The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  “What will they do with this magic, boychick?” Rabbi Holtz asked.

  Harvey rested his hands in his pockets and looked at his Buster Browns. “I don’t know.”

  “I can promise you that it won’t be good,” Zipporah explained. “They had some chains in Bone Island—magic chains—and they were talking about summoning Asmodeus himself and hogtying him, though I couldn’t tell you why.”

  “We told Edwin Eames,” Clay explained. “The Dagger Men might very well use the chaos caused by this strike to make a move on City Hall. We should be there, to defend it.” He wanted to see Rabbi Eisendrath again, and defeat him once and for all. “Maybe we can defeat the Dagger Men for good.”

  Detective Flynn withdrew himself from his Morris chair—a slow and laborious process. He looked like he hadn’t slept or changed his pale blue suit for at least a trio of very busy days. “I think you might have more pressing problems, Mr. Clay.” He pointed to the window in the corner of the office, overlooking Atlas Avenue. “A few policemen are keeping tabs on the city, passing around updates and trying to make sure everything doesn’t go completely to Hell. They told me that someone in the Rookery had the great idea of raiding Haven Street, as you Heebs have fortunes squirreled away. They could be coming any second.” The Rookery was the poorest section of Sickle City, a slum of outcasts and outlaws with respect for nothing but an intense hunger.

  “Papa! I’m sorry I missed school today.”

  “Fortunes?” Harvey asked.

  “Bigoted heels,” Zipporah said. “The same as anywhere.”

  Rabbi Holtz picked up his revolver. “We can’t count on the police to protect us. Not that we ever could—not really.” He glanced at Detective Flynn. “No offense, detective.”

  “None taken, Rabbi.” Detective Flynn came to his feet. He reached for his bowler hat, which rested on the edge of the desk. “But I wouldn’t take it personally. This sort of thing will be happening all over the city. It will end when Eames wises up, swallows his pride, and calls in the National Guard or the Marines or the like. Or when he caves in and gives the striking officers what they want and they go back to work and restore order. Until then, I’m expecting more looting and riots.” He sighed. “Another sunny day in Sickle City.”

  “You’re leaving?” Zipporah asked.

  “I’ve got to check in with the other officers, and see what else is transpiring. If there’s any pertinent information concerning the Dagger Men or City Hall, I’ll give you a ring—as long as the telephones still work, of course.” He paused, his hat in hand. “Oh, and Rabbi? It is close enough to the end of the month, if you don’t mind.”

  Rabbi Holtz pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed an envelope, thick with cash. He tossed it to Detective Flynn. “Take it and go.”

  “Grand.” Detective Flynn pocketed the bribe. “You’re a saint, Rabbi—or you would be, if your people had such things.” He walked to the door, then paused and his feigned joviality vanished. He looked straight at Clay. “You look after your friends, Mr. Clay. Stay safe and good luck.”

  “Thank you.” Clay turned back to Rabbi Holtz as Detective Flynn left. “Should we go to City Hall, to protect the Founding Stone?”

  “Not yet, my friend. I need you here.” Rabbi Holtz removed his spectacles and began cleaning them with his handkerchief. His hands shook as he automatically scraped the fabric across the lenses. “If what Detective Flynn is saying is true, this mob will soon be approaching Haven Street. They’ll come here—searching for silver candlesticks and golden Torah covers and breastplates, and all the finery that the greedy Jews hoard. I’ll need you and Miss Sarfati to frighten them off.” He stared at Harvey. “And I want my son here, where we can protect him.”

  “But the Founding Stone and the Dagger Men—” Harvey started.

  Rabbi Holtz’s voice went firm. “You’ll stay here, boychick. We’ll look after our own.”

  “But the whole city’s at stake!” Harvey’s voice cracked, squeaking in a mixture of fear, desperation, and anger. “Everybody will suffer if the Dagger Men succeed. Maybe we can frighten off the mob really quickly, and then—”

  “Goyim, you mean.” Rabbi Holtz walked out from behind the desk and towered over his son. “The Dagger Men threaten the goyim—the same goyim who march against us, just as they did in Russia. They have nothing but disdain for us, and this proves it. We will always be Yids in their eyes, and never fit in. No wonder they make us their targets.”

  “That’s n-not true, sir,” Harvey said. “We’re Americans—just like the people on Damocles Street, or Hogshead Street, or Chinatown. We’re all Americans, and we need to look out for each other. Uncle Herbert’s right about that. These differences, race or religion or whatever, just cause problems.” He lowered her voice. “We’re all Americans, and we need to protect each other and take care of each other. That’s the right thing to do.” He lowered his head.

  “You’re a good boy, Harvey.” Rabbi Holtz cupped Harvey’s chin, making him look into his eyes. “But you’re wrong.” He withdrew the revolver and slid it into his coat, and then selected a double-barreled shotgun. “Mr. Clay, Miss Sarfati—please follow me outside.” He started to the door, and then glanced back at Harvey. “Please stay here, boychick. Stay safe.”

  “We’ll be back soon, child,” Zipporah added.

  “And then we’ll go to City Hall,” Clay promised. “Don’t worry.”

  Harvey watched as they walked to the door. “Be careful!” He waved goodbye as they stepped into the hall. “Please, be careful.” He nearly whispered the final words, and then Rabbi Holtz closed the office door. His son would be safe now. He nodded to Clay and Zipporah, and motioned back to the synagogue hall.

  They walked through once again, Clay and Zipporah flanking Rabbi Holtz. Zipporah pulled out her scimitars, and rested them on her shoulders. Rabbi Holtz toted his shotgun. The synagogue residents fell silent and stepped aside. A few muttered prayers or well wishes in Hebrew or English. They bowed their heads as the defenders of Haven Street walked outside.

  Monk and Cohen waited in the doorway. Cohen removed her fedora as Rabbi Holtz, Zipporah, and Clay walked outside. “Detective Flynn left a few minutes ago, but we’ve got some more guests now.” She pointed down the street. “I don’t think they’re here for services.”

  The mob from the Rookery had arrived. They clustered together, marching in a mass down the center of Atlas Avenue and heading straight for the King Solomon Synagogue. Clay counted at least three score men, along with several women and numerous teenagers and children, who walked with the same vehemence and dark purpose as the other would-be looters. They carried the weapons of the street—axe handles, baseball bats, lead pipes, broken bottles, and knives. Others carried bricks or paving stones, ready for throwing. They didn’t bother with the other businesses flanking the street. Rumor had given King Solomon Synagogue riches, and they wanted their share.

  Clay and his friends looked over the mob. How could five people, even with guns, stand against such a mob? Clay could wade into their ranks and start killing, but even then he would be overwhelmed. Besides, he had no desire to spill that much blood. Rabbi Holtz and the others seemed to feel the same fears. The mob drew closer, spitting hateful shouts into the cold air. “Goddamn Christ-killers! Let’s take back what they stole! They been secretly running the world—I read this book that told me all about it!” The anti-Semitic shouts echoed over the street, as the mob prepared itself for violence.

  Zipporah readied her blades. “Sure are a lot of them.”

  “Nuts.” Monk removed his straw boater’s hat and scratched his head. “You know something? I ain’t even a Jew.” Clay stared at him. “I’m serious. I’m German, Dutch, and a little Irish. But me and the rabbi been friends since we was both in short pants. That’s why I’ve been helping him.” He racked the pump o
n his shotgun. “Good a reason as any, I suppose.”

  “What do you want to do, Rabbi?” Cohen asked Rabbi Holtz. “I can drop the first couple. Make them scatter.”

  “No.” Rabbi Holtz watched the mob over his spectacles. “If we open fire, they’ll charge and wipe us out. I don’t want us killing any of them, either. This strike will end, one way or the other, and then there’ll be countless witnesses to the five murderous Jews who struck down innocent Christians in the street of their own city.” He gripped his shotgun. “We need to scare them.”

  “We’ll need bigger guns for that,” Clay said.

  “I think I have just the ticket.” Cohen pointed back to the King Solomon Synagogue. “It’s waiting in your basement, Rabbi Holtz—a little souvenir I brought back with me after serving so long with Pancho Villa. That might make the mob afraid.”

  “Get it, Mrs. Cohen,” Rabbi Holtz said. “And hurry.”

  Cohen raced back to the synagogue, her boots clicking over the street. While she ran, the mob drew closer. The fellow serving as their appointed leader moved to their head, and pointed at Rabbi Holtz with a baseball bat, studded with nails. “Christ Almighty, I can almost smell the stink of vermin on you.” He had his sleeves rolled back, revealing thick forearms covered in tattoos of curling serpents. “I’m tired at looking at your big-nosed faces. Step aside, Christ-killers, and let us take what we want.” His face went red with rage under his walrus moustache.

  Rabbi Holtz gazed up at the big fellow. “You’re not going one step further.”

  “What are you gonna do about it, Mr. Kike? You think I—”

  Without hesitation, Rabbi Holtz swung the barrel of the shotgun into the mob leader’s head. The barrel cut the skin of his cheek and knocked his head to the side. He tried to raise his bat, but Rabbi Holtz had already rammed the butt of his shotgun into the thug’s knee. Bone splintered and the fellow collapsed. Rabbi Holtz kicked him, driving a loafer between his ribs. He moved back, swinging his shotgun to cover the mob. That gun alone didn’t stop them.

  A few more brave souls charged out, calling for their friends to help. Brickbats hurtled from the hands of the mob, arcing in the air before clattering down in a painful rain. A brick banged against Clay’s shoulder, and he ignored it. Zipporah caught a rock against her chest, and she grunted and sank down. Clay wanted to run to her, but there was no time. The mob’s toughest hurried out to meet him and Clay steeled himself for a brawl.

  The first to reach Clay looked like he knew what he was doing—he had the stance and muscles of a prizefighter, with a crushed nose and cauliflower ears that proved he lost as many bouts as he won. He swung at Clay, feinting from the right before swinging a rapid left that connected. All the boxer did was bruise his knuckles. He pulled back his hand, wincing as he shook his fingers, and Clay dealt him a haymaker that sent him sprawling to the street. The next member of the mob struck Clay with a pickaxe handle. The wood shattered as it slammed against Clay’s shoulder, the force of the blow making Clay stumble. He prepared to hit back, when a flying brick bounced off his eyes. Gravel rattled across his face. Clay stumbled back.

  Zipporah moved in on the fellow with the pickaxe handle, an oversized brigand with a protruding gut and a porkpie hat which seemed far too small for his massive head. He swung the remains of the pickaxe handle at Zipporah, and she met it with her swords. The scimitars cut the pickaxe handle apart. The looter had a second to look at his former weapon before Zipporah slapped his cheek with the flat of her blade to upset him, and toppled him with a swift elbow to the chin.

  Next to her, Monk Moss and Rabbi Holtz dealt with other, eager members of the mob. Clay could see them from where he stood, dealing damage at every rioter coming their way. Monk had slung his trench gun over his shoulder, and used a trench club from the war with great effect. The club consisted of a hollowed grenade topping an iron bar. Monk broke bones and smashed teeth out of mouths with rapid strikes. He tackled one rioter, knocking the fellow down and then working over his face with a few rapid strikes. Rabbi Holtz simply bashed anyone close with the butt of his shotgun. The two of them had grown up in the slums of Haven Street, and knew just how to win a back-alley brawl. They dealt with every member of the mob who came their way.

  Still, Clay knew they couldn’t last long. He grabbed an extended arm, ignoring the meat cleaver slashing against his sleeve, and hauled his attacker into the air. The stout, towheaded looter wailed as Clay sent him soaring through the air and back into the mob. He turned to the next target, only for a rain of bottles and bricks to pelt him. He raised his hands, sheltering his head—which only inspired the mob to increase their barrage. A brick banged hard into his face, right below the holy words. Clay moved back, trying to put his back to the mob.

  “Clay!” Zipporah noticed. “Don’t worry. We can hold them off—get further back up the street, and—” A brick slammed into her back. Zipporah gasped and crumpled, her sword dipping and pointing to the street. Zipporah winced, but returned to a swordsman’s stance as more of the mob surged closer. She kicked wildly, keeping the attackers back.

  Clay moved closer to her. He punched madly, using wide sweeps of his arms to hold back the attackers. Rabbi Holtz fired one barrel of his shotgun, shooting above the heads of the Mob. They ducked back, the looters hurrying away from the blast—but their courage would come again, and they would charge and Clay and his friends would be overwhelmed. Already, another volley of brickbats flew toward them. Bricks shattered and rattled on the street, and Clay stepped in front of the others, to take as many blows as he could.

  Monk realized what was happening as well. “We can’t win.” He spat, his drool a pale red. “They outnumber us.” He returned the trench club to his coat. “We need to start killing them, Rabbi. I know you don’t care for it, being a holy man and all, but I think blasting a few skulls wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “No.” Rabbi Holtz stumbled as he moved out of Clay’s shadow, readying the shotgun butt for another strike. “No deaths. Not on Haven Street.”

  “Admirable, Rabbi.” Zipporah pointed her scimitars at the mob. “But I don’t know if we—”

  “No one dies on my command.” Rabbi Holtz glared at her. “I could not face my son, if that happened.” It was true enough. Clay looked at his fists as his body creaked. He could start killing as well, but that would turn him back into the cold, violent machine he had been in Russia. He couldn’t go back to that, and he knew that the rabbi felt something similar.

  The mob recovered its rage. Their broad-shouldered, tattooed leader picked himself back up. He rubbed blood from his mouth. “Rush them, boys!” he roared, waving for the mob to group around him. “Maybe those damn Hebrews will get a few—but they won’t get us all!” He pointed a broken bottle at Rabbi Holtz, the edge glinting in cold sunlight. “But you leave that one to me.” He waved the bottle like some general’s sword, and the mob advanced.

  “You want to reconsider, Rabbi?” Monk withdrew his trench gun and leveled it at the mob. Bricks and broken bottles clattered around his boots. “Maybe I could just kill a few of them, and you wouldn’t have to tell little Harvey nothing about it?”

  “No.” Rabbi Holtz glanced over his shoulder. “There’s no need.”

  Carmen Cohen walked out of the King Solomon Synagogue, holding a large canvas bundle in her hands. She stepped carefully to the sidewalk, reached the street, and let the canvas fall away from what she carried. A heavy machine gun, the kind used to devastating effect on the Western Front, rested in her hands. Cohen prepared it with practiced precision and speed. She snapped open the tripod and rested it on the ground, then fell to a kneeling position. One hand gripped the handle of the gun while the other threaded in the belt of ammunition. She rested her hands on the trigger, her eyes calm as she swiveled the machine gun to face the mob.

  Rabbi Holtz pointed to Cohen. “Run to her!”

 
They dashed up the street, hurrying through a rain of brickbats. All the detritus of the streets tumbled around them. Clay could feel bricks bouncing off his shoulder. Zipporah caught another, somewhere on her back. She fell, and Rabbi Holtz grabbed her arm and tugged her along before she could reach the street. Behind them, the mob charged—emboldened by their sudden retreat. Their feet rang out against the stone, as they raced straight for King Solomon Synagogue. They were blood-mad, full of the same greed and prejudice that had filled the Cossacks in the Old Country. Clay felt the urge to stop running and start killing, but Cohen had other ideas.

  She fired the heavy machine gun into the air. Bullets roared in the street, kicking up a spray of sparks and dust. Cohen fired into the air again, sending a burst hurtling over the head of the charging mob. The sudden, terrible roar of the machine gun brought them to a halt. A few blasts from shotguns or revolvers could only stop one or two of them—but a heavy machine gun would wipe out the entire mob in a matter of seconds. Cohen kept firing over their heads. Members of the mob tossed down their weapons. She sent a burst at the leader, a single bullet which shattered the bottle in his hand. He gasped, his fingers bloody from the broken glass.

  After the staccato blasts, Cohen let the machine gun fall silent. The mob had stopped its charge, but still stood around in the street—unsure what to do. Rabbi Holtz walked in front of the machine gun and faced the mob. “On a single word from me, you will all be cut down. You understand me?” He roared out the words. His voice echoed over the silent street. Rabbi Holtz pointed down the street. “Go somewhere else. Haven Street is protected.” The mob simply stood and watched him. Bravado and fear battled in their brains. Rabbi Holtz turned to Cohen. “Give them another blast. Let them know we’re serious.”