of ’em cries out my name, but I haven’t been exactly filing my nails and before he gets the final “n” out, I’m off again, flying.
The West Side back then was pretty much all of a piece, by which I mean the buildings was more or less the same height. And here’s where you could appreciate the difference between New Law and Old because with Old you can just run like hell, dodging the smokestacks and hurdling the dividing walls without having to worry about plunging down one of the air shafts, whereas with the New you did, or you died.
It may occur to you that at this moment I was pretty much scared on account of the bulls clearly had my number and were hell-bent on nabbing me, but the truth is I was never happier than when I was up on the roofs of the city and it was right about this moment that it came to me that it was silly being a Gopher, scuttling about in the dark, when you could be a mighty American Giant Homer, soaring where you liked.
And All the Saints Page 16
