Here

by Sean Moynihan

  A voice cried out from a window above as he neared Union Square Park: “Hiya’, fella’! Where ya’ goin’ tonight?”

  He stopped in his tracks and looked up at a heavily made-up woman leaning out of a second-floor window of a brothel obviously stirring with activity, as a cacophony of voices and rays of light emanated from the open windows of the place. The house was happily busy on this evening.

  “Calling it a night,” he replied with a smile. “Long day.”

  “Well, come on up here and relax a bit,” the grinning girl suggested. “I’ll keep you company, boy. And I don’t bite—promise.” She smiled some more, tugging at her curly locks of hair, as she looked down invitingly at her intended target.

  He smiled back and then saluted her with a subtle grab of the front rim of the black bowler sitting atop his head. “Sorry,” he said to her. “I’d love to, miss, but another time. I know where you are.”

  He then turned on his heels and headed west some more, with the frustrated pleas of the girl trailing in the distance and echoing throughout the canyon-like walls of the block. He moved deliberately this way, past the park and on towards Fifth Avenue, and finally to Sixth Avenue, where the raised platform high above the street serviced the noisy train that would take him uptown to his apartment in the Tenderloin.

  Many more gamesome and rowdy partygoers, drunken hoboes, mischievous college students, and predatory ladies of the evening raised their voices and bottles on either side of him as he neared the train, and some fought openly, causing contusions and broken teeth; some nuzzled in dark recesses between closely-aligned buildings; some passed out in the gutter, to be found in the morning by an inquisitive young newsboy; and some just stood sinisterly nearby, leaning against a lamppost or a tree, quietly smoking and spying on someone or other.

  Falconer was immune to it all by now, to all the gross indecencies and frightful visions seen in these parts of the city, far, far away from the scented bedrooms and lavish dinner tables of the wealthy citizens who lived safely secured away in their mansions within the affluent sections farther uptown. It was all so immense, he thought—the problems in this city. One man was insignificant and worthless against such a crushing tide of depravity and corruption, and he felt he just had to survive now, to make his living and perhaps get out someday if somehow an opportunity came up, if a window opened.

  He had no family to worry about, no children to feed, and very little in the way of possessions. Sure, he had worked his way up the ladder with the police force to where now he had a respectable salary and a title of ward detective in the Fourth Precinct, but that could be left behind in a pinch. Perhaps he would look as others had out to the Great West, to where the nation was moving now, to where the people invaded the prairies and the ore and mineral-rich mountains in droves. If anything, it would surely be more open and more peaceful—away from the stench and the constant noise of the crowded tenements in this devilish place.

  He moved towards the stairs leading up to the platform, ascended to the top in a series of powerful strides that were more like springs than steps, and dipped a nickel into the slot at the turnstile allowing his entry. Out on the platform, he beheld two dozen or so forlorn figures dressed in black, brown, or similar drab clothing lingering alone or in small groups. One of them, a scraggily-faced ruffian who had obviously drunk a healthy measurement of alcohol this night, roughly tugged at the skirt of his female companion and pleaded with her for a kiss. Falconer noticed how the man smiled ungainly at his paramour, waivered uncertainly on his feet, and exposed with each self-satisfied grin a jumble of yellowed, crooked teeth, with some of them missing.

  “Come ‘ere, you little beauty, you,” the dirty inebriate loudly instructed the woman as he reached out some more. “Don’t be a stranger to me, Lilith. You’re bein’ a stranger to me tonight—I’m not havin’ it.”

  Just another boozed up charlatan trying to impress a girl, Falconer thought. Not for me to interfere. So many could be interfered with on a night like this.

  The drunk grew louder and more forceful with his commands, but soon the shrill whistle of an approaching train from the south interrupted his boorish pleadings. The crowd looked in the direction of the sound and Falconer saw the large, dark silhouette of the approaching steam engine, so immense and awe-inspiring in its form, with smoke forcefully emitting from its funnel and the whistle continuing at an ear-wrenching pitch.

  From inside the box-like cab, the engineer poked his head out an opening and peered ahead, as if to make sure that no person was causing mischief on the way in. The engine grew louder and louder, and then there was the screech of wheels stopping on the tracks as the whole train came to a shuddering halt on the platform. A conductor immediately stepped off one of the cars and yelled out a sonorous “All aboard!” before the people moved en masse into the four attached passenger cars. Falconer stepped in behind a large group of partygoers and shunned the seating area, choosing instead to stand alone near the back of the car with his back to a corner—always suspicious of activity on these trains and deliberately guarding his rear with the wall of the car.

  After a moment idling on the platform, the train was off again, with more whistles and the slow, chug, chug, chug of the steam engine building faster and faster and moving the enormous weight of the contraption towards the next stop on the line. Falconer always marveled at the pure, unadulterated power of these behemoth machines and secretly got the boy-like thrill of his youth when the wheels started churning below his feet.

  Around the car, some of the passengers began chatting and pointing out the windows, gazing at buildings or down at the streets and the people below. Some others simply gazed solitarily out the windows, lost in thought, or stared down at their feet, seemingly weighted down by the inexorable crush of their miserable working day existence. From across the car, however, midway down the aisle, came a familiar sound and Falconer’s attention once again became glued to the boorish effrontery of the man crowding into the young woman, apparently named Lilith.

  “Well, go ahead then!” the man yelled. “You damned bitch! I oughta’ throw your cheap bum off this train right now, I should, you treat me like that!”

  Falconer instinctively grabbed for the small, leather blackjack that was secreted inside one of his pockets. This weapon—although certainly not as effective and thorough as the larger nightsticks handled by the typical officer on the beat—was one which came in handy for him sometimes in closely confined situations where a firearm or knife was not needed or would be ineffective.

  “Oh, go off, Fred,” Falconer heard Lilith say as she shrugged the man off her. “Stop your complaining—we’re on a train, you know. It’s not your kitchen.”

  The dusty drunk sat back, eyeing her. “What?” he said loudly. “What’s that you’re sayin’? My kitchen? You dumb harlot, I’ll teach you some goddamned manners now.” Falconer then saw the man’s hand come around swiftly and land solidly on the woman’s cheek, sending her banging head-first into the car’s window overlooking Sixth Avenue below. Other riders on the train looked over now, but refrained from doing anything, showing what Falconer had come to recognize in human beings in time of crises as an instinctual fear and urge to self-protect. There would be no rescuers among the cowering men on this car tonight.

  He looked back towards Fred the beater and saw him grab Lilith by the back of her head with her hair in his enclosed, white-knuckled fist. Fred struck her again, this time with his left hand on the top of her head, causing her to yelp out in pain once more. “Ouch!” she cried as she curled under him near the window.

  “What’s that you’re sayin’, honey?” Fred yelled over her. “You were sayin’ something to me about bein’ on this train now?” He then raised his left hand again as if to strike a third blow, but it never found its target.

  Falconer caught the abuser’s hand just seconds before it was ready to explode against Lilith’s ear in another spasm of rage and perverted glee. Fred then looked upward toward
s Falconer and moved to disengage his arm from Falconer’s strong hand, yanking his arm forward several times, but Falconer refused to release his grip.

  “What?” Fred said to Falconer. “You bastard …get yer’ damned hand off me before I break yer’ nose and chuck you off this train.” Fred then moved to stand up and face his challenger and Falconer released his grip and shoved the man a foot or two down the aisle. He glanced around quickly and saw that everywhere on the car the other riders appeared to be rapt with attention now, slinking behind their seats but staring wide-eyed at the growing confrontation. He then moved his coat open slightly, exposing the golden badge that sat affixed to his front shirt pocket.

  “Police,” he stated tersely to Fred. “You’re done here, pal. You’re getting off at the next stop, you understand?”

  Fred looked quizzically at the badge before Falconer covered it again with his coat, and then looked up at the detective standing before him in the car that was silent save for the rumbling sounds of the tracks moving quickly below the floor. Then he smiled.

  “Oh, a cop, eh?” he said. “Well, do you think my friends in headquarters are goin’ to like it when I tell ‘em a squinty-eyed bastard tryin’ to play hero intruded on my private affairs with no call at all to do that? Do you think so, cop? I know ‘em all down there, and they like comin’ in to my saloon and havin’ a grand time of it when they get off their shifts. Now then, you’re goin’ to beat it yourself at the next stop or I’ll have your damned job in a day. You got it, hero?”

  Fred then moved to brush past Falconer’s shoulder and take his seat again next to the whimpering Lilith, but Falconer grabbed him by the lapel with his right hand and shoved him once again back away from the woman, this time with greater force. Falconer felt his anger rising and his jaws clenching tighter.

  “Move away from the woman and step down to the end of the car,” he commanded. “You’ve been warned.”

  The car now seemed almost silent as a morgue, with the riders nervously gripping their seats and peering at the two men standing toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose in the aisle.

  “Sure, bub,” said Fred, as he slowly turned to walk away down the aisle. “There’s no problem.”

  And then Falconer caught out of the corner of his eye the big fist coming down at him from above Fred’s right shoulder. It was a sudden move and quicker than Falconer expected from a drunken lout of this sort, but not one that would catch him completely by surprise, and he easily blocked the blow with his left arm placed quickly in the way of Fred’s approaching forearm. Then, just as quickly, the blackjack came out, quicker than most of the riders would realize, and its leather encased lead ball came crashing down across Fred’s cheek, causing an audible “crack!” inside the compartment. Falconer, always seeking to make sure a confrontation ended quickly with no more possibility of escalation, showed no mercy with his assailant, throwing a hard, left hook into the stricken man’s jaw as he tumbled down onto the floor.

  The threat was over.

  Falconer spent the rest of the ride to the next stop straddling the whimpering man lying at his feet, while Lilith protested in great cries and whines, telling Falconer that he had no right to crack her man about the head like that, and that it was he who would be charged with a crime for daring to interfere with their personal relations.

  Falconer ignored the threats, though, and trundled Fred out of the car when the train finally pulled into the next platform, with a host of stares following behind him and Lilith screaming from her seat that he would have his day in court. Then, out on the platform, as the tired train pulled out and built up speed and slowly disappeared into the night, Falconer hailed a young boy who was lingering down on the sidewalk and struck a bargain with him: go secure the presence of two uniformed cops who would be standing outside a local eatery and receive a nickel in return. The boy eagerly complied, and, some fifteen minutes later, Falconer’s charge was transferred to the arriving patrolmen. Falconer then swept off into the night, this time to find a streetcar headed towards the Tenderloin.

  He knew from prior experiences what was in store for Fred and for him: the incident would amount to nothing, as some precinct judge on the take would surely dismiss the charges against the thug, and Fred would walk out of court a free man, and Lilith would be there to embrace him as he smiled defiantly at the detective. Falconer would then walk out of the same courtroom with another lost case on the books and another memory of his wasted efforts to somehow try and control the swirling chaos around him and bring some sense of order and decency to the trains, to the bustling street bazaars and markets, and to the wild city streets that he walked through now on this feverish April night.

  Discovery

  4

  Eddie Fitzgerald looked at the clock on the wall and then at the array of keys hanging behind the front desk. 9:00 a.m. All keys returned except one: Room 31.

  He sighed and grabbed the master key off the wall, then started up the stairs. It was very quiet, as the hotel was largely vacant at this hour. He was nearing the end of his shift and just wanted to head home to his apartment to sleep. Muttering something, he got to the top floor and walked down the hallway to 31.

  Reaching the door, he gently knocked, not wanting to cause a row with bleary-eyed guests who had overslept. He heard nothing from the interior, however, so he knocked again, this time louder.

  Still no answer.

  Cursing under his breath, he reached into his pocket for the master key and then gently unlocked the door. Taking a beat, he slowly turned the doorknob and spoke up without entering the room. “Hello? Night clerk…I’m sorry, but I’ll need to have the room—it’s after nine.”

  He still heard nothing from inside the room—not even a stirring from the bed—so he pushed the door open a few inches and stuck his head in. Peering over at the bed, he lost his breath and had to catch the door jamb with his left hand to avoid falling over. He then pushed the door fully open to see the whole room.

  My god.

  He then turned and ran down the hallway and descended the stairs as fast as he could, in search of Mr. Jennings, the hotel’s proprietor.

  5

  Falconer was in the middle of a field surrounded by shouting soldiers and neighing horses. Explosions were erupting all around him, and men were falling in pieces at his feet. He was dressed in blue, and he realized that he was standing in the middle of a battle, with great arcs of cannon shot flying overhead, and bullets whinnying by just inches from his head and sounding like just so many angry hornets fleeing a damaged nest. He crouched down and gazed around, seeing hundreds and hundreds of men similarly clad in blue, and many more in a dirty gray or brown.

  He did not know how he got here, but this was a battle in the great Civil War that had preceded his youth. He looked for some shelter, for some place where he could escape from the flying projectiles that were cutting men and beast down equally in great swaths. And then, in the distance, behind a hazy blanket of gun smoke that wafted through the air, concealing some parts of the scene, he saw him: his father, a captain in the Union Army, strolling towards him through the battle with a grim look on his face.

  Falconer stood amidst the great roars of the fighting and blinked as if he could make this terrible vision go away, and yet he truly did not want it to go away: his father was approaching him, his father who looked so young and vibrant in his navy blue tunic and breeches was walking toward him on a battlefield, just like so many of the battlefields his father had spoken about in stories that had mesmerized Falconer when he had sat at his father’s feet as a young boy. And Falconer went toward him now, too, walking through a hail of gunfire to reach the man whom he loved so dearly and admired so much.

  As they came closer to each other, Falconer saw a slight smile part his father’s lips, and as he reached out for the man, an explosion suddenly ripped apart the earth at his feet, and he seemed to be flung overhead to great heights. He was being tossed and turned like a doll in the air high over the other me
n fighting on the ground below, and the next thing he knew, he was lying next to a wheel of a damaged wagon apart from the main thrust of the battle. His father leaned over him there and took his hand.

  “Robert…Robert, my boy, you’re going to be just all right now, you hear?”

  “Father?” Falconer replied, unbelieving of this scene happening around him, and yet feeling his heart beating wildly at this strange chance meeting with the man who had taught him so much in life.

  “Now don’t you get excited, Robert,” his father instructed him. “The medical people will take care of you now, and you should know you did your part here. You need to rest now.”

  Falconer wanted to speak to him, to learn why he was fighting with him now in the war, but his father put his hand to Falconer’s lips as he lay wounded next to the broken-down Union wagon, and his father smiled again.

  “Robert….”

  The cannon balls were falling forcibly and in great numbers all around now, and Falconer felt the ground shake beneath him.

  “Robert!” His father was shouting now. “They’re coming to get you, and you need to take care of this. They’ll need you for this, Robert, and I know you’ll do the right thing. I’m so damned proud of you, boy.”

  Falconer moved to speak, but then a pounding of incoming shells interrupted him, and the rapid-fire cascading of explosions tearing open the battlefield and shielding his father from him caused him to shudder and to wince, as if the whole world were going up in a deafening roar of flame.

  And then he awoke.

  “Detective? Detective Falconer? Are you there?”

  The loud male voice punctuated a steady pounding on Falconer’s apartment door high up on the fourth floor of his apartment house. “Detective, are you there?” the man shouted from out in the hallway. “You are needed down on Water Street. Hello? Anybody inside?”