by Michael Mayo
I asked if she had time for a little talk, and she said yes, Mrs. Spencer probably wouldn’t be up for hours. Of course, with Mrs. Pennyweight, you never could tell.
She poured a cup of tea and sat next to me at the big table. I could see that her hair and eyes were as dark as mine. She had thick eyebrows, wide cheekbones, and a sharp little nose. It was hard not to stare too closely at her face. I asked what kind of shooting she’d done.
“Target shooting with my father and brothers, and a little quail hunting with a shotgun. I never personally hit anything but I ate the quail. Tasty. Better than the ones they buy here.” I liked her voice, too.
“Where was this?”
“California.”
California? I didn’t think I’d ever known anyone from California. That explained the accent. “Like we were saying last night, we might want another gun. Are you interested?”
She nodded. “I suppose so, but I haven’t touched a gun in a pretty long time.”
“You could practice. Spence has a good collection.”
Mrs. Conway sniffed. “Actually, those are Mr. Pennyweight’s guns.”
“He won’t be needing them. We do. It’ll only take an hour or so.”
“No,” Mrs. Conway said. “Nix has her assigned tasks, breakfast and washing and I don’t know what we’re going to do about the nursery. I never heard of such a thing, a woman shouldn’t be . . .” She banged a skillet into the sink.
“When?” said Connie Nix.
“No, never. She’s not going to—”
“Mrs. Conway!” The girl raised her voice and the older woman piped down. “I can handle a gun. If that’s what it’s going to take to keep little Ethan safe, then Mrs. Pennyweight will want me to do it.”
Mrs. Conway resumed muttering, but her heart wasn’t in it.
I turned back to Connie. “When?”
“This evening.”
“Fine,” I said, yawning. “I’m bushed. Come down to the gun room later.”
Upstairs, I stripped off my clothes, pulled the curtains closed, and crawled into bed. I was asleep immediately.
Chapter Seven
1919
NEW YORK CITY
I probably should have explained that Mother Moon was my aunt or great aunt or something. She always claimed we were related. You see, she was Mother Quinn until she married that Chinaman. At least, that was the story she told after she came back from a trip out west, from either San Francisco or Cleveland, depending on which version she chose. I heard both several times. She brought back an exotically dark-haired baby girl she called her daughter, Fantan Perfect Jasmine Moon, a couple of years older than me. Nobody had actually seen this Chinaman, but if anyone doubted the old gal, they didn’t say so to her face. All that happened before I knew her anyway.
My parents came from Ireland, and went straight from immigration to an address they’d been given. It was a building on the south side of Hell’s Kitchen. A relative back home had told them that another relative owned a tenement there, and she’d have a place for them. They moved into the building, and that’s where I was born. My mother died of tuberculosis when I was too young to understand. Not long after, my father wandered away. The only thing I think I remember is being on the roof with my parents on a bright warm day, and their saying that this was the best place they’d ever found. But chances are that’s only something I saw in a movie or made up.
Mother Moon took care of a mob of kids who lived in the building. We usually numbered between six and twenty. Some of us had parents or other relatives. But Mother Moon fed us regularly and provided beds to the ones who needed them. Every morning, she sent us out to school or to work or to steal. She’d made arrangements with Alderman Jimmy Hines’s office as well as the local cops. They got a cut of everything we stole and on Election Day, Mother Moon’s little street apes could be counted on to help deliver the vote. Hines also steered us toward shopkeepers and stores that weren’t being cooperative enough with Tammany. We stole stuff or tore apart those places, depending on what we’d been told to do. In the rare cases when any of us got caught, the alderman contacted the cops and judges on our behalf, and had us sprung. If that didn’t work, he’d see to it that we were represented by lawyer Ira Jacobson. We almost never went to court. When we did, the alderman and the counselor made sure that things were speedily settled.
I did well enough selling newspapers for a while. I was better at petty theft, but since I was always small, I got pounded regularly by the bigger boys. I can’t tell you how frightened and ashamed I felt after each of those beatings, no matter how trivial, until one night when I came back bleeding, crying, and humiliated, and Mother Moon instructed me in the way of the world.
“You’re never going to be the biggest boy in a fight,” she said. “So if there’s any way for you to get away, you take it and run. Remember, the last thing you want is a fair fight. Hell, there ain’t such a thing. But you are quick, Jimmy. Speed is your gift, so you’ll have to learn to use that. Do you understand?”
I didn’t really understand but sniffed back those tears and said that I did. I’d figure it out later.
“You can never smoke, not ever. Not cigarettes, not cigars, not the weed, nor the dreamy pipe, bless it. Running fast is about all you can do, and smoke will ruin your lungs and your legs. Don’t forget it.
“Now, the time will come when you find yourself in situations where you won’t be able to run away and then you’ll have to battle it out. When that happens, hit first and keep hitting. If you can put a guy on the ground, make sure he stays there. That’s where these come into play.” She handed me a set of joined metal rings.
“These are brass knuckles. If they’re too big, we’ll find another set. We’ll also get you a knife. Here, your fingers go in this way. Now, knucks do two things. First, they protect your hand when you hit something hard like a skull. Second, if you hit a guy in the right place, around his eye or in the mouth, they’ll draw a lot of blood and that’s good in a fight. Scares ’em and then you can run.”
I was a quick study. Soon enough the bigger boys picked easier, slower targets.
But bigger boys weren’t the only bullies. Some of them were nuns. I hadn’t been in school more than a year before I ran into this goddamn sister who loved nothing better than smacking kids with her goddamn whippy wooden switch. I’m not talking about a little smack on the back of your hands when you were doing something you shouldn’t. She’d sneak up behind a kid and hit him right across the arm or the neck for no reason at all. I saw the sick smile on her face when she laid into one of the guys, and you’ll never tell me she was just trying to keep her students in place. She liked to hit people, particularly people who were smaller. She did it to me once but I followed Mother Moon’s advice and went after her with the knucks. I couldn’t reach her face so I didn’t draw blood. But I got in some good licks to her stomach and legs. That got me kicked out of school, and ended my formal education.
More or less the same thing happened when Oh Boy talked me into going to Mass, and some priest tried to handle my privates. I got him with the knucks too, but he never said anything to anybody. Those two things probably didn’t happen as close together as I remember, but I think of them as one event after the other, and since then I’ve had no use for the Church.
Instead of school and godly pursuits, I applied myself to work. The shooting gallery was a good idea at first, but after the regular boys went “over there,” most of the mugs refused to admit they needed any practice and so business slowed, which meant I had the place to myself. Mother Moon must have gotten a great deal on ammunition from her guy at the gun shop because she never complained about my using all those bullets. I could never claim to be a gifted marksman, so I practiced and practiced and practiced until I could aim and shoot several different pistols with either hand. From time to time, guys came messing around our building and I shot at them. I know I hit at least three, but I’m mostly sure I didn’t kill anybody back then.
I a
lso taught myself the geography of Midtown Manhattan and explored on foot as best I could the different neighborhoods around Hell’s Kitchen and learned which ones to avoid, which ones were safe, and which ones you had to pay to use. I figured out that the streets changed literally from day to day. The alley that cut through from Thirty-Third to Thirty-Fourth one morning might be stacked high with trash cans the next. The open sidewalk I dashed down on Thursday could be blocked off and torn apart by Saturday, or covered with ice if the temperature dropped in winter.
On my feet, wearing the right shoes, I was fast, really fast, and the clogged sidewalks and city streets were perfect for someone my size.
Mother Moon soon realized how quickly a boy like me could cover any area, regardless of crowds. And besides being speedy, I was an obedient little squirt, always trying to do what she told me, and learning from what I saw. So she decided I could be more profitable to her in other areas.
One night, she told me we were going to meet someone important and I was to put on special clothes. She settled on my most comfortable pair of dungarees, a white shirt neatly buttoned to the neck, a jacket that wasn’t too snug, a cap to tuck my unruly hair under, and my best Keds. She tried to make me put on a nice little tie but gave up when I kept pulling at it.
As we walked the long crosstown blocks, I could tell she was nervous. If I’d known she was nervous for me, I might have shared the feeling. But I had no idea what lay ahead even after we stopped outside Reuben’s Deli on Broadway and Seventy-Third. She checked my clothes, roughly rebuttoning my shirt and explaining what to do even though she’d told me three times already. Reuben’s was a busy, smoky place. Mother Moon pushed through a crowd of men to a table near the back stairs. And there he was, Arnold Rothstein. I recognized him right away. I didn’t know exactly who he was or what he did, but all the older guys spoke his name with genuine respect. To them, Rothstein was simply “The Man.” He wore a black wool suit and bow tie, his boater on the table beside an open paper bag. He had a long, rounded face and nose, a very high forehead, and tiny ears. He was talking to a massively muscled man with a bald bullet head. That was Monk Eastman. I was awed and frightened to see such legendary figures in the flesh.
The other men around Rothstein spoke to one another in low buzzing voices, waiting their turn for his attention. Some of them tipped their hats as Mother Moon approached. They paid no attention to me, but made room for another boy, a ragged-looking kid about my age who kicked up his legs in some kind of silly dance that made Mr. Rothstein smile. They stopped talking and he stopped smiling when Mother approached the table.
“Nice to see you,” Rothstein said in a low voice that was hard to hear.
“A. R., this is the lad I told you about.” She tapped my head, and I took my hat off before stepping up to the great man. I paid no attention to the others or to the foolish dancing boy, and tried not to look at Monk Eastman. Mother Moon had told me not to say a word unless I was asked a direct question.
Mr. Rothstein looked me up and down. I curled my fingers around the knucks in my pocket and stared back at him. In doing that, I forgot one of the things Mother Moon told me: “You can look at Mr. Rothstein, but you don’t stare at him.”
Now she said, “First, the boy won’t steal from you. Not ever. I’ve taught him who he can steal from and who he can’t. He’s smart but not smart enough to be a problem. He can do sums with a scrap of paper and a pencil, even long division, and you can see this adorable little Mick phiz.” She squeezed my cheek and turned my face so he could see that it was adorable. “He can walk into any office or station house and nobody will look at him twice. Anything you need delivered or retrieved, he’s your boy. He hasn’t done any work in Brooklyn. Doesn’t know the streets but he’s fine in most of the neighborhoods around here.”
“I can always use another runner,” Rothstein said. “And as it happens, I’m involved in an enterprise where such a lad might be useful.”
I had no idea what they were talking about. But Mother Moon knew what he meant, and that was the reason she’d asked for the meeting. Later, I learned that the government was promoting the sale of Liberty Bonds to pay for the Great War. Everyone said the bonds were almost as easy to deal with as money, with hundreds of them moving between Wall Street banks and brokerage houses every week. A. R., as I came to call him, knew exactly which messengers were handling the transfers. For the right price, some of them tipped him off about their schedules and routes, later “suffering” mild beatings and robbery when they were held up. Rothstein and his partners had already made off with more than two million dollars. He didn’t want a connection between the muscle who stole the bonds and the guy who cashed them in. That’s where his runners came in.
A. R. leaned forward to whisper, “You know how much I hate violence, but these things get rough from time to time. Shots have been fired. I hesitate to involve such a young lad.”
“Not to worry. He can take care of himself.” Mother Moon shrugged. “And there are other boys.”
Mr. Rothstein took a fig out of the open paper bag, chewed, and then swallowed. Turning to me, he said, “Do you know the Hotel President?”
“On Forty-Eighth.”
“That’s right. There’s a man in Room 457. Go there and tell him that A. R. wants the second number. That’s important, ‘the second number.’ He’ll give you something. Bring it back here as fast as you can.”
“Be quick,” said Mother Moon.
I ran.
I couldn’t understand what was so hard about this. Out the front door, go east, squeeze through the clotted sidewalk, always looking a few feet ahead, watch for cigars in hands that could burn, swivel around other kids who might stop in front of me. I knew I could move faster than foot traffic but only so much faster. I couldn’t run at full speed when there were too many people. If I was too fast, I’d knock adults off balance, they’d yell, and that could get the cops involved. I never wanted that. But when I moved at a fairly quick pace, a sort of weaving trot, I could pass everyone on the sidewalk and most of the traffic in the street.
When one place became too thick with crowds, or the traffic slowed to a creep, I’d cut across to the other side, looking for an easier flow.
I was so engrossed that I didn’t notice Monk Eastman and another guy following me out of Reuben’s, trying to keep up for two blocks. After that, foot traffic thinned and I could really make time.
Then I was approaching the Hotel President, moving up the steps and through the doors into the busy lobby. What was that room number? Oh, yeah, 457. I slowed to a walk. Kids couldn’t run in hotels without attracting attention, but I was still able to take the stairs two at a time.
The fourth-floor corridor was crowded with men and so at first I couldn’t read the room numbers. It took long, frustrating minutes to reach 457. I knocked on the door and waited.
“Yeah,” snarled the lanky young fellow who answered the knock. He wore a stained undershirt with loose suspenders hanging around his waist. He had a heavy stubble and a big plug of tobacco stuck in his right cheek. A card game was going on behind him.
“A. R. wants the second number.”
“Huh! What the hell?” He was surprised to see a kid and hear the kid saying what I was saying.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I kept my mouth shut, and stared fixedly at the man.
He scratched his blue jaw and looked down at me, probably wondering if someone was pulling his leg. He made a gruff noise and shut the door.
What to do? I hesitated, raising a hand to knock again when the door opened once more. The young man thrust a folded piece of paper at me. He muttered, “This better be on the level.”
I grabbed the message and dashed down the corridor.
By the time I returned to Reuben’s, both Monk and his associate were back inside the restaurant. The guys had tried to explain how I disappeared, slipping past everyone. And then I arrived and put the folded paper on the table.
Mother Moon all
owed herself the smallest of smiles. “I can have him on call for a flat weekly rate, or would a per-job fee be more to your liking?”
I don’t know what they agreed upon, but I soon became Mother’s best earner. The work was wonderful and only sometimes terrifying. My part in the bonds business was simple.
I’d go to Reuben’s around midnight and wait around until Mr. Rothstein called me to his table. A. R. would explain what to do the next day in a voice so soft I had to lean really close to hear.
He might say, “Be at the corner of Nassau and Pine tomorrow morning. Wear a tan cap. A man will give you a package. Take it to Room 715 at the Delmonico.”
The next day I was at Nassau and Pine promptly at ten, with a tan cap and a bag of peanuts to stave off the constant hunger I felt in those days. I was eight, maybe nine. Shelling and eating the nuts also kept my hands busy and burned off the nerves. Countless hours later—that’s what it felt like anyway—a blond guy who didn’t look like much of anything sauntered out of a doorway. He was trying so hard to act nonchalant that everybody on the street gawked at him, or so I thought. He passed me a messily folded newspaper wrapped around a thick-clasp envelope and then ran like hell. So much for nonchalance.
I tucked the paper under my arm and melted into the crowd on the sidewalk. Moving fast, I felt through the newspaper without taking my eyes off the people around me. I found the envelope, and slipped the package into a wide pocket that Mother Moon had sewn inside my coat. I made sure it lay flat before buttoning the pocket. My pace quickened as I headed for the El.
I had no idea about what I was carrying, and didn’t understand the business of negotiable bonds, but I knew they were valuable. Mother Moon told me some men might try to take these packages from me, and my inherently suspicious nature served me well. I noticed adult males who paid too much attention to me, or looked away too quickly when I stared at them. I learned different routes to get across town. Streetcars were better than subways. The El was OK but still a potential trap. I was most comfortable in my Keds on a crowded street, where no grown person had a hope of staying with me.