Dutch sniffed. “Smells like Tammany to me. Is it possible Tammany’s dirty fingers helped craft the Bowery Bank robbery?” He removed his hat, shook the snow off and put it back on his head. “Crocker can’t steal an election, so he switches to robbing banks?”
“Robbing maybe. Killing? Not a good idea.” Bo stopped to watch an ugly midget, swinging a small club, which he used to knock the accumulating snow from the sign that said PINKYS.
“A beer, gentlemen? Have your fortunes told? Who knows what secret pleasures the fates have in store for you?” The little man gave them a quick, studied, smile. “Not often I get coppers in my establishment. Pinky’s the name.”
“What say you, Dutch,” Bo said. “A beer and a fortune?”
“Suits me.”
“Whiskey would be my rathers, but …”
They followed Pinky into the narrow space. Two drunks were splayed on the crude bar. “Out, out,” Pinky yelled, hitting the bar with his club. When the drunks didn’t move, he grabbed the backs of their trousers, one pair in each hand, and cast them, howling protests, out the swinging doors. He barred the doors with planks crisscrossed on the door frame.
Dutch’s eyes were drawn to a movement at the rear of the dark tavern. A white feather. The feather was attached to a red turban on the head of a woman swathed in crimson. She lit a candle, illuminating the small table where she sat and the two empty chairs opposite. Pinky nodded at the two policemen. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Lorraine! Fortune hunters.” He exploded with laughter.
Bo took the chair to his right, opposite the woman, “Let’s see what you have … Miss Lorraine.”
With fast fingers she opened what appeared to be a fresh pack of cards, split the deck in two and spread the two halves into fans. Next, with a stylish and almost melodious ruffle, she melded the two parts back into the deck and offered the cards for Bo to shuffle.
“There a back door in this establishment?” Dutch edged past the table, noting the quick glance exchanged between Pinky and Lorraine.
Pinky cleared his throat. “Nothing out there, your honour. Maybe a beer barrel or two.”
The rear door opened on to a narrow, rancid alley. Dutch stepped out, catching his coat on the metal band of a barrel. Flurries of snow danced round him. A white film covered everything, including that barrel and another. When he paused to inspect the damage to his coat, he saw under the few dark strands from his coat, a larger scrap of blue wool.
A bell went off in his brain.
He was careful in removing the bit of blue wool; he cupped his hand around it. An errant snowflake turned the remnant pink. Dutch smiled at the word pink, which seemed to colour everything in this place.
“Uh huh,” he said, knowing Pinky was standing in the open door watching. He wrapped the cloth remnant in his handkerchief and placed it in his breast pocket.
Inside, Lorraine had laid out tarot cards and was making indistinguishable sounds and nodding her head. Bo yawned.
“Interesting out back,” Dutch told Bo, patting his breast pocket.
“Beers coming right up, gentlemen.” Pinky scurried behind the bar and filled two chipped mugs from the tap, wiped their heads clean of foam and thrust a mug at each inspector.
“Oh yeah?” Bo took a long swig and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Bluth,” Lorraine muttered.
Bo took off his derby, wiped the inside with his handkerchief, returned the derby to his head. “Say again?”
Dutch wet his mouth with the beer and set the mug on the small table near the cards. “She means blood,” Dutch said. “And she sure is right.”
Lorraine jerked her head round towards Dutch.
He said, “A woman in a blue coat. We’ve been told she was here, not too long ago.”
Pinky shrugged, palms open. “She just ran through. What do we know?”
“More than you’re saying.” Bo stood, lifting the edge of the table. Cards and mugs came crashing down.
Lorraine gave a weak yelp and fell over backward. When Dutch offered her his hand, she pulled away.
Bo said, “We can close you down before you can fart.”
Pinky showed his rotten teeth and ducked behind the bar. “We’re protected.”
“Don’t think so. Tammany’s already given you up.” Bo laughed. “How do you think we got here?” He grabbed Pinky’s collar with his right hand and lifted him out from behind the bar. His menacing left was poised close the little man’s nose. Lorraine made a keening noise.
When there was no reply, Bo’s right hand rose, dangling the little man in mid-air. Bo shook him. Not too hard. But hard enough.
“Madison Street,” Pinky whimpered. “No. 7. Boarding house.”
13
Madison Street, fewer than four blocks from the East River, was a cluster of tenements and cheap lodging-houses. This made it accessible to ships bringing the stream of poor immigrants, as well as to a number of piers where freighters heading for South America took on cargo.
The five-storied brick No.7 looked weary; were it not propped up by the tenement to the right and another grime-covered five-storey wreck to the left, it might slump to the cobble.
In spite of the cold, the street teemed with ill-clothed children, boys and girls of various ages, screaming, running, chasing sock-balls, trying to scrape snowballs from the thin, already grimy layer of snow.
One small boy in an oversized coat and newsboy cap stood on the steps leaning against the entrance to No.7. He watched Dutch and Bo as they came down the street and stopped in front of the house.
“You live here?” Bo said.
The boy stuck out his scabby chin. “What’s it to you, copper?”
“Mouth-off again, and it’s the Tombs for you. I’ll ask you again, do you live here?”
The boy picked a scab off his chin and studied it before jerking his thumb in the direction of the tenement.
“So you’re just resting here?” Dutch said.
“You got a problem with that?”
Bo said, “That’s it. Let’s take him in.” He reached up and grabbed the boy’s arm with fingers of steel. “Let’s go.”
The boy’s nose started leaking. Even so, he wasn’t giving in.
“Wait a minute, Bo,” Dutch said. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Mike.” He tried to pull his arm from Bo, but Bo had a tight grip.
Dutch said, “You’re a pretty tough guy.”
“I hold me own.”
“You behave nice and I’ll talk Inspector Clancy out of sending you to the Tombs.”
Mike chewed his lower lip. “Give me a nickel and we got a bargain.”
Dutch suppressed a laugh as Bo dragged Mike down to the street level, keeping hold of his arm. “You little bastard.”
“Easy, Inspector Clancy.” To Mike, Dutch said, “Two cents.”
Mike spat in his hand. Dutch did the same in his own. Then they slapped their hands together.
“Bargain,” Mike said.
“Bargain.” They shook on it. “All right, now, do you know a lady in a blue coat that lives here?”
“Let’s see your money.”
Bo agitated Mike’s arm. “You need some persuasion?”
Dutch asked his question again. “The lady in a blue coat!”
“Top floor, back.” Mike tried again to free himself, not expecting Bo to release him. When Bo did, he toppled over.
“Here you go,” Dutch said, “Two cents and a penny more because you got grit.”
Mike grabbed the coins and disappeared into the tenement next door.
The staircase in No. 7 was narrow and sloped to one side. Strident sounds of life could be heard behind most of the doors.
“Mother of God.” Bo stopped at the fourth-floor landing to catch his breath. “It’s a goddam Jesus-loving hazard to make two fine and upstanding New York Police Inspectors climb a goddam mountain to do their jobs.”
“Funny, San Juan Hill didn’t give you grief.”
“I was a young spruce those years, as you was, Coz.”
Dutch reached the fifth floor first and hammered on the door. “Open up.”
A woman yelled, “What the hell?”
“Open up.” Bo smirked at Dutch.
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“You and what army?”
“Me and Teddy Roosevelt. Open the blasted door or we’ll break it down.”
When the door opened a crack, Bo shoved.
“You got some nerve—” The woman was tall, her chestnut hair in a puffed up roll under a wide-brimmed hat. Around her shoulders was a long, fringed, black shawl. A bulging carpet bag lay open on the floor next to the narrow bed, which was positioned under the eaves of the tiny room. There was barely enough space for the three to stand without touching. Dutch kicked the door shut.
“A good day to you, ma’am,” Bo said. “I’m Inspector Clancy. This is Inspector Tonneman. Are you Missus Place?”
“I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“We’re here to talk to you about the robberies at the Union Square Bank and the Bowery Bank.”
“You got the wrong girl.” She turned, bent to close her carpet bag. The room was so small she had trouble masking her movements. “I’m an actress. I just heard about a job in Boston and I have a train to catch.”
Bo grasped her by the arms and shifted her between him and Dutch, away from the carpet bag.
“Maybe you were at the Bowery Bank this morning.”
“Maybe I wasn’t.”
“You own a blue coat?” Bo gave the carpet bag a nudge with his boot.
“Hey—”
Dutch said, “Ma’am, we need your help regarding those two bank robberies.”
“I told you. You got the wrong girl.”
“You were quick enough to open the door,” Bo said.
“I am a law abiding citizen and you coppers have that certain smell.”
“And what if you were wrong?” Dutch said. “You’re not afraid someone might push their way in and rob you?”
She gave an uneasy laugh. “They wouldn’t find much.”
The floor creaked outside the room. Dutch eased his Colt from its holster. Bo, who believed in Dutch’s intuition, drew his own weapon.
The woman tried to get around Dutch to the door, but Dutch blocked her.
Another creak. Hammers of their Colts back. The woman made a soft sound.
Bo took her wrist in his hand; she tried to pull away. “Quiet, or I’ll break your neck.”
They stood still. Silence. Sweat glistened on the woman’s upper lip.
Bo motioned the woman to sit on the bed. He and Dutch exchanged looks. Bo gave the door a light push. Dutch stepped out, gun drawn. The hall outside the door was empty.
Dutch leaned over the stair rail, listening. Nothing. He went back into the room and shut the door. “Okay. It’s clear. But I don’t trust it.”
The carpet bag caught Bo’s eye. He picked it up. The woman jumped to her feet. “You put that down. That’s private property.”
“Private property? You don’t say.” Bo opened the bag and pulled out a blood-stained blue coat. “Look what we got here, Dutch.”
“You have no right,” the woman said.
Dutch found the tear in the sleeve of the coat. “I’d be more careful about my friends if I were you, Missus Place.”
“Fire!” A cry from the hall. “Fire!”
Turning, they saw a burning piece of newspaper being slipped under the door.
With the distraction, the woman grabbed the carpet bag, scrambled to the door, threw it open, and ran.
Gunfire. From the hall. Six shots. Then: Click. Click. Heavy steps on the stairs. The woman lay bleeding near the landing. Dutch, closest to the door, stamped out the fire, then, Colt drawn, hammer back, he jumped over her body to chase after the shooter. More shots.
Weapon at the ready, Bo dragged the woman inside – he hoped it was to safety, but Bo Clancy never deluded himself. He heard Dutch’s .38 calibre rounds. Quiet. He checked the woman for signs of life. She was done.
Footsteps on the stairs.
“It’s me,” Dutch called. “Shooter’s gone.” Dutch entered the room carrying the carpet bag. “Found this on the stairs.” Blood dripped from his cheek. “Dead?”
“No question. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” Bo upended the carpet bag on the narrow bed. Women’s clothing scattered, but the item of interest that came out last was a grey canvas bag.
A good shake of the canvas and out fell banded packets of paper currency.
Dutch knelt by the dead woman and closed her eyes. He paused. “Sorry, ma’am.” He searched for hidden pockets in her dress, her shawl.
Bo began to count the money. “Check her boots.”
The dead woman’s legs were slim, her stockinged feet narrow; her boots were still warm. Dutch’s big hands were ill-suited for the search, but his fingers touched a piece of folded paper in her left boot. He fished it out and unfolded it. He read it once, and again. He rose and offered the paper to Bo.
“Her real name was Jenny McCracken. She was a Pinkerton.”
14
“Holy shit!” Little Jack Meyers was standing on the corner of Essex and Delancey across from PINKYS, watching for any unusual activity, when who should show their Irish mugs and head into the saloon but Inspectors Clancy and Tonneman.
He’d been wedged in the narrow entrance of Moishe’s Delicatessen since noon, trying to ignore the pungent smell of corned beef. Moishe had chased him away twice before Little Jack gave him two-bits for a sandwich to leave him be.
As he took a big bite of the sandwich, he saw Pinky tossing out a couple of drunks and had to smile. The midget could hold his own. The tavern door slammed shut. Little Jack gnawed another bite of corned beef and drifted across the street and up to the door of the saloon.
He stepped back, considering the door. Was there an alley? He could hear Big Jack in his head. “Drag your arse back and use the alley.”
No, the coppers would check the alley. He played at pushing the door open – it was planked tight, all right. Big Jack always told him never assume, so he ran around the corner to check the alley, but Dutch Tonneman was there and just missed seeing him.
Little Jack returned to the tavern door. He pulled a small flask of rum from his back pocket and swallowed a mouthful. Eyes almost closed, lips slack, he let his body relax against the door. Couldn’t see anything, but maybe he could hear what was going on. The voices inside were muffled. Lots of yelling. Not only was Bo Clancy a bulvan, he was also a good yeller who could scare the shit out of a statue.
It wasn’t long before Little Jack heard the scraping sound of the plank being removed.
Shoving the last of the sandwich into his mouth, he sprinted back to the corner of Essex Street, dodging a horse and wagon, and colliding with a bearded man wheeling a pushcart full of roasting potatoes. The pushcart man cursed him: “a broch tzu Columbus,” which made Little Jack laugh because the man’s curse was aimed not at him but at Christopher Columbus.
In front of Moishe’s again, Little Jack saw the two inspectors leave PINKYS and head off east towards the river. Should he follow them? What would Big Jack think? Easy. Stood to reason, they’d learned something from Pinky; otherwise they wouldn’t be moving so fast.
He might have followed, but out came Pinky from his tavern, looked around, and off he went, turning on to Essex Street. Little Jack held himself in check for a moment, then he followed.
All of a sudden, Pinky turned around and rushed back the way he had come, running smack into Little Jack, giving him a mean shove out of the way. So, Little Jack thought, Pinky had changed his mind and chosen to go towards the East River, after Clancy and Tonneman.
Rutgers Street was packed full of coppers, wagons, horses, and an ambulance. It looked like most of the neighbourhood was on the street, and those that weren’t hung out the windows.
The area was blo
cked off by a sideways-parked wagon, with one patrolman standing guard.
“Uh oh,” Little Jack said out loud, hanging back behind Pinky. He saw right away that he’d messed up because Pinky heard, turned and looked at him hard.
Little Jack shrugged and wormed himself into the crowd. Good thing, too. Tonneman and Clancy were coming out of the tenement. Blood on Tonneman’s face.
“Hey, brass-buttons.” Pinky pushed his way to the patrolman, keeping his head low. “Another bank get robbed?”
The patrolman shook his head. “No banks here. Woman got herself shot.”
“Dead?”
The officer said, “… than a blessed mackerel.”
Pinky looked around. He couldn’t see Little Jack, who had ducked under a cart. Satisfied, Pinky shoved through the gawkers.
This time, Little Jack was more careful about being seen, and followed at a discreet distance. Pinky was heading back towards Second Avenue.
*
Pinky felt it in his bones. Someone watching him. “Don’t stand out,” Mister William liked to preach. “If you don’t stand out you can slip through the world and never be caught.”
Who was it? That trumbanick he’d bumped into? The one he’d seen again on Rutgers?
The school on Essex Street was letting out. Boys running, brawling, shouting. Pinky took off his cap, turned it inside out, and became one of them. He managed to blend with a group until Second Avenue, where he broke free. And at Second Street, he mounted the steps to the small three-storied brownstone. He lifted the heavy knocker and pulled it down hard against the oak door. A shadow appeared behind the diamond-shaped glass. The door opened; Pinky charged in.
The bearded man who’d opened the door removed the meerschaum from his mouth, and raised his right eyebrow. “Another crisis?” His accent was German. He raised his voice. “Our friend has arrived again with another crucial moment, Hughs.”
“Come in, sit down, my dear Pinky.” Hughs was clean-shaven and spoke like a toff. “Lowenstein, give him a minute. He’s a good fellow. Can’t you see he’s out of breath.”
Pinky couldn’t abide either of these fat-arsed snobs. They lived in this fancy house like their shit don’t stink, while he and Lorraine was grubbers.
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 42
