Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1)

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  “Aye, well,” Muldoon began. “They need as many folk as they can get… you know… to keep things in order.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit his role as strong-arm. He’d be there, not to keep order exactly, but to make sure registered Democrats voted for Democrats. Boss Tweed got his job for him, so he owed his loyalty to the political machine. If Tammany Hall lost its position of power, then he’d lose his job to some Republican.

  Meg McAllister leaned forward, momentarily forgetting her tatting, the light blue threads trailing across her lap. “Have you heard anything about the convention?” she asked. “Have you heard what they’re going to talk about?”

  “I haven’t heard” Muldoon said. He was glad Meg seemed to fit in. There had been none of the raised eyebrows he expected. The two had concocted a bit of a story, not a long stretch, but one the others could believe. So, with a new, second-hand wardrobe, she became a distant relative of his, come to stay for a while.

  “I heard something about giving the black man the vote.” Casper Biggs addressed the room with a superior air.

  The room erupted in violent discussion as they debated the likelihood of allowing black men to vote. It quickly became apparent which side each was on. Personally, Muldoon didn’t care. He really wasn’t political. But he did think reform was a good thing. Finding his eyes drooping, he excused himself from their company, went to his rooms and closed the door firmly behind him. He yanked off his uniform, hung it over the back of a chair, and lay down on the bed to rest. He had a wrestling match coming up. He’d already asked Betsy to get him up by four.

  Still, he couldn’t help but think of Casper Biggs. The man had sat close beside Meg. At the age of sixty, he was the only person in the boarding house who didn’t call her Ma, aside from Mrs. Dunn, who considered hers a business relationship. Did he consider himself a prospect? Muldoon didn’t like the man. He’d been at the Quaker meeting house. Worse, he publicly proclaimed his hatred of the Irish. The man was an enemy. What he was playing, where Meg McAllister was concerned? Muldoon didn’t know. And he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  CHAPTER 22

  Harry

  Hill’s was the most sought-after entertainment hall in the city. A two-story frame building on West Houston Street, it sported bright paint to attract passersby. A blue and red lantern lit a huge sign on the side of the building:

  Punches and Juleps, Cobblers and Smashes, to Make the Tongue Waggle With Wit’s Merry Flashes.

  A line of men filed in the large door. Beside them, brightly clad women smiled and waved, disappearing through a small door just for them. A brawny man stood at the entrance, collecting twenty cents from each man who entered. The women got in free. They were part of the entertainment.

  Muldoon bypassed them, and entered the back way. In the storeroom, he stripped down to his tights, and then made his way to the bar. The early bouts soon ended, but the final event was delayed as a skinny man from Trenton, New Jersey shouted obscenities in support of the visiting grappler. A burly bouncer forced his way between him and several local boys. One, a freckled redhead, reached around the bouncer and poked the Jersey man hard in the shoulder. “Officer Muldoon will make mincemeat of your boy,” he said, as the bouncer pulled them onto the stage and let them at each other. Harry Hill never allowed a brawl to get out of hand. His was an orderly establishment, by the standards of the city. If you wanted to fight, you did it on the stage.

  The unexpected entertainment excited a flurry of new wagers. Muldoon didn’t join the betting, but remained focused, preparing for his match. He wasn’t a betting man. He did like a good boxing match, but these two went at it slap-happy. Neither had the discipline, or the skill, to be real boxers.

  Harry Hill crossed the room toward Muldoon. He was a short, stocky fifty-year-old with the build of a boxer and a face to match.

  “Heard about your match with the African,” Hill growled as he approached, his voice low and raspy as a bulldog’s.

  Muldoon shrugged noncommittally.

  “If it was anyplace but the Black and Tan, I might be worried about your loyalties.” He rubbed his crooked nose. “Gave ‘em a show, did you?”

  Muldoon nodded. “Aye, but it was for Kelly McAllister. Had to get him safely out of there. That George Army would have killed him for sure.”

  “I might not be too happy with you,” Hill said. “But it seems to have whetted their appetite.” He nodded toward the mass of men who’d come for tonight’s bout. “They’re interested to see how you do tonight. I’ve heard some saying you’re done for. That you’ve lost it. They say it shows from the fight with Army. You were slow to take him down. Even lost a fall. That was mighty good of you.”

  “He’s a natural talent, but no real training. And, it kept the crowd going. That first fall had to go to Army. If not, neither one of us might have gotten out alive.”

  “I suppose. If he’d lost quickly the crowd might have got mad. Nice of you to let him save face… but you showed he was near equal to my champ. I don’t appreciate that.”

  Down the bar, two women yelled at one another over some alleged offense. “Hey! Hey, girls,” Hill called out. “None of that in here.” He tapped Muldoon on the arm. “Excuse me, but that’s not happening here unless it’s up there.”

  The battle on the stage played itself out. Both men, bloodied and bruised, were carried from the stage and dumped unceremoniously on the sidewalk outside. They were replaced by the cat fight, and then it was Muldoon’s turn. He strode toward the stage, the crowd parting easily before him.

  “Go, Muldoon!” someone called.

  “Peter Boyle, he’s a great fellow!” Someone in the back cheered the Jersey man.

  And then, they were both on stage. Muldoon raised his hands high, playing to the crowd. The fans went wild. He loved this part of it, the anticipation of the crowd, their shouting adoration. At Harry Hill’s, five-hundred spectators squeezed into the room. It was a big crowd, but someday, he planned to wrestle in the Gardens, with a gathering of thousands. Someday, he swore, it would come true. And then he’d be out of the slum he had to sleep, work, and play in.

  He wore white knee breeches and flesh-tone hose, lightweight shoes on his feet. His chest was bare, bulging muscles sliding loosely beneath tight skin. He turned to the kid from across the bay. Peter Boyle dressed similarly, in a single-piece leotard, blue from his toes to the suspenders over his thick chest. A rhythmic tick jumped over his eye, betraying his nervousness. The New York crowd booed and hissed as Boyle raised his arms to them. Muldoon decided to get this one over quickly. He’d toy with him for a bit, and then end the match.

  The crowd might be disappointed, but he didn’t care. He was tired, and would rather make an early night of it. He needed to be thinking about Kelly McAllister, and Karl Schneider, and the dead girl. He turned to Boyle and took his stance. Squaring off, they waited until the referee dropped his hat, and then grasped each other tight. Boyle wasn’t unaccomplished, he’d give him that, but he was no match for Muldoon.

  Quickly, Muldoon maneuvered behind him and got him in a headlock, his left hand gripping the kid’s bicep. Just a quick movement, he thought. Then Boyle would be dead. Neck snapped. Kelly couldn’t have done it. He knew it with absolute certainty. It would take a man who didn’t care. Or one who liked to kill. Army? Maybe. Who else? Nobody else he knew of. Within a minute, he had the kid down. Boyle bridged, resisting the pressure exerted on him, but within a minute and a half, his shoulders were pressed to the mat. The first fall was over.

  The second fall didn’t last much longer.

  “That’s a foul,” Boyle complained. “Plain as can be. He came at me before the hat fell.”

  “Boo!” the crowd roared at Boyle and a scuffle broke out in the rear between factions.

  “Boyle cries foul,” yelled Hill over the din.

  “Don’t you believe it,” the crowd yelled, then, “Muldoon, Muldoon, Muldoon,” drowned out the calls of, “Boyle, Boyle, he’s a great fello
w.”

  The Police Gazette had supplied the official, and the man raised his hands in the air, calling for quiet. “The fall doesn’t count,” he yelled, and the crowd roared in anger and disbelief.

  The two started once more. And again, Muldoon had Boyle down without much effort. The third fall, too, was quickly dispatched. Harry Hill glowered.

  The crowd went wild. Hill stepped toward Muldoon and raised his hand high. Muldoon flexed his muscles, just for the crowd, and they cheered to see his biceps, sweat gleaming across the broad muscle.

  “You could have given me a show, too,” Hill growled.

  “I’m tired tonight,” Muldoon said. “And the boy had nothing there. I can’t make a show out of nothing. Find me a real opponent, and you’ll get your show. Besides, now they know I haven’t lost it.”

  He waved as he left the stage and fans reached out to him, patted him on the back, felt his well-developed muscles. With the money he earned tonight, he’d be able to pay for three months’ rent, even with the price of four rooms. The kid’s backers had put up a good sum for this match, plus his share of the take, he’d be rolling in dough. He’d be able to get a new uniform to replace his ripped and bloodied one. And then he’d buy a new suit, finely-made boots, trousers, vest, and jacket. And maybe a top hat and cane, if he could find them second hand. The rest he’d put in the bank to add to his growing savings.

  Across the room, a flash caught his eye, just for an instant. He turned toward it and searched the crowd. In the distance, a top hat came down on a man’s head. The man turned toward the stage, a worried expression on his face. He was tall, with a fair complexion. Muldoon didn’t know him, but something about him seemed familiar. He frowned.

  “Muldoon!”

  Recognizing the voice, he spun about. Kavanagh… a bundle of bills clasped tightly in his fist. The man beamed, waving his winnings high in the air, a mug in his other hand. Muldoon nodded, then turned back toward the door. The man in the top hat was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  April 21

  Muldoon

  could find nothing on Kavanagh. It just didn’t seem like he was the right man. He’d have to turn his sights elsewhere, but he had no other leads. He and Benson had gone before Hayle, and they were grilled for more than an hour. The Captain had been furious.

  “This should have been an easy one for you two oafs.” Captain Hayle’s face grew red. “The woman was a whore. All you need to do is arrest someone. It doesn’t matter who.”

  Muldoon didn’t understand the Captain’s rage. If she was a prostitute, then why did he care? Was somebody else behind the scene? Somebody who wanted to find an answer to the death of the girl… or cover it up? Or was he afraid the two might connect her to the Schneider murder?

  “What’s so important about this case?” Muldoon asked. “If you’re right, and she’s just a whore, then it shouldn’t matter. Whores are killed almost every day down here.”

  “Yes, but this one is unsolved.”

  “Most of them are.”

  “Don’t challenge me, Muldoon. It’s of interest to the City.”

  He wasn’t satisfied, but he didn’t dispute the Captain further. Hayle didn’t know any more than he or Benson did. But, curiously, he hadn’t handed the case over to Graham. Normally, it would have been, as soon as it became important… like Schneider’s case. That one had made a big splash in the papers, so it had to be solved quickly. And Hayle’s favorite closer was definitely Graham, not Benson and Muldoon.

  CHAPTER 24

  A

  low fog rolled in during the night, and the relentless drizzle ceased, at least for the time being. Muldoon dressed in civilian clothes. He wasn’t on police business today. It was Election Day, and he chafed at Boss Tweed’s bit. But he didn’t have any choice. Tammany Hall had called him into action. He joined the rest of the household for breakfast. Casper Biggs had the New York Times spread out on the table before him. He looked up as Muldoon entered.

  “Are you going to the polls?” he asked.

  “Aye, I’m assigned to the sailor boarding house on Cherry Street.”

  “That’s a bad district.”

  “And that’s why I’m going there,” Muldoon agreed. “To bang some heads if I have to.”

  “Sergeant Muldoon!” Mrs. Dunn confronted him, hands planted firmly on her broad hips. “I’ll not have that sort of talk at my table.”

  He apologized quickly. Meg McAllister stifled a giggle behind her hand, and turned it into a cough instead. “So, who are you supporting, William?” she asked. “You haven’t talked much about it.”

  “I’m for a straight ticket,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “But then, I don’t know much about politics. Only what I’ve heard.”

  Mrs. Dunn harrumphed loudly. “And what you’ve seen in the papers, I’m sure. I’ve seen you looking.”

  Margaret Flannigan leaned forward, coming to Meg’s defense. “It’s not like she doesn’t have a right to know what’s in the news, Mrs. Dunn. I’ve taken a peek myself, now and then.”

  “Well! I don’t know why you’d even want to know about it. It’s not as if you can vote.”

  “But that’s exactly what this convention is about, Mrs. Dunn,” Muldoon said. “To decide who can, and who can’t vote. Aren’t you interested in that?”

  “No. My father brought me up right. And my husband did the voting.”

  “You no longer have a husband, though. Don’t you think you should have a say in political affairs, as the head of your household?”

  “No, I don’t, Sergeant Muldoon. And I believe that’s enough of this talk. Don’t you have to go now? I’d expect you should be there before the voting actually takes place. Whatever it is that you do.”

  Muldoon nodded. “Aye, I suppose I should get going.” He bent over and kissed Meg on the top of her graying head. She blushed at his display of affection, but grasped his fingers and squeezed them lightly. She might not speak of it, but he knew she wanted him to know she appreciated what he was doing for her, and for her son. His fingers tightened on hers, a silent apology for not being able to help Kelly today.

  He straightened, and hurried out the door, his light overcoat flapping open as he walked. He’d put on his best suit. It was an important day in the city, and he wanted to look well turned out. He might be threatening to break heads, but boss Tweed expected him to look good while doing it. He walked quickly toward Cherry Street. It was a rough area, but then, so was any neighborhood in the fourth ward. He knew many of the people who lived in the ward, knew where they lived and worked. They would fear him, if only for that. Having to enforce party voting was the part of his relationship with the Boss he liked least.

  By the time he arrived, the sun was beginning to break through the clouds for the first time in over a week. He took off his coat and handed it to the man behind the Democratic Party table. Looking around, he watched as various factions set up in the open room. Their table, piled high with literature, stood to left of the entrance. Several large boxes held new ballots, printed with the names of the Democratic candidates. Muldoon glanced at one, reading the names: Sam’l L. Garvin, A. R. Lawrence, John E. Burrill, and Charles P. Daly. He didn’t know a single one of them. But he was the Democrat’s strong-arm at this polling station. Boss Tweed and the Party had chosen these candidates to represent this district at the Constitutional Convention, and Muldoon was here to make sure they got elected.

  Directly across the room, the Republicans got ready for the day. Mirroring the Democrats, a pile of literature and boxes of ballots sat on their table. These, he knew, listed only Republicans. The Radical Republicans set up a third table, straight in from the door.

  This last group was an offshoot of the regular Republicans. They agitated endlessly in the streets, standing on soapboxes and holding rallies. Personally, he thought all Republicans were the same… wrong. But only because they weren’t interested in immigrants. They met boats at the docks with signs
and speeches calling for the abolition of alcohol. Muldoon smirked at the thought of fat politicians meeting a boat full of Germans, or Irishmen fresh from Erin, and asking them to join the Republican Party… but by the way, no more Irish Whiskey or German Beer Gardens.

  The Radical Republicans, he knew, railed against the blanket conciliations President Andrew Johnson had given the southern states. They wanted his impeachment. Articles came out in the press periodically, debating the pros and cons, or presenting one view or the other. And they wanted suffrage for the black man. This last was the biggest debate, he thought. The one issue that had people up in arms, especially connected as it was to the question of woman suffrage. In today’s election, black men could vote… provided they had the two hundred and fifty dollars required by law. But that was only for them. Any white man could vote.

  If he had to make a choice between the two, the Radicals, with their ideas of reform, were the group he’d be drawn toward. But there was still the issue of Nativism bothering him. In New York City, that meant Irish immigration. Men and women from old, established family lines, and even recent English immigrants, held prejudices toward the Catholics and to a lesser degree, to the German Lutherans who flooded into the country in mass numbers. Signs like “Irish Need Not Apply” popped up in business establishments across the city. And Irish were barred from living in certain neighborhoods. “Black Irish” became a common term. Both Republican parties were Nativist. Let the black man have the vote, the Radicals said, but the Irishman can go home.

  Muldoon leaned against the wall and waited for the poll to open. Across the room, a burly, red haired man set down a box of ballots, balancing it carefully on the edge of the table, one hand holding its side. He asked a question and was directed behind the table. He picked the carton up again and shifted it under one thick arm, carried it around the table, and set it on the floor next to an empty chair. Muldoon watched idly, then scowled as the man turned around, revealing the wide facial features of Sergeant Hugh Collins. He stood on short, heavy legs, like two tree trunks merging into one barrel-shaped body. Big arms stuck out from his sides, instead of hanging down easily. He was like a grotesque caricature of masculine strength. If Muldoon didn’t have to tolerate him, he wouldn’t. Collins was one man he’d gladly smash in the face at the slightest provocation. But he wouldn’t hit a fellow police officer. Not unless it was a mighty big provocation.