The Lunatic Fringe: A Novel Wherein Theodore Roosevelt Meets the Pink Angel

by William L. DeAndrea

  He’d tried about a third of the art schools and galleries, and made no more progress than you could hold in a thimble. He was angry with himself, not so much because he hadn’t found a lead today as because he couldn’t think of a single thing to do if he couldn’t find one tomorrow or next day. The population of New York City numbered one-and-a-half million; that many and more lived in Brooklyn, just a short walk across the bridge. Half of them were women. Even with the full resources of the Department, it wouldn’t have been easy. Muldoon had just himself.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t alone anymore. Someone had fallen into step beside him. “Evening,” said the man. The voice was high and raspy, like that of a child with a cold.

  “Evenin’ to you,” Muldoon replied, touching the brim of his skimmer. He looked at his new companion. The fellow was middle-aged and too burly and muscular for even his expensive tailoring to hide. His suit, made from some rich, brown fabric, was wonderful enough, but his derby, spats, and gloves were enough to make Muldoon drool.

  Strangely enough, the fellow’s shirt was open at the throat, but the end of a necktie peeped out of his jacket pocket, and a circular bulge told Muldoon his collar was in there with it.

  He sported a salt-and-pepper moustache fully as magnificent as Muldoon’s own, but his head was completely bald.

  Even that was muscular. When the man talked, mounds moved under the shiny scalp, and the derby wobbled as though it had a notion to jump off and run away.

  Muldoon recognized the man, and wasn’t happy about it.

  The rasping voice spoke again. “You Muldoon?”

  Muldoon nodded. “And you’ll be Mr. Sperling.”

  “Heard of me, eh?” The man was pleased.

  “I have indeed. May I say, I am totally flabbergasted to be makin’ your acquaintance.”

  That was true. “Eagle Jack” Sperling was currently New York’s most prominent strong-arm hoodlum. There were smarter racketeers, and more daring thieves, but for sheer efficiency in bully-boy tactics and just plain violence, Eagle Jack and his boys were without peer. His talents were recognized, and in demand, and were available to anyone who could pay the price.

  “You shouldn’t oughta be surprised,” the bald man said expansively. “The minute the coppers done you dirty, you should of been expecting me. Or one of my men. I don’t do much recruiting myself, these days.”

  Muldoon stopped and looked at him. “Recruitin’? Me?”

  Eagle Jack adjusted his derby to a jauntier angle. “Sure, a lot of my boys are guys got booted off the coppers. That Roosevelt character don’t know a valuable man when he sees one.

  “In fact, I got an old colleague of yours works with me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Tommy Alb. Remember him?”

  “I do indeed,” Muldoon said grimly.

  Eagle Jack ignored his tone. “He put in a good word for you.”

  “Nice of him,” Muldoon said. “Before we go any farther, I’d like to ask you somethin’ that’s got me aflame with curiosity, you might say. Why is it you always carry your tie and collar in your pocket?”

  “What? Oh, that. That goes back to the time my Wall Street clientele threw me a dinner on account of I busted up a couple strikes, you follow me? Anyways, after the dinner, some hothead trade unionist or somebody jumps me, and damned if he don’t grab hold of the tie and nearly choke me blue.

  “Now, see, in situations like that, I don’t like to go killing guys—no money in it, teach ’em a lesson is enough—but then I had to. I felt bad. Ever since then, I decided I don’t wear ties no more.”

  “Why do you even put up with the bother, then, of carryin’ them around?”

  “Hey,” Eagle Jack said. “I move with the upper crust these days. You want they should think I’m a slob?”

  “Oh,” Muldoon said. “No, we can’t have them thinkin’ that.” Somewhere in the back of the officer’s mind, a dim little foreboding that said he might be in danger was growing bigger and brighter by the second.

  “Now, here’s the thing. Tommy tells me you’re good with your fists, good with a club. I like that in a guy.

  “I’m in the negotiating business these days, you follow me? It’s a good business. I work for these respectable guys. You read the papers? These are the guys they call ‘giants of industry.’ I handle some of their troubles with the trades, and anarchists, and Reds, and like that, and they treat me good. A guy as is good with his dukes is a sap to go into any other line of work. Besides, I pay good.”

  Muldoon didn’t know what to say. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have told Sperling to go chase himself, but these weren’t, he suspected, ordinary circumstances. A lot of that extra traffic had stopped walking when Muldoon and Eagle Jack had, a while back. Muldoon suspected he’d better try to be charming.

  Eagle Jack took silence for encouragement. He clapped Muldoon on the back, stuck an El Primo Havana cigar between his lips, gave one to Muldoon, produced matches, and lit them.

  “Here,” the bald man said. “Have a see-gar.” He puffed. “Know something? I never tasted one of these things till I gave up grafting and like that and went into legitimate business. Delicious, ain’t it? They tell me they got teen-age Cuban girls as rolls these. Small hands, you follow me?

  “Another thing I wanted to mention is dressing nice. You’re a guy as likes to dress nice, I can see that, but how many suits you got, three?”

  Muldoon, who had two, said nothing.

  “Know how many I got? Twenty-six. I got a hundred-thirteen silk shirts. Never wear the same thing two days in a row.” He pulled his collar and tie from his pocket. “Why, I never so much as used to own none of this stuff, not so much as a collar. And now I worked my way up to be a Man of Substance—they say that in the papers, too.

  “You could do it, if you got the Moxie. The garment workers is having a rally Sattidy, and I could use all the help I can get on it. How’s about coming along?”

  “Well,” Muldoon said, “I’m sure it isn’t everybody who finds himself bein’ offered a job by you, personal, Mr. Sperling.”

  “Damn right it ain’t” he said, around his cigar. “Call me Eagle.”

  “Ah—all right, then, Eagle it is.” Muldoon was scanning the crowd. He spotted three men who had the look of thugs. Four to one was bad odds. He’d better be careful with his words.

  “I’m afraid, Eagle, that I can’t be acceptin’ your generous offer, as I’ve got a project of me own in the works.”

  “Yeah,” Eagle Jack said, no longer smiling. “Well, since you’re coming to work for me, you’re gonna hafta let that go, ain’t you?”

  Muldoon shook his head sadly. “I’ve given me word to a lady.”

  Eagle Jack snorted. “Dames. You know what dames are for, Muldoon. They ain’t for keeping promises to, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, I’ve given me word to meself, as well.”

  “It ain’t healthy, Muldoon. Never mind how I found out, but I know you’re looking for some skirt’s got wings on her back like an angel or something stupid like that. Drop it. She don’t wanna be found. You don’t wanna find her, and, if you follow me, I don’t want you to find her.”

  Muldoon was still afraid, but he found he could no longer bring himself to kow-tow to this hoodlum. “So that’s the way of things, is it, Eagle? And who might be payin’ you not to want her found?”

  “Don’t worry, I handle the business end of things. That’s what I mostly do these days.” He stuck out his hand. “Come on, Muldoon, give up on it. Join up with me. Whaddaya say? You’ll never regret it.”

  Muldoon looked down the street, stuck his hands in his pockets, and said, “I think I’ll be wishin’ you a pleasant evening,” and walked away.

  “The hard way,” Eagle Jack Sperling muttered behind him with genuine regret. “Nothing can’t ever be the easy way no more. Okay boys!” he yelled. “Get him!”

  XI.

  Hand kissed Cleo softly on the forehead. “Tha
nk you, darling.” He got up. “I must go now. Rest. I know it’s been a trying few days for you.”

  Cleo’s face stayed serene, but her mind sneered. A trying few days indeed. Her neck was still sore from the grip of that monstrous butler. Even Hand had noticed the bruises and asked her how she’d come by them. For a moment, she had thought of telling him what sort of man he had working for him, but she held back. Judging from what she’d heard this afternoon, she’d never even known the sort of man Avery himself was.

  “I will rest now, Avery,” was all she said. He left her.

  Cleo was glad to be rid of the sight and smell and touch of him. Nothing was right. He used to be kind, used to consult her wishes. Today, he came talking of Washington, and how he would buy her a house there, how nothing need change just because he was getting married and becoming Secretary of the Treasury. Cleo hated Washington, especially in the summer-time. A gentleman had taken her there once, and all she could remember of it was mosquitoes, limp dresses, and air too heavy to be breathed.

  Then there was what Avery was out to do to that dear Officer Muldoon.

  She was no longer kept locked in her room, though her movements were restricted to the second floor and above. Still, she took advantage of what freedom she had.

  Late this afternoon for instance, a telephone call had come. She heard the bell ring in the niche at the bottom of the stairs. She paid no attention to it until she heard Avery’s explosion of anger. Cleo decided it was in her best interests to find out what he was angry about—perhaps she could learn what was going on.

  She crept silently to the top of the stairs to eavesdrop. Avery was one of those persons who couldn’t learn that the telephonic cable was not a speaking tube, and that one didn’t have to yell into it to be heard, so the matter was easy.

  Avery was talking to a Rabbi, it seemed, which surprised Cleo. Avery was not fond of Jews, and judging from what she’d heard and seen from this vantage point the night before, he wasn’t fond of this one, either. She could now catch glimpses of the dapper little millionaire as he paced back and forth, waving the telephone and receiver in angry little circles.

  “Muldoon?” Hand exploded. “Nothing is to happen to Muldoon?”

  Cleo stifled a gasp with the back of her hand as she recognized the name.

  “Listen, you Hebrew assassin,” Hand said bitterly. “I never heard of this Muldoon before last night, when you gave me that slip of paper that said he was looking for the girl and must be stopped at all costs!

  “What? No you damn well didn’t express yourself properly! I have Eagle Jack Sperling on the job, damn you. What do you think his instructions are? To stop this Muldoon character at all costs! No, he had some idea or other of his own, it seemed, but he won’t shrink from killing him if he has to.”

  Cleo stifled a gasp. She put a knuckle between her teeth and bit to keep from crying out. It wouldn’t do to be discovered now.

  “Yes,” Avery said bitterly. “I hope so, too. But there’s no reaching Sperling now. All right! But I won’t be able to get to him until tonight. Now you listen to me, Rabbi. You will be sorry you ever crossed me. T. Avery Hand will be pushed only so far. Good day to you, and may you fry in Hell!”

  Cleo heard footsteps, and went rushing back to her room just in time to avoid being caught by Baxter, who had come silently up the back stairs.

  Later, she heard Avery tell Baxter he would have to go meet Sperling tonight, but how the matter was hopeless. Muldoon was sure to be dead already. She’d heard that, because the encounter had occurred outside her bedroom door, just before Avery had come to her. God, how she hated him!

  Now, alone again, Cleo lay in the dark for a long time. Then she did something she couldn’t remember ever having done before without at least one man for an audience. She cried.

  XII.

  Muldoon had been right about the extra traffic on First Avenue. He’d had no time to run far; no time, even, to spit out his cigar, when he found himself surrounded by seven men, not including Eagle Jack Sperling, who stood a little outside the circle.

  The seven men, (who, incidentally, included only one of the three Muldoon had speculated about—a barrel-chested, one-eyed character) were all sizes and shapes, but they were identical in degree of ferocity. The young policeman felt like a mouse who’s stumbled unawares into a cat convention.

  He recognized one of them. “Hello, Tommy,” Muldoon said.

  Tommy Alb, former patrolman of the Police Department of the City of New York, showed his pretty teeth. Alb had always been a rarity among adult males of the day, and a downright freak in the Department, because he chose to go completely clean shaven. Muldoon always thought it was so people who wanted to look at the classic lines of his jaw and chin, or appreciate the fullness of his lips, wouldn’t be cheated. Tommy had enough shining yellow hair on his head to make a moustache or beard superfluous. He was, without a doubt, the handsomest man, in an unwholesome sort of way, Muldoon had ever seen.

  “Hello, Dennis,” Tommy said. “It’s been a long time. Too long. It’s closing time, Dennis.” Tommy gently rubbed the tip of a nose as delicate as the Pink Angel’s. “We’re going to close you down,” he said, “like a saloon on Easter Sunday.”

  “To my recollection,” Muldoon said, challenging Alb with his gaze, “you was never any great shakes at accomplishin’ that sort of thing.” Muldoon tried to sound casual, though his back itched in anticipation of the attack of the unsavory characters lurking behind him.

  “In fact,” he went on, talking around his cigar, “you were kicked off the Force for that, right? For takin’ money to close your eyes to that Raines Law hotel on the Bowery that was keepin’ those little colored girls as prostitutes. Weren’t you? What’s the matter? Thought it didn’t count because of their bein’ colored?”

  “To my recollection,” Alb snarled, “you were the one who told the captain.”

  “No, but I bleedin’ sure would have, if only I’d had brains enough in me head to look behind the pretty face of someone I was thinkin’ was a square guy and me friend besides.”

  “You’re something, Dennis,” Alb said. “You’re a regular saint. You’re out of touch with this life. Lucky for you you’ll soon be leaving it.”

  “No more gabbing,” Eagle Jack said. “Let’s do what we gotta do.”

  Muldoon’s eyes grew wide, and he began taking short, deep pulls on his cigar. The coal glowed cherry red.

  Eagle Jack Sperling looked on in disgust. “Good thing he let my offer go by at that,” he said. “Lookit him, he’s yellow. You first, Tommy, what the hell.”

  The ex-copper stepped forward, as the two men behind Muldoon made a move to grab his arms. Muldoon spit the cigar at Alb’s face. It flew straight and true, and its bright red coal branded Alb’s handsome face under the left eye.

  “Aaaa! You son of a—” The tough grabbed his face and bent over with the pain. Muldoon’s aim had been better than he hoped, but he didn’t intend to stay around and admire it.

  Instead, he lowered his shoulder and bulled into his former comrade, knocking him sprawling, and, more important, breaking the deadly circle.

  He couldn’t run away—there were some mighty fast runners among them—they’d caught him unaware before, but now he could make a fight of it. He had surprise on his side.

  And, it occurred to him, he had a weapon. He took his father’s big, heavy watch from his pocket, and pulling the chain free, he laid about with it like Samson among the Philistines.

  Two more of the thugs went down before him, but it was Eagle Jack who ended the fight. He might not do much of the strong-arm work himself anymore, but it was obvious the bald man hadn’t forgotten how. And he too had a weapon. Sperling fetched Muldoon a lick in the brisket with his gold-headed cane that made the young man sink gasping to his knees.

  Before Muldoon could recover, he was held immobile by two thugs, and Tommy Alb was before him holding a great, sharp bowie knife to his throat.

  M
uldoon’s reading about the Wild West had led him to learn quite a bit about bowie knives. He wished it hadn’t. If Mr. Theodore Roosevelt had found one sufficient to kill a grizzly bear, an Irishman should be short work for it.

  “This is going to be a pleasure,” Alb said. The yellow flame of the street lamp cast deep shadows on his face. He looked like a banshee come to claim the dead.

  “A pleasure,” Tommy repeated, and pressed the tip of the knife just the slightest bit more forcefully against Muldoon’s throat. Muldoon felt a warm, wet trickle begin.

  Muldoon tried to speak, but no sound came. Instead he spat. He had hoped his last act on earth might have been something more refined, but spitting would have to do.

  Tommy pulled back the knife for the final thrust.

  “Stop it,” said Eagle Jack Sperling.

  “What?” asked Alb.

  Muldoon suddenly felt sweat flow on his forehead like the blood flowed now on his throat.

  “No, Tommy,” Eagle Jack said.

  “But boss—”

  “No, dammit! You done too many knife jobs already. When they find this guy, they ain’t gonna pin nothing on us. Because we ain’t gonna be the ones that done it. He’s going out with the rest of the garbage.”

  The thugs laughed. Muldoon didn’t get it, but a second later a blow on the head knocked him unconscious, so it didn’t really matter.

  XIII.

  Hand was shaking as he left the saloon. A horror. A den of thieves—of worse than thieves, animals. He never should have gone there. Even Sperling was mad to stay in the place.

  Hand wasn’t wearing his best clothes, by any means, but it hadn’t mattered. The minute he crossed into that notorious hellhole of a neighborhood, he had drawn every eye. They could smell money, Hand decided, the way naturalists tell us a shark can scent blood.

  He had been challenged and mocked by toughs who kept demanding to know “the weight of his purse,” which struck Hand even through his fear as a rather quaint way of putting things.