by Allan Levine
Worse, he was short of cash and could not meet his debt obligations to Martin. For the moment had no idea where he would find the $1,500. His bank account was depleted and his $150 monthly salary fell far short. He had forty-eight hours or so to arrive at a solution. If he did not pay by six o’clock the following evening, he’d owe Martin an additional $200 and $100 every day after that. Martin and his hoodlums had also warned him that next time, the beating he got last night would seem like a gentle pat on the back.
St. Clair’s desk was near the front of the spacious office, next to the desk belonging to one of his colleagues, Edward Sutton. A tall and handsome man in his late twenties, Sutton was busy working and barely acknowledged St. Clair’s arrival. Smoke from the cigar he was puffing lingered overhead.
St. Clair would never have interrupted him—it was the custom of the office not to bother a colleague while he wrote unless absolutely necessary—and was thankful that he did not have to explain why he looked the way he did.
As Molly arrived with a cup of hot tea, he filled his pipe with tobacco. It was an aromatic Dutch blend that he had picked up from a tobacconist on Bleeker Street, a block from his flat. He found a wooden match amidst the pile of papers on his desk, struck it hard against the bottom of his boot, and lit his pipe. After a few deep puffs, he felt slightly more at ease. Then he sipped his tea—even in the summer heat, Tom Fox, the magazine’s proprietor and chief editor, insisted that the wood in the office stove be burning and the water in the iron kettle be warm.
“A hot cup of tea feeds the brain,” Fox always said. “Makes a man work harder.” Ever since he had arrived from the New York Times a few years ago, St. Clair had appreciated Fox’s good sense.
“St. Clair, where’ve you been? I need the next installment?” It was Tom Fox. He was standing at the door to his private office on the far side of the room, chomping on a cigar, the first of several he’d consume during the day. “Get in here,” he barked.
At fifty-five-years of age, Fox was a large man. He was tall, about six feet and four inches, heavyset, with a belly that made his vest jut out. The hair he had left on his head was white, as was his moustache and beard.
St. Clair began walking slowly among the desks and furniture.
“You look terrible, St. Clair, rough evening?” asked Fox with a yawn.
“I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’d been better. And what about you? It doesn’t look like you got much sleep either, my friend.”
Fox chuckled so hard that his belly jiggled. “A glass of Bushmills is the cure for both our troubles.” Fox may have promoted tea drinking, but he generally preferred a glass of Irish whiskey to quench his thirst.
St. Clair waved his hand. “None for me right now, Tom, but thanks.”
Fox’s inner sanctum was separated from the main area of the Weekly’s newsroom by a thin wood wall and a door that was rarely closed. A sea of paper and files greeted a visitor entering his private quarters. The clutter on his desk was legendary, with documents dating back twenty years rumored to be among them. On three walls from the floor to the ceiling were shelves of books—many of which he and his late brother John had published in the early 1860s when they began the company-journals, magazines, and an ever-growing stack of newspapers.
Fox was not only a clever publisher—his success in establishing Fox’s Weekly in the summer of 1862 as a magazine of general interest was testimony to that, St. Clair always argued with anyone who suggested otherwise—he was also a voracious reader and always on the lookout for the next Dickens. At the moment, as St. Clair had been told repeatedly, he had his eye on the journalist and humorist Samuel Clemens.
“Wittiest writer I’ve read in years,” Fox had maintained. “If his next novel, a tale about a boy in the American backwoods, is half as good as The Innocents Abroad, I’ll be very pleased.”
St. Clair had been reminded time and again that two years ago an excerpt in Fox’s Weekly of Clemens’s first novel—under his pen name Mark Twain—had sold out within two days.
Directly behind Fox’s desk was a large window overlooking Park Row and the streets beyond. From this vantage point, four stores high, it was possible to see the headquarters of the Weekly’s various competitors, the Tribune, Times, and Evening Post. It was said that printers’ ink ran through the streets below.
“How’s the next piece coming along?” asked Fox, adopting a more serious tone. “I’ve got three messages from Fowler already today. He wants to meet with you. I’d say he’s as scared as a jackrabbit right now. Stewart’s already working on the next illustration. So how much longer?”
“I need to hear from my snitch. Anything arrived for me this morning?” asked St. Clair.
“Not as far as I know. Remind me again how you continue to acquire such information.” Fox’s eyebrows tightened. “And why I’ve risked the wrath of city hall and the magazine’s reputation on this?”
“I wait,” said St. Clair with a sly grin, ignoring Fox’s rather pathetic effort to feign anger. “Don’t worry, Tom, he’ll deliver something soon. He always does.”
“You still won’t tell me his name. I run this goddamned journal, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I gave him my word that I wouldn’t reveal his name to anyone. You’ll have to trust me,” said St. Clair, patting Fox on the shoulder.
“I want something for this week’s issue, Charlie. We have to drive those bastards out of city hall. You understand?” said Fox.
“You know I do.”
A slight smirk crossed Fox’s mouth. “By the way, Fowler sent me a personal message, too, this morning. It seems he didn’t appreciate your latest ‘Street Scenes’ column. He said those references to crime don’t put the city in the best light. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? Talk about the kettle calling the pot black.”
St. Clair had listened to Fox’s rant about Boss Victor Fowler many times. How Fowler, Tammany’s Grand Sachem and president of the Board of Supervisors, had organized, in his opinion, the most corrupt municipal regime ever launched on New York. The ‘Fowler Ring’ is how Fox described it—a hard band in which there is gold all round and without end.” The name stuck.
About six months ago, a person of some importance in the civic administration and close to Fowler had contacted St. Clair. He wanted to talk. After that initial meeting, the first package soon arrived. It contained facts and figures about the huge contracts the city had awarded to the New York Printing Company. It did not take St. Clair too long to determine that the Printing Company’s majority owner was none other than Victor Fowler. There were invoices for city hall stationery that at the most should have cost $1,200. Except the bill the city paid was for $7,500. Each week thereafter, St. Clair received new and potentially incriminating information.
Patronage was seemingly doled out at a rate that shocked both St. Clair and Fox. The graft was scandalous—or, at least, that was how St. Clair described it. There was some exaggeration and embellishment to be sure—it was the way a journalist worked after all. And, perhaps, in a court of law St. Clair might not have been able to prove every allegation he leveled at Fowler. Yet according to the records he had examined, thousands of dollars had flowed to Fowler’s friends for work that was never completed. One construction company doing road and sewer work charged the city ten times what the labor should have cost.
St. Clair had put it this way in the inaugural story:
The Ring and the Boss command an army composed of elements as dangerous as those which make up the crew of a pirate ship. The instant the slightest sign of weakness is shown, each man aspires to be commander, and is willing to sink the ship and all on board rather to forego his own ambitious schemes.
As the articles continued to flow, St. Clair identified the key members of the Ring, giving each a suitable nickname. There was Governor “Dandy” Archibald Krupp—Fowler’s man at the State Assembly in Albany, Mayor Thomas “The Prince” Emery—who in St. Clair’s opinion was “an opportunist of the
worst variety.”
Mayor Emery dresses in the finest clothes—his suits are imported from Paris. He smokes the most expensive Egyptian cigars, drinks only the best Scotch whiskey, and is known to dine regularly at Delmonico’s.
There was also, “Slimy” Bob James—the cunning and sly City Comptroller, and Isaac “The Wizard” Harrison—the City Chamberlain.
Harrison is possibly the most treacherous of the “Ring Rascals,” a man never to be trusted.
What made the stories even more sensational were Peter Stewart’s fantastic and highly amusing cartoons. In the Weekly’s last issue, he lampooned Fowler as King Louis XIV, fat and pompous with a tilted crown on his head and gold coins bulging in his pockets. Beside him stood his Royal entourage—Krupp, Emery, Harrison and James—dressed as consorts and jesters. St. Clair had heard through his confidant that Fowler was so livid when he saw it that he punched a hole in his office wall.
In the last month, St. Clair had documented how the annual budget of the office of the Street Commissioner, which now answered to Fowler, had increased from $650,000 in 1864 to more than $3 million—except no one at city hall was certain where all of this money went.
New York has more manure inspectors than any city in America, yet as any citizen can attest, there is manure everywhere you look.
Then, in last week’s article, St. Clair had chronicled, “A Day in Judge Silas Smith’s Courtroom.”
Judge Silas Smith likes to wear a large white hat while he deliberates in his courtroom. He usually keeps his legs up on his desk and has a bottle of whiskey nearby in case his throat becomes dry—which it does from time to time during a session.
The first defendant brought before him on this particular day was one Christopher McGunn, a well-known rogue from Hell’s Kitchen. On this occasion, McGunn was charged with robbing a druggist’s shop on Hudson Street owned by a Mr. Manuel Morrison. The city lawyer prosecuting the case, Jack Duncan, called five witnesses. All of them testified that they had been in the store at the time of the offence, that they had seen McGunn enter the shop, threaten Mr. Morrison with a pistol, and then depart the store with a handful of money from his cash box.
During much of the witnesses’ testimonies, Judge Smith whittled on a pine stick, as he is apt to do.
McGunn’s lawyer, Samson Simons, offered no defense other than the word of McGunn himself, who claimed to have been at the Black Tavern on Water Street at the time of the robbery. No witnesses from the Black Tavern were called to testify as to this alibi.
Judge Smith retired to his chambers for about fifteen minutes, before delivering his verdict. Upon returning to the courtroom, the judge stated that, “there is not sufficient evidence against Mr. McGunn and I have no choice but to acquit him.” At that the courtroom erupted in shouts of “Shame, Shame.”
The next case involved Miss Flo Taylor, a woman known to manage a brothel on Wooster Street. She was charged with assaulting one of her young girls, a thirteen-year-old child named Suzie. The only witness to this alleged crime was the girl herself. In a matter of some ten minutes, Judge Smith also dismissed this case for lack of evidence.
Judge Smith is known to be an associate of Mr. Victor Fowler. In the possession of this reporter is a cancelled bank note from Miss Taylor to Mr. Victor Fowler for $3,000.
“Charlie, you know the rule around here,” said Fox.
St. Clair smiled. “I’m only as good to you and the magazine as my next article.”
“Exactly,” Fox said, glaring at St. Clair. “So you have until tomorrow afternoon to come up with something new. Otherwise . . . otherwise, you’ll hear some screaming in your left ear.”
St. Clair nodded, again ignoring his boss’ efforts to be tough.
“Go see what Fowler wants,” continued Fox more calmly. “Maybe that’ll lead to something. But watch your back. It’s like going into the lion’s den.”
“Agreed, but you know I can handle myself . . . at least most of the time. Besides, Fowler wouldn’t dare try anything. We’ve got him on the run.”
“Maybe,” said Fox, rubbing his beard. “But don’t underestimate him, Charlie. The man is dangerous. Your articles have stung him, but you know as well as I do that the Ring is stronger than ever.”
“That is so,” conceded St. Clair. “You know Fowler is an opponent who I’d never dismiss, despite any claims to the contrary.”
“Good. Now, do you want to tell me about that black eye?” asked Fox.
“It’s nothing to worry about.” St. Clair peered downward.
“Nothing? My arse. My finest writer walks in this morning looking like he just stumbled off the battlefield at Gettysburg, and he says that nothing is wrong. If you’re in trouble, Charlie, I can help. How much do you owe this time?”
St. Clair shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, Tom. But I think I need to solve this problem on my own.”
He was hardly convincing and he knew it. A few months back, Fox had loaned him a couple of hundred dollars to pay off another gambling loss and he wasn’t about to ask him again. Foolish pride, dear Caroline used to warn him, would be his undoing. How right she had been.
“Have it your way, Charlie. But you know where to find me.”
“I do and thanks for respecting my wishes in this matter.” St. Clair stood up.
Fox paused to strike a match and light another cigar. “There’s only one more thing we need to discuss. I want your opinion on another feature I’m planning.” He stood up, poked his head out of his office entrance and called out in Molly’s direction. “Get Sutton in here and please show in Miss Cardaso.”
Within moments, Molly and Edward had appeared followed by a striking woman. St. Clair immediately jumped from his chair. She was perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight-years old, he guessed. She wore a bonnet of white ribbons from which hung a sheer veil. He could plainly see her olive skin and raven black hair that loosely dangled in ringlets on to her shoulders and down the back of her powder blue dress. Her nose was long and slender, her cheekbones high, her lips full and red. Through the veil, he could detect that her eyes were large and a deep hazel. Even with the numerous petticoats she wore beneath her frilly dress, St. Clair noticed her exquisite and shapely figure. She had a certain Mediterranean charm about her.
“Thank you, Molly,” said Fox. “Charles, Ed, let me introduce you both to Miss Ruth Cardaso.”
St. Clair nodded. “Miss, please take my chair. I’m Charles St. Clair, this is Edward Sutton.”
“Why thank you, Mr. St. Clair. Mr. Fox has told me all about you.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s right, Charlie,” said Fox. “I’ve explained how things work around here and Miss Cardaso was especially interested in your articles on the Ring.”
“You’re interested in civic politics, Miss?” asked St. Clair.
“Does that surprise you, Mr. St. Clair?” replied Miss Cardaso, pursing her lips.
St. Clair smiled. “My experience is that most women prefer less complicated matters.” Even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he wasn’t sure what the hell he was saying. He did know, however, that he couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“Such as?” asked Miss Cardaso, her voice slightly sharper.
“Yes, Charlie,” added Sutton, “please continue. This is fascinating.”
“All I meant was that it has been my experience that ladies find the intrigues of city hall rather droll,” he said as his face flushed and tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead and palms.
Miss Cardaso smiled and nodded. “You feel, Mr. St. Clair, that I would find conversation about fashion and children more to my liking?”
“Perhaps. That . . . that has been my experience, as I said,” St. Clair added, wringing his hands.
“I’m afraid that for such an accomplished journalist, your experience in matters about women has been limited,” she said, arching her eyebrows.
“Touché,” declared Sutton.
“If you’re finish
ed, Charlie,” said Fox, “I will uncomplicate things for you.”
St. Clair remained silent and offered Miss Cardaso the chair beside Fox’s desk. He and Sutton stood to the side close to a bookcase. She lifted her veil and gently folded it on top of her bonnet. St. Clair could not take his eyes off of her. Her skin looked as smooth as silk. She was even lovelier than he had first thought.
“If I may, this is a rather delicate matter,” began Fox, sounding as officious as he could. “As you both know, there have been several stories in the Times recently about the plight of women who have been victims of vile medical malpractice. Physicians and midwives advertise services for women with female problems. They’re often at their most vulnerable and these quacks, for that is what they are, are quick to take advantage of the situation. They offer cures for pregnancy, pills, and other remedies, most of which have no effect or, in some cases, can be deadly. You recall reading about the case of the women found dead in Philadelphia.”
“In a boarding house, I believe,” said Sutton. “It was a bloody mess—”
“Exactly,” Fox cut him off. “I can list another dozen or so cases like that in New York. Women nearly bleeding to death or left at the mercy of a butcher like Madame Philippe. The woman has made millions of dollars dispensing her French Pills and performing dangerous surgery. She lives like Queen Victoria in that mansion on Fifth Avenue. Blood money, that’s what she has. I’ve also heard . . . and please pardon this, Miss Cardaso . . . that she even makes a profit selling the dead corpses.”
“To whom?” asked Sutton. “Who would want such a horrific thing as that?”