He passed under the light at Mulberry and turned the corner. Quickly, he moved from the dim glow into blackness against the wall of a dilapidated building. He pushed tight against it, knowing he couldn’t be seen. The light couldn’t penetrate beyond the wall. He waited, sure someone had followed him. The silence was overwhelming. Around the corner, he knew, were men sent by McGlory to take him out of action. He, a cop and a B’hoy, had violated the sanctity of the man’s own establishment. He didn’t know which was worse, that he was a policeman… or a B’hoy. Either was sworn enemy to the man, one competing with him in criminal intent, the other, at least pledged to protect the law. Of course, he wasn’t naïve. He knew the City Police weren’t angels. They really weren’t much more than yet another gang. So many of them took bribes… and gave them, pimped and whored, gambled and protected criminals. They were part and parcel of the vice in New York City. But then, there were some like him, men who sought clean and lawful streets. Detective Benson, too, wanted to protect the law. But Muldoon knew alcohol drew that man down. For himself, he had to work within the boundaries of both law and environment. He had to protect the law even while he lived among the people. So, he walked an uneasy tightrope—working with, and using, both law and criminal. He was a cop… but he was also a B’hoy.
Hiding in the dark, pushed tight against the side of a building, Muldoon tried not to think of these things. He knew them. They were a part of his psyche. If someone came around that corner, he’d do what he had to. In this part of New York, it was survival of the fittest.
And around the corner they came. Three men, thugs, wearing loose, ill-fitting clothes, though of good cut. Muldoon knew they’d been taken from drunkards, left lying naked and beaten in the street, to find their way home in the morning.
He let the small group pass him in the blackness. He thanked God the night was pitch-black, clouds filling the sky. The rain had begun again, leaving everything a thick swill of mud.
“Where’d he go?” muttered one of the men.
“Don’t know,” answered a second. “Got to be around here somewheres.”
Muldoon nearly held his breath. Not because he was afraid, but to see if any others rounded the corner behind them. His heart thudded loudly in his ears. In the distance, he could see several women loitering under a streetlamp. A cab passed in the street at a swift pace, the horse’s hooves sloshing through the mud. Its driver sped up, no doubt, at the sight of the rough-looking threesome. Muldoon shifted the nightstick a bit in his grasp.
The biggest thug stepped backward a little and rolled onto his toes, as if he could see better if only he were taller. Then, he turned and headed back the way they’d come.
“Well, we better get back.” He spoke jauntily, as if he were in command of the situation. But Muldoon knew this was the far edge of his territory. It wasn’t particularly safe for the men to move beyond the little patch of light at the corner.
As they moved back toward the streetlamp, the small man in the back of the group paused and turned his head. Something had caught his attention… a glint in the shadows, perhaps. And suddenly, Muldoon knew. Some tiny movement of his, and the dim light had reflected off his copper badge, or one of his brass buttons, all so prominently displayed on his chest. He had hoped to avoid this fight. It wasn’t his way to hurt, if hurting didn’t need to be done. Not since the war, and all the killing he’d done.
With a swift motion, he leaped forward, swung the baton and caught the small man on the wrist, forcing his gun from his hand. The man cried out in pain, and Muldoon felt the bone break beneath the weight of his stick. He began to feel the rush of combat, the excitement that he’d come to love and to hate. The taste of blood quickened his heartbeat. He stepped forward and kicked the pistol into the shadows where he’d stood only moments before. With a quick movement, his right fist flew forward, crunching into the man’s face. Blood spurted from his nose, and the small man dropped to the ground, unconscious.
He spun about. The smallest was out of action, but he was also the easiest, once parted from his gun. The two remaining men rushed him in unison. He could almost smell their fear, but they charged nonetheless, and he respected them for that. Still, it was him or them. He had to act first. He dropped his nightstick and grabbed their loose jackets as they came. Using their own speed, he slung the two men together, jarring them for just a moment. He stepped in and slid his left foot forward, tripping the closest to the ground. The bigger man fell over the sudden pile at his feet, and lurched forward toward Muldoon. He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him into a tight half-nelson, until he heard, and felt, a slight pop. The man dropped to his knees with a muffled shriek. His arm now hung uselessly at his side, the shoulder dislocated.
The one he had tripped now faced him alone. His eyes bugged out with fear as Muldoon made a lunging motion toward him, and the man turned and ran as if the very devil were behind him. Muldoon laughed, but it wasn’t with mirth. These streets were mean, and it took a meaner man to make it through.
His uniform was ripped. He hadn’t felt it happen. If it was too badly torn he’d have to buy a new jacket. He turned to the shadows, and kicked around a bit with his feet until he felt a hard object. It slid further back, hitting the wooden building with a metallic twang. He leaned forward and carefully picked up the pistol. He raised it toward the streetlamp, so he could see it better. It was a Colt Model 1862 “Police” Percussion Revolver. It had been taken from some cop, he figured, so now it had been returned to the boys in blue. He slipped the heavy pistol into his waistband and retrieved his nightstick from where it had fallen.
He grunted with satisfaction at the silent figure on the ground and the other moaning as he hugged his arm to his side. He turned, and alarm bells jangled his senses—a frisson of fear slid down his back. At the far end of the street red eyes glared at him. He felt riveted to the ground, and before he could react the dark figure disappeared.
CHAPTER 20
April 20
Muldoon
tested his muscles, stretching one arm, then the other. He grimaced at the stiffness in his right shoulder, but pushed past the pain. McGlory’s thugs hadn’t left any real injuries, none that could have much effect on his evening’s bout. Harry Hill had paired him with an out of town challenger. The kid was still a bit inexperienced, but a match was a match. He’d soon have some green in his pocket. He stood in front of his bureau mirror and studied his bare reflection. New bruises splashed across his flesh. He poured water into the basin and cleaned the raw wounds, bandaging them tightly. Harry Hill, Boss Tweed, his fans, they all had confidence in him. They thought he couldn’t lose. He was becoming their hero. Some of the local kids acted like he was Achilles. He remembered reading about the Greek hero when he was a kid. His father had beaten him for it. It wasn’t a Christian book. But he’d loved reading about Odysseus’ and Achilles’ exploits and hid a copy of Homer’s Iliad in the hay loft. He wanted to be like them. Looking in the mirror, he wondered if he was. When Achilles failed, he’d died. If he failed, Kelly would die.
He checked out his torn and bloodied uniform, then discarded it for the clean one hanging from a peg. He hoped he could get it mended. Tossing it over the back of a chair he dressed quickly, then slipped out of the dark house. Only the maid, Betsy, was about so early. He held his finger to his lips. He didn’t want to disturb Ma McAllister. Betsy nodded mutely, a tiny, forlorn smile on her face. For a moment, he wondered why she always looked so sad, but shrugged it off. Everyone looked sad. War does that. Leaves a lot of sorrowful, empty smiles behind.
His thoughts turned back to the crimson-eyed figure he’d seen again the previous night. He clenched his jaw. Was it real? Or a phantasm of his imagination? He ignored the soldiers that assailed him from all sides. Three trailed him. One stopped before him, and he crossed the street, continuing up that side as he headed to work.
Benson was already in his office when Muldoon got to headquarters. The detective’s clothes were more rumpled t
han usual and Muldoon noticed a space had been cleared on the floor near the desk. Benson’s overcoat lay on the floor.
“You slept here?” Muldoon asked.
Benson peered at him with bloodshot eyes. “I was too drunk to get home.”
“You need to give up that stuff.”
Benson’s skin had a slight, sickly tinge of green. A pale glow filtered from the shadowy hall and through the partially-opened door, barely lighting the room. Muldoon turned the key on the wall, and the flame rose in the gas-lamp.
Benson shielded his bloodshot eyes. “Do you need that?”
“Aye,’ Muldoon said. “And so do you.”
He seated himself in front of the desk, Benson on the far side.
“At least, you might want to pick up your coat,” Muldoon said. “Just in case the Captain comes in. I don’t think he’d like the thought of your staying all night, just because you were drunk.”
“Probably not.” Benson reached down to snag the coat and flung it over a pile of files.
“Of course, he probably doesn’t like those, either,” Muldoon said, indicating the stacks of files.
“No, but like you… I’ve got the threat of Tammany Hall over him.” Benson grinned.
Muldoon wondered about that. He was a strong arm for Tweed, but Benson wasn’t near big enough. And the man was distinctly old native blood, not Irish. He couldn’t imagine what connected him to William Marcy Tweed. And he knew better than to ask. A man’s story was his own.
The Captain had to be crazy over it, he thought. He didn’t like either of them particularly well, and what made it worse, he couldn’t fire them. He was stuck with them, because of their connection to Tweed, the most powerful man in New York City. Muldoon wouldn’t be surprised if he were told Tweed’s ring spread across the entire state, if not further. He might even be big enough to influence national politics. He certainly could, as far as the New York City vote. He hired men to force people to vote and then scare them into casting their ballot for the ‘right’ candidate… the Tammany Hall Democrat. He hired men like Muldoon.
Captain Hayle, like the rest of the old English stock, couldn’t stand Tweed and his party of Irishmen. The Nativist English thought the Irish were poor because they wanted to be. Up to a point, Muldoon agreed. But there weren’t jobs, and what could be had didn’t pay well. The easiest way to get out was to move west. Horace Greeley wrote “Go west, young man” in the Times. As if the poor could head west. They couldn’t even get out of the city. Those who did get out had to have made a small grubstake somehow. Make enough to buy their way west. He planned on being one of those men. He was Irish, like most of the others in his district. But he had skill on the mat, and he had the size and strength to back it up.
“Did you find out anything of value yesterday?” The scrape of a heavy desk chair yanked Muldoon from his reverie as Benson pulled his chair out from under the desk. He sat down heavily, running his fingers through his untidy hair.
“Aye, a bit.” Muldoon pulled out the revolver and laid it on the desk between them. “Got this off one of McGlory’s thugs.”
“I never thought I’d see you with a gun, Muldoon.” Benson picked up the pistol. “There’s no telling who it might have belonged to.” He turned it over and inspected its smooth blue finish. It was a five-shot .36 caliber weapon with a 4 ½ inch barrel. He hefted it, and Muldoon knew he’d find it nicely balanced, the walnut grip smooth in his hand.
“Not since the war,” Muldoon said. “I’ll only carry when I need to. Seems to me it’s easier to get shot bringing your own gun.”
“Three months and the men are still laughing at Sergeant Miller. Shot by his own pistol.” Benson laughed, then put a hand to his temple. “Damn throbbing won’t go away.”
Muldoon raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Benson had to stop. But he couldn’t. He slipped the gun into his waistband. “Think how easy it is. I got this gun off its owner during a fight, same as happened to Miller.”
They didn’t say anything, each lost in his own thoughts. Then suddenly Muldoon pushed back in his seat. “So, did you see Kelly McAllister?”
“Yes, I did.” Benson’s expression darkened. “He’s not doing too well. You said he was injured in that match last week, but how badly?”
“He was fair hurt,” Muldoon said. “Couple broken ribs, and I had to pop his shoulder back into place. But nothing else I could find. Course, I’m not a doctor. I know he was hurting mighty bad.”
“He doesn’t seem to be much better. He should be, after a week.”
Muldoon frowned. It hadn’t seemed Kelly was that bad. Within a week, his own body would have been well on its way to recovery, even with the ribs and shoulder. He might not be able to wrestle for a while, but he’d be up and around by now.
“He’s taken to his bed, Muldoon,” Benson said, a serious tone in his voice. “And he doesn’t seem to be eating. At least, that’s what the guards say.”
“Well, who’d be eating that filth?” Muldoon asked, and rose to pace the small room. “I’ve got to get him out of there. This case just doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.”
“No, but it’s only been a week. We’ve made a bit of progress. You’ve got a good lead with Kavanagh.”
Muldoon shook his head. “He spent the night at McGlory’s, just like he said.” His thoughts turned dark as he wondered at the quick speed of trial and sentencing of his friend. “And we only have days before Kelly swings.”
CHAPTER 21
Surely
someone saw the bodies get dumped. There had to be a witness. If Muldoon couldn’t find someone Kelly McAllister didn’t have a chance. He spent the rest of the morning walking Cross Street, questioning and re-questioning folks. Nothing. Shortly after noon, he returned to Police Headquarters. Detective Benson had already left, so he headed wearily home. The spring in his step was gone. He felt so tired. Muldoon knew he was lucky. Because of his connection with Boss Tweed, he only worked half day on Saturday. He should stay out there, but he had to rest before the match. The late nights, the worry, the dreams. He was so weary. He wanted to ditch the fight and sleep for a week. But he couldn’t. His pocket book was getting thin, and he needed to bring home the purse.
“Kelly,” he mumbled. “You damn, sorry kid. I can’t lose another friend… another brother.” Not like Patrick Ryan. After the battle at Fort Pickens Paddy had just… disappeared. He wasn’t among the dead or injured. The New York 6th Infantry’s reputation had preceded them south. Even among the Yanks they were called hooligans and gangsters. The Rebs threatened to destroy them, and said that they’d never take one alive. If the Rebs captured him, then he was probably dead.
Now he might lose another friend. Muldoon had seen Kelly grow from a thirteen-year-old kid to a strong young man, just beginning a wrestling career. He taught Kelly to fight, and he’d taught him to read. The boy had learned his letters from his Ma, but he didn’t put much use to it. Then when Muldoon got the fever, Kelly and Ma McAllister took turns at his bedside. They read out of the bible, and off scraps of newspaper Kelly found. Then Muldoon sent the boy out to search for cheap books. He brought back a book of poetry by Keats, and stumbled over the words. Muldoon never asked where the books came from, or where they went. Probably stolen. But he listened while Kelly read stories of war, or love, or adventure. And he quietly corrected the boy’s reading of Shakespeare and Homer, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Edgar Allen Poe.
He pushed away the memories as he entered the boarding house. The door to the front parlor stood partially open. So much for getting into his room unnoticed. He sighed quietly as Mrs. Dunn called out to him before he could pass.
“Come, sit with us for a while.” She gestured toward an empty seat near the door. He slid into the chair and leaned back heavily. He knew he appeared vulgar, but he was too tired to care.
Heavy blue curtains had been pulled open to let in the subdued light of an overcast day. A momentary shaft of light broke through and he idly watc
hed as dust motes traveled down to the worn Chinese rug. The furniture, too, was worn, but of once-good quality. Mrs. Dunn had patched the torn fabric, and then hung oblong doilies over the chair backs. A matching cover draped over the fireplace mantle, a collection of vases carefully arranged there, and a gaudy blue and gray floral painting hanging above them. Muldoon studied the small fire laid in the hearth. It barely cut the chill in his bones. Some days, he felt much older than he was. In the flames, he could see buildings burning. When the Rebs evacuated Pensacola, they’d torched the city. They hadn’t wanted to leave it for the Yanks, and much of the town was destroyed. When he gazed into the flames… Pensacola was on fire again. An oil factory, storehouses, some small boats. All burning. And then the house. Women and children screamed out. Southern voices. No one helped them. Not even me. Was it that he couldn’t… or that he wouldn’t? He didn’t know anymore. The thoughts haunted him. His blood began to freeze, his jaw muscles ached with tension, and his fingers tightened on the chair arms.
“… Sergeant Muldoon?”
He pulled his gaze from the fire, turned to Don Hardin, who sat near Mrs. Dunn.
“Sorry?”
“I was asking about the elections coming up,” Hardin said. “Are you interested in them at all?”
“Oh… aye.” Muldoon sat a bit straighter in the chair. He flashed a glance toward the door. He wanted to get out of uniform. The first chance a cop got, he wanted to get out of it and into civilian clothes. He turned back to Hardin. “I’ll be working at the polls.”
“You will?” Mrs. Dunn asked, her eyebrows rising. “I didn’t know you were political.”
“Aye, well,” Muldoon began. “They need as many folk as they can get… you know… to keep things in order.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit his role as strong-arm. He’d be there, not to keep order exactly, but to make sure registered Democrats voted for Democrats. Boss Tweed got his job for him, so he owed his loyalty to the political machine. If Tammany Hall lost its position of power, then he’d lose his job to some Republican.
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