by Howard Fast
‘Don’t sell it,’ Sally said firmly. ‘I can live with your mother. Just like you, I never thought I could live in a place that nice, right here in the city. I’ll manage.’
‘Then stop crying.’
‘I’ve stopped,’ Sally said, but inside, a tiny flame of fear and resentment arose, and it would not go away. She lacked the courage to flee because it seemed that there was no refuge. She had to be married; she didn’t have the strength to bear the curse of spinsterhood. She was lost. There was no alternative to Max Britsky.
Two weeks before the wedding, Britsky’s Orpheum, the first of the storefront theatres that Max had created, was wrecked. The attack took place while the show was in progress, the damage done by six men carrying axes. They shattered the outside windows, smashed the ticket booth, from which the lady ticket seller fled screaming, terrorised the customers and drove them out, smashed the projection booth and the projector, and then systematically destroyed folding chairs until at last, bored with their mayhem, they departed. They spent at least twenty minutes in the place, and although the ticket taker ran to the police precinct, screaming her head off, no police appeared until the wreckers departed.
Awhile later, Max and Ruby and Bert appeared, and Max led the way, glumly, in and out of the wreckage. ‘Who done it?’ he asked Officer Kelly, now forthrightly on the scene, with Officer Murphy to back him up.
‘Heaven only knows,’ Officer Kelly said. ‘But you’d better see the captain, because when a thing like this begins, Mr Britsky, it’s like a fire, and there’s no putting it out.’
‘I suppose Captain Clancy mentioned that to you.’
‘It might be he whispered a word in me ear when he heard that his old friend Max Britsky was having a bit of trouble. He even said that me and Paddy here should keep an eye on the place so that nothing that is open to the wind should be stolen.’
‘Yes, you do that and thank him,’ Max said. Outside on the sidewalk with Bert and Ruby, Max asked, ‘What do you think?’
‘The Monkey’s gang.’
‘No doubt about it,’ Bert agreed. ‘They smash up the place and then Clancy collects. It’s going to cost you a lot of big bills, Max.’
‘Maybe so. But I’m not going to take it lying down. No lousy shithead like Monk Eastman is going to smash up one of my places and just walk away clean.’
‘You can’t fight him,’ Bert said. ‘He’s too big.’
‘Bullshit, Bert. We been fighting the big ones ever since we’re able to walk.’
‘It could cost us. He’s got three, four hundred bums he can call on. What have we got?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ruby said worriedly. ‘He runs the East Side.’
‘Both of you think too much and worry too much. Just let me do the thinking and the worrying. I don’t need no army, only half a dozen guys. So, Ruby, you get Shecky Blum with his carriage, and then get three or four of the bums you hang out with and tell them I’m paying fifty dollars each for one night’s work, and then you meet Bert and me right here at midnight tonight, and meanwhile pick up half a dozen baseball bats.’
‘They ain’t going up against Monk Eastman, Max.’
‘For fifty bucks they’ll go up against anything that breathes. But we don’t fight nobody.’
‘Then what do you need the baseball bats for?’
‘To play baseball, stupid. Now get going.’
Ruby shook his head unhappily and exchanged glances with Bert Bellamy. It made little sense to them. At that time, Monk Eastman ruled New York’s underworld and a good deal of the ‘overworld’ from St Mark’s Place and East Eighth Street south to Fulton Street and east from Lafayette Street. His headquarters was in an old livery stable on Chrystie Street, with a rear exit that gave on the Bowery, square in the center of his domain. It was said that the live ones entered on Chrystie Street and the bodies were trucked out into the Bowery. It was also said that if the need arose, the Monk could call out over a thousand ‘guns’ that would operate according to his leadership; but this was vastly exaggerated, and most of his followers were street bums, winos, and scrapings from the worst lumpen elements that lived in shacks and blind doorways down by the docks; in none of his so-called street wars with other gangs, like Kelly’s West Side Breakers, were more than a hundred or a hundred and fifty of his followers involved. But this in conjunction with the body of legends that surrounded Monk Eastman was enough to trouble Ruby and Bert enormously, the more so when one remembered that the Monk and Captain Thomas Clancy of the New York City Police – often referred to as the most corrupt police force in the Western world – worked hand in glove together.
Monk Eastman was well protected. He controlled all the gambling and prostitution in his territory, exacting his toll from every faro, poker, and crap game and from every working lady and pimp and madam as well. He also exacted payment from most of the merchants, and he divided his weekly spoils with the various precinct captains in his territory. He was called Monk because of his resemblance to the species. He was only five feet and five inches in height, but he was hugely overmuscled, weighing better than two hundred pounds, his face a mashed mixture of broken nose, missing teeth, tiny pig eyes, and shapeless ears. His only virtue was his love of animals, and his only legitimate enterprise was a pet shop he maintained on Broome Street, where his specialty – and, indeed, special love – was ornamental tropical fish, in tiers of glass cases. There, almost any day, one could find the dreaded Monk Eastman, mooning over his tropical beauties; and it was there, a half-hour past midnight, that Max gathered together his bat-wielding, fifty-dollar hoodlums. ‘Go to it,’ he ordered them, but since one and all knew that this silent, locked pet shop was the province of Monk Eastman, no one moved. Shecky Blum said, ‘Come on, Max, this is the Monk’s place. You got to be crazy.’
Max grabbed Shecky’s bat and yelled, ‘Stand back!’ Then he swung the bat, smashing the lock on the front door. Then he smashed both plate-glass windows and yelled to Shecky, ‘Get your guys in here and out of here! I don’t want nothing left together. It’ll take two minutes, and then you all go home and forget you were ever here, and nobody knows any different.’
It certainly took no longer than two minutes to reduce the place to a shambles, with fish of every color flopping out their lives on the floor and bewildered dogs barking and Persian cats hissing, and then Shecky and his colleagues piling back into the carriage and galloping off into the night, the entire operation completed before any passerby began to realise what was happening.
Max strolled away, north toward Houston Street. He smoked only occasionally, but tonight he took out a cigar of the best Cuban leaf, nipped off the end, lit it, and puffed with deep satisfaction. He was calmly smoking his cigar when he walked into the precinct house, to be told by Officer Finnigan at the desk, ‘Now you know well enough, Mr Britsky, that we’ll have no smoking here.’
‘It’s a beautiful cigar, so I will let it go out peacefully. OK?’
‘And what the hell would you be doing here at this hour of the night?’
‘Looking for Captain Clancy.’
‘At this hour he is home in bed.’
‘I’ll wait for him,’ Max said. ‘He’ll be here.’
‘Now what makes you think so?’
‘Just an idea.’
‘Well, it’s a hell of a place to spend your time, but if that’s your wish, Mr Britsky, that’s your wish.’
For the next half-hour, Max sat in the reception hall, watching the parade of petty thieves, drunks, pickpockets, pocket grabbers, disturbers of the peace, and whores who had stepped out of line or out of Monk’s protective embrace – and then Monk Eastman himself, followed by Captain Clancy. Monk had a wild light in his eyes, which became even wilder as he cast his glance around the reception hall and let it rest on Max.
‘So there you are, you lousy little bastard!’ he roared, leaping toward Max. ‘You fucken, miserable son of a bitch, I’m going to open you up and strangle you with your own guts!’ Launchi
ng himself as he shouted, he dived toward the bench. Max slid sideways and then dashed toward the desk, where Sergeant Finnigan was observing the proceedings with objective interest. Monk followed, this time producing a revolver, which he fired twice, both shots missing Max and ending up in Sergeant Finnigan’s desk. The sight and sound of the revolver in a room full of people brought the policemen into action. They grabbed Monk while Sergeant Finnigan climbed over his desk and worked the revolver out of Monk’s hand.
‘Now you see what you done,’ Clancy said to Max, ‘promoting mayhem and battery here in a police station.’ He glanced at Monk, who was struggling violently with the three cops who held him. ‘Can you give me one good reason why I should not let him go and let him pull you to pieces?’
‘Upstairs,’ Max said, ‘in your office. Lots of reasons.’
‘Indeed. Well, me lad, you’d better deliver, or you will be the saddest Jew in New York.’
‘Let me at him!’ Monk screamed.
Clancy walked over to Monk and said, ‘Now shut your yap, Monk. You should know better than to try to murder someone in a police station.’
‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘Later, later – and not here. Wouldn’t it make an awful stink if you killed him here? Now Sergeant Finnigan is going to put you in a cell for an hour or so until you cool down, and he’ll send out for a pitcher of beer, and then you and me will talk.’ Then Clancy led the way upstairs, Max following him.
In his office, Clancy slammed the door and turned to Max and said angrily, ‘You are one stupid son of a bitch, Max, going out and smashing up Monk’s pet shop. He loves them fish more than you and I love a pretty face, and if he could find a mermaid, he’d be fucking her instead of his scummy whores. You know, he’s going to kill you, and I’ll be damned if you don’t deserve it.’
‘No, he won’t.’
‘And why not, may I ask?’
‘Because you won’t let him.’
‘Jesus, why would I stop him; even if I could?’
‘He breathes and pisses and shits because you allow it. He’s your boy, Captain, and so help me God, in your place, I’d send him back to his mother. His breath stinks of stupid.’
‘You’re talking very big, boyo, and I ain’t a bit sure I like the way you talk. Can you tell me why I shouldn’t kick you out of here and let Monk chase you down the street?’
‘All right, I’ll tell you why. Because you’re going to be commissioner of police.’
‘Oh? And now you got a crystal ball?’
‘No.’
‘But you ain’t short on bullshit.’
‘No, sir. I am going to be a millionaire, and I’m going to break my ass to make you commissioner because we can work together.’
Clancy smiled coldly, looking Max up and down without pleasure. ‘How old are you, Max?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘You’re a punk, a little shithead sheeny, and you’re making me police commissioner.’
‘You know why I smashed up that place,’ Max said, ‘not to get revenge on Monk. The hell with Monk. He has the brain of a cockroach, but to get him here and to get you here.’
‘To get me out of bed in the middle of the night.’ Clancy rose up and loomed over his desk. ‘I don’t know who smashed up your place, but sure as hell, you smashed up Monk’s place, for which I could jail you, if it was not that doing so would deprive Monk of the pleasure of beating you to a bloody pulp. Now get out!’
‘Monk put the finger on me,’ Max said. ‘One place smashed, and then if I don’t pay, a second and a third. I know Monk’s price. I pay him a hundred a week to let me operate, and then he cuts you in for a lousy fifty bucks –’
‘Get out!’
‘– peanuts! I’m ready to pay you five hundred dollars a week, and that’s only the beginning.’
Clancy was coming around his desk to enforce physically his eviction notice, and now he paused, stared at Max for a long moment, and then motioned to a chair.
‘Sit down,’ Clancy said.
Max sat down, a faint smile lingering at his lips.
Returning to his desk, Clancy rested his chin on his fists and regarded Max with new interest. ‘If you’re pulling me leg, boyo, I’ll not wait for Monk to work you over.’
Max reached into his pocket, took out a roll of bills, and counted off ten fifty-dollar greenbacks. He laid the money on the desk. ‘Does this pull your leg, Captain Clancy?’
‘Every week?’ staring at the money.
‘Every week until I up the ante. One year from now, it becomes seven hundred.’
Clancy reached for the money and fondled the bills. ‘What are you buying, Max? I don’t promise what I can’t deliver.’
‘All right. I’ll spell it out. I want Monk Eastman off my back. I want you to tell him that either he leaves my places alone or you’ll put him out of business.’
‘And you think I can do that?’
‘In maybe one night, Captain.’
Clancy smiled. ‘What else?’
‘News travels in this town. Vaccarelli hears about Monk, and he’s going to start working me on the West Side. I want Vaccarelli to understand that either he leaves me alone or he’s out of business.’
‘That’s not my precinct.’
‘It’s Captain O’Grady’s territory. You pay off O’Grady. I only want to deal with you.’
‘Out of my money?’ Clancy demanded indignantly.
‘Absolutely not. I’ll put up the vigorish for O’Grady, but keep it under two hundred a week.’
‘Monk and Vaccarelli can get mighty ugly.’
‘So can you,’ Max said. ‘Are we in business?’
Clancy took a bottle and two shot glasses out of his desk drawer. He poured and handed one of the glasses to Max. ‘Drink up, lad. I got me a Jew for a partner.’
Max swallowed the whiskey, grimaced, and wiped his mouth. ‘I’m getting married in a couple of weeks.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I am inviting you to the wedding.’
Clancy nodded and refilled the shot glasses.
‘And bring the missus.’
‘I will indeed.’
‘Do you know Alderman Sweeney?’
‘Like I know the sight of me own ugly face.’ He raised the glass. ‘Bottoms up.’
Max swallowed the rye whiskey. There was an old saw that Jews couldn’t drink. Let Clancy beware; he’d match him one for one. ‘I want you to invite Sweeney and his missus to my wedding.’
‘And why should he come? Alderman Sweeney’s an important man in the life of this city. What the hell difference does it make to him that Max Britsky’s getting married?’
‘Well, you might tell him that he’ll be sharing a table with Mr Charles F. Murphy.’
‘What?’
‘I thought I said it, Captain Clancy.’
‘Charlie Murphy?’
‘Yes.’ Max dropped the word coolly. He leaned back and watched Clancy, who now showed signs of agitation.
‘Why the hell didn’t you say you was a friend of Murphy? What’s all this fencing with Monk? Why didn’t you just say the word?’
‘I clean my own house. I don’t come whining for favors. I pay my own way.’
‘You’ll put in a good word with Charlie Murphy? There’ll be no more trouble with Monk or Vaccarelli or any other of the dirty hoodlums who infest this fine city. That’s a promise.’
Charles F. Murphy had just become the new boss at Tammany Hall, which made him the most politically powerful man in New York. He had taken over from Dick Croker, a brawling, foul-mouthed political hoodlum whose sins had finally caught up with him. Murphy, on the other hand, was a good-looking, ingratiating Irishman who preferred intelligence to brute force and whose soft brogue could be captivating and seductive. Only a week after the executive committee of Tammany had dethroned Croker and voted Murphy into office, a well-dressed young man turned up at Max’s office and informed him that Mr Murphy would like to lunch wi
th Mr Britsky at Delmonico’s new restaurant at Forty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue – at Mr Britsky’s convenience. Shakily, Max chose a date. It was his first entry into Delmonico’s, but he came armed with serious sartorial advice from Bert and financial advice from Fred Feldman.
‘Blue serge,’ Bert said, ‘nothing else. Blue serge, black shoes, white shirt, and dark striped tie. Just look snotty and knowledgeable and like you consider the waiter to be pure shit.’
‘The goddamn menu,’ Max said. ‘It’s supposed to be in French.’
‘Screw the menu. Just tell the waiter you’ll have an entrecôte – that’s French for a steak and a salad. Steak first, then salad. I’ll write it down. Let Murphy order the wine. It’s class to order without looking at the menu. If Murphy asks about dessert, tell him you’ll have whatever he has.’
Fred Feldman, on the other hand, said, ‘Careful, Max, like you’re walking on glass. They say that Murphy wants a piece of everything. Croker wanted to rule the city, but they say that Murphy wants to own it. We’re sitting on a gold mine, and word has got to him. There’s no way to keep him out, but fight like hell over how much he comes in for.’
‘We got to give?’
‘Or else go to Philadelphia or Boston.’
But Murphy’s warm greeting and his easy charm as he led Max to a table belied Feldman’s warning. He was instantly ingratiating, to Max, to people who recognised him and greeted him as they made their way through the restaurant, to the maître d’hotel, who knew him well, to the waiters and the busboys. ‘You’re only a lad,’ he said to Max. ‘Now what age would you be?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Now there’s the finest recommendation a man could have. Myself, I was nothing at your age, a poor boy.’ Bit by bit, he drew Max out, established his background, itemised his family, admired ‘a kind of guts and love you don’t see much these days. And now you’re to marry a sweet lassie?’
‘Next month,’ Max said.