Come at the King

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Is it better?”

  “Maybe I should say normal. One extreme to another. He’s either asleep in his chair, or prowling around threatening the neighbors. There doesn’t seem to be a happy medium. I’ve put more drops into his orange juice but, like I said, it doesn’t appear to be working anymore.”

  “I’ll talk to him. I’ll come over tonight and we can try out his table.”

  They both look up and out the window when they hear a car door slam and the rumble of an engine starting up.

  Edith pushes the curtains aside and can see Mickey’s car leaving the driveway. “Isn’t that strange. I wonder where he’s off to so early? That’s not like him.”

  Henry comes and stands behind her, also looking. “You may be giving him his drops, but what if he’s not taking them?”

  Chapter 39

  “Y ou heard about Bankers Trust?” Maggie asks, sliding into her chair at Green’s. She’d called Edith last night and suggested that they meet for lunch.

  “I did. I know people who lost everything. Were you a customer?” Edith asks.

  “I was. I am. My mortgage is there, or was. At this point I don’t know much.”

  “Maggie, no. What about your savings?”

  “Fortunately, I’d taken most of it out about six weeks ago, when some of the other banks were closing. It was before the serious runs, so I got most of it, and have it tucked away in a safe at home. How about you?” Maggie asks.

  “Oh, Mickey’s never trusted banks, especially since all the Grand Jury troubles. He keeps it stashed at home, at the Ritz, and some with his accountant. I don’t know where else.”

  “Didn’t we go from bank to bank a few years ago trying to bleed off a bit of money so that you could leave him? What was all that about?” Maggie is fascinated by this peak behind the curtain of bootlegging business practices.

  “Pin money compared to the real stash. It’s for appearances’ sake. Bootlegging and the clubs generate a ton of cash, and Mickey’s not interested in sharing it with the government. After seeing what happened during the Grand Jury, when the Feds swooped down and seized other fellas’ assets, he’s prepared to lose the little bit he keeps in the banks. So what happens to your mortgage? Does it just disappear?”

  “I wish. Apparently, the bank sold it off as an asset while they were trying to stay open. I don’t know who holds it right now. Ron’s checking into it for me.”

  “Ron is? That’s progress. The last time we talked you thought he might be after your money. Feel better about him?”

  “I trust him. I believe he genuinely loves me. I’m just not sure. It would be disloyal to Jack. Tommy and I are managing on our own. I don’t feel any great need to make a change.”

  “Oh, pooh. I’m sure Jack would want you to be happy. And it’s been twelve years, Maggie. That’s a long time to be alone. If you don’t feel passion, then for goodness sakes don’t do it. But doll, don’t let fear of change keep you from that passion. What if Ron and you getting together is the best thing in the world?”

  “Ron keeps asking. He’s being very sweet about waiting. We’ve done some things with Tommy, trying out the family feel. And I like it,” Maggie says in answer to Edith’s inquiring look.

  “Speaking of work and home, how are you managing? Meals and laundry and all the rest,” Edith asks with such intensity that Maggie is suspicious.

  “I’m managing,” Maggie says, slowly, her inner radar up.

  “And you still have that room off the kitchen empty?”

  “Edith, what are you plotting?”

  “I may have a solution to your problem. A friend of a friend finds herself in awkward circumstances and needs a place for a few months. She’s a hard worker, and can cook.”

  “Awkward circumstances? For a few months? Like you mean she’s pregnant?”

  “Yes, about six months along. Doesn’t look it, but will soon enough.”

  “And she needs a place to stay until the baby’s born?”

  “Yes. In exchange for room and board, you and your lodgers get good home-cooked meals every night. You don’t need to worry if Tommy has clean socks for school. And you’d be helping out this friend of mine.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Quiet as a mouse. You’ll never hear a peep out of her except to ask what you’d like for dinner. Oh, and she can sew, too.”

  “And she’d need a place right away?”

  “Pretty soon.”

  Maggie sits and ponders the situation. “Okay, I can do that. What’s her name?”

  “Sadie Bloom.”

  “You hadn’t mentioned she was Jewish.”

  “Is that important?”

  Jack would take her in. “No, just something to think about. Is she observant?”

  Edith shakes her head. “I doubt it, or she wouldn’t be in the fix she’s in, would she?”

  “Give me the weekend to clean up the back room. Right now, it’s full of papers and files from work. And I’ll need to tell the boys that we’re going to be doubling the number of women in the house.”

  “Will do, and thanks, Maggie. You’re a doll,” Edith says.

  “And you? What’s new?” Maggie asks.

  Edith leans in, gesturing Maggie to do likewise. “You won’t believe who I saw.”

  Breathless, Maggie asks, “Who?”

  “Frankie and James Bailey.”

  Maggie stares at Edith. “They’re out of jail? What are you going to do, Edith? Are they threatening you and Mickey?”

  Edith waves away the questions. “I haven’t told Mickey. But I did tell Henry and Eddie Regan. Eddie says he’ll have someone watch the house, outta sight.”

  “Are you afraid?” Maggie asks, taking her friend’s hand in hers.

  “You know, I am. They’re loony tunes, and Mickey’s in no shape to look after himself. We’re like a pair of sitting ducks.”

  “Oh, Edith. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I’m trying, doll. I’m trying.”

  Chapter 40

  M aggie peers out the front window, watching for Mickey and the Duesenberg. Today is the day he’s going to show them Bandits’ Cemetery. Frank paces behind her.

  “It’s hard to believe we’re going to see a bit of bandit folklore today.” And maybe your brother?

  “Any sign of them yet?” Frank asks.

  “No, not yet. Come over here and we can watch together. Are you going to come in the car with us?”

  “No, just in case you have to travel out of the city. When you get there, I’ll find you like I always do.”

  They see the long, elegant car pull up, and Maggie hurries out. “All right. I’ll see you soon.” Maggie shuts the door behind Frank.

  “Where are we going?” she asks Mickey, getting into the car.

  “If you want to see where bandits are buried, we’re going to go to the place that bandits were born.” Mickey grins.

  “A riddle?”

  “This is a secret location, Maggie. I trust that you’ll respect that.”

  “Of course,” she says, nodding.

  He nods in answer, and pulls away. Maggie looks back toward the house, but can see no sign of the Inspector.

  They travel through Center City, past City Hall, and along Market. They turn, and begin to follow along the banks of the Schuylkill River. The car crunches over gravel as it pulls off the road and stops. Below them are the river banks, and behind them are railroad tracks.

  “This is it?” Maggie asks, unsure of the location. Scrub grass, not much else. At least it’s in Philly, so Frank can be here, too. Mickey gets out of the car and opens her door. As she gets out of the car, she looks around, but there’s no sign of the Inspector yet.

  “We need to walk from here.” He heads off toward the river, Maggie scrambling after him.

  “Mickey, wait,” she calls, stumbling on the uneven terrain.

  He stands, facing the water, looking up and down the river. Maggie steps up beside him, also looking
around her. The constant sound of traffic is in the distance. The river is a dull grey-brown. As she turns to gain her bearings, the skyline of the city rises above the old brick warehouses on the other side of the train tracks. They are about halfway between the South Street Bridge with its watchtowers and the beautiful art deco 34th Street Bridge. It’s brand new—so new that, while it will eventually connect south and west Philadelphia, it’s still not open. In typical Philly fashion, the bridge contract didn’t include the roads to get onto the bridge so, for the past two years, it has sat unused. At least it’s a drawbridge and doesn’t interfere with barge traffic. Typical City Hall. Its towers look like small observatories. A cool breeze blows up from the river bank.

  “Are we in Gray’s Ferry?” she asks.

  “Yes, where bandits are born. At least where this bandit was born. Just over there.” He gestures behind him. “This is a very special part of the neighborhood called the Devil’s Pocket.”

  “I’ve not heard it called that. I thought it was known as Forgotten Bottom.”

  “That’s over there, down where the river curves. Gray’s Ferry has all the choice neighborhoods in Philly.” Mickey chuckles.

  “I’ve lived here my whole life and know little about it. I don’t think I’ve ever been here,” Maggie says.

  “Seeing as I’m acting like a tour guide today, let me give you a bit of local history. Back in the 1800s, the local parish priest said that the neighborhood kids were so wild that they’d steal a watch out of the Devil’s pocket. It was an accurate description, and the name stuck. The neighborhood didn’t get better over the years. They were a wild bunch then, and we are a wild bunch now. We do some of our best recruiting from these streets and alleys. Kids outta here are street smart. They gotta be to survive. And there’s a certain attitude a Gray’s Ferry rat carries—a chip on his shoulder that takes a big man to knock off. Even now I hear stories. Most folks in Philly proper won’t come down here ‘cause they’re afraid.”

  Mickey spins round, taking it all in. “I haven’t been down here in years. When I was a boy, the place was hustling. The factory chimneys behind us belching smoke, wagons piled with goods, train cars being unloaded, lots of men going in and out. My pals and I could always score a quick buck down here. It was a magnet for us.”

  “What happened to the bridge? Where did the towers go?” Frank asks.

  Maggie turns to see Frank standing behind her. He’s leaning heavily on his walking stick, fairly quivering with excitement.

  “Was there an older bridge, Mickey?” she asks.

  “Yes, although it was a long time ago now. It collapsed sometime at the end of the last century.”

  “There were narrow turrets with tall flag poles, arches over the roadway, and decorative iron columns. It was quite lovely,” Frank says. “And there were woods over there.” He points across the bank. “And the river was bluer, faster. It didn’t look so tired.”

  “I suppose the watch towers on this bridge were designed to echo those?” Maggie asks, caught up in Frank’s vision.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I don’t understand what you mean,” Mickey says.

  “Nothing Mickey, just thinking out loud. Do you know the history of the area?”

  “The Schuylkill River was a major transportation route, and in the 1800s pirates roamed its banks,” he explains. “They’d attack the barges as they went under the bridges.”

  “You remember me telling you that my brother, Billy, was a Schuylkill Ranger before he was a fireman? He stayed close with them, especially Haggerty, the leader.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about the Schuylkill Rangers.”

  Mickey turns to look at her. “I didn’t think I’d mentioned them by name.”

  “Must have been something one of my lodgers said. I’ve told you about Archie, haven’t I? He’s a real fan of bandits and gangsters.”

  Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Really? Maybe I should give him an autograph sometime.”

  Maggie laughs nervously.

  Mickey sweeps his hand toward the river. “Near here, the Gray of Gray’s Ferry maintained a floating bridge that George Washington crossed over to enter the city. This area is soaked in local history. Not the fancy buildings and pretty bells from the other part of Philly the tourists flock to. No, the history here is the roots of a different Philly. A grittier, rawer city, full of real people and their struggles. Important local history; my history.”

  Maggie sees the river bank through new eyes. Rivers and time both flowing through Philadelphia; stories floating on its currents, submerged in its depths, tangled in the weeds.

  “Like I said, there was so much violence on the river. In the 1800s, Gray’s Ferry neighborhood was full of Irish Catholics but, through the decades, others came too. Like my parents. I think I told you they were Polish?”

  Maggie nods, “Yes, Cuisicks.”

  “Yeah, my mother was a Duffy and, when my father took off and left us, I dropped his name and took hers. Seemed like the right thing to do. And my grandfather—I told you about him?”

  “Yes. You said he raised you.”

  “Ha. The streets raised me. He was more of a counterbalance. A good man, and a Duffy. I was proud to wear his name. And there were so many Irish around in those days that I fit in better.”

  “There are recurring threads in the Geyer family tale. Lizzie raising her baby alone in New York. Mickey’s mother dealing with similar circumstances here in Gray’s Ferry,” Frank says.

  “The area has always been a magnet for immigrants. There was a lot of industry here. DuPont amongst others. And the railroads, of course. Jobs for the boys,” Mickey says. “Most of it gone now, or going.”

  “That’s right. I remember a railroad bridge along here somewhere. The Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad replaced Gray’s Ferry with a permanent railroad bridge. Maybe 1840s?” Frank says.

  Maggie turns to listen, and then catches herself, turning back toward Mickey. Mickey is looking out over the water.

  “And 25th Street must be around here somewhere. On one side of Dickinson there was Weavers End, and the other side was Spinners End,” Frank says.

  Maggie smiles, amused at the Inspector’s enthusiasm. Two tour guides, a century apart.

  “Where is the cemetery?” she asks.

  Mickey waves his arm, encompassing the Schuylkill banks almost from one bridge to the other.

  “Here? You mean the riverbank where we’re standing?” She looks over the grass and bush, the bits of garbage that accumulate on any riverbank, the birds, the utter emptiness of the place.

  “You were expecting headstones and neat rows? This is a boneyard for bandits, Maggie. We bury both the victors and the vanquished here.”

  “Is there an organization to it?”

  Mickey chuckles. “Yeah, if you’re in a real hurry you dump ‘em close to the road and, if you have time to spare, you go further down.”

  Maggie looks up and down the river, imagining past scenes. “I guess some place like this would be good. It’s pretty isolated, and would have been more so a hundred years ago.” Maggie looks at the Inspector, who is nodding.

  “So, you seen enough?” Mickey asks.

  Frank waves her away. “You go. I’ll stay awhile and meet up with you later. Maybe even tomorrow.”

  Maggie gives a slight nod. “I think so. Thank you for doing this, Mickey.”

  * * * *

  After Mickey and Maggie have left, Frank stands on the ridge looking down at the banks, remembering this spot a hundred years ago. The riverbanks haven’t changed much, but the development across the river wasn’t there, and there wasn’t any of the traffic noise. Looking at the landscape now is like looking through a window with fine net curtains, the view beyond obscure. Frank wants to pull back the curtains for a clear view.

  Is this where Billy rests? Have I found you at last, brother? He gets no sense of it or anyone else, as closed to the spirit realm as any mortal would be. The drapes firmly in
place.

  Frank, using his walking stick to steady himself on the uneven ground, walks toward the river. Would the Rangers have been in a rush? Would Billy be lower down, or by the ridge? It makes sense, especially back then, that this would be the spot. Close, but not too close. Known by the Rangers and other bandits. I can see how the legend would be passed down. Learned not only around bandit tables, but Gray’s Ferry kitchen tables as well. Lots of them would have family and loved ones buried here. But nobody talking. This was a closed community, feared for its lawlessness by those that lived on the other side of the city. Shunned by civic government, more trouble than it was worth. Even now, a hundred years later, it still has that desolate, abandoned feel.