by Fedora Amis
Getting ready to leave the office, she looked for her muffler for a full minute before she remembered she’d given it to the little pencil girl. She sighed. Mother would accuse her of being irresponsible. Merry would be cut to the quick because Jemmy had been careless with her gift. Jemmy felt the weight of everyone’s displeasure heaped upon her head.
All of a sudden, everything changed. On her way to meet Autley, an idea struck like a bowling ball knocking down all ten pins. She clenched her fists and screamed through her teeth. The people waiting at the streetcar stop inched away but darted anxious glances in the direction of the screeching female.
“Did Quisenberry Sproat kill his career when he killed Vincent Struckhoff?”
Jemmy asked the question out loud just as Autley Flinchpaugh arrived at the corner of Washington and Broadway. “Did Struckhoff’s death kill Sproat’s career?”
Flinchpaugh set his lips in a thin line of disapproval as the pair boarded the northbound Broadway trolley. “Greetings to you, too, Miss McBustle.”
“Well, did it?”
“When one door closes, another opens.”
“Meaning?”
“People like vicarious excitement. They flock to blood sports to watch other people suffer—so long as they don’t have to take the beating themselves.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Marquis of Queensberry Rules govern all bouts at Turner Hall and all legitimate bouts. That means no unfair punches like kidney punches or rabbit punches to the back of the neck. No stomping on feet or grinding eyes. No kicking a man when he’s down or between rounds when he’s not expecting it. The referee can stop the action if he sees fit. That’s boxing on the up-and-up.
“Other, word-of-mouth-only fights are no-holds-barred. The referee has no power to enforce safety. As long as the pair keep getting up off the mat, the fight goes on.”
“Bare-knuckle fights.”
Flinchpaugh nodded. “St. Louis fisticuff fights are well attended and pay better than boxing with gloves. So what if no one would give Sproat a legit match? Plenty of back-alley money to be made. Of course, after Struckhoff died, Sproat could have made a living from selling photographs and locks of hair alone. That’s how popular his notoriety made him with the ladies.”
Jemmy felt a pang of regret. She’d missed her opportunity to swipe one of the hero’s gold-ribboned curls. Then she gave herself a silent tongue lashing. Stealing is wrong—even in small amounts or in ways no one would notice—like a certain letter in her reticule.
Inside Boedke’s Rathhaus, Autley chose a big round table in the center of the room. Cherry-cheeked barmaids hustled to keep up with demand. One named Marta sloshed a half-dozen Anheuser lagers in glass steins onto Autley’s table. He nodded to Jemmy to take one. Jemmy didn’t like beer. The bitter taste and the skunkish smell offended both tongue and nose. Still Jemmy smiled as she picked up the stein, waved a toast in Autley’s direction, and took a tiny sip.
Jemmy wondered what was to become of the other four steins. She didn’t have long to wait. Within five minutes, four burly men plunked themselves down and began to swill the beer.
Autley greeted them with a raised stein. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Miss Jemima McBustle. Miss McBustle, these gentlemen are the notables of the northside boxing world.
“The good-looking fellow with the split lip is Handsome Harry Benson, lately come from Chicago. Harry has a heck of a right cross. Please pardon my salty language.
“The other three are his corner men: Amos Medley, Harry’s Manager; Deke Whicher, his trainer; and Bud Whicher, his cut-man.”
Jemmy nodded to each in turn—and recognized the one called Amos Medley, the man who’d booted her out of the Turner Hall.
Medley said, “Pleased to meet you, Miss McBustle. I’m glad Flinchpaugh finally brought you out of hiding. Nothing makes me happier than to drink a toast to such a comely young lady.” He raised his stein. “To the lovely Miss McBustle.”
If Medley recognized her as the woman he’d bodily ejected from the Turnverein Halle that very morning, he didn’t show it.
While the men took long pulls from their steins, Flinchpaugh said, “Amos, my man, you wasted no time finding another fighter to replace Sproat. One day to bring Harry all the way from Chicago—must be a record.”
“Not at all. Harry has been in town four months. He’s poised to be the next St. Louis city champion. He’s already bested every comer on the north side.”
“Don’t change the subject. You can’t tell me you ditched Sproat at the height of his popularity. I saw him in a bare-knuckle contest not two weeks ago. The three of you were in his corner.”
“Does some law I don’t know about keep me from managing more than one fighter?”
“I’ve never known a good manager with a big stable.”
“Not so. Everybody knows I’m the best manager in St. Louis, and you just said I owned both Sproat and Harry Benson.”
“Perhaps Sproat was looking for new management and let you go.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t as good a fighter as he thought he was.”
Jemmy found the grit to ask her own question. “Does one of you have a bullwhip?”
The four looked at each other, slopped down the rest of their beer, and left the table—with many “Thank you’s” to Flinchpaugh for buying the round.
“As a reporter you have the subtlety of a sledge hammer. You’ll never get an answer to your whip question now. How could you possibly be so foolish?”
Jemmy deserved the scolding. What made me do it? Frustration, I guess. I have no control, no place in this world of violent men. I’ve been an outsider every day since I decided to be a stunt reporter. Still, I’ve never beat my head against so hard a wall as in the Turner Hall and in this tavern.
An accordion player struck up the “Champagne Polka.” Flinchpaugh said, “Had enough? Maybe you’d like to stick around and try again. Won’t get far, though.”
“Polka with me. Handsome Harry is on the dance floor. When the musician calls ‘Change partners,’ take his.”
Flinchpaugh offered a wry grin but stood and offered his hand.
Right on cue, Flinchpaugh spun Jemmy into Harry’s arms. The polka left her breathless, but Harry had plenty of wind. “What are you doing with that ugly fellow? You deserve better, much better.”
“What you lack in finesse you make up for in forwardness.”
“I’m not a fellow to waste time. When I see something I like, I go after it—whether it’s in the ring or on the dance floor. Dump old pig puss and come with me. I’ll take you places you’ve never been.”
Before Jemmy could answer, the “Change partner” call swung her into the arms of Amos Medley. “Don’t fall for Harry’s sweet talk. He may be handsome, but he’s a rakehell with women.”
“He seemed quite the gentleman to me.”
Medley gripped her fingers until she winced with pain. “Harry doesn’t have energy enough to box for me and to cavort with low women at the same time.”
“I beg your pardon. I most certainly am not a low woman.”
“Prove it. Stay away from Harry.”
The next “Change partners” call swooped her into the arms of one of Harry’s corner men. “I’ve never met a cutman before. What does a cutman do?”
“Tend cuts and such. Rinse ’em off, wipe ’em down. A little alum to stop bleeding. Keep ’em on their feet.”
Jemmy laughed. “When I first heard ‘cutman,’ I thought it meant you cut the fighters.”
“Aye, we sometimes do that to ’em, too.”
The accordion player finished the polka with a grand flourish and launched into “The Band Played On.”
Amos Medley jostled Harry aside. He grabbed Jemmy without the courtesy of asking her to waltz. “I want your promise not to cozy up to Harry.”
“I’ll give my word not to flirt with Harry on one condition.”
Medley gripped her back. “I don’t like conditions.”
“I don’t like strangers bossing me around.”
“I’m not going to let a woman ruin Harry, too.”
“Did a woman ruin Quisenberry Sproat?”
“When she was in the room, Sproat couldn’t keep his mind on anything important, like winning a fight. Nearly got him killed. High-hatted him when she found a new beau. Sproat pined. Couldn’t be bothered to train for weeks on end. Just when he’d got back the old ambition, here she’d come again to bedevil him another time.”
“What was the name of this woman?”
Medley jerked her hard into his chest. A round cylinder bulged in his breast pocket. It felt like a cold, fat poker against her breastbone. “Promise me to leave Harry alone.”
“If you tell me what I want to know, I’d have no reason to seek Harry’s company.”
“I don’t know her rightful name, but Q.B. called her ‘Sassy.’ ”
All the questions she’d burned to ask Sproat’s corner men vanished from Jemmy’s mind. Could it be that Sassy Patterson had so bewitched Sproat that he botched fights?
A banging noise turned all eyes toward the center of the room. The accordion player stopped playing. A thickset bartender shot out from behind the bar with baseball bat in hand. He jogged over to Handsome Harry, who was cracking a fellow’s head on a table. The fellow turned out to be Autley Flinchpaugh.
The barman gave Harry a small bat tap on the bean just to get his attention. Harry turned around with a puzzled look on his face. The barman stood back and took up a batting stance, but Harry’s trainer and cutman pulled their man out of harm’s way.
Medley raced over with Jemmy close behind. Medley gathered up Harry and the rest of the crew and headed for a table on the far side of the room.
The barman went back to his business. The accordion player launched into a lively “Beer Barrel Polka.” The altercation was over.
Jemmy dipped her hanky in beer and used it to wipe blood from Autley’s face.
“Why was Harry bashing your head on the table?”
“Did you get any information from Sproat’s manager?”
“A little. Why did Harry bang your head on the table?”
“Handsome Harry seems quite taken with you. He apparently considers me a rival.”
“He beat you up over me? I’ve barely said ten words to the man. We are not even acquaintances, much less sweethearts.”
“Here’s a lesson for you. Men often see what they want to be real instead of what is real—especially when women are involved.”
“I think he broke your nose.”
“Just what I need. My nose broken for the fourth time—and all for the sake of a girl who cares not a whit about me.”
With a shock, Jemmy realized Flinchpaugh had motives other than helping a colleague. The man was smitten. Either that, or he wanted to show his sports chums he could attract a pretty girl despite his homely face. Either way, Jemmy would have to be careful.
“You’d best go home and lie down.”
“First I need a whiskey or some stronger anesthetic.”
“The apothecary shops are closed, but I have an idea.”
Jemmy walked straight over to Medley and tapped him on the shoulder. “Your boxer broke Mr. Flinchpaugh’s nose. The least you can do is give him the paregoric I know you have in your coat pocket.”
Medley’s eyes bulged, but he turned the paregoric over to Jemmy without comment. Jemmy looked at the label. A.M.’s Cordial. She recognized the curlicues on the C. Amos Medley was a regular client of Mabel Dewoskin.
Back at the table, Flinchpaugh took a grand swig from the bottle and tucked it in his pocket. “That’ll do me until I’ve seen you home.”
Through two streetcar rides, Autley nursed his nose with Jemmy’s hanky while Jemmy sat next to him, trying to think of something to say.
Autley broke the tension. “What did you find out?”
“Practically nothing. I bungled everything from the very start.”
“Come now. You said you got a little something from Medley. Don’t I deserve your trust? After all, I’m bleeding for it.” Autley’s voice sounded tinny and unreal.
“He bought the paregoric from Mabel Dewoskin, a woman I tried to interview today. I don’t know what it means, but I guess I’ll have to call on Mabel again.”
“What do you mean you ‘tried’ to interview her?”
“She threw me out when I wouldn’t buy paregoric from her.”
“Perhaps I should come along—just to buy some. Not much left in this bottle, and my nose will hurt worse tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to protect me. Mabel Dewoskin is all business. If I buy, she’ll talk.”
Autley fetched two dollars from his money clip. “That should be enough for a small bottle.”
Jemmy took the money. “Did you discover anything?”
“Perhaps.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Not yet. It may be nothing.”
“I told you what I found out.”
“And I appreciate your honesty. But we may be entering dangerous territory. I want to be better prepared than I was tonight.”
Autley left her at the door to Bricktop. She’d dutifully invited him in, but he declined. “I wouldn’t want your mother to see me with blood on my shirt. That would make a bad first impression.”
Jemmy muttered to herself, “Heavens in handbag. Does Autley Flinchpaugh expect to meet my mother? Why on earth would this man I barely know want to meet my mother?”
Jemmy had little time to mull the question over. Waiting inside the hall at Bricktop, Mother said, “Jemima Gormlaith McBustle. Where is your muffler? Do I smell beer on your breath?”
CHAPTER SIX
Saturday, November 19, 1898
Saturdays at Bricktop demanded a flurry of activity. The whole house had to be dusted, bed linen changed, rugs beaten, floors polished, gas lamp chimneys washed, kitchen scrubbed, and necessaries scoured. And still to be done were the daily chores of slops emptying, ash removing, coal supplying, and cooking, serving, and cleaning up after three meals for thirteen or more people.
Mother issued weekly assignments and personally saw them completed to the letter. Gerta, the efficient German cook, scrubbed the kitchen. Mother allowed no one but herself to shine the waxed floors. Sixteen-year-old Miranda, better known as Randy, grumbled about a recent change in routine. She enjoyed beating the rugs—a job well-suited to her volatile temper—a job Mother forced her to turn over to the new maid of all work.
In fact, Dora wasn’t exactly new. She had been the boardinghouse’s laundress for months. Prosperity returned and spirits lifted when Merry’s hand-painted sign
Room to let
Inquire within
disappeared from the first-floor parlor window. Rent-paying guests filled all six second-floor bedrooms. Mother could afford to hire Dora full time.
Mother assigned Randy the more genteel and tedious job of changing bed linens with Nervy, the youngest McBustle sister, Minerva. After that, the pair dusted an incalculable number of whatnots.
As punishment for Jemmy’s sins of the night before, Mother set her to scrub the necessaries. Mother made Jemmy’s job disagreeable but quick. After all, Jemmy had become a newspaperwoman, a person without a real day off.
Jemmy’s out-of-the-house job rankled Mother, but she’d stopped her loud protests. Lately, she’d hunkered down and devoted her energies to helping Aunt Delilah find Jemmy a respectable husband.
Mother entrusted the task of taking down and cleaning the gaslight lamps only to patient and ever-careful Merry. But on this particular Saturday, the sweet fourteen-year-old left the family short handed. Esmeralda “Merry” McBustle’s shaky hands dropped a lamp chimney from a hall sconce. The glass shattered on the hardwood floor just in front of Jemmy as she walked with her scrub bucket toward the first floor necessary.
Trembling and teary-eyed, Merry slipped down the ladder. “Oh, Jemmy, what have I done? If you’d ta
ken one more step—I hate to think—”
Mother rushed in from the dining room. She needed only one look at Merry to see all was not well. A quick palm to the forehead confirmed her suspicion. “I thought you looked peaked at breakfast. Why didn’t you tell us you felt poorly?”
“On Saturdays everyone must work so hard. I didn’t want someone else to have to do my work, too.”
Mother was not known for being soft on herself or anyone else. But she visibly melted in the face of Merry’s selflessness. “You foolish girl. Come to my room. You must go to bed.”
“Please, Mother, I won’t break any more glass. My hand slipped a little. You must let me pay for the one I broke. I’ve saved enough money to replace it.”
“You’re talking nonsense. It’s the fever. I’m putting you in bed right this minute. You must have rest, and I must prevent the remainder of the household from contagion. We can’t have everyone ailing—not with Thanksgiving dinner less than a week away. It’s your duty to get well, so to bed with you.”
Mother escorted Merry off to the maid’s room behind the kitchen. Mother McBustle had claimed it for herself when she turned Bricktop into a boardinghouse after Father died. All four daughters and both workers occupied the ballroom-turneddormitory on the third floor.
Over her shoulder, Mother cast a few words to Jemmy. “Clean up the glass, then fetch Merry’s nightie. On the way, tell the others to stay away from her and to be extra careful. I’ll clean the lamps myself, and you can help with the floors. Have Randy fetch the doctor.”
Jemmy could not get away until past eleven. She didn’t reach the Illuminator until past noon. She was about to sit at her splintery pine desk when her immediate supervisor, Miss Turnipseed, sashayed to Jemmy’s desk with her hand out.
“Your review of the Crystal Palace Theatre’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, if you please.”
“You’ll have it Monday.”
“It needs to be submitted today.”
“I’m seeing the play tonight.”
“You were supposed to see it Thursday.”
