Paradise Park

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  She moved forward gracefully, hand extended.

  “William, my dear,” she said in her carefully trained voice. The hint of a New England accent was just perceptible.

  “Hello, Ada,” he said.

  “You haven’t visited in the longest while,” she purred, and held her hand toward him, a kerchief gripped in her long fingers. Ada Everleigh had introduced him to the pleasures of a woman’s flesh several years before, as she was just establishing her business in the city. He’d been a shy country boy on his way to war. “Can’t waste that,” she’d said, all those years ago, running a gloved hand across his chest. And, though she entertained only the wealthiest gentlemen, she welcomed him into her home, pleasuring herself as much as him.

  He took her slim hand and raised it to his lips.

  “What brings you here?” The hint of a smile bowed her lips, but he could see a hardness in her eyes. Angry he hadn’t come earlier?

  “I’m here on a case.”

  She pouted prettily. “A case? Only a crime can bring you to my home? And we, who are so close?”

  He knew he was welcome in her home, and had come several times since returning from the war. They came together in sharp, passionate need, and then she’d return to her duties and he to his. She was the Madame and ruled over the seven adjoining houses and their occupants, but rarely did she entertain, and never for pay. Her girls were to be bought, even her sisters, but Ada gave herself only to those she chose.

  She turned smoothly and moved gracefully toward the settee, her gown swaying softly. “Come, William,” she purred as she indicated the closest chair. “Sit, and tell me what you need to know.”

  She was cultured, so refined, he, and the rest of New York, often wondered where she’d come from. Perhaps she was the daughter of some country gentleman in an obscure New England village, the accent slightly evident in her words. She was well brought up, but something had drawn her into sin. He, too, had come from a small town. His own father had a degree of wealth. But that had been lost when he died, his estate gone to pay debts Muldoon hadn’t known existed. So, he went to the city, to Five Points and the Bowery, where he could barely afford to live. He imagined it was the same for her. But she didn’t have his strength and skill to support her. She had just one thing… her beauty. Rumor said she’d spent her inheritance to purchase the seven row-homes, one for each of the sisters. And that became their fame, drawing gentlemen from near and far, to taste the delights of their homes.

  “I’m looking for a young woman,” he said.

  “Oh, William,” she giggled. “Every man is looking for that!”

  “Aye, there’s always that. But that’s not my meaning. A woman was murdered, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, by the look of her. I’m trying to find who she is. A name, a home, a family. She was found in the Points, at Paradise Park. But she isn’t from there, I’d wager. Either she’s from a high-class place like yours, or she’s the daughter of a wealthy man.”

  Ada studied Muldoon through her lashes. Her eyes softened, her former irritation with him easing. She looked at him seductively. “All of our girls are accounted for. But there are several more establishments you may want to check. You can try Josephine Wood’s over on Eighth Street.” She listed several more high-class bordellos. He knew most of them, but waited for her to finish.

  “Thank you,” he said at last, and wrote the addresses in his small notebook.

  “What did she look like?” Ada asked. “In case someone comes looking for her here?”

  “I can’t say, really,” answered Muldoon. “She was young, and quite beautiful, I think. But beyond that… ” He shrugged. “Her hair was gone.”

  Ada pulled back suddenly as if struck, a hand straying to her own lush locks. Then, a thoughtful look crossed her face. “Did you try the wigmakers? If her hair were long, it would have been quite valuable.”

  Muldoon looked at her questioningly.

  “For hairpieces, silly,” she exclaimed and shook her lovely head, the hair waving to and fro. “Did you think all of this was mine?”

  Several hours later, Muldoon emerged from the house. The thing about Ada was, every time he saw her they couldn’t help themselves. She drew him up to her boudoir, where they spent hours in each other’s arms. He couldn’t get to Billy McGlory’s Armory Hall too soon anyway, so he had time to spare. He’d have to work late again, to check up on Kavanagh’s story.

  CHAPTER 19

  McGlory’s

  was a nasty dive on Hester Street. Muldoon secured his equipment on his belt so nothing could be easily taken, but he kept his nightstick handy. Just in case.

  As he neared the saloon, he noted several leaner, meaner types loitering in the street. The rain still hadn’t let up, so they leaned against buildings, trying to stay under the overhang to keep dry. Muldoon passed them… pretended he hadn’t noticed. He knew what they were there for. Some unsuspecting drunkard would be accosted from behind and left in the gutter, his money and belongings gone. These were the first of McGlory’s boys.

  After these men had seen to the drunkard and his possessions, the “lush” workers would go after him. They would search his pockets all over again, seeking hidden valuables missed by the bouncers. And often they’d relieve the man of his clothing as well, leaving him lying naked in the street. If this was where Kavanagh spent his night, he was lucky, indeed.

  Muldoon turned to the saloon and pushed open one of the big double doors. Inside, he passed down a long, narrow hallway. The walls were painted strangely black, giving an eerie, funereal aura. Fifty feet on, the dark hall ended with a door opening into the bar-room. Beyond that was the dance-hall, theater-like, with balcony seats arranged around an open space filled with tables and chairs. It was a huge room, capable of being occupied by perhaps seven hundred men.

  Waitresses strolled to and fro, carrying an endless supply of drinks. To the side of the stage, three men played piano, violin, and cornet, providing music for the dancing girls. The women paraded around the stage in skimpy costumes, swishing skirts high to bare their legs and undergarments.

  Muldoon strolled through the place, watching the action. A group of men looked up at him, disturbed at his sudden appearance, momentarily halting the throw of dice. Others turned quickly away as he approached. What they did in here, many wanted to keep here. A hand reached around from behind him to lie flat on his broad stomach. It slowly lowered, a seductive movement. Reacting suddenly, he grabbed the wrist and yanked the whore around him, forcing the offender into a deep knee bend.

  “Ow! Ow!” the boy-girl exclaimed in a curiously low voice, masculine melding with feminine. “Don’t you want some sugar?”

  “Not from the likes of you,” Muldoon said, staring frostily at the man. He was dressed as a woman, all frills and lace, a stunning hairpiece on his head. Except for his voice, he was hardly discernible from any number of prostitutes in the city. Muldoon knew this particular establishment catered to men of that taste. Even the beauties on the stage, he knew, were unnatural women.

  “Well!” exclaimed the whore before flouncing off to find some other, more willing, partner.

  Muldoon circulated through the big room. So many of the clientele were dressed expensively, with full mutton chop sideburns. They were wealthy men “elephant hunting,” slumming on a Friday evening. At some point, he knew, McGlory would have to come over to him, to dissuade him from disturbing the clientele. And disturbed they would be, he knew… New York’s upper crust playing with boys while an officer of the law strolled by.

  As he predicted, McGlory soon appeared at his side.

  “Sergeant Muldoon!” the weaselly man exclaimed. He rubbed his hands constantly together, as though desperately trying to wash away a multitude of sins from his past.

  Muldoon looked at him with disgust, eyeing the man’s long greasy hair, tucked tightly back behind his ears. He wore plaid pants under a more sedate black vest and coat, his watch chain hanging loosely. A man with his wealth, Muldoo
n knew, could easily afford better, and certainly could be clean. But after all, the man was born in Five Points and had never known better. He aped what he saw as best he could, and didn’t realize his own appearance was so cheap an imitation.

  “My guests,” he tried again. “They… um… they’re rather… uncomfortable.” He said it almost as a question, bending over strangely even while he looked up at Muldoon, his neck cocked back to hold his head at an odd angle.

  “They should be accustomed to policemen,” Muldoon said curtly.

  “Aye, I’m certain many of them are… but what of the ‘quality?’ Couldn’t you move back into the bar? On their account?”

  “I suppose I could, if you’re up to giving a little information.”

  “You know I can’t do that. I’ve got a reputation.”

  “Aye, and so have I. You know me from the past, McGlory. You know it’s not just the police I represent, but the Bowery B’hoys, too.”

  “That’s a hard thing to be reminding me of, Muldoon. You made your choice when you went to the law.”

  “Aye, but the law came to me first, over at Harry Hill’s, as you know. A politician needs his men, and a neighborhood needs its politician. Someone who’ll watch over them, and give them a hand when they need it. Tammany Hall gives us that, so we need to give an arm to the Boss now and again. And that arm’s me. But I serve both masters. Once a B’hoy, always a B’hoy, and we take care of our own.”

  McGlory nodded unhappily. His gang was the Chichesters of Five Points, but he’d made his own choice when he moved out of the Points and into the Bowery. The immediate vicinity might be filled with McGlory’s own, but Muldoon recognized several faces at the gambling tables. He nodded to them as they passed. If need be, they’d support the B’hoy.

  “Come with me to my office,” wheezed McGlory as he lit up a smoke.

  Muldoon shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I prefer to talk in the open.” There was no way he’d enter a private room with this man. Then he’d be totally alone. As it was, he’d have to make it out of Hester Street and its environs. He wasn’t going to play into the little weasel’s hands in here. Keep him outside where he had plenty of witnesses.

  “You’re a hard man,” McGlory said.

  Muldoon nodded, a curt gesture, toward an empty table by the wall. The two walked over, and he slid into the seat against the wall where he could protect his back.

  “Two murders,” Muldoon said. “I need some information.”

  “Aaaah… the two at Paradise Park. I heard about that. A man and a woman. Strangled.” Muldoon almost laughed. McGlory didn’t realize he’d confirmed one of his most closely held secrets, that he couldn’t read. He could only listen to the boys on the street corners selling their news. They called out exciting headlines, often making up a more exciting, even more outlandish tale than the one already in print.

  “Aye,” Muldoon said. “That’d be them.”

  “And what do you think I can tell you about them? I don’t know anything aside from what I’ve heard.”

  Muldoon pulled out three small pictures—two photos, one a sketch. He held them like playing cards, carefully fanned. Selecting one, he slid it across the table, flipping it over just in front of McGlory.

  “Do you know this man?” he asked. It was the photo of a man in a Union Sergeant’s uniform. Karl Schneider, in the picture he’d picked up in the man’s apartment.

  “Looks familiar, but I can’t say as I know who it is.”

  “Try again,” said Muldoon as he lifted it from the table and angled it to catch the weak tavern light.

  “No, can’t say,” McGlory said again.

  “How about this one?” Muldoon asked, holding out a well-drawn sketch. Danny Ryan, the coroner’s clerk had drawn it for him. The boy had a fair hand with a pencil. He had objected to going in amongst the dead. Muldoon had laughed at him, joking about his choice of jobs. But he knew it could mean the difference between survival and starvation. So, he’d offered the boy a dollar and a new book. Danny reluctantly agreed to make the sketch, and the deal done, he’d carefully made a detailed likeness of the pale woman from Paradise Park.

  “What about the hair?” Danny had asked, and Muldoon had told him to sketch something in, but not too dark, since they didn’t know what color it should be.

  “Can’t say I know her, neither,” squeaked McGlory in his grating little voice. “But she’s a sweet piece o’ meat.”

  “A piece of meat is right,” Muldoon said. “She’s lying cold in the morgue.”

  “Aaaah, so she’s the one.”

  “Aye.”

  Muldoon slid the third picture toward McGlory. “And how about this one?”

  “Again, I have to say, I don’t know. I don’t know any of them.”

  Muldoon’s lips tightened in anger. “Aye, you do. And I say, if you’d lie about one, you would lie about them all.”

  McGlory started as if surprised, straightening in his chair. “I tell you, I don’t know a one of them!”

  Once again, Muldoon showed him the picture of Karl Schneider. And again, McGlory shook his head. Muldoon reached forward suddenly and grabbed the little man by the back of his slimy head, and pushed his face down toward the table top where the picture lay. He shoved the single candle that lighted the table toward the man. “Take a long look, McGlory… and tell me what you see.”

  “A’right, a’right,” McGlory said, a touch of fear in his voice. “It’s Karl Schneider.”

  “Aye. Very good. And of course, we both know he was one of your boys.”

  McGlory nodded, caught out in his lie. It was hard to believe this same man had once been Captain of the Chichesters, one of the most notorious gangs in the Points.

  Muldoon let go of the man and allowed him to sit straight once again. McGlory rubbed the back of his head where Muldoon had held it forcefully. Again, Muldoon slid the drawing in front of the gangster.

  “I swear to you, Muldoon, I don’t know this one. I ain’t never seen her. If I’d seen her, I wouldn’t have allowed her to get killed. She’d have made me a bundle, she would. Least, until she was a bit older, anyhow. Then, maybe I wouldn’t have cared what became of her. Maybe passed her on to another establishment.”

  Muldoon narrowed his eyes. He didn’t care for this man and his wicked thoughts. The girl wasn’t an object to be used and then tossed aside. But he believed him. He hadn’t seen the girl before. He slid the final picture across the table. Kavanagh’s. Muldoon had pinched it from the man’s flat. McGlory studied it for a moment.

  “He’s a regular,” McGlory admitted.

  “Was he here last night?”

  “Aye, he was.”

  “All night?”

  “I don’t watch the crowd that close,” McGlory said. “He was here for awhile… ” He paused, as if in thought. “And then I think he left. But he came back, and yes, he was here all night. I remember, he made a big show of losing.”

  Muldoon nodded. It didn’t mean much. Kavanagh wasn’t a big enough man to have killed Schneider. Even he would’ve had a hard time with it. But he couldn’t help being a bit curious. After all, two bodies had been dumped just outside the man’s window… and he claimed to have no knowledge about either. Muldoon stood up to leave, then turned back.

  “Does he have any certain folk he meets here?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t look that close at my guests,” McGlory said. “For God’s sake, Muldoon, I got room for seven-hundred in there.”

  “Aye, that you do,” Muldoon said. “That you do.”

  He exited through the same dark entrance he’d come through some time ago and opened the outer door cautiously. It was full night now. The streetlamps threw their weak glow in contained balls of light, dotting the street like stars. The rain had let up for a bit, and tendrils of mist rose from the damp road. Muldoon knew the loiterers were out there, hidden in the darkness. He glanced uneasily behind him, knowing a signal from McGlory would send a dozen men in
to the night after him. Some of the other cops had started carrying guns, but he hadn’t gotten one. They weren’t supplied by the department, so he’d balked at the extra expense. He hadn’t carried one since the war. Times like these made him debate whether he should. The “equalizer,” he’d heard some say.

  Pulling his nightstick out of its sheath, he held it ready on his left, right hand loose beside him. He had to walk several blocks to Mulberry, then only a few more to Police Headquarters. The street was far from deserted, but he knew few would be of help to a cop. Most folk distrusted them. When existence depends upon the ability to steal, the law and all that represent it are on the wrong side.

  He stepped onto the street and turned toward Mulberry. He walked with self-assurance, straight and tall. His pace was measured, not too slow, but certainly not fast, either. In this district, you couldn’t show any sign of fear or weakness, or the rats would descend upon you in an instant. A cop moving quickly would be seen as either being in chase, or being chased. In this instance, it would clearly be chased. He’d quickly lose the respect of the population, and no longer be able to perform his job effectively. He’d be no good to Boss Tweed. And more important than that, he’d lose the respect of the wrestling community. He’d be laughed out of the very thing he loved the most.

  Muldoon continued down the street unmolested. Prostitutes stood in small bunches on corners, calling out to him and other passersby. They made themselves as desirable as possible in their way, not caring who would take up their proposition. What mattered to them was the pittance they could take home to their families. Or in these parts, to McGlory, or some other whoremonger.