Death of a Showman

by Mariah Fredericks

  I conceded that had been the goal.

  “Still, I thought: Why not head? Why not chest? Gut’s messy, takes time to die. Lombardo was tall, right?”

  “He was.”

  “Lombardo tall, shooter short—there’s your bullet to the gut.”

  Warburton had been short, I thought uneasily. Mistaking my unease for confusion, Behan gestured with his spoon. “Horses, short men … adds up to jockeys, don’t you think?”

  “It could. But why would a jockey shoot Floyd Lombardo?”

  “Very good question. One I put to my friends at the track. Racing is a hard sport. Not everyone makes enough to retire well. They get desperate. You put that together with people who make money off the desperate, well, you might find a hand smasher. Or worse.”

  I knew more than one boxer whose ability to turn grown men to pulp had led to different employment after he left the ring. Still, I said, “There are a lot of desperate people in the city, Mr. Behan.”

  “Sure. But remember, they outlawed betting on races for a few years. Belmont closed and the sport nearly went under. Now that it’s back, it’s a relatively select group of individuals who’ve managed to worm their way back into the sewer level of the business. My friend remembered one particular fellow. Never very good, rode drunk more than sober, and didn’t hold back with the whip—even after the race. Some people love horses better than people, but he didn’t love either, apparently. Mainly he made a living riding better jockeys into the rails. That caught up to him though and he had a bad fall that left him a little off in the head. A few years back, there were rumors that he knifed a promising jockey for pay. Year ago, he pulled a gun on someone. Turns out, he lives in New York. Got a sister out in Queens.”

  “So, we’re going to Queens?”

  “We’re looking for a mean ex-jockey and a drunk, Miss Prescott. We’re going to a saloon.”

  Saloons where a man might drink himself to death were plentiful on the Lower East Side. Saloons that catered to men whose business was butchery, also plentiful. But saloons where a murderous ex-jockey could drink and pick up the odd job—those were few. And so Michael Behan and I found ourselves standing outside the Nag’s Nose and arguing over whether I should go in. In the reporter’s opinion, it was a low place and he didn’t want his nose broken when some drunk made a grab. I wasn’t dressed to do business; what reason did I have for being there?

  “You’re a reporter,” I said. “I’m your … secretary. Say it with a wink and nobody will think twice. If they can think at all.”

  Still grumbling, he put a hand on my back to suggest familiarity and guided me through the door. The Nag’s Nose hearkened back to the time when families had run saloons out of their front parlor while living at the back of the apartment. It was a rough space, with raw wood planks for floor, a low ceiling, and an odd assortment of tables, chairs, and stools. The bar was pocked with rings and scuffed by a thousand drunken kicks. A few drawings of horses hung on the wall, alongside framed photographs of famous jockeys. The air was stale, redolent with beer and unwashed bodies. Yet, even in the middle of the day, thirty or so men had gathered in this dismal place to pour forgetfulness down their throats.

  The hum dimmed a bit as we came in, but we were soon absorbed into the crush at the bar where Michael Behan ordered beers for the both of us. Then he talked loudly about the money he’d won on a recent bet. That attracted attention. A round of drinks made him friends. A second round of drinks and he was the most popular man in the place. He was even given a stool. At which point, he announced himself a racing fan, particularly of those jockeys who had the guts and common sense to do whatever it took to win. He became very Irish as he swapped bits of racing lore with the other men, pointedly praising the efforts of riders with Irish names. A portly man teetering on a nearby stool shouted, “They’ve made it a gentleman’s sport. Not a circus, where the monkeys ride the horses!”

  Enchanted by his own wit, the gentleman saw fit to repeat the joke several times, inviting Michael to toast this happy progress. Which he did, his smile growing pained over time. Then he said, “Speaking of gentlemen, my father took me to a race when I was a boy and I’ll never forget one of the riders. Now he wasn’t pretty, but he found spaces, squeezed through, and got the last bit he could out of the nag. That man rode to win.”

  “Rode to win,” slurred the other gentleman.

  “Name of Jimmy Galligan. I always wondered what happened to him.”

  At this, the man went still, then roared, “Wondered what … why he’s sitting right over there!” He pointed to a dim corner at the far back of the saloon, where a man sat alone at a table.

  Affecting awestruck admiration, Behan whispered, “Do you think he’d mind if I went over?”

  The beet-faced man lowered his voice. “I’d go over quiet if I was you. Jimmy’s had a tender head for the last few years. Gets prickly if he’s disturbed.”

  “How’s he been faring?”

  “Well, it’s not a fair world, as we’ve been saying,” said the gentleman. “But lately, he seems to have had a bit of luck.”

  “Has he?” said Behan.

  “He has. And he’s drinking it down as fast as he can.”

  * * *

  Whatever Jimmy Galligan had been in his youth, life had taken him ruthlessly in its grip and wrung him out until all that was left was a twisted, grimy rag of a human being. His mouth was set at an odd angle and had few teeth left. His nose was broken, his skin pocked. His face was mottled with rage and drink; his hair, rough and pulled, stood up in greasy patches on his skull. Behan’s friend had spoken of his brains being knocked around, and the wary gaze that greeted us told me that this was a man who saw enemies everywhere. He accepted Behan’s drink and compliments, but made it clear we wouldn’t get anything from him in return and we were suckers if we thought otherwise. His gaze narrowed as I sat down and I knew he was one of those men who hated most people and disliked women even more.

  Perhaps for this reason, Behan settled for a quieter approach that drew on one of the few passions that still burned in this wasted man: grievance. He asked Galligan about when he’d worked with horses. In reply, Galligan spat on the floor.

  “Shame,” said Behan. “A man of your talents. How do you make your living these days, Mr. Galligan?”

  “Who says I do?”

  Behan glanced at the bottle of whiskey. “Would that be a gift from an admirer, then?”

  “I’m useful from time to time, I suppose.”

  Feeling the man would mumble us into submission, I asked, “In what way, Mr. Galligan?”

  He squinted at me the way you would vermin: disgust and incredulity that I was present and had made myself known. I would have to make the oddness of my presence an asset. Was there anything a woman might have to offer a man like this? A discarded newspaper with a headline about the trial of Mrs. Carman for murdering her husband’s lover gave me an idea.

  Planting my clasped hands on the edge of the table as a signal I wished to do business, I said, “For example, if a lady decided she wished to be rid of her husband, could you be of use to her? Or it needn’t be a husband. Just a gentleman of her acquaintance.”

  Galligan’s poisonous little eyes slid in Behan’s direction. “Nice. Doesn’t even wait till you’re out of the room.”

  “He’s not the gentleman I wish to be rid of. Obviously.”

  The eyes flicked down to my hand. “Don’t see a ring.”

  “Women can get entangled with the wrong man in all kinds of ways. I’m sure you’re familiar with the sort of man I mean. A leech. Parasite. Never worked a day in his life, still feels entitled to the worldly comforts better men can’t afford. He lives off women. Borrows. Doesn’t pay his debts. He has a certain charm, but it wears thin. And one day, the lady—or someone else—grows tired of him. And they decide it’s time for him to pay up. Once and for all. So they find a bill collector. Is that your line of work, Mr. Galligan? Bill collection?”

 
I could see he recognized Floyd Lombardo from my description. But he was still unsure how much to trust me. The bottle was close to empty. From what the gentleman at the bar had said, Galligan was running through funds quickly. He didn’t want to talk to me. But I could feel his neediness. He was close to death, but not quite ready to go and wanted to enjoy himself—or numb himself—before departure.

  “Answer me, Mr. Galligan—are you useful or no?”

  “Don’t care for the kind of man you describe,” he grunted.

  “Have you known such men?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Held them to account? Made them pay what’s owed?”

  “Held them to account, let’s say.”

  “I’d want it clean. What’s your method?”

  “River cleans up most messes.”

  “What if the gentleman dislikes water?”

  “Bullet usually gets them over it.”

  It was a sorry statement on our times, but Floyd Lombardo was probably not the only man who had been killed in the past month for nonpayment of debts. And yet I couldn’t ask Galligan for references or specifics of past work.

  Glancing at the bottle, I said, “Right now, you look like a man of leisure. When was the last time you worked?”

  “Sometime in the past two months.” That squared with his unusual cash flow.

  “I’d need to know you can handle resistance.”

  “I can.”

  “You’re not a big man. I need more than your word.”

  The reference to his size provoked as intended. Pointing a shaky finger, Galligan growled, “You go over to Bellevue, ask for a gentleman of the name of Armisen. He’ll give me a reference.”

  Armisen. That was one of Floyd’s aliases. Working to remain calm in light of the fact that I was sitting across from a confessed killer, I said, “I think I know the man. At least I knew one of his friends. A Mr. Warburton?”

  I saw no recognition of the name. Stupid to hope Galligan had killed both men, but at least I had tried. A question came unformed. I knew there was something more to ask, but before I could get at it, Behan nudged me: Time to go.

  “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Galligan.”

  “I’ll be here. Or I won’t be.” Then tilting a grimy glass at Behan, he said, “Best of luck. Me, I’d put a pillow over her before she does the same to you.”

  So advised, Michael Behan kept a careful eye on me as we left. A few times, he opened his mouth, then either judged we were not far away enough for easy talk—or he was as yet uncertain what he wished to say. After the bile of the Nag’s Nose, I felt a need for clean wind and open space. So I led us toward the piers where the stench of despair and the thud of glasses was replaced by the smell of fish piled high on tables and the screech of seagulls. I listened to the creak of ships and the shouts of employed and busy men. Then I took in the vast expanse of blue sky and breathed deep, feeling I had escaped.

  Then Michael Behan announced, “That is a side of you, Miss Prescott, I have never seen before and wish never to see again. ‘I’d want it clean.’” He shuddered.

  Ignoring his theatrics, I said, “Well, now we know who killed Floyd Lombardo. But I didn’t see any sign that Galligan was connected to Sidney Warburton.”

  “Doesn’t seem much of a theatergoer,” agreed Behan.

  “Also,” I realized with sinking heart, “Warburton was a better investment than Floyd Lombardo. Even if he did borrow money from the likes of Owney Davis, there would be no reason to shoot him until the show failed.”

  “So…”

  So I would not be able to give Louise glad tidings that someone unconnected to the show had killed Sidney Warburton.

  On the other hand, I would be able to tell her that Nedda Fiske had not shot Floyd Lombardo. Something some might say she had every right to do.

  Whether or not she shot Sidney Warburton was still in doubt. But why would she, unless she knew Lombardo was dead and she blamed Warburton for his killing?

  We walked along the edge of the island. Behan asked, “Any thoughts as to who did kill Warburton? Mrs. Hirschfeld seems to have put her husband in a difficult spot.”

  Disliking this subject, I kicked at a discarded tobacco tin. “Oh, I don’t care. Let the police handle it.”

  We came upon a bench and Behan said, “You seem out of sorts, Miss Prescott. Would you care to sit? Perhaps your feet hurt.”

  We sat. I stared out at the glittering gray ribbon of the East River, letting my eye wander to the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance. Behan made notes. Brought down to earth by the scratch of his pencil, I said, “Are you writing about Warburton?”

  “Not unless you’re willing to be more forthcoming. The detective is running an unusually professional investigation and news is hard to come by. But there’s something in Galligan. Ugly side of racing…”

  “How did you come by your passion for horses?”

  “My father. He was the real expert. He taught me to read with the sports pages.”

  I smiled. “No.”

  “But yes. He would put me on his lap, and say, Michael, find me Isaac Murphy on this page. Find me Oliver Lewis. I’d figure out the sounds and point to what I thought it was, and if I had it right, he’d quiz me. Time of his fastest race, horse he rode in the Kentucky Derby, things like that. As long I got the right answer, I could stay up. First wrong answer, off to bed. I didn’t get to see him much, so…”

  “So you wanted to find those names.”

  “I did.” He tapped his notebook. “There’s a good story here. I might even get a byline out of it.”

  “How so?”

  “If you write something beyond the daily dose of misery, something special like, say, a wonderfully evocative portrait of a jockey gone wrong, sometimes the Herald gives you credit.” He drew a finger over the cover of the notebook. “‘By Michael Behan.’”

  “You’d be famous,” I said lightly.

  He tucked the notepad back in his pocket. “Just be nice to have my name on my work for a change.”

  That brought an image of him with Tib on his lap. All right, now, find me Michael Behan on this page.

  “Of course. And you should.”

  I thought of Adele St. John’s gorgeous fantasia of a dress—her name would be on that. Claude’s name on that record. Leo’s name in all those newspapers as the composer of “But on Fridays.” Then imagined “This pair of shoes selected by Jane Prescott.” “This brush moved to its proper place by Jane Prescott.” No, it wasn’t work you’d put a name to. Which had never bothered me before. And yet I couldn’t escape feeling somehow … lesser. Ninety-nine percent of the world lived and died without the rest of the ninety-nine percent knowing who they were. Why should it bother me to be one of them? Why did I suddenly feel that unless I was someone with my name on things, someone known, there wasn’t much point?

  “Should we tell the police about Galligan?” I asked.

  He squinted into the distance. “I suppose we should but we don’t have proof and the man’ll be dead inside a year anyway. I don’t have the sense the public is clamoring for the capture of Floyd Lombardo’s killer.”

  Nedda Fiske would be, I thought. There was still something that nagged me about Floyd Lombardo’s death, some vague tendril that reached toward Warburton’s killing. But I felt sure Owney Davis hadn’t sent Galligan, or another of his ilk, after the producer. And beyond that, I couldn’t see what would tie the two men’s deaths together.

  A dockyard worker pushed a cart stacked high with crates through a nearby puddle, splashing our shoes with muck. It seemed a sign to go. As we rose to make our way to the train, Behan asked, “Mind if I ask a difficult question?”

  “You’ll ask it anyway.”

  “What’ll you do if your man did it?”

  I was about to ask how desperately he needed a story when he added, “Only you’ve been known to have a bit of a soft spot for people who kill people.”

  Anger rising, I said, “I don’t recall feeling
anything remotely soft for George Rutherford.”

  “Point taken. But Mrs. Hirschfeld’s sudden recollection of what she can’t recollect is problematic, don’t you think?”

  “Mrs. Hirschfeld is lying.”

  “Lying implies she can remember what happened and construct its opposite. Why would she lie?”

  “Because she and Mr. Hirschfeld had an argument.”

  “So she ran off and told the police her husband was a murderer?”

  “It was a … very bad argument.” Actually, there had been no argument. Some attempt at an apology by Leo, but the door had slammed shut between “I’m” and “sorry.”

  There was a long pause as Michael Behan tried to fathom Leo’s actual crime. Then he said, “Ah. Which one, Arden or Fiske?”

  I truly, truly did not wish to be honest with him. But neither of those women deserved to be dragged into scandal because I had been an idiot. “Neither Arden, nor Fiske.”

  “Don’t tell me he made a play for Louise Tyler. She’s got a good six inches on him.”

  “It was not Louise Tyler and if you write anything that implies it was, Mr. Tyler will sue your wretched paper and I will break every one of your fingers.”

  At this, he let out a long, quiet exhale and looked down the street. Explanations and excuses came to mind. It wasn’t, it was only, he needn’t think … Then the stubborn thought that I didn’t owe Michael Behan excuse or explanation.

  “At any rate, that’s why she’s lying.”

  “Oh, she’s lying. She’s the one who’s got it all wrong.”

  “Well, it’s certainly a convenient time for her to remember she had no idea where Leo was.”

  “I’m not sure you can be called a disinterested witness when it comes to Jelly on Pins, Miss Prescott.”

  He disapproved. The smug Irish … prig disapproved. He had judged me as a conniving interloper casting aspersions on a wife who had been carrying out an affair throughout her entire marriage. And yet I was the scarlet woman who couldn’t be trusted.

  He observed that I had picked up some Parisian habits. I observed that he was a jackass.