Paradise Park
A William Muldoon Novel
L.Mad Hildebrandt
This is a work of historical fiction. This work includes a mix of historical and fictitious names and characters. All actions and dialogue are fictional and are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance between any character and any living person is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 L. Mad Hildebrandt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Gabrielle Felts
Cover Illustration: from the New York Public Library Digital Collections, image 430676
www.rosequill.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Pronounciation Guide
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Two Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to the two wrestlers in my life: my son Dominic and my grandfather Edwin. In various ways, they influenced the development of William Muldoon’s character. For that, I am grateful.
I also thank my husband Richard for his unwavering belief I could complete this project, and my daughter Gabrielle for all the hard work she’s put into editing and formatting—she’s a computer genius. I want to thank Bonnie Hearn Hill who taught the first Writer’s Digest class I ever took, so giving amazing advice for this novel.
And, last but not least, Lori Wilde, who makes me remember to always believe in myself.
Pronunciation Guide
The following Irish words appear in this book.
Leanbh (child)—LANN ov
Shillelagh (paddling stick)—shi LAY lee
Paradise Park
Part One
“When you march up to attack a city, make its people an offer of peace. If they accept and open their gates, all the people in it shall be subject to forced labor and shall work for you. If they refuse to make peace and they engage you in battle, then lay siege to that city. When the Lord your God delivers it into your hand, put to the sword all the men in it. As for the women, the children, the livestock and everything else in the city, you may take these as plunder for yourselves.” —Deuteronomy 20:10–13
CHAPTER 1
New York City, April 16, 1867
Lightning
split the darkness, temporarily illuminating the corpse. The dead man was nude, arms and legs spraddled as if he was a child’s rag doll, dropped to the ground and forgotten. He had been shaved smooth, from head to toe, and bruises of various shades, ranging from faded yellow to the most recent—livid purple—marked his pale flesh, pummeled into the man’s chest in a vague five-pointed star pattern. William Muldoon squatted beside the dead man. Kelly. The name entered his mind unbidden, and he shook his head. He raised his hand to shut the corpse’s bulging eyes, closing his own eyes for a moment.
A movement across the body drew his attention, and Muldoon glanced up at Sergeant O’Malley as he stepped close. “There’s only one kinda man who could kill a guy like Schneider,” said the Sergeant. “That’s another wrestler… maybe a boxer. But I don’t think so. I’ve never seen a boxer take down a wrestler like this.” He stared intensely at the star-shaped bruise, superstition clouding his expression. He crossed himself quickly, whispering, “Father, Son, n’ Holy Ghost.”
“Mmm,” agreed Muldoon, pulling a sheet across the dead man. But, silently, he disagreed with O’Malley. He’d seen man’s savage side during the war. What lay before him was man’s handiwork… not the devil’s. “It would take another wrestler, and a strong one at that. Maybe a couple of men.” Kelly flashed into his mind again. No, he shook away the damning thought.
“Did you know him well?”
“Just a bit. He was pretty good on the mat.” He rose to his feet, darkness shrouding the body in its drab gray cover. Muldoon glanced about, surveying the scene. The night was dark, spring clouds blotting the moon and stars. He could see little in the inky blackness. A lone gas lamp at the end of the block shed weak, yellow light, barely breaking the dark. A shadowy figure stood below the lamp, young Davey Flynn, O’Malley’s partner.
He glanced again at the sheet-covered body. It took a strong man to steal life from the big German. He knew several in the Points large enough, but he wasn’t sure of their skill. Karl Schneider was a good fighter. Few men could take him down, but if he’d been attacked from behind… well, perhaps. Kelly might have been angry enough… He pushed away the thought.
Taking the lantern from O’Malley, he searched the ground nearby. Circling out farther and farther, he looked for clues, but didn’t see any. The loose dirt was pockmarked from thousands of passing feet. Muldoon couldn’t see any particular sign of scuffling, at least not recent. The Points was a constant battleground, home to gangs like the Dead Rabbits and the Plug Uglies. They fought one another on their own turf, and then turned to the B’hoys or other gangs from Mulberry Bend, the Docks, or the Bowery.
O’Malley shrugged beside him. “There’s nothing,” he said. “Leastways nothing we’ll ever see in the dark.”
Muldoon agreed. And with morning’s light, the whole area would come alive again with urchins and beggars, street vendors and ruffians. If any clues were left, they would be gone before the police could take note.
“All right if I take him?” called a voice somewhere in the darkness behind them.
Muldoon spun about. A second lantern lit a small circle, a short, round man lifting it high.
“Mmm… yes,” Muldoon said. “I’m done with him here. I’ll come round in the morning to take a closer look at the body.”
Whatever secrets it held, he knew they’d tell best in the light. He yawned, handing the lantern back to the sergeant. “I’m going home for a little shuteye. The morgue can wait. I’ve still got a couple of hours before I’m on duty.”
“Sure you have, now,” O’Malley said with a rueful grin. “But the Captain’s got me working a double shift. I’ll be seeing you when you get in.”
“All right,” Muldoon said. They parted company, O’Malley and Flynn back toward Paradise Park. Pulling his coat tight against the chill night air, he headed toward the Points district border. The morgue van clattered past, and he wished he’d asked for a lift. It wasn’t safe, even for a cop, to walk alone here at night.
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br /> As the wagon passed the far corner, a shadow separated from the darkness behind it. Muldoon slid deeper into the shadows and watched as the figure followed the cart several steps, then turned toward him. Weak light filtered from the lamp, barely illuminating the man… but his eyes. Crimson orbs, like those of a night beast, flashed angrily where his eyes should be hidden in the dark. His gaze seemed to burn into Muldoon. Then the man donned a top hat, and with a flip of his cape, he disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER 2
Wind
rushed up the steps, pushing against Muldoon as if to keep him from leaving the boarding house porch. Stepping into the street, he pulled his hat tight and turned toward police headquarters at 300 Mulberry. He shoved his way through the crowd. Ladies in bright dresses fought the breeze, and men wearing top hats and boots chased wayward hats and parasols. The poorer folk mimicked the wealthy with gaudier, brighter fabrics and mixed patterns. Here and there, a street vendor cried out, “Apples, apples, buy me apples.”
Across the street, a soldier passed through the crowd. Muldoon glanced toward him, then quickly away again. At the corner, he paused momentarily while a wagon passed, a huge bay draft horse straining in its harness, each heavy hoof plodding forward. Behind it, a young woman darted into the street, sweeping away the mess the horse had dropped. She nodded with a smile as Muldoon pressed a penny into her hand. He crossed the street quickly, before a fast-moving carriage could draw near. The street sweeper darted into traffic again, clearing the way for pedestrians. A few blocks on, in the poorer district, there would be no sweepers.
An imposing structure loomed ahead. It stood five stories high, a sturdy cube, undecorated aside from two Greek columns on each side of the door and a cornice jutting out like a shelf along the top front. A wrought iron fence and broad sidewalk separated it from the street, the fence lining the steps as they rose to the front entrance. The gas lamp was unlit this time of day, standing like a solitary sentry before the halls of blue.
Muldoon climbed the steps and entered the front foyer just as the first drops of rain hit the ground. A sergeant at the high desk tipped his head up then back—a small sharp movement—acknowledging the newcomer.
“The Captain’s looking for you, Muldoon,” he called, his Irish brogue thick.
“Great,” Muldoon said with a grimace. He took the steps two at a time, not so much because he was in a hurry, but because it was his custom.
He strode down the hall, paused at the Captain’s office door, and lifted his hand to knock. It was slightly ajar, muffled voices inside just audible.
“So, that’s that,” said Captain Hayle beyond the door. “Take McAllister into custody.”
Muldoon thrust the door open, abandoning the knock. “Are you talking about Kelly McAllister?” he demanded, his tone fueled by his own guilt. Kelly had been his first thought, too.
“Muldoon!” Hayle roared, half rising from his desk. He paused for just an instant at the sight of the angry sergeant. Quickly he regained his composure, sat down again and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand through his graying hair. “Sergeant Muldoon,” he began, particularly stressing that first word “sergeant,” reminding the younger man of his position. “Detective Graham here has determined that Kelly McAllister killed Karl Schneider. His motive? Why, of course, that humiliating defeat a couple of days ago.”
Muldoon turned to Graham, who sat in the sole chair this side of the big desk. The room was pristine, not a file, not a paper to be seen, aside from the one clutched tightly in the detective’s fist. Even the heavy shelves, lined with books, were neatly arranged, as though they never moved from their designated positions except when dusted.
“It had to be McAllister.” The detective leaned back and placed one foot over the other knee. He looked down his long nose as best he could, tipping his head sharply back and just to the side to glare up at Muldoon. Heavy lids dropped low, his pale blue eyes were barely visible. “He lost his match and was quite mad about it. He spouted off in the bars last night. I went to several, and each time it was the same. He threatened to get even… and he did.”
He said it so matter-of-factly. Muldoon raged inside, but he knew his place. They were English, he was Irish. In order to do any good for his people, he had to work within the confines of the job. And if that meant keeping his tongue, so be it. But he wasn’t about to let Kelly McAllister, a man he thought of as a brother, take the fall. The boy hadn’t killed Schneider, Muldoon was sure of it. But niggling doubt whispered that he could have.
“It couldn’t have been McAllister,” he said, and turned toward the Captain, appealing for help. “Of course he wanted to get even. On the mat! But he was too beat up to kill Schneider. If you’d seen him after the match… ”
“Well, I didn’t see him, Muldoon,” grated Hayle. “I wouldn’t go anywhere near that kind of entertainment. Of course, you frequent the low taverns quite often, I hear. Even wrestling yourself! It’s not a bad thing… keeping in condition… but to wrestle down in the Points? You can wrestle against the other policemen, if you want.”
“I’ve beat every man on the force,” Muldoon said. “None of them’ll fight me anymore.”
“I don’t want you, or any of my men, taking part in the matches down there. And yes, I know you were at the Schneider—McAllister bout. You should have been with the men who came to break up the scene… instead of sneaking off with your boy.”
Muldoon controlled himself with an effort, his face growing warm. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Sir, McAllister was beaten down by Schneider. He was badly bruised. I had to help him home.”
“All the more reason to kill Schneider later,” said Graham from the shadows.
“He didn’t kill Schneider!” Muldoon spun about and pinned the detective with his glare. “I can promise you that!”
“How?” asked Hayle. “Were you with him all night?”
“No,” Muldoon admitted. “I left him in his bed. But he wasn’t going anywhere.”
“There.” Graham leaned forward, planting both feet on the ground, a wicked gleam in his eye. “That proves it. McAllister was alone… unless you’re going to say it was the devil that killed Schneider… like some are saying out on the streets.”
The Captain nodded. “Sorry, Muldoon.” He pursed his mouth tightly, pushing out his bottom lip. “There’s enough evidence. Graham has witnesses who’ll testify to McAllister’s statements. We’ll be picking him up today… if he can be found.” He turned quickly to the detective. “And I’ll have no more of that ‘devil’ talk, Graham! Leave the superstition to the Irish!”
“… And Muldoon,” Hayle continued as the sergeant turned to leave. “It’ll go easier on McAllister if he comes in himself. I don’t expect… ah… ‘anyone’ will talk to him… encouraging him to run, perhaps. We’ll find him, no matter where he hides in this city.”
Muldoon nodded. He knew this advice was for him. But he was too good a cop to encourage anyone, even his young protégé, to flee. If he could find a way, justice would be served, and it didn’t include the hanging of Kelly McAllister.
He hurried through the building and paused at the front desk to tell the sergeant he was going out to join Detective Benson on a case. He knew Benson would cover for him. They’d worked together often during the past couple of years, and Benson had come to rely on the younger officer. Muldoon knew where he’d find the detective, anyway. He’d be sitting in Harry Hill’s, clutching a drink, drowning the tragedy of his life. Muldoon could use a stiff drink himself… but that was somewhere he couldn’t go. He shoved through the door, letting it slam behind him. The morgue would have to wait. He had to find Kelly McAllister before it was too late.
CHAPTER 3
William
Muldoon strode toward the Points. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he noted the man trailing him. He wore street clothes, one of Graham’s henchmen, or maybe an off-duty cop. Muldoon didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean anything. Just t
hat he wasn’t from the district. He sped up, and took another look back. The man kept pace. Graham wanted this collar any way he could get it, but he’d be damned if he’d lead the detective’s man straight to Kelly McAllister.
He entered Mulberry Bend and took a sharp left into a filthy alley, the dirt road quickly becoming muck in the rain. He could see the plain clothes copper turn the corner behind him. He smiled wickedly. These were his streets. It would take a brave, or foolhardy, man to follow him. He hurried down the alley, past grimy, large-eyed children and a woman carrying a basket of limp vegetables. It was the best she could get, he knew. Down here, you bought what was available, even if it was half-rotten. A person had to eat.
Muldoon stepped into the shadow of a heavily leaning building. It tipped worse than most of the others, its unpainted boards warped and broken. The door hung crazily from its hinges, but held when he pushed it open. He glanced back, then slipped into the darkened hall and ran quickly through the building and out the other side, but not before rapping on the first door to the left. One, two, three… four knocks. He knew it opened to a cramped apartment, just a room, really. It was barely large enough to hold one person, let alone the family of six he knew occupied it… the O’Shaunessy’s… mother, father, and four nearly grown sons. They were tough scrappers, every one of them. Muldoon had got a job for Brian, the oldest boy, clearing tables at Harry Hill’s. This time of day, the boys could be found at home, not emerging ‘til later, along with the rats, roaches, and riffraff of the night.
He ran through the hall, and out the far door. “Ay!” cried a man, followed by a loud commotion as the young men responded to his coded knock, entered the hallway and filled the small passage with their big, sweaty bodies. A scuffle broke out as his pursuer tried to push past. The boys would be obstinate, playing dumb, as if trying to get out of the way. But as one stepped aside, another would block the man’s progress. They’d keep it up until Muldoon was safely away. It was a trick he’d used more than once.
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