Etta: A Novel

by Gerald Kolpan

  “My darling girl,” interrupted Cody, “be reasonable.”

  “—and in addition to my salary, you're going to pay me five percent of the gross receipts because I don't trust you to tell me the net. And you're going to do it all with a smile because even when my cut is subtracted you're going to make more money than there was gold teeth in Sitting Bull's yap.”

  “God rest him,” Cody said.

  “Yes,” said Phoebe. “God rest him.” She dropped her hand from her husband's mouth.

  Cody stared at her, calculating sums in his head.

  “Three percent,” he murmured.

  “Four.”

  “Done.”

  Cody pulled back the purple velvet curtain surrounding the private booth and raised a buckskinned arm to signal the waiter.

  “Veuve Clicquot,” he whispered to the young man.

  In the time it took to finish the first three glasses, Phoebe and Cody had created the rough draft of a statement that would, within a day, be wired to the Sun, the World, the Post, the Times, the Herald, the Journal, the American, and all the wire services.

  To wit:

  Mrs. Frank Butler, known throughout the world as the famous markswoman Annie Oakley, has decided to break her self-imposed silence and speak to the gentlemen of the press about the recent heroics that saved the life of Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States. Interviews to be held tomorrow.

  Up until now, Mrs. Butler had been reluctant to discuss her fearless achievement, as her natural modesty and deep religious beliefs precluded her from seeking “cheap” publicity. But at the urging of her employer and bosom friend, Col. William F Cody, famous throughout civilization as the scout, soldier and Indian fighter “Buffalo Bill,” she has decided to detail the astounding feat of horsewomanship that saved our beloved president. Mrs. Butler will be available this Tuesday from nine o'clock A.M. until five o'clock P.M., Delmonico Hotel.

  Interviews will be scheduled on a first-come first-served basis. All requests should be wired to Miss Gladys Cooper, Buffalo Bill's Wild West, Plaza Hotel, New York City.

  Refreshments will be served. Mrs. Butler requests that all gentlemen reporters maintain forbearance and restraint during these interviews, as the memory of this historic event is likely to cause the international star and legendary sharpshooter to weep openly.

  s the weather turned cold in Philadelphia, Detective Charles A. Siringo caught the scent of Harry Longbaugh.

  At least the Sundance Kid had good taste. He had chosen to hole up in the Stratford Hotel, easily the Quaker City's finest. If long experience was any kind of teacher, Siringo could soon expect an efficient capture, free of violence.

  The procedure was one in which Siringo and his men were well versed: Once the operatives had made certain that the rogue in question was in his hotel room, the final springing of the trap was composed of a carefully coordinated group of tasks, so far foolproof for its creator. One man would be posted in the hotel stairwell, another at the end of the hallway, with Siringo himself, revolver at the ready, directly before the room's door.

  When the knock came, it was usually only a matter of answering the subject's inquiry with something designed to appeal to the natural greed of the criminal within. “Who is it?” the scoundrel would ask, and the answer would come back, “Your bank draft has arrived, Mr. So-and so,” or “We believe, sir, that we have found your money clip.” Once the door was opened, it was a simple matter to take the hunted into custody with little or no resistance. There was no reason to believe the result would be different for Room 6-B of the Stratford.

  Siringo had been somewhat surprised that the shadowing of Longbaugh had been so easy. In fact, Sims, the head of the Philadelphia office, had spied him fewer than twenty-four hours after receiving Siringo's wire from Colorado. With the telegram's description in hand, there could be no mistaking the tall elegant figure, birthmark above lip, hair and mustaches so dark their color seemed applied by a City Hall bootblack. Sims had followed every move of those ebony cowboy boots as they strode into Ware's for a quick beer or scuffed themselves against the stalls at O'Leary's bookshop. For a murderer, it seemed to Sims, Longbaugh was making little attempt to hide himself. He had registered at the Stratford under the name of George Ingerfield. When Siringo first heard this, he had laughed out loud at the notion that Harry Longbaugh had decided to sign with an alias normally used by Butch Cassidy If this was Longbaughs idea of how to hide in plain sight, he clearly had figured it only halfway.

  Etta Place, however, had proved more elusive. If indeed she was anywhere within the borders of the City of Brotherly Love, Longbaugh clearly had her stashed. The Kid had made no attempt to squire her to any of his nightside haunts, nor was she seen in his company by day. But, as Sims had wired Siringo, there was good reason to believe that the girl was somewhere near, as every day the Kid stopped into Bailey Banks & Biddle and purchased some expensive trinket or other. On Tuesday, it was a white-gold chain with a single arrow charm; on Wednesday, a pair of earrings cast in platinum with sapphire insets; on Thursday, a pearl and gilt choker that, upon being subsequently researched, proved to sell for more than two thousand dollars.

  But this was no time to muse over money. Now in front of Room 6-B, Siringo unholstered his revolver. He knocked on the door twice before he heard a footfall inside the room.

  “Yes?” came a deep and friendly voice from inside.

  “This is hotel service, Mr. Ingerfield,” Siringo answered, trying his best to sound younger and more callow than his true self. “We have a bank draft here for you.”

  The room door opened and a tall figure filled the darkened space. Siringo swiftly intruded into the foyer, his Colt .45 already cocked.

  The expression on the Pinkerton's face would be something his quarry would remember until the end of his life. First came the look of surprise as one of the now-famous black cowboy boots laid its pure-silver point squarely into Siringo's groin. The detective's face twisted in pain, derived not just from the savage kick but also from the strong right arm, which came down as quickly as the leg had risen and relieved Siringo's hand of its weapon.

  From here on it was a matter of taking advantage of what came naturally to the body and the laws of physics. When the testicles are stove in, the chin comes down. When the chin comes down, the fist rises to meet it, using not only its own upward motion but the irresistible force of the victim's entire body quickly bending double at the waist.

  The tall man with the black mustache noted that, even crumpled to the carpets and writhing in two kinds of agony, Charlie Siringo, the Pink's Pink, managed to maintain dignity of a sort. Even in defeat, he would give an adversary only so much satisfaction and no more.

  “Your men are detained,” the tall man said. “They have been waylaid by my own agents. If they were smart, they've sustained not much more injury than yourself. If they were not… well, it's likely they are dead. I sincerely hope, Mr. Siringo, that there weren't no reason for them to die for their paychecks. I've not made my reputation by death but thievery, and at this point in life I would hope to be writ in the book of life as a highwayman, not a murderer.”

  “You've killed before, Longbaugh,” Siringo said, through clenched teeth, “and it's no good now trying to say you've got no blood on your conscience.”

  The dark man reached for a lariat that lay prepared upon the bed. He made no effort to remonstrate with the detective over guilt, innocence, or any other subject. He tied the rope securely about Siringo and, before the effect of the kick to the testes wore off and allowed him to muster sufficient volume to raise an alarm, filled his mouth with a bandanna. As he completed his task, a confederate appeared at the door, rolling one of the large wheeled canvas baskets the hotel normally used to transport laundry. As he was lifted and deposited into the conveyance, Siringo was astonished to see that this second man was dressed identically to the first: same elegant long coat, same red cravat, and wearing a perfect copy of the black cattleman's b
oots. His hair and mustache were of the same jet color as the man who had attacked and trussed him. As the third of the confederates arrived, identical to the first two and wheeling a similar basket, it began to dawn upon the detective that his best man in Philadelphia had been duped by a trio of imposters, any one of whom, or none, could have been the true Sundance Kid.

  In his undoing, the only consolation the Pinkerton could take was that neither he nor his two operatives had been killed. As each man watched helplessly from his own laundry bin, they could see the fancy clothes fly from the three “Longbaughs.” Mustaches were shaved, black hair dye removed with lye soap and hot water. Before Siringo or either of his lieutenants could divine the identities of the triad, the hotel's fine sheets were thrown over their baskets and they were carried down a freight elevator to the street.

  Some four hours later in Hartford, Connecticut, a Mr. Peter F. Friel, mail attendant for the Pennsylvania Railroad, stepped aboard the 3:11 from Philadelphia to begin his shift. Making his way toward the baggage car, he heard muffled cries emerging from behind its oak door. Investigating, he found three large wheeled laundry hampers marked STRATFORD HOTEL PHILADELPHIA rocking back and forth in a manner that could never have been created by dirty linen.

  A father of five and therefore not prone to engage in heroics, Mr. Friel promptly called for the conductor and asked that he delay departure and send for the railroad detectives. When the three men were freed and Friel was formally introduced to Charles Siringo, the mailman immediately looked into the leather bag he carried for all wire correspondence.

  “If you're Siringo,” he said, “I reckon I have a telegram for you. Under the circumstances, mister, I just hope it's good news.”

  It wasn't.

  WESTERN UNION

  TELEGRAM

  TO: MR. CHARLES SIRINGO FEB 15, 1902

  ABOARD THE BOSTON PATRIOT

  3:11 FROM PHILADELPHIA

  RECEIVED:HARTFORD STATION

  SORRY FOR DECEPTION BUT THIS IS OUTLAW BUSINESS. TAKE HEART. IT WAS NOT EASY FOR ME NOR MY MEN. CLOTHES HAD TO BE BESPOKE MADE. HAIR DYE ITCHED AND COVERED MY PRETTY BLOND LOCKS. I LOOK BAD IN MUSTACHE ESPECIALLY BLACK. BIRTHMARKS MADE US LOOK LIKE SODOMITES. WHICH ONE OF US YOU THINK MOST PRETTY SUNDANCE? SHOULD HAVE KNOWN SOMETHING WAS UP WHEN YOUR BOYS SPOTTED HIM SO EASY. DON'T WANT NO ONE HURT AS I PROVED BY YOUR JOURNEY. DON'T LOOK FOR US AS YOU WILL WASTE YOUR TIME. ADVISE NOT LOOK FOR HARRY IN PHILA. NONE OF US WAS HIM. YOU NEVER COULD GET MY NAME RIGHT. WAS NEVER GEORGE. SO I WILL SIGN IT CORRECTLY FOR YOU. AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

  ROBERT LEROY PARKER

  At almost the exact moment Butch Cassidy had finished dictating that message in Philadelphia, Eleanor Roosevelt waited for Etta Place in a tearoom in New York. It was long past the appointed hour of four, but Eleanor dared not leave. Etta had, after all, declined her offer of a coach and driver. Perhaps her dear friend had been delayed by a faulty trolley or been blocked by a dead horse in the street. After all, such things happened every day.

  The boy who approached her was the same child who had brought Etta's message of the night before. He was in many ways the typical page of his day: dirty under his uniform, seeking any work that would provide an alternative to the mill's monotony or the pickpocket's art. He asked for Miss Roosvelt, pronouncing the surname as it was spelled, and waited as his customer read in silence:

  Dearest Nell,

  I do so regret that I will be unable to join you today. I cannot explain my actions to you at this moment, but please believe me that they cannot be avoided.

  In all the world there is no one I would less seek to disappoint. When we are at last together I will explain all and beg most abjectly for your kind forgiveness.

  With much love, your EP

  For a long moment Eleanor stared at the cream-colored stationery and then turned to the boy.

  “Any reply ma'am?”

  Eleanor smiled sadly at the messenger. She recognized in his eyes the suffering that had become her old friend at Rivington Street. She noted his red-gold hair and milky coloring. Irish, she thought.

  She reached into her purse and produced a silver dollar. “No, young man. No reply. Thank you very much.”

  The boy stared into his palm and then looked up at Eleanor. Her eyes had now begun to brim. She nodded to him. Without a word he turned and ran down the street, looking once over his shoulder before disappearing around the first corner.

  Eleanor brought her white linen napkin first to her eyes and then to her mouth as she took a final sip of sweet tea. She placed two coins on the table, squared her shoulders, and emerged into the fading light and gathering cold of winter.

  At almost that same instant, inside a suite at the Waldorf, Harry Longbaugh embraced Etta Place. As she smiled up at him, she could taste her own tears in the corners of her mouth, overjoyed to see his eyes so close to hers. Though they had loved for hours, Etta was still unconvinced that his body was not a dream, that he was not a ghost sent to haunt her with pleasure. All she knew for certain was that he was more beautiful than she remembered him. As he kissed her in the hollow of her shoulder, she twisted herself around him, arm and leg, reluctant to allow so much as a shaft of light to come between them.

  he small priest with the black eyes politely thanked his landlady for the two towels arrayed across the narrow bed.

  “I'm sorry that yer room has no winda, Father,” she said, in a pronounced Scots burr, “but them's all been let. If ye'll just open yer door a crack, there should be ventilation aplenty for ye this time of year.”

  The priest gave the old woman a short smile, more like a spasm of indigestion than a signal of gladness. “This room will suit me perfectly, Mrs. Davenport. I don't imagine that there is a finer room in all of New York City.”

  “Then I'll be leavin' ye, Father. I hope that yer stay with us will be pleasant.”

  “Go with God, madam.”

  As things stood, the priest was more than happy there was no way to view this city from his cramped and dirty room. Ever since he stepped from the train last night, all he had seen in these man-made canyons filled him with righteous disgust. Hundreds of niggers strode the streets like the equals of white men. Cops stood on every corner, their florid faces as Irish as Paddy's pig, red with drink and graft.

  Worse than this, had there been a window in his room he would have seen the pushcarts and makeshift stands of those who had killed Christ for their greed. As he had walked among them on the way to this shit-house, there was a moment when he believed he could no longer endure it. That he would have to reach for the twin pistols beneath his robe. If there were this many Jews in New York, he thought, it truly must be the vile place of which he had heard all his life.

  But Etta Place was here. Laura Bullion had told him so. And if she was in Manhattan, so was his money. And if his money was here it stood to reason that the escaped Sundance was here as well, spending what was rightfully his. Still, he told himself, it was only a matter of time before all three of them, the money, Harry Longbaugh, and the woman, would be his to do with as he pleased.

  Still, as perverted as New York City was, it had not prevented luck from smiling upon him. Earlier that evening, even before he had secured his room, he had run into a young man on the Bowery dressed in the leather and denim of a cowboy. The friendly drunk allowed as how he was appearing in a great entertainment and that he and a young man who called himself Peg had made great names for themselves among the rough riders and savages of Buffalo Bill's Wild West show. “I know the colonel,” the drunk had boasted. “Know Annie Oakley too. If they ride, rope, or shoot, they are all my brothers and sisters.”

  Curry blessed the young man, implored him to avoid strong drink in the future, and asked him if this Peg was likely to be back to the Bowery any time soon.

  The cowboy laughed. “I reckon yes, Father,” he said. “This is where the girls are.”

  Now, in the darkness of his tiny room, Kid Curry straightened the white collar eating into his neck a
nd turned to don his long frock coat. Then he strode down the back stairs and into the night.

  This world had never seen a day when he couldn't scare Frank Elliott green with a glance. He would return to the Bowery's gutters every night until he found Peg Leg, and Peg Leg would lead him to Etta Place.

  From the

  JOURNAL OF ETTA PLACE

  3 February 1902

  Diary,

  Tonight I thank God for what He has given an undeserving girl. As I write this, Harry Longbaugh—Harry Longbaugh!—lies sleeping within sight of my eyes.

  He is not captured; he is not wounded; he is not dead. He is here! Here with me! With me! With me! With me! As I listen to the sounds made by the soft rise and fall of his breast, my eyes are rimmed by tears.

  The tale of his escape is not complex. A warden stupid enough to put Harry, Ben, and Butch in the same cell block. Something about Dave Atkins, fry bread, and a hungry guard. Frankly, Diary, we have been far too busy in this lovely bed for me to glean many of the details.

  But his arrival has made me realize what my life has become. It is as if I had been trapped underground all these months, like a miner who carries out all his complicated work by the smallest pinpoints of light. Who crawls through dirt and dust in blackness until he comes upon a single lantern. He moves on, praying to see another lamp ahead, always hoping there will be lights enough to bring him home.

  There are moments, usually occurring early in the afternoon, when my boy and I are somehow able to tear ourselves from each other and go walking in the world. Yesterday, we took a cab from Mrs. Taylor's and went far uptown on Fifth Avenue. Oh, it was grand to see the lovely ladies and handsome gentlemen in their fine clothing striding the broad street in the winter's sun! The light seemed to shimmer off the hides of the silver-white horses and the mirror-polished surfaces of the new motorcars. We stepped off at the Plaza Hotel but Harry immediately took my arm into his and began to walk me back southward on the avenue. At 57th Street he fair pulled me into the great Tiffany & Co. store, a place I had heard of all my life and several of whose pieces (until the creditors took them) were to be part of my legacy from Mother.