And All the Saints

by Michael Walsh

Now, the thing about this party was it was not only a celebration but also a wake, for the Maddens were bound for the English Midlands, where they planned to tarry just long enough to earn their passage to and find their fortune in America. First to Leeds, where Francis had a cousin who knew a man who knew a brother of a mill owner, who might be able to give him a job as a cloth dresser, and which paid eighteen shillings sixpence a week, not to mention whatever Mary could take in from the washing. And thence to the great City of New York, whence Mary’s sister, Elizabeth, had already departed.

  “We’re bound for greatness now, Mary, and make no mistake,” he said to her as they crossed the Irish Sea, staring as hard as he could into the future and seeing only the Liverpool shoreline in the gloaming, rising up to meet them faster than he had ever expected it would.

  Or so the story goes, the story we got from Ma between drinks and tears back in them early years. Bein’ that it was before my time, I cannot vouch for its accuracy, but can only observe that that’s the way I would have written it, if I could have.

  Chapter Eight

  The Five Points was where Cross, Anthony, Little Water, Orange and Mulberry Streets all crashed together. Everybody knew one thing about the Five Points and that was that it was the worst neighborhood in New York, even with goo-goos like Jacob Riis whaling away at it as they’d been doing for some time. Several of its choice locales were known far and wide: Mulberry Bend, Bandit’s Roost, Bottle Alley—from the way some New Yorkers talked about these places it was as if they’d actually been there. No wonder the Tombs prison was just over on Centre Street.

  The center of both the Five Points and the trouble between the Pointers and the Eastmans was a little park called Paradise Square, which believe me it wasn’t. It was a little dump of a place that had a paling fence around it, which the neighborhood folks used as a clothesline, so that when you walked by, you would see everybody’s wash hanging out in plain public view like it was in their own backyard, and a tribe of boys armed with brickbats and staves, there to keep away thieves from stealing the washing or getting fresh with the knickers.

  Everybody who didn’t live there, and most of those who did, hated the Five Points, said it was worse than Whitechapel or the Seven Dials in London, which is saying something and which is also why it doesn’t exist anymore, because the difference between the Americans and the English is we get rid of our problems and they call them history. Anthony Street later became Worth, Orange bloomed into Baxter and Cross turned into Park Street, and the Five Points vanished unmourned. But that was later, after what happened…

  The thing about the Points is whereas it had once been pretty much paddy, at this point it was mostly wop, with some chinks lurking off to the side on Mott Street. Like most Irish lads, I had nothing but contempt for the Italians, who were flooding into New York hard on the heels of the Jews and were, as far as we were concerned, even worse. The guineas were cowardly sorts, as quick with a razor as any Negro as long as your back was to them, and we made fun of them, the way they looked, the way they smelled and the food they ate, not to mention their womenfolk. They weren’t even good and proper Catholics, at least not by the lights of the Irish, who practically invented the holy faith, after all.

  Paul Kelly was a different kind of dago. He looked more like a professor, and not the whorehouse kind, always dressed to the nines, soft-spoken, and with a kind and gentle manner about him that belied an innate ferocity. He could speak French, Spanish and Italian as well as English and was never to be seen without some sort of reading material to go along with his brace of pistols—maybe not Kant and Hegel like Humpty Jackson, but high-toned stuff nonetheless, such as literature. Kelly had also been a tough bantamweight boxer who was now the Sheriff of the New Brighton dance hall, just as Monk was the Sheriff of the New Irving.

  The function of the sheriffs like Monk and Kelly and Eat ’Em Up Jack McManus and the others was, in addition to keeping the peace in the dance halls, which never stayed peaceful for long, to make sure that the Tiger stayed sleek and well fed, which fodder consisted of the votes of the multitudes who were more likely to be found in the Paresis, Suicide Hall, the Pelham Cafe or the meanest black and tan than up Astor Place way. And with the shores and inlands of Europe emptying out of Irish, Jews and Italians, most of whom had no choice but to dwell with us in the lower wards, where Rum was bishop, pope and rabbi rolled into one, sure weren’t there more votes to be found down our way than uptown with the swells. Which is why, if you read your history books, Tammany won more elections than it lost, and I mean well after Boss Tweed, when began the parade of paddies who ran the Tiger with such distinction for so long a time.

  Tammany Hall understood something that the Times or the Tribune most certainly did not, which was that when you had nothing, you also had nothing to lose, and therefore everything to gain, unlike them. When someone gives you a hand up, instead of a handout, you’re naturally going to be grateful. And if a vote—or two, or four—is all he asks in return, well, sir, then that’s a small enough price to pay. The reformers was always worried about the people’s souls, which was more properly the people’s own business, whereas Tammany was concerned with their corporal selves, which is much to be preferred when you’re hungry.

  Still, it seemed to me that the balance of power was the wrong way ’round. Much better for the gangs to own the politicos than to have them runnin’ us. For who, after all, was really running things? This was the first and central political question of my young years, and as things turned out, it never changed very much. As much as he was feared, Monk still took the backseat to the likes of Tom Foley, whereas I had already made up my mind that when I was in charge, them bowlers was going to do as I told them, and not vice versa.

  Be that as it may, Plunkitt and the bosses had decreed that there was to be no more trouble between the two sheriffs, on account of it was bad for the electoral business, and for a time there wasn’t. Because trouble begot headlines in the papers and headlines begat headaches, and nothing was more inimical to the smooth running of the political system. For politics, like crime and sex, does its best and most effective work in the dark. After the Palm Cafe truce, the Tiger even threw a party for both gangs, where Eastmans and Five Pointers alike drank to each other’s health and danced, and more, with each other’s girls, for sure there’s never been a lady who didn’t love a gangster, no matter his stripe.

  But Monk and Kelly, they just couldn’t help from mixing it up. This business of a no-man’s-land grated on both sides; the nightly stickups of each other’s stuss games, the routine beatings of each other’s streetwalkers and the regular killings of each other’s soldiers soon enough brought things back to a boil, and there was nothing for it but to go to war once more. But the Tiger had its spies everywhere, and word filtered northwards there was trouble once more in the low-life precincts and all of a sudden there was not Foley but the great George Washington Plunkitt his own good self come around to lay down the law, and we could tell from his exasperated manner that it would be the last time, for sure Tammany had had it.

  Plunkitt was neither a tall man nor a grand one; he dressed neatly but simply in a dark suit and derby hat. Back then politicians often put on airs and went about town sporting a high silk topper, but Plunkitt looked more like one of us than a big shot. Which helped when he had to pay a visit to the precincts, such as now. He sat at a table at Nigger Mike’s, accompanied by an Irish kid in a cloth cap, about my age, who looked up at him like he was God His own good Self, whom Plunkitt called Jimmy.

  Mike himself stood off to one side, polishing some glasses. Like everybody named Nigger something or other in them days, he was a Jewman of swarthy hue, which I’m only telling you so you can picture the scene right and proper.

  “Lads,” says Plunkitt, creamy as butter, “sure if Big Tim Sullivan and I are not hearin’ turr’ble t’ings.” For George Washington liked to talk real Irish, even though he was merely shanty, having been born in a sty where Central Park now
stands, and many’s the time my fancy has turned to wondering how the Fifth Avenue toffs would feel if they knew that where they was walking of a fine summer’s day once was home to the poorest and most miserable of the bog-trotters, but then again they would probably feel just fine, thank you, and better’s the place for having got rid of its paddies along with the pigs.

  Monk and Paul just shuffled their feet and said nothing, for neither had been invited to sit. I stood over in the corner, trying to dodge the fresh hands of the drabs and molls, whose philosophy it was that hardly a lad was too young to make the acquaintance of their custom. “You both know that this here fightin’, reports of which are even now being shouted from the rooftops along 14th Street, has got to be concluded in both an expeditious and equitable manner.” Plunkitt was scrupulous about not taking sides, for politics is about one thing and one thing only, and that is power and the keeping of same, and therefore it didn’t matter a tinker’s damn to him which side won as long as one side did, and with a minimum of public disruption and outcry, so that business as usual might continue in peace, with profit for all.

  “And conclude it will,” he continues. “Since you two lads is feeling the need for havin’ t’ings out, I wants ya to settle it between your own good selves man-to-man-like, alone and lacking weapons other than those that the Good Lord above has already give ya, by which I mean yer two fists and your thirty-some-odd teeth.” In case anyone present had not quite understood what he meant—and, given Monk’s presence, the chances of that were exactly even money—Plunkitt continued. “Therefore,” he said, “it’ll be just the two of ya, in a place and at a time to be determined by yours truly. Do I make meself clear?”

  Kelly nodded like the gentleman he wished he was, while Monk merely clapped his bowler back on his bean. I thought that was the end of it, so I started to approach Monk, but G.W., as I was to learn, never missed introducing himself to a new or unfamiliar face, because a new friend was another marked ballot for Tammany, or perhaps more, and no matter that I was still a ways off from being of legal voting age. “And who might this foine-lookin’ young lad be?” says himself to me.

  “Owney Madden,” says I.

  “Owney Madden!” exclaims Plunkitt, as if he had known me all my life. “Another young Irishman come to America to seek his fortune, eh?”

  “Born in England, sir,” says I, “but Irish through and through.”

  This seemed to please Plunkitt. “Well, now, son,” he says, “there’s one t’ing you must always remember and that is that the Irish are born to rule, and with a little bit o’ the luck that the Good Lord has proverbially and providentially given dose of us of t’e Hibernian race, it’s rulin’ that you’ll be doin’, if only you’ll follow the example provided by me and other stout Tammany men.”

  At this moment a picture of my poor Da in our flat in Wigan came to my mind. The Irish back home didn’t seem to be born to rule much of anything except jails and cemeteries, but things here were obviously different. “I know that for a fact, sir,” I replied.

  “Good lad!” exclaimed Plunkitt. “A born optimist! I t’ank you not to forget that if it’s anyt’ing you’re ever after needin’, why, boy, Tammany’s the place for you and yours, whether it’s a position, some eatin’ money or expenses for a funeral. Just tell ’em George Washington Plunkitt sent ya, and that’ll be t’e end of ’t, Mr. Owney Madden.”

  “Owney the Killer, sir,” I added, trying to look as tough as I could.

  Most folks, taking only my age and my size into account, would laugh when they heard this self-description for the first time, but not Plunkitt. He gave me a serious evaluation head-to-toe. “Well, young Owney the Killer,” he said, “I don’t know who you’re after killin’, but I’m forced to assume that the sonofabitch’s likely to deserve it.” He patted me on the head and ruffled my hair. “And when the time comes when you’re old enough to cast your first ballot, I’ll be proud were it cast in the Wigwam’s humble direction.”

  He glanced ’round the place to make sure that everyone had got the message: whatever happened between Monk and Kelly, Tammany wanted it settled; and that henceforth Mr. Owney Madden was under G.W.’s personal protection.

  He pointed me at the lad with him. “Killer, shake hands with Jimmy Hines. Jimmy used to be a blacksmith till the Tiger raised his sights, and he’s goin’ places that don’t involve a horse’s arse. I’ve a feelin’ you two’s gonna git along splendidly.”

  “As long as he don’t get in my way,” says I.

  “As long as you ain’t runnin’ for anything,” says Jimmy, who clearly was going to be.

  That settled, we shook hands. And that’s how all of us, Eastman, Five Pointer and Gopher alike, and in the company of Mr. Plunkitt, happened to be gathering a few weeks later in a drafty barn somewhere in the vicinity of Fordham Road in the winter of 1903–4 to witness Monk and Kelly go at it with bare knuckles, just like the great John L. himself, and may the best man win. It was the boxer against the puncher, the ring general against the slugger, with Monk cast in the latter roles. For this was well before the era of gloved fighters; in them days a man fought the way God intended, until either he or his opponent was felled by a blow or exhaustion, whichever came first.

  My money was on Monk of course, not that I had much. Even in the short time I had known him I had never seen him lose a fight of any kind, be it with fists, Bessies, brassers, pipes or pistols. But Monk in the ring was no Mendoza, who won the championship of England by beating Bill Warr on Bexley Commons in 1794. I know this because, in Irish boxing circles, Mendoza is a hero, him being the one who founded the first boxing school in Eire, and of course as a lad in England I had heard all about him from the tough Jewboys who ran in the gangs in Leeds and Liverpool and used to taunt the Irish kids that everything we knew about boxing we had learned from a Jew, which was true. Still, Monk was quicker and smarter than he looked, which was another lesson he taught me: never let your enemies gauge your true skills, for a tendency to underestimate one’s opponent always worked to your disadvantage.

  Monk and Kelly came out brawling, which signaled to me a Monk victory. Kelly darted in, looking to land a hard punch, and Monk caught him with a right to the head that split his ear and nearly floored him. Immediately, a great cheer went up from the Eastmans, for they could foresee a Monk blitz, but Kelly just shook it off and got on his horse, backpedaling as if his life depended on it, which it did.

  Monk wasn’t averse to killing Kelly then and there. I had already seen him put any number of men in the ground without benefit of clergy, and I knew that this blood feud between him and Paul had become more than simply business. Monk wanted to kill the wop—not because he hated him, which I do believe he did not, but because Kelly was all that was standing between him and being the number one fella on the muscle rolls of Tammany. Monk didn’t have much ambition, but that was it and God help any man who came between him and it.

  Kelly came in again, bobbing and weaving. The only question was whether he’d be able to dance away from Monk’s roundhouses until Monk dropped from exhaustion, or whether Monk would catch him, coming in, flush on the button, and put an end to it.

  The dance continued like this for some time, Kelly ducking and Monk flailing, and I was just about to succumb to the temptation to take my eyes off the combatants for a moment to see how Plunkitt was reacting when Kelly caught Monk one flush on the chin and put him down.

  Even today, sixty years and more after the event, I can scarcely credit my eyes or my memory, for sure didn’t Monk hit the deck, down like a sack of Erin’s own praties. I forget whether his bum or his head hit the canvas first, but in any case they both landed soon enough, one after the other, and a great cry arose forthwith from the Pointers, as if their man had just felled the Antichrist himself.

  The shock this blow engendered in my breast can only be imagined. I had never seen Monk down, not once, and in the most vicious barroom fights; for Kelly to have laid him low seemed almost inconceiv
able. I don’t think there was an Eastman there who doubted for a moment that Monk would make short work of the bookworm and that we would be out of that Bronx barn and on our way back to civilization pronto, instead of lookin’ on in shock at our man in the prone position.

  When Monk went down, as I say, a great roar went up from the Pointers, but soon enough he was back on his feet, with a new respect for his foe visible in his eyes. Kelly’s ring experience was obviously going to be of far greater utility than any one of us had hitherto thought, and now Monk must have come to the same realization. So when Kelly rushed him, which he began to do with regularity, hoping to land another lucky one, Monk would simply lean on him, using his superior weight and strength, until the dago managed to wriggle away.

  Matters settled in like this for some time. After the first knockdowns, neither man was able to get the better of the other. Had the battle taken place thirty years on at the Garden, when the Mecca of Boxing was in its glory at Eighth Avenue and 50th Street, I suppose the fans would have been booing and throwing chairs into the ring, but this was a limited audience, present by invitation only, and every man jack of them had a rooting interest that went beyond a mere wager with a turf accountant, for the fate of the city rested on the shoulders of the fella that would come out still standing, and their fates along with it.

  Most particularly mine. Plunkitt’s benediction meant I had already stepped up a notch or two in class as far as protection was concerned, and I had already decided that whatever the outcome, both Monk and Kelly would never be the same. There had been a tone in the voice of Plunkitt that belied the stage-harp smile, and watching his indifferent reaction to the course of the bout, it seemed pretty clear to me, even if it didn’t to the others, that this whole idea of fisticuffs was meant to signal that Tammany wished both chieftains away, and wouldn’t they be kind enough to do the Wigwam a favor and kill each other, nice and cleanlike, so that the politicians could get on with the business of stealing.