Etta: A Novel

by Gerald Kolpan

  Once inside, Harry walked up to a man finely dressed in swallowtail and stripes. “Good morning sir,” Harry said.

  “And you, sir,” said the man. “How may I be of assistance? Something for madam, perhaps?”

  “The item we discussed,” Harry said. “I trust that it is still here?”

  “Most assuredly, sir,” said the clerk. His inspection of me caused me to color openly.

  I must confess, Diary, that this polite conversation made it difficult for me not to titter and soon I began to giggle. The very idea of the Sundance Kid himself cordially exchanging formal pleasantries with a man in Manhattan whom he would not have hesitated to rob in Laramie simply struck me as hilarious. And, Lord help me, the more cross Harry became over my surely inappropriate laughter, the more uncontainable was my mirth. But make no mistake, I calmed down as soon as I saw the magnificent present he had chosen for me.

  The watch was in the finest of taste. It was of white gold and silver, the whole covered with a sort of angel's-wing filigree. The face was white pearl shell with Roman numerals in yellow gold and the most delicate slivers of hands.

  I attached its chain to the third button of my blouse and Harry pinned it to me, just between collarbone and breast. I had never been so thrilled with a gift. I kissed him full right there in front of the salesman, who did not appear to be shocked in the slightest. He was likely used to the sight of newly wedded women, drunk on endless intercourse, further rewarding their champions for one shiny love offering or another.

  And today, Diary, what do you think? We threw caution to the wind and had our “wedding portrait” made at a Mr. De-Young's studio at 826 Broadway. DeYoung's is to the Swartz studio in Texas as the Luxor baths in Chicago are to the Alhambra. Here in New York City, everything must be bigger, grander, MORE. The furnishings were of red velvet, the curtains a heavy blue brocade.

  We were greeted by one of Mr. DeYoung's many assistants, an intense young man with a foreign air by the name of Mr. Alfred Stieglitz. He assured us that we would receive the whole of his attention but seemed distracted throughout the process. Our pose was a simple one. We stood side by side, against a backdrop of tall trees and a brook with a bridge that I supposed was meant to represent the Central Park. Harry's one hand was at my waist; the other held his high silk hat. Per Mr. Stieglitz's instructions, we held our poses, addressing our gazes to the camera until the flash powder ignited. When I could see again I told Mr. Stieglitz that I hoped his picture would be satisfactory.

  His dark eyes turned warm. “I am sure it will, madam,” he said. “Seldom has DeYoung's enjoyed the honor of photographing such a handsome couple. If you will be so kind as to return on Wednesday, we shall most happily prove this to you.”

  And then, Diary, an event occurred that caused me to cherish my outlaw all the more. As we stepped into the cold air, a newsboy approached us. He was as filthy as a coal stove: ragged, starved, and tiny. Although he could not have been more than eight or nine years old, his eyes and skin had the exhausted look of an old laborer, someone who has seen his life become a part of too many ingots of steel or too many stones in a quarry. As he walked up to us, he paused and, without a word, held up a single copy of the New York World. For a long moment, Harry looked down at him, and then in a voice so gentle I had only heard its like in our bed, he asked, “How many have you got there, boy?”

  The lad looked confused, but his hand dove into a canvas bag that was nearly black with soot and dirt. He took a minute to carefully count his papers and then, in a voice that sounded even younger than the age I had ascribed to him, he replied, “Twenty.”

  Harry looked into the boy's green eyes and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver dollar. “I'll take them all.”

  The boy seemed incredulous at first, but the twenty pennies he was about to earn meant food for a day and perhaps lodging somewhere other than a doorway. He handed Harry all the papers and my love handed him the dollar. The newsboy's eyes became wide.

  “No trouble for the change, boy” Harry said. “I got this money from a very rich gentleman on a train, a long time ago and a very long way from here. There are a lot of gentlemen like him in the world, and any time I want I can go back and get more, savvy?”

  The boy nodded, perhaps expecting to be tricked or arrested. At length, he pocketed the coin.

  Harry smiled. “Now git.”

  As the boy fled, Harry gazed after him; then, tucking the papers under his arm, he suggested we go. We hailed a hansom at the top of the block. I rested my head upon his shoulder and we rode back to Mrs. Taylor's in silence.

  That night as he lay beside me, Diary, I kissed him deeply, told him over and over again how dearly I loved him, and tried in happy vain to show him how deep that love went.

  And then an odd thing happened. My Harry usually so reserved, so stoic and even sad, began to laugh. He took me in his arms and rolled me about the bed and tickled me and covered me in kisses. Then, reaching into the pile of papers he had purchased from that poor boy he began to fling them one at a time into the air until the room was a riot of black and white. As I stared up from beneath him, I too began to scream in joy, watching the day's headlines swirl and fly until they at last fluttered down like great gray birds, blanketing the floor, the bed, and the two of us.

  THE UNION BANK OF KINGS COUNTY

  6050 Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn, New York

  Telephone: BR 6423 Wire: Union Bank Kings New York

  Mr. Harry L. Place

  234 West 12th Street

  New York, New York

  February 3, 1902

  Dear Mr. Place,

  Please consider this a response to your letter of the 25th.

  You may rest assured that the arrangements you requested have been made and your business with our bank on the tenth of this month at 10 A.M. will be both pleasant and efficient in its execution.

  We have made note that Mrs. Place will be the agent of retrieval. Upon your instruction we have also made a record of her dress for this occasion. She will present herself as a widow in mourning; a black lace veil over her face will serve to conceal her identity from onlookers.

  As you have seen fit to send a lady as your emissary, a fully armed guard in our employ will accompany your wife into our special vault room to retrieve the three large bags you have entrusted to our care. At that time, Mrs. Place will sign for the bags and receive a written receipt for same.

  Then, as instructed by you, our guard will deposit the said large bags into the boot of a black and green brougham that Mrs. Place shall also use as her mode of transportation back to Manhattan.

  Please be advised that all of your instructions will be carried out to the smallest detail. We have much experience in these matters and have justly gained a reputation for security and discrection that we believe is unrivaled in all of New York City. I can also guarantee that I shall handle this transaction personally.

  Should you have any further questions or instructions, please feel free to contact me by post, wire, or telephone at your earliest convenience.

  We of the Union Bank of Kings County send you our best belated wishes for the New Year.

  Your obedient servant,

  J. Henry Cavanaugh III

  J. Henry Cavanaugh III

  Vice President and General Manager

  he carpet was not a place Charles A. Siringo was used to being.

  In the course of his career he had summoned many a junior detective upon it, upbraiding, scolding, on occasion, firing. But it had been many years since he himself had stood before a supervisor and a client and been criticized about his methods.

  Robert Pinkerton stroked his long beard and fingered the gold watch that decorated his considerable paunch. Even in the presence of such an irate client, he was careful not to raise his voice. His father had not built a single office into a law enforcement power by upbraiding his best operatives. Any competing agency would be proud to acquire Charlie Siringo and at a higher salary. It s
imply would not do to have his best detective puff in pride and turn on his heel.

  Fred H. Harvey held no such compunction. He was demanding action. It had been the better part of three years since he retained the agency, and Charlie Siringo seemed no closer to finding the girl who had turned the restaurateur's life upside down. Only a combination of company-wide silence and good luck had kept the Stratford Hotel incident from Harvey. Now he lit into Siringo as if he had read of it in banner headlines: A LAUNDRY TRICK FOR PINKERTON DICK!

  “You know, Charlie,” Harvey began, his voice steadily rising, “it hasn't been easy for me to find fault with you. Up until recent days I truly believed you had done all you could to catch this Place woman. But now my patience has worn to gossamer. Can it be that the great Siringo—and here I quote from your company biography—‘star detective and capturer of Black Jack Ketchum,’ is unable to find a slip of a girl of twenty-one? Can it be that ‘Charlie the Chaser, pursuer of over fifty bandit chiefs and their various minions,’ cannot locate a woman so conspicuous by her beauty that she is said to stop horse carts mid-street? Really, Mr. Pinker-ton. I tell you I am not satisfied!”

  Siringo stood stock-still throughout the berating. It was only his military training and the thorough knowledge that he had so far done his best that kept him from throttling Fred Harvey. That, and his deep respect for his superior.

  Pointedly ignoring Harvey, Siringo turned to Pinkerton with the slightest of bows. “Of course, Mr. Pinkerton,” he said, “if you order it, I will be happy to resign from this case or even this company. Correct me if I am wrong, but these days it seems that our primary business is breaking the sinister strikes that threaten to cripple our way of life. Perhaps this has become a business that requires new tricks, and I am, admittedly, an old dog.

  “I offer no excuses or explanations for my failure to capture Etta Place or her confederates. I leave my fate in your hands and trust that you will quickly find a superior agent who will net Mr. Harvey a happier result.”

  In the silence that followed, Siringo kept his back to the client, his eyes fixed upon his employer.

  “I most certainly do not believe that any such action is warranted, Charlie,” Pinkerton said. “On the contrary, I ask you to remain firmly connected to this job. It is understandable that Mr. Harvey is frustrated by the results of this case so far. He informs me that he is daily receiving threats from the lawyers representing the family of that scum from Grand Junction, who claim this girl is a murderer. From what I've learned of the little bastard, it seems she did the town a public service. But it is easy to see how their impatience might spur his.”

  Pinkerton turned to his client. “But as your advisor, Mr. Harvey, I implore you to follow the course so far charted. This is an especially elusive and clever gang with which we are dealing, not just one slip of a girl, as you call her. And I must tell you that to remove the agent who has the greatest knowledge of this case after all this time would mean starting from the beginning. It would be a fool's errand. And Pinkerton's, sir, does not engage in fool's errands.”

  Harvey had dealt with his share of disgruntled diners. He did not need to hear a raised voice or detect a sneer to know when he'd been told off. The Englishman's face went red with a mixture of embarrassment and rage. But he held his tongue as he had on those occasions when he'd given in to a cheap salesman over an “overdone” steak. As much as he despised the fact, he knew that Pinkerton was right. A new beginning with neither trails nor clues would at this point be like cutting off his own nose and throwing his mustache in as a bonus.

  Harvey gestured to the office page, making a mute gesture for his hat and coat. “I am nearly at the end of my patience, Mr. Pinkerton, but my trade is feeding travelers; yours is tracking down perpetrators. I trust that Detective Siringo will carry out his duties with more success in the future. And as I am being sued to death and drowned in bad publicity, I would ask him please to make a quick job of it. Not only am I getting my throat cut, but these bastards are using a dull knife indeed.”

  Pinkerton and Siringo watched as Fred Harvey turned on his heel and stormed from the office. “My offer stands, sir,” Siringo said. “I would be happy to be reassigned or to resign, as your pleasure indicates.”

  Pinkerton turned to the window and studied the cold scene below. “I prefer that you remain, Charlie, and complete the work to which you've been assigned. A man is not only as good as today but yesterday and the days before that. You have piled up many successful yesterdays for me and should I forget that—well, as the book says, Let my right hand lose its cleverness.”

  He turned back from the window and engaged Siringo directly. “But, you had better find this girl soon, Charlie, or they'll be carrying both of us out with the dirty laundry.”

  LETTER TO JOSIAH LONGBAUGH

  12 State Street, Phoenixville, Pa.

  8 February 1902

  New York City

  Dear Father,

  The events of the past year have taught me much. Mostly, that as a thief I am an amateur. The more I see and read and hear, the more I learn that the true robbers of this land don't hold up banks, they own them. But now I have reason to hope that soon the people of this country will rise up and all within this country will change.

  Father, I spent today in a big public square with thousands of others. They wore badges on their clothing and carried signs with names like Socialist Workers, I.W.W., Knights of Labor, Workman's Circle, and a dozen more. As we huddled up against the cold, we listened to people who knew more about this world and how it works than any others I have heard. As they gave their talks, I thought of all the people I have met these years past who no longer had no say over what became of them. Farmers driven off the land by railroads. Miners forced to work underground like the slaves of the Bible. Women who could work all day and night but not vote for so much as alderman.

  And then there are the children, like a newsboy I knew. I read about him just two days ago. He had no mother or home. He had fallen asleep near a slaughterhouse and been killed and eaten—first by wild dogs and then picked clean by rats.

  These people who spoke to us today said that as long as a few rich hold sway over all the rest, nothing will change and the teachings of the Savior (that you put in me young) will never come about on this earth.

  I remember especial the words of a young Jew woman with glasses on her nose and a foreign voice. She spoke for a long time, but I did not tire of her words. She talked about how the sound of the mill had replaced the singing of birds. About how for years poor boys like me have been sent to kill other poor boys so the mill man or the oilman or the railroad man could get richer yet.

  Then young girls—some spoke American and others foreign—walked through the crowd giving out pieces of paper with what looked like a poem on it. “Song. Song. We sing,” one of them said, in a accent I took to be Italian. Then the people raised up the paper and a man with a concertina took the stage. He did a little introduction and the lady with the glasses counted off for the crowd. Many seemed to know the tune already and we sung it through a few times until some was crying. I kept that paper. The words is like this:

  Let us pause in life's pleasures and count the many tears,

  While we all sup sorrow with the poor.

  There's a song that will linger forever in our ears,

  Oh, hard times, come again no more.

  It's a song, a sigh of the weary,

  Hard times, hard times, come again no more.

  Many days you have lingered around my cabin door,

  Oh, hard times, come again no more.

  I thought hard over them words, Father. With all I have robbed I am now rich myself. But never in that time did I harm a poor man or woman. Never did I take the pocket watch of a cowboy or drover. Never did I kill a soul that didn't first threaten the taking of my own life. My targets was banks and railroads, and with what I heard here today I feel proud to have robbed them.

  Soon I will be far away, wit
h the woman I love and a fortune besides. I tell you now, Father, that I intend to put this fortune to work for the poor so it may do God's will. What money can do bad it can also make good.

  People in the crowd today gave me things to read, things that made sense to me, although I do not understand everything. But I do believe that with a good dictionary (which I can well afford now!) and the fine education of my dear one I can overcome my ignorance and make ready to take my place in the new world that I heard of today.

  My next letter to you will come from outside this country so I ask that you be patient and not worry if you hear nothing for a while. You are always in my thoughts, as are the young ones and the memory of Mother.

  Please see after your health and remember me in your prayers as I remember you in mine.

  Yours for a better world to come and a glorious revolution!

  Affectionately, your son

  Harry Longbaugh

  n a slow night, say a Monday or a Tuesday the floor of McCreedy's Ale House on the Bowery was a carpet of filth. Its sawdust, changed only when it turned brown, was liberally spiced with the sweet-sour essence of stale beer and garnished with the occasional carcass of a rodent.

  But on a Saturday in winter, after pay packets had been issued and alcohol beckoned the workingman, there would be numerous additions of blood. On such nights, fistfights and brawls were as common as lager and pigs' feet. This being the norm, an altercation would have to be violent indeed before the management ejected the miscreants involved. And so it was not surprising that on this Saturday the bartender and bouncers took little notice of the beating being administered to Peg Leg Elliott.