by Peter Quinn
The even, anxious ticking of the clock echoed through the room. Dunne rolled another cigarette, running his tongue slowly along the glued edge of the brown paper. It had begun to sink in that the secret visitor and Morrissey were tied together with the reason for Capshaw’s invitation. Key in hand, Capshaw approached the mystery and seemed ready to unlock it.
“You trust me?” he asked.
The smoke caught in Dunne’s throat. He coughed until his eyes grew wet and bleary.
“I’m like you, Dunne, the word trust makes me choke. Be in Sing Sing a long time ago if it didn’t. But what exists between us ain’t trust at all. It’s the mutual knowledge that we’re each looking out for our own good. Won’t allow ourselves to be cheated. You bring me what you have and I pay what I think is right, maybe sometimes less than you expect, maybe sometimes more.”
“Always less,” Dunne said.
“Ain’t no fraud or pretense or illusions between us, and that’s a rare thing in this life, very rare.”
“Sounds like you’re asking me to marry you.”
“Like that about you, too. Got a sense of humor. No, I ain’t proposing matrimony, but I am lookin’ for a partner. Somebody got your skills. Somebody steady, quiet, sober, who’ll take the profits might come from the undertakin’ I have in mind and use them sensibly, in a manner not guaranteed to draW the bulls down our necks. I know you take a drink, and you know my feelings on the subject, but I’ve never seen you drunk or under the influence. You ain’t much like most of your kind, and I don’t mean that in a deprecatin’ way, but it’s true and everybody knows it’s true that the worst characters in this trade are the foreigners.”
“Sorry, Waldo, but I don’t work with partners. Dandy Dan was the first and last.”
“Neither do I. But what I got in mind is too big for me to handle alone, and what I’m proposin’ is a one-time partnership. We’re in, we’re out, each our separate roads. Can’t work no other way. If it works, both of us be assured the gelt to get outta this business. Don’t know about you, but that’s one exit I’m ready to make. This was once a profession. Now it’s Pandemonium itself. Never sure if the next gip through the door ain’t gonna cut your throat. Look at poor Mosie Pick. Talked to the Metropolitan who found her body. Her throat wasn’t just slit, he said. Her head was taken off. Well, I don’t intend to be found someday with a severed windpipe or my brains beat out. I’m not content to sit and wait until that fate comes through my door. No sir, I’m set to strike the mother lode, get out and set myself up in some safe and respectable country place. But I need a partner.”
The bird’s eye fixed itself on Dunne: “Well, which is it? In or out? Can’t say no more less I know I’m talkin’ to my partner.” Capshaw’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as though he were trying to swallow a worm.
“Hardly told me much. I need to hear more before I decide.”
“Told you all there is to tell for now.”
Dunne was poised to rise but didn’t. He was tired from walking around in the rain all that time, but it went beyond a single afternoon: ten years since the first job, the big, fat watch hanging from the vest pocket of a red-faced, barrel-bellied gent. The others egged him on. They were riding for nothing, hanging off the back of the Broadway coach. The driver ignored them, and all the fancy people in their finery pretended not to notice, afraid of the rowdies and the ruckus they made.
The watch hung there, ripe as an apple.
Go on, Jimmy. Grab it!
He reached and caught it in his hands, pulled so hard a button came off the vest. Run, Jimmy, run! He jumped off slam into the arms of a Municipal. The others scattered, laughing and singing as they went:
Hey get along, get along Josey,
Hey get along Jim, along Joe!
So long, Jimmy!
Going back to the Orphan Asylum or being locked up would have been easy time, all the while with people he knew. But the judge commended him—that’s the word the judge used—to the Children’s Aid Society, and it was off to the West. Made it back in three months. That’s when Dandy Dan spotted him. Never understood why Dandy Dan picked him out from all the others. Then once, toward the end, when Dan was sunk in drink, Dunne asked him directly.
In a flash, Dan seemed to sober up. “That first winter I landed in New York, it wasn’t much better here than in Ireland. Know what saved us? Rats. Not the fat ones with the glossy coats. They were used to dining on the scraps of the city’s finest restaurants. But the runts. We fought them for control of the garbage mounds by the North River. Beat them off with sticks. But the runts clung to those heaps. Gradually we came to realize: Wherever they were, that’s where we’d find the meat bones and discarded vegetables. Follow them and find a feast! Wasn’t for them runts, we couldn’t have survived. Ended up, we felt not only gratitude but comradeship, and when I first saw you, Jimmy, was a brother runt I saw, quick, alert, a snout for survival, knew in an instant: There’s the boy for me!”
Dan fell off the roof onto the iron-pointed railing in front of the house he was trying to break into, was impaled on it, the point driven up under his chin and sticking out his mouth like a rat-catcher’s spear.
“I’m in, Waldo,” Dunne said.
A triumphant grin spread across Capshaw’s face. He got to his feet again, put his hands into his back pockets, and pumped his elbows back and forth, like wings. “You’ll never regret it, Dunne! I promise you that.”
“Now tell me what I’m in.”
“Tell you as much as I know. My gentleman caller has been here before. He’s a man of considerable means. Or was before he backed himself into a corner and tried to escape by means of the faro, table. Remarkable, ain’t it, the stupid things smart men do. Dug a hole for himself gamblin’, and not just any hole, mind you, but a hole in the House of Morrissey. Of course, that bastard lent him the shovel and let him dig deep as he wanted, but the day arrives when the hole is so deep our gentleman can’t climb out and that’s when Morrissey announces the days of diggin’ is over. Now is the time for fillin’ in!”
“How’d you find all this out?”
“Don’t matter. What matters is I know what I know. Our gentleman friend wakes up one day to realize that if he can’t pay, he faces the less-than-tender ministrations of Morrissey’s henchmen. He can’t just dump his clients’ stocks on the Exchange. Word of what he done would spread fast and furious among that club. So he starts takin’ their bearer bonds, which he holds in trust, and looks for someone who can fence ‘em, which is me.”
“Neither the Exchange nor the House of Morrissey holds an attraction for me, Waldo. Steer clear of both.”
“Just listen, please, a moment more, I’m getting to the point. Our gentleman is amassing a great store of cash, little of which, I have reason to believe, he’s paid to Morrissey. Before long he’ll make a run for it, I’m sure of it. And think what it means. A small fortune sitting somewhere in this city, the owner of which can’t go to the Metropolitans should it be stolen from him. What’s he gonna say? ‘The money I stole been stolen from me’? And he can’t tell Morrissey either. ‘Oh, Jack, by the way, I had what I owed, but somebody took it away.’ Fortune or no, he’s gotta fly quick or face prison or an unmarked grave. And we’re left in possession of a fortune no one knows we have!”
“Sounds perfect, like one of those military plans for trapping General Lee. But perfect as they are, they never work. Suppose, for instance, our friend don’t steal the money but borrows it legitimate. Then he runs to the police the minute it’s missing. Or maybe he’ll arrange some schedule for repaying Morrissey. Or maybe he’ll make a killing on the Exchange and not have to borrow nothing. Maybe he’ll skip town tonight with what he’s already got. Even if he does what you say, even if he loots his company or his friends of everything they got, how are we supposed to nose out where he stuffs it? And one thing more. Should Morrissey ever suspect you or me of scheming to do him outta what he was owed, he’ll feed us to his pit dogs.”
&
nbsp; “You ain’t listenin’. The whole idea is that Morrissey never knows a thing. Sets his dogs on the trail of a former patron of his faro table while we’re sittin’ as quiet as the dead.”
“Quiet as the dead is right. Morrissey would see to that.”
“If there’s one to worry, it’s me. I’m the American. You’re one of his, and they can say what they like about the Paddies, but there’s no denyin’ they stick together tight as Chinamen. We Americans could take a lesson from you, stead of slaughtering each other over whether the niggers should be free.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Waldo. Morrissey will do what he has to do to protect his realm. Was a Protestant mayor first set him up in a gaming house of his own. Was a gang of True Americans arranged the fight with the Boy Heenan. Morrissey has been loyal to his own, ain’t no doubt, but don’t mean he won’t join hands with a Protestant to make money or kill an Irishman tries to take it from him. Send us both to the same grave. Maybe he’d enjoy killing you and regret having to do it to me, but it’d be done all the same, very democratic-like.”
The parrot turned into an owl: Capshaw sagged back down into his chair. He stared intently into space, solemn-faced, sad-eyed, unblinking. He said nothing for a few minutes. When he spoke, there was anger in his voice. “They shoulda hung the bastard a long time ago,” he said. “That’s the problem with this city, we stopped meting out justice. And when you do that, it’s the rabble takes over. That’s what happened in ancient Rome, and that’s what’s happened here, and I don’t need no history book to read about it because I seen it happen with these very eyes, seen it from start to finish. Was there the night they done in Bill “the Butcher” Poole. Thousands make that claim, but I really was. Stanwix Hall had just opened, all marble, cut glass, copper fixtures, and a brass plate right by the door: NO FOREIGNERS OR DOGS ALLOWED. Morrissey took it as an invitation, struts in with Monkey Maguire, the self-crowned King of the Newsboys, the lowest specimen of street scum you ever set your eyes on, blazing red hair set atop a face as flat and thick as a nigger’s. Shoulda been an exhibit in Barnum’s. Respectable women ran when they saw him, which is why Morrissey brought him along, of course. Grins that big Paddy grin of his and walks Maguire right through the bar into the back room. They start playin’ cards, spittin’ on the floor, and singin’ awful Paddy songs. Morrissey was enjoyin’ it all, and Maguire even more so, the fact of enterin’ a True American stronghold and pissin’ on our shoes.
“I was standin’ at the bar when the Butcher come in. Was like General Washington himself had returned. A mighty cheer went up. Morrissey comes out to see what all the huzzahin’ is about, and Monkey Maguire is cavortin’ behind him, and straightaway you can see on their faces the shock of findin’ the Butcher had arrived to spoil their fun. All of us stand back, and in an instant Morrissey walks up and spits in the Butcher’s face, and the fat ball of it runs down his cheek. The Butcher don’t even blink. Simply strikes a fightin’ pose. ‘When I’m finished with you,’ he says to Morrissey, ‘there won’t be enough left to bury.’
“The Monkey is crying and pleading, ‘Oh, Johnny,’ he says, ‘let’s get outta here.’ Me, I thought Morrissey and Monkey would run out the back door. Instead, Morrissey, that treacherous dog, pulls out a gun. Didn’t see what happened next, took refuge under a table, but heard it sure enough.
“Click. Click. Click.
“Three times Morrissey pulls the trigger. Three times nothing happens. The Butcher never flinches. Stands there as rock solid as a statue. Then he pulls out a revolver of his own. ‘I shoulda killed you the first time, you stinkin’ Paddy cuss,’ he says to Morrissey as he puts the barrel right to the tip of his nose. But he don’t pull the trigger. Why, I’ll never know. We were all expectin’ it, hopin’ for it. God knows, Morrissey had earned it. With that shot the Butcher might have saved this city and rallied the native workingmen to the defense of their homes.
“But he didn’t. Just stands there, holdin’ the gun and smilin’, and in an instant Monkey Maguire is jumpin’ up and down, screamin’, ‘You wouldn’t shoot a defenseless man, would ya? That ain’t the American way, is it?’
“God bless him, the Butcher never stopped smilin’. He puts the gun down on the bar and picks up the carving knife lyin’ next to the roast that’s set there. ‘This is the tool of my trade,’ the Butcher says, and holds it up for all to see, ‘the instrument with which I cut the meat that feeds the True American yeomen of this city. What better tool to cut the balls off a shit-assed foreigner?’
“Justice at last! A chorus of voices calls on the Butcher to do the work. A couple of lads grab hold of the Monkey and stuff a rag in his mouth. Beads of sweat have broken out on Morrissey’s head. He crouches as the Butcher approaches. And right then, as the Butcher swings the knife at Morrissey’s throat, in come the Municipals, them two-penny hirelings of Tammany that laughingly called itself a police force. They form a circle round Morrissey and whisk him out the door.
“I wasn’t there when Morrissey’s henchmen came back and gunned the Butcher down, and glad I wasn’t. Them that seen it were never the same. The tragedy stayed with ‘em forever, the Butcher lyin’ there in a puddle of his own American blood, a bullet in the heart. Woulda killed an ordinary man in an instant. The Butcher lasted two weeks. His true heart beat on until it could take no more, and then he bid us farewell in them most famous of last words: ‘Good-bye, boys: I die a true American.’
“Five thousand men trudged behind the Butcher’s hearse, and a dozen brass bands escorted him to the Brooklyn ferry. The streets was everywhere lined with people, men and women weepin’ like little children, some fallin’ prostrate as the coffin come by, rich and poor united in their grief. That night, George Law and the gentlemen of the United Order of Americans had a dinner in the Butcher’s memory, and it seemed that the decent God-fearin’ people was finally as one, that they wasn’t gonna take no more, that men of all classes was gonna stand together, no matter what. But it didn’t turn out that way. No sir, we was never as strong as we were that day in March of ’55. Justice was never done. Tammany rigged the jury so Morrissey and his fellow murderers went free. The foreigners kept pourin’ in. The gentlemen abandoned the workingmen, retreated to their neighborhoods and formed a police force that was able to protect them. The True Americans were left to fend for themselves, and after the panic of ’57 the fight went out of people. The American workingman just picked up and moved wherever he could, someplace away from his tormentors, to Brooklyn or Westchester or Jersey, and he left the city behind, a carcass to be devoured by Morrissey and his fellow hyenas.”
The room had filled with shadows. Burdened by the sadness of his story, Capshaw’s head drooped, the beak pointed toward his breast. Poor owl.
Dunne rolled another cigarette and lit it. The flash of flame seemed to snap Capshaw out of his reverie.
“Pardon me,” Dunne said, “but you think the John Morrissey you’ve just described is the same man gonna let you and me get away with his money?”
Capshaw got up and turned the valve on the gas lamp. The shadow retreated. “Ain’t paid attention to a thing I said, have you?”
“Haven’t missed a word.”
“I’ll say it one more time: Morrissey ain’t gonna know we got his money. He’ll be after our gentleman swindler, and even if he catches him, he ain’t never gonna believe the man ain’t got the money hid somewhere. But I doubt he will catch him. If it goes right, we’ll be rich, Dunne. Set yourself up in business. Look around, boy. Ain’t no old men in this business. One day you’ll read about me being found with my head bashed in, or maybe I’ll hear that you ended up like Dandy Dan, fallen from some rooftop with a pike through your jaw.”
“You keep talking like you’re offering me gold, but it adds up to a lot of gas. A man who might steal a fortune and, whenever that might be, might stash it where we might get our hands on it, or, rather, where I might, since I’m the one being nominated to carry out that part of the arrangement, the
difficult part, the breaking-and-entering part.”
“You’re good at it. Got a reputation for being smooth.”
“Supposin’ I say no?”
“You’re too smart for that.”
“Supposin’ I’m loyal to my own kind and go to Morrissey and tell him I talked to someone who’s out to jump his jack?”
“He’d thank you. And then, just like you said before, Paddy or not, he’d have you killed for having had such a conversation.”
“Supposin’ I do some investigating, find this gentleman for myself—it shouldn’t be hard—and pop the beans alone?”
“Then I’d kill you. Track you to the ends of the earth if I had to.”
Dunne took a draw on the cigarette, held the smoke, blew an O at the ceiling. It hovered over Capshaw’s head. A halo. Saint Waldo the Fence. Capshaw waved away the crown of saintliness. Probably had the same feeling toward tobacco as alcohol.
“I’m not gonna beg. Don’t want to be a part of this, just get out. Keep your mouth shut. Mind your own business. Forget we ever talked. But I thought you was smarter than that and had more ambition. Wouldn’t have invited you here if I didn’t.”
“How do you plan we split it?”
“Fifty-fifty, right down the middle.”
“Seems to me that the man who actually has to do the job has the greater risk.”
“Wouldn’t even know where to look or when if it wasn’t for me. Fifty-fifty. Ain’t no use a-hagglin’. I ain’t gonna budge.”
One of Dandy Dan’s observations: The Yankees are a race born to bargaining. You can rob them with gun or knife or bludgeon, but never with the tongue.
“Fifty-fifty it is.”
“I knew it, boy! Knew you wouldn’t let me down! I have an eye for character.”