The Other Teddy Roosevelts

by Mike Resnick

  When they woke up, Roosevelt was standing just outside the cells, staring at them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

  “God, my head feels like there’s an army trying to get out,” moaned Baldy.

  “We’re free to go, right?” said Eye-Patch.

  “Right,” said Roosevelt. “But I thought we might have a little chat first.”

  “More stories about cowboy outlaws?”

  “No, I thought we’d talk about New York City outlaws.”

  “Oh?” said Baldy, suddenly alert.

  “The criminal element thinks it controls this city,” answered Roosevelt. “And to be truthful, they are very close to being right. This is unacceptable. I will bring law and order to New York no matter what it takes.” He paused, staring at each in turn through his spectacles. “I thought you two might like to help.”

  “I knew it!” said Baldy. He looked around. “Where’s the rubber hoses?”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” said Roosevelt. “We’re all friends, remember?”

  “Sure we are.”

  “We are,” insisted Roosevelt. “In fact, I have proof of it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Eye-Patch.

  “This,” said Roosevelt. He handed each of them a photograph, taken the night before. There was Roosevelt, throwing his massive arms around the two happy criminals.

  “I don’t understand,” said Baldy.

  “You’re going to become my spies,” said Roosevelt. “I’ve rented a room under a false name in the worst section of the Bowery. I’ll be there every Monday and Thursday night, and twice a week you’re going to report to me and tell me everything that’s being planned, who’s behind it, who is responsible for crimes that have already been committed, and where I can find the perpetrators.”

  “You must be crazy!” said Baldy.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. “There are more copies of that photo. If you don’t agree to help me, the next time we capture a member from either of your gangs, that photo will be in every newspaper in the city, and the caption will say that it’s a picture of me thanking you for informing on your friends.”

  “Oh, shit!” muttered Eye-Patch. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely. One way or another, I’m going to bring law and order to New York. Do we have an agreement?”

  “We ain’t got no choice,” said Baldy.

  “No, you don’t,” agreed Roosevelt.

  “How long are you going to hold that photo like a rope over our heads?” asked Eye-Patch.

  “As long as it takes to get some results.”

  “Are you open to a deal?”

  “We just made one,” said Roosevelt.

  “A different one.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We’ll do what you want,” said Eye-Patch. “We ain’t got any choice. But there’s a guy who can get everything you need a lot quicker than we can, and maybe put a few of the biggest crooks out of action for you. You don’t know him—nobody on your side of the fence does—but if I can put you together with him and he’s what I say he is, will you burn the pictures?”

  “He’ll never go for it,” said Baldy.

  “I might,” said Roosevelt.

  “I don’t mean you, sir,” said Baldy. “I’m talking about Big D. There’s no place he can’t go, and he ain’t scared of nothing.”

  “Big D,” Roosevelt frowned. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “That’s not surprising,” said Eye-Patch. “He only comes around once a week or so, usually just before the bars close. But I’ve seen him talking and drinking with just about every man you want to nail. Yes, sir, if you’ll go for my deal, we’ll pass the word to Big D that you’d like to have a pow-wow with him.”

  Roosevelt pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled an address on it. “This is my room in the Bowery,” he said, handing it to Eye-Patch. “Beneath it is the name I will be using while there. Tell him there’s money involved if he accepts my offer.”

  “Then we have a deal?”

  “Not until I meet him and decide if he’s the man I need.”

  “And if he’s not?” persisted Eye-Patch.

  “Then you’ll be no worse off than you are now,” said Roosevelt.

  “What happens to the photos if he kills you?” asked Baldy.

  “You think he might?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Anything’s possible,” said Baldy. “He’s a strange one, that Big D.” He paused uncomfortably. “So if he decides to kill you…” He let the sentence hang in the air.

  “He’ll find out what it’s like to be up against a Harvard boxing champion,” answered Roosevelt. “It’s Wednesday morning. Can you get in touch with him in time for him to come to the room tomorrow night?”

  “This town’s got a pretty good grapevine,” said Eye-Patch.

  “Bully! The sooner we get the crusade under way, the better. Gentlemen, you’re free to go.”

  Eye-Patch began walking toward the end of the cell block, but Baldy hung back for a moment.

  “I don’t figure I owe you nothing, the way you tricked us,” he said to Roosevelt. He lowered his voice. “But watch yourself around him, sir.” He made no attempt to hide the little shudder that ran through him. “I’m not kidding, sir. I ain’t never been scared of nobody or nothing, but I’m scared of him.”

  ***

  Roosevelt went to his squalid Bowery room on Thursday night, laid his hat and a walking stick on a chair, and waited. He’d brought a book with him, in case this Big D character hadn’t gotten the word or chose not to show up, and by midnight he was pretty sure he’d be reading straight through until dawn.

  And then, at 2:30 AM, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come,” said Roosevelt, who was sitting on an oft-repaired wooden chair. He closed the book and put it on the ugly table that held the room’s only lamp.

  The door opened and a tall, skeletally thin man entered. He had wild black hair that seemed to have resisted all efforts to brush or comb it, piercing blue eyes, and very pale skin. He wore an expensively-tailored black suit that had seen better days.

  “I understand you wish to speak to me,” he said, articulating each word precisely.

  “If you’re Big D, I do,” said Roosevelt.

  A smile that Roosevelt thought seemed almost indistinguishable from a sneer briefly crossed the man’s face. “I am the man you seek. But my name is not Big D.”

  “Oh?”

  “They call me that because they are too uneducated to pronounce my real name. But you, Mr. Roosevelt, will have no difficulty with it.”

  “I didn’t give my…ah…representatives permission to reveal my identity.”

  “They didn’t,” was the reply. “But you are a famous and easily-recognized man, sir. I have read many of your books, and seen your photograph in the newspapers.”

  “You still have the advantage of me,” said Roosevelt. “If you are not to be called Big D…”

  “You may call me Demosthenes.”

  “Like the ancient Greek?”

  “Precisely,” said Demosthenes.

  “The Greeks are a swarthy race,” said Roosevelt. “You don’t look Mediterranean.”

  “I have been told that before.”

  “The hair seems right, though.”

  “Are we to discuss my looks or your proposition?” said Demosthenes.

  “My proposition, by all means,” said Roosevelt. He gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  “As you wish. But I must tell you that I am not intimidated by size.”

  Demosthenes smiled and sat down. “I like you already, Mr. Roosevelt. But from your books I knew I would. You take such pleasure in the slaughter of animals who want only to escape.”

  “I am a hunter and a sportsman, not a slaughterer,” answered Roosevelt severely. “I shoot no animal that does not have
a chance to escape.”

  “How inefficient,” said Demosthenes. He cocked his head and read the spine of Roosevelt’s book. “Jane Austen? I should have thought you were beyond a comedy of manners, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “She has an exquisite felicity of expression which seems to have eluded you,” said Roosevelt.

  “Her felicity of expression is duly noted.” Another cold smile. “It is manners that elude me.”

  “So I’ve noticed. Shall we get down to business?”

  “Certainly,” said Demosthenes. “Which particular criminal are you after?”

  “What makes you think I’m after a criminal?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Do not be obtuse, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Demosthenes. “I move freely among the criminal element. Two lawbreakers have passed the word that you wished to meet with me. What other reason could you possibly have for this extravagant charade?”

  “All right,” said Roosevelt. “At present three men control seventy percent of the crime in Manhattan: William O’Brien, Antonio Pascale, and Israel Zuckerman. Thus far my men have been unable to ferret them out. I have been told that you have access to them and the ability to adapt to dangerous situations. The City of New York will pay you a one thousand dollar bounty for each one you deliver tomy office.”

  “And you think this will end crime in Manhattan?” asked Demosthenes, amused.

  “No, but we have to start somewhere, and I prefer starting at the top. Each of them will implicate dozens of others if it will get them lighter sentences.” Roosevelt paused and stared at the tall man. “Can you do it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll expect you to keep this agreement confidential,” said Roosevelt. “Say one word of it to anyone else and I will feel no obligation to fulfill my end of it.”

  “I will say nothing of it,” answered Demosthenes. “It is comforting to note that even the remarkable Theodore Roosevelt breaks the law when it suits his purposes.”

  “Only to apprehend greater lawbreakers. I don’t question your morality or methodology; I’ll thank you not to question mine.”

  “O’Brien, Pascale, Zuckerman,” said Demosthenes. “Have the money ready, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “I’ll be in my office every afternoon.”

  “I won’t.” Before Roosevelt could object, he held up a hand. “These men hide by day and come out at night. It is at night that I shall apprehend them.”

  He turned and walked out of the room without another word.

  ***

  Roosevelt went back to his Manhattan apartment and slept most of the day on Friday. He arose in late afternoon, had a hearty meal, and walked to his office just after sunset—

  —and found the body of Antonio Pascale on the floor.

  Damn! thought Roosevelt. I told him I wanted this man alive for questioning!

  He inspected the body more closely. It seemed even more pale than Demosthenes. Pascale had a blue silk scarf wrapped around his neck. Roosevelt moved it, and found that his throat had been ripped out.

  Roosevelt wasn’t sickened by the sight. He’d done too much taxidermy, spent too much time in the wilderness, to turn away in horror or disgust…but he was puzzled. Did Demosthenes keep a killer dog he hadn’t mentioned? Roosevelt tried to reconstruct their meeting in his mind. Could Demosthenes possibly have misunderstood that Roosevelt wanted to get information from the gang leader?

  Roosevelt summoned a team of policemen and had them take the body down to the morgue, then sat down heavily on his office chair. How could he get hold of Demosthenes before he killed another man with information Roosevelt needed?

  He was still pondering the problem a few hours later when Demosthenes, his color a bit darker and richer than the previous evening, stepped through the doorway, lowering his head to avoid bumping it against the molding. “You owe me a thousand dollars, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “You owe me an explanation!” snapped Roosevelt. “You knew I wanted this man alive, that he had vital information!”

  “He put up a fight,” said Demosthenes calmly. “I killed him in self-defense.”

  “Did you tear out his throat in self-defense too?” demanded Roosevelt.

  “No,” answered Demosthenes. “I tore out his throat because I wanted to.”

  “Was there any doubt in your mind that I wanted him alive, that I was not paying you to kill him?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Roosevelt pulled a small pistol out of his pocket. “Then I am arresting you for murder.”

  “Put that toy away before I become annoyed with you, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Demosthenes, unperturbed. “I will withdraw my request for the thousand dollars, and we’ll call it even.”

  “You don’t seem to understand,” said Roosevelt. “You killed a man, and now you’re going to stand trial for it.”

  “If you persist in threatening me, I may have to take that gun from you and destroy it.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it.”

  “When I want your advice, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Demosthenes, taking a step toward him, “you may rest assured I shall ask for it.”

  “That’s close enough,” said Roosevelt ominously.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Demosthenes.

  Roosevelt fired his pistol point-blank at the tall man’s chest. He could hear the thunk! of the bullet as it struck its target, but Demosthenes paid it no attention. He advanced another step and Roosevelt shot him right between the eyes, again to no effect. Finally the tall man reached out, grabbed the pistol, and bent the barrel in half.

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Roosevelt, as he tried to comprehend what had happened.

  “I am the man who is going to clean up your city for you,” answered Demosthenes calmly. “I have been doing so privately since I arrived here last year. Now I shall do so at the instigation of the Commissioner of Police. Keep your money. I will extract my own form of payment from those criminals whose presence we will no longer tolerate.”

  “Don’t use the word ‘we’ as if we were partners,” said Roosevelt. “You killed a man, and you’re going to stand trial for it.”

  “I think not, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Demosthenes. “I sincerely think not.”

  He turned and walked out of the office. Roosevelt raced to the doorway, spotted a trio of cops at the far end of the corridor, and yelled to them. “Stop that man! Use any force necessary!”

  The three men charged Demosthenes, who knocked them flying like ten-pins. Before they could gather themselves to resume the attack, he was gone.

  “Who the hell was he, sir?” asked one of the cops, spitting out a bloody tooth.

  “I wish I knew,” answered Roosevelt, a troubled expression on his face.

  ***

  All right, thought Roosevelt, sitting at his desk, where he had been for the two hours since Demosthenes had left. He never saw my gun in the Bowery. Edith would have told me if we’d had a visitor at the apartment. The next time I saw him was right here, so he couldn’t have disabled my weapon. He knew it worked, and he knew it wouldn’t harm him.

  And what about the three officers who tried to stop him? He brushed them aside like they were insects buzzing around his face. Just what kind of a man am I dealing with here?

  There’s no precedent for this, and if any member of the force had seen him perform similar acts, word would certainly have reached me. Yet he implied that he’s been killing people for a year now. Probably the criminal element; those are the murders that no one bothers to report.

  But what’s going on here? It’s easy to label him a madman, but he doesn’t strike me as deranged.

  Roosevelt stood up and began pacing his office. Suddenly he felt almost claustrophobic. It was time to breathe some fresh air, to walk off some of his nervous energy. Maybe just getting out and exercising, taking his mind off Demosthenes for a few minutes, might let him come back to the problem with fresh insights.


  Suddenly he heard half a dozen gunshots and an agonized scream. He rushed down the stairs to the main entrance in time to see four of his policemen clustered together around a fifth, who lay motionless on the pavement. A few feet away was another body, as pale as Pascale had been.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded, striding out into the open.

  “I’ll be damned if I know, Mr. Roosevelt, sir,” said an officer. “Some tall guy, I mean real tall and skinny as a rail came out of nowhere and dumped that body in front of the building. We confronted him and demanded that he come inside to be interrogated, and he refused. Jacobs walked up and grabbed him by the arm, and he threw him against that lamppost. Jacobs weighed about 200 pounds, and the lamppost was twenty feet away.” The officer paused. “I think he’s dead, sir.”

  “The tall man?”

  “Jacobs, sir. We drew our guns and demanded that the tall man surrender to us, and he just laughed and began walking away, so we opened fire. So help me, sir, we must have hit him four or five times, and he didn’t even flinch.”

  “Let’s take a look at the body he brought to us,” said Roosevelt. He walked over to the corpse. “Do you recognize him?”

  “It’s Israel Zuckerman, the guy who runs the Jewish gang.” The officer frowned. “At least I think it is.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I remember Zuckerman being darker, like he’d spent most of his life in the sun. Mediterranean, I think they call the type. This guy’s so pale he looks like he’s spent the last twenty years in jail.”

  “It’s Zuckerman,” said Roosevelt. “Leave that scarf around his neck until you move him inside.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Another officer approached them. “Jacobs is dead, sir.”

  “Do you have any explanation for what happened?” asked Roosevelt.

  The officer shook his head. “It almost like something out of that crazy book everyone’s reading.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Roosevelt.

  “It’s some kind of thriller about, I don’t know, this creature that kills people and drinks their blood.”