by Matt Braun
“I remember reading about it,” Phelan said. “Your adventures have been well-documented in the dime novels.”
“Half that stuff is pure beeswax. Damn writers invent—”
Hickok stopped. A carriage rolled to a halt outside the mansion. The front door opened and Stanley came down the steps. He was dressed in white tie and tails and a long evening cape. He crossed the walkway to the carriage.
“Look at that outfit,” Hickok said. “He’s a regular dandy, ain’t he?”
Phelan laughed. “A man about town has to look the part. The showgirls expect it.”
“Does he have a special girl?”
“Our Mr. Stanley likes to spread his charms around. A different girl every night.”
They followed the carriage to the Strand Theater on Broadway. The feature attraction was the Lydia Thompson Burlesque Company, fresh from England. The company consisted of eight buxom blondes who sang wicked ballads and performed high-stepping dance routines. Their act flaunted conventional morality with gleeful satire.
The advent of showgirls in burlesque theaters gave rise to the playboy. Wealthy businessmen, the majority of them married, vied for the attentions of tartish singers and dancers. The men lavished jewelry and flowers on the girls, and openly squired them around to New York’s after-hours nightspots. The girls, accustomed to bartering their wares, offered love for sale.
Leland Stanley was considered a prize. Unlike most playboys, he was a wealthy bachelor, and perhaps susceptible to marriage. Late that evening, he left the burlesque theater with the star of the show, Lydia Thompson. She was voluptuous, with an hourglass figure, and seemingly entranced by his urbane wit. He took her to a concert saloon on the west side of Union Square.
A theatrical variety hall, the concert saloon was a New York institution. The nightspots presented comedians, half-nude chorus lines, and singers who belted out raunchy tales to the accompaniment of a small orchestra. There were tables and chairs on the main floor, and private booths on the balcony overlooked the stage. The waitresses wore high tasseled red boots and dresses that covered hardly anything.
Stanley and his British showgirl were escorted to a booth on the balcony. Hickok and Phelan took a table downstairs, which afforded a direct view of the booth. The room was packed with a boisterous crowd laughing and cheering at the rowdy antics of the performers. The orchestra segued into a high-stepping number and a bevy of chorus girls pranced out of the wings. The audience greeted them with giddy applause.
Hickok ordered a whiskey and Phelan a beer. The chorus line was still jiggling around the stage when the waitress returned with their drinks. Hickok sipped his whiskey, then suddenly tensed, lowering his glass to the table. He nodded at the balcony.
“Take a peek,” he said. “There’s our boy.”
Phelan glanced at the booth. “That’s Richter?”
“In the flesh.”
Richter tapped Stanley on the shoulder. Stanley turned, acknowledging him with a curt look, then said something to the British showgirl. She smiled engagingly, and Stanley rose from his chair, joining Richter at the rear of the booth. Their conversation appeared heated, with Richter subjected to a sharp grilling. Stanley’s features were flushed with anger.
“No doubts now,” Hickok said. “Stanley was behind it the whole time.”
Phelan nodded. “Doesn’t look too happy, does he?”
“I’d just guess he expected better news from Philadelphia.”
Stanley abruptly ended the conversation with a jerky wave. Richter turned away, his mouth clamped tight, and disappeared through a curtain at the back of the booth. Hickok dropped a double eagle on the table. “Let’s go.”
“You mean to follow Richter?”
“I aim to capture the bastard. He don’t know it but he’s gonna give us Stanley.”
They rose from their table. As they started forward, they were blocked by a crush of people watching the show from the rear of the room. Hickok cleaved a path through the crowd and spotted Richter hurrying out the entrance. He cursed, roughly shoving people aside.
On the street, they saw Richter step into a hansom cab. Phelan whistled another cab to a stop and jerked open the door. Hickok clambered aboard beside the driver, ordering him to move out. Phelan jumped inside.
They trailed Richter’s cab down Broadway.
* * *
The Bowery glittered with clusters of varicolored glass globes lighted by gas. The streets were alive with working-class theaters presenting flea circuses, equestrian acts, and blackface minstrel shows. One marquee boasted the risqué attraction of Fifty Nice Girls in Naughty Sketches.
Billy McGlory’s Armory Hall was located on Hester Street. Headquarters for McGlory and his gang of hooligans, Armory Hall was infamous throughout the Bowery. The establishment was a saloon and dance hall, with the dance floor occasionally converted to an arena for prizefights. No one went there expecting light entertainment. Richter’s cab let him off in front of Armory Hall. As he pushed through the door, Hickok ordered his driver to stop at the corner. He gave the driver a gold eagle and hopped down to the curb. Phelan stepped out of the cab.
“Let’s not rush into anything,” he said, as the cab pulled away. “You’re probably not familiar with Billy McGlory.”
Hickok looked at him. “Who’s Billy McGlory?”
“The boss of all that’s unholy on the Lower East Side. He’s nobody to mess with.”
“You think Richter’s tied in with him?”
“I do now,” Phelan said. “He leaves Stanley and comes straight to McGlory’s dive. I’d say there’s a connection.”
“One way to find out,” Hickok observed. “I’m going in there and get Richter. You coming along?”
“Well never get out of there alive.”
“You armed?”
“Yes.”
“Just follow my lead.”
Hickok walked directly to Armory Hall. As he went through the door, Phelan fell in at his side. A long mahogany bar was at the front of the room, with tables and chairs along the opposite wall. The dance floor was at the rear, with a piano, a fiddle player, and a trumpeter. The place was jammed with a late-night crowd.
Richter was seated at a table toward the rear. He was talking to a beefy, thick-shouldered man with the face of a cherub and the eyes of a stone-cold killer. He glanced up and saw Hickok by the door and his face went chalky. He spoke to the man, who gave Hickok a look that could have cracked a rock. Then he pushed back his chair and hurried across the dance floor. He disappeared through a door at the rear of the room.
Hickok started forward, Phelan a pace behind. Billy McGlory stood, circling the table, and walked to the end of the bar. He motioned to four men ganged around the counter and they quickly formed a phalanx behind him. He moved to block Hickok’s path.
“Far enough,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his vest. “You and your friend get while the getting’s good.”
Hickok stared at him. “Hand over Richter and we won’t have any trouble.”
“Otto’s out the back door and well gone by now. You’ve come up short this night.”
“I’ll just have a look in that back room.”
“I think not,” McGlory said in a rumbling voice. “I’m told you’re none other than Wild Bill Hickok. Is it true?”
“You were told right,” Hickok said. “You and your boys stand aside. I’m comin’ through.”
McGlory gestured with his head. The four hooligans started around him, three armed with blackjacks, and one with brassknuckles. Hickok pulled his Colts in a blurred motion, thumbing the hammers. His eyes went cold.
“Which one of you peckerheads wants to die first?”
The men shuffled to a stop. A muscle ticced at McGlory’s jawline and his features went flat. Phelan edged closer to Hickok.
“Time to leave,” he said. “There’s a bunch of his men behind us. Not the best of odds.”
“Cover my back.”
Hickok waited for the det
ective to draw his revolver and turn to face the crowd. Then he nodded to McGlory. “Tell Richter he’s dead the next time I see him.”
McGlory laughed. “You’re out of your league, Hickok. Don’t come back to the Bowery.”
“You got it bassackwards, bub. Don’t make me come back.”
Phelan cleared a path through the crowd. Hickok slowly backed away, one Colt still trained on McGlory as they went out the door. On the street, they turned north toward Union Square.
“Whew!” Phelan let out a gusty breath. “There for a minute, I almost wet my drawers.”
Hickok wasn’t amused. “That goddamn Richter’s got more lives than a cat.”
“You think he’ll show up again?”
“I shorely do hope so, Charlie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Richter’s the key to Leland Stanley.”
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Not while I can fog a mirror.”
They walked off into the night.
CHAPTER 19
THE BUFFALO Bill Combination arrived in New York the morning of February 7. The show was scheduled to open that night, and everyone in the troupe was in high spirits. The Philadelphia engagement had played to sold-out houses.
Hickok met them at the platform. He was accompanied by Charlie Phelan, who was now retained as a full-time bodyguard for the children. Their dustup in the Bowery had convinced him the detective was reliable in a tight situation, and willing to use a gun. He thought the children would be safe in Phelan’s care.
Katherine ran ahead of the others. “Oh, Wild Bill!” she squealed, throwing herself into his arms. “I’ve missed you so!”
“Missed you, too,” Hickok said, holding her with one arm as he reached for Augustus with the other. “How’s tricks with you, Gus?”
“I’m fine, Wild Bill.” Augustus hugged him tightly. “Why didn’t you come back to Philadelphia?”
“Well, I had business that needed tendin’ here. Figured I’d just wait till Buffalo Bill brought you along.”
Cody gave him a look. “Got that business tended to, did you?”
“Tell you about it later,” Hickok said. “Shake hands with Charlie Phelan.”
“Glad to,” Cody said, clasping the detective’s hand. “Heard good things about you, Charlie.”
Hickok exchanged handshakes with Buntline and Omohundro, and Giuseppina gave him a big kiss. Three porters appeared with large steamer trunks loaded onto carts. The trunks were packed with the show’s costumes and assorted paraphernalia. Buntline told them he’d wired ahead for a delivery wagon.
“I have to run,” he said, fidgeting with excitement. “I’ll arrange everything at the theater for this afternoon’s rehearsal. Remember, one o’clock sharp!”
“We’ll be there,” Cody assured him. “I just suspect Wild Bill needs a little rehearsal.”
“Yes, I daresay he does!”
Buntline dashed off after the porters. The children clung to Hickok as the party mounted the stairs to Grand Central Station. Phelan fell in behind the children, his eyes searching the throngs of passengers as they walked through the main terminal. They emerged onto Forty Second Street.
A horse hooked to a cab relieved itself as they crossed the sidewalk. “How’s your nose holding out?” Omohundro inquired of Hickok. “You got used to all these horses yet?”
“Tell you what, Jack,” Hickok said, deadpan. “Day I do, that’s the day to move on. I’ll know my sniffer’s ruint for good.”
Giuseppina giggled. “I must say I love it anyway. It is so—New York!”
“Yeah,” Hickok agreed. “Ain’t roses, that’s for shore.”
Some while later they were again settled into the suite at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Giuseppina took the children into their bedroom to unpack, and closed the door. Hickok dropped into a chair by the fireplace and the other men got themselves seated. He looked across at Cody.
“How’s Gus and Kate holdin’up?”
“Pretty fair,” Cody said. “They get weepy now and then, but that’s to be expected. It’s only been a week.”
“Seems more like a month,” Hickok allowed. “Fightin’ Injuns ain’t nothin’ compared to the savages hereabouts.”
“Had your hands full, have you?”
“Yeah, and then some.”
Hickok gave him a quick account of the past two days. He established the connection between Richter and Stanley, and went on to relate the Bowery standoff with Billy McGlory. He ended by nodding to Phelan.
“Charlie will bear me out. There ain’t no bottom to this goddamn sinkhole.”
Cody shook his head. “You’re sayin’ this McGlory will back Richter’s play?”
“No doubt about it,” Hickok said firmly. “We’re up against a whole passel of the bastards.”
“You’re the expert on cutthroats and desperadoes. How do we handle it?”
“For openers—” Hickok pointed to Phelan. “I’ve hired Charlie to guard the kids while we’re busy with the show. He’ll stick with ’em like a mustard plaster.”
“Sounds like a good start. What else?”
“Jack and Giuseppina,” Hickok said. “I want ’em moved into this hotel today. Jack can spell Charlie when need be, and we’ll know Giuseppina’s safe. I don’t see no other way.”
Cody turned to Omohundro. “That all right with you, Jack?”
“Bet your boots,” Omohundro affirmed. “We can’t have her abducted again. Once was enough.”
“Buntline will pay for the room,” Cody said. “He’ll squeal like a pig, but the hell with it. We’re through taking chances.”
“Let’s understand,” Hickok told them. “Here in the hotel, at the theater, wherever we are—them kids ain’t never left alone.”
Cody considered a moment. “You got any idea a’tall how Richter will come at us?”
“Nope,” Hickok admitted. “Forgot to tell you we learned his first name. He’s called Otto.”
“Sorry scutter,” Omohundro cursed. “I’d sooner call him dead.”
“Jack, you mark my word,” Hickok said. “You’ll get a bellyful of killin’ before it’s over.”
Charlie Phelan thought it the words of an oracle.
* * *
The theater district was known simply as The Rialto. To New Yorkers, the term alone implied the very heart of American theater. The world’s greatest actors were to be found there.
Lawrence Barrett was starring in Julius Caesar. Edwin Booth, brother of Lincoln’s assassin and the country’s foremost tragedian, was in a year-long run of Hamlet. Joseph Jefferson, one of the most popular actors of the day, was playing in Rip Van Winkle.
The Rialto was situated along Broadway. A half-mile stretch, from Union Square to Madison Square, encompassed virtually the whole of New York’s legitimate theater. The term “legitimate” was commonly used to distinguish traditional theater from burlesque and vaudeville. The wealthier class considered The Rialto fashionable in any season.
The Lyceum Theater, located at Broadway and Twenty Second, was a modern showcase along The Rialto. The marquee was emblazoned with THE SCOUTS OF THE PLAINS, and the crowds began arriving shortly after seven o’clock. A long line of landau and brougham carriages deposited the city’s aristocracy outside the theater.
The opening night show was sold out. Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok, and to a lesser extent, Texas Jack Omohundro, were all the rage among New York’s elite. The mythical wilderness of the Western Plains, where knights in buckskin rode forth to battle warlike tribes, captured the imagination of theatergoers. The Wild West was the allegorical Arthurian legend of America.
The audience might have been disabused of their romantic notions had they been allowed backstage. Buntline was in the midst of a raging tirade, shouting at prop men, stagehands, and the cast. His most scathing remarks were directed at the ten actors who had been hired to play the Sioux warriors. The rehearsal that afternoon had left him all but apoplectic.
“This is not Shakespeare!” he railed. “You are playing Indians. Indians!”
Cody and Hickok watched from the door of their dressing room. They were attired in buckskins, with broad hats and colorful shirts, and suitably armed with pistols and bowie knives. Hickok shook his head.
“Buntline would’ve made a good drill sergeant. He’s hell on givin’ orders.”
“Don’t fault him too much,” Cody said. “It’s just that he wants everything perfect. He’s got a lot at stake.”
“Christ, he’s pullin’ in a ton of money. You’d think he’d be tickled pink.”
“Well, the money’s not everything. Ned’s lookin’ to make his mark in the show business. That’ll open all kinds of doors.”
Hickok squinted. “Doors to what?”
“The swells,” Cody said with a rueful smile. “Ned wants a foothold into the New York social set. He aims to use the theater to get there.”
“Might as well teach a pig to waltz. He ain’t got the breedin’ for it.”
“Yeah, but it’s a barrel of fun watchin’ him try. Never saw a man with his spring wound so tight.”
Hickok glanced back into the dressing room. Phelan was seated on a lumpy couch with Katherine and Augustus. He’d found a ball of string and held them fascinated as he fashioned a cat’s cradle with his fingers. The affinity between the children and the detective was already apparent, and Hickok thought he’d made a wise choice. Phelan was a man of many talents.
“Places, everybody!” the stage manager yelled. “Five minutes till curtain!”
“Jumpin’ Jesus,” Hickok grouched. “Time to kill them make-believe Injuns.”
Cody laughed. “We’ll make an actor of you yet.”
The curtain went up at eight o’clock. Giuseppina performed the opening number, a dance involving gossamer veils and balletic twirls, more suitable for sophisticated New Yorkers. The opening scene of the play, with Cody and Hickok around the campfire, had been revised to include the bit about the Grand Duke Alexis. Hickok got over his jitters with a recounting of the royal hunt.
In Act Two, Hickok shot out the spotlight. The audience thought it a delightful touch of stagecraft and roared with laughter. Hickok was so pleased with himself that he hammed it up even more in one of the skirmishes with the Sioux warriors. Instead of killing them, as called for in the play, he fired blanks at their heels. The powder burns caused a riotous departure from the script.
