Moylan had lost an arm constructing the very same Figure Eight, the world’s most exciting roller coaster. He had slipped off its highest peak during its fabrication after being slammed by near gale force winter gusts buffeting the Ridgeway area. As he toppled he’d grabbed the nearest handhold. His grip failed. His hand became wedged in a joint formed by intersecting timbers. His hefty weight coupled with the unusual torque of his arm lodged in the juncture ripped the limb off at his shoulder joint as he fell. He landed in a snow drift. Now here he was again, walking the same tracks, perched on the same peak. He was just yards from the place he’d originally toppled off when the percussive boom shooting across the waters of Lake Erie nearly knocked him off once again. His first thought as a rail yard man was that an ammunitions train had blown up close by.
Ed gathered himself, shaken but safe, and carefully, deliberately made his way down the rise. He had to call his Nora to make sure she and the kids were all right. His daughters Frances and Jeannette were especially fearful of thunder, gunshots and other such loud reports. The family lived on Lovejoy Street, away from the tracks, so he was already rationalizing their safety before he reached bottom. He ran quickly toward the park’s office to make his call, jogging just a little off kilter due to the missing arm.
In Buffalo telephones were ringing off their hooks at police precincts, the mayor’s office and the railroad. Ed Moylan wasn’t the only one to suspect that the railroads, hated for their lack of reverence for human life and opposition to even the most basic safety precautions, were the culprit in the blast.
At the Union Furnace office, Assistant Manager Conlin at once telephoned the police to report that it was at his facility the explosion occurred. Leslie Brooks, a foreman at the furnace works, was cut by the implosion of the window by which he was standing. He immediately ran, bloodied, to the riverbank, knowing exactly where the dynamite had been stored, and there discovered a funnel-shaped crater sixteen feet wide and half again as deep. Not far away cowered fifteen year old George Bechtel, cradling the rifle in his hands. George was too stunned to move, as was his friend Frankie. Pete, the shooter responsible for terrorizing half the city and the various Canadian lake front towns as well, had shoved the rifle into his younger brother’s hands so that he might take the fall. He skittered away toward the riverbank like the little rodent that he was, hopped on a raft, and poled himself to the other side.
Foreman Brooks collared the trembling George Bechtel, who anyway had given no indication he might escape, until the arrival of Detective Congdon of the Seventh Precinct. Frankie Foucha, however, quickly recovered from his surprise, and scampered away from Brooks’ grasp. Both Pete and Frankie remained on the lam for two days, terrified of what their fathers would do to them once they returned home.
The dynamite was used at the blast furnace for breaking up the crust which forms on the piles of slag after they cool. The field in which it had been placed was remote from everything and everyone, so it had not been considered necessary to enclose it.
The shock of the blast took queer lines. In some nearby places it was neither heard nor felt, but as far away as thirty miles or more, it terrified many people. Virtually every window throughout the Union Blast Furnace plant was shattered, as well as all those in P.S. 34, half a mile away. Most houses and businesses within a half-mile radius sustained glass breakage. Other places from which reports of damage by broken glass were received were saloons; John Hagan’s on Elk street and John Zahn’s and William Curtin’s on Hamburg street. Also, the Buffalo Creek Railway offices in the Hamburg turnpike and the Lackawanna Railroad tower over at the Lake Shore crossing reported damage.
Around the corner from the Sullivan brothers’ houses, the Mutual Rowing Club’s every window was shattered and several members were thrown out of their chairs. Around the curve of Lake Erie’s shore on the American side, far away in the little lake front town of Angola where Fingy Conners operated his poultry farm, a towerman at a Nickel Plate Railroad facility felt the percussion severely and telegraphed up to know what was the disaster, “An earthquake?”
Detective Jim Sullivan rose up from his kitchen daydream of revisiting Sam Clemens’ house as his beer hit the floor. He was not sure if he popped up on his own or had some help from the tremendous blast. His eight year old son Dave ran in with a giant smile on his face and exclaimed, “What was that, Pop?!” Dave’s older brother Jim Jr. volunteered to run next door to check on Uncle JP and Aunt Annie’s house and make sure the alderman’s tribe was okay. The Detective went round the corner to South Street in time to see a column of smoke rising from behind the furnace works, surmising by its location well away from any houses that most probably, damage was minimal. He ran into his treasured Mutual Rowing Club boathouse and up the stairs to the parlor to check on any members who might be there. Ed Stanton and others were just beginning to clean up the broken window glass. Thankfully the glass on the trophy case was left intact. No other damage was immediately apparent.
At Alderman Sullivan’s house he and Annie and the kids were all fine. Strangely, only one window had broken. In the newspaper the next day, the Buffalo Express made light of the situation, sarcastically reporting that at the time of the explosion “Alderman Sullivan was at home, and is credited with heroic service in explaining to his constituents how such things are likely to happen.”
That night, after all was calm and the children were tucked in, Jim Sullivan lay in bed with Hannah, his chest pressed to her back. He reached round her and produced Sam Clemens’ letter, and said, “Here, Honey, I want you to read it.”And as they lay there, she read it out loud as he followed along with his eyes. Upon finishing she laughed and said, “Well, your secret’s out, my Wild Irish Lad.”
◆◆◆
The next morning, Jim Sullivan stole some little time away from his detective duties. Having already composed the intended letter in his head, he put it to paper.
Dear Sam,
Thank you for your very welcome letter. It was a joy.
As pertains to Dinny McCleary, I owe his existence to one Mark Twain, the man who thirty some odd years ago inspired and encouraged me to write, to create the likes of McCleary, and others as well, providing me a much needed escape into this secret identity so opposite that of my own policeman persona.
I have had the advantage of knowing all about you from following the many reports that have regularly been printed in the press. I have rejoiced at your wonderful accomplishments and have quietly mourned your losses.
Although my beloved wife Hannah and I have lost four of our own babies, I would not presume to know your grief despite our being brothers in this emotion.
It was not until some months after you left Buffalo that I learned that your beautiful infant son Langdon had passed away in Elmira. When I read this terrible news, I thought to myself, what a cruel place Buffalo had been to you.
As sad as I was back then to lose my great good friend, I know the awful sadnesses that you and Mrs. Clemens suffered here, and I never blamed you for fleeing.
More recently I read of your daughter Susy’s passing, and tears came to my eyes once again, both for your babies and my own, but all I was capable of sending you at the time were my thoughts, and for that inexcusable failing I truly apologize. I am a writer: I should have taken up my pen.
Your friend for all these many years and still,
Jim Sullivan
Where’s The Money?
◆◆◆
Alderman Sullivan and Police Chief Regan held a meeting with Fire Chief Bernard McConnell concerning the fast-approaching lawn fête at Our Lady Of Perpetual Help Church. They spoke about the controlling of crowds. They set provisions for what to do in the event of a fire or other emergency occurring. The planned tethered balloon ascension attraction worried the Fire Chief, but Mike Regan was quite enthused about it, and so McConnell’s concerns were dismissed.
When all of that business was out of the way, the Alderman asked McConnell, “So, what’s transp
iring in regards to the fund for the widow of Stephen Meegan and her children? It’s been months now.”
“Oh, things are coming along swimmingly. There will probably be close to $4,000 in the fund ultimately, since the public interest has near died down as of recent. Contributions have virtually ended. My part in it will be finished come the end of July.”
“Mrs. Meegan was at my front door just the other day, Bernie,” scolded the Alderman, “crying to my Annie. She says that she has not received even one copper penny. As her alderman, and yours, I need to know what you know about this. What the hell is Fingy up to now?”
McConnell suddenly felt put on the spot.
“Well, I don’t know, JP. Conners is the one in charge.”
“And you, both as Fire Chief and as the late Stephen Meegan’s supervisor, are the very public face of the oversight committee.”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
Suddenly McConnell became agitated.
“JP, you know we’re just figureheads. I know, I know—you warned me about this back at the beginning, back when Conners first approached me about it. And I should have listened to you. You said Fingy would have us come in only to lend a respectable air to the endeavor. But in fact we are told nothing by him, we have no authority and I have no idea about where the money is.”
“Have you reason to believe that Conners has given any money to the families? Anything at all? They’re in a terrible state. The very first week that funds were collected they should have been turned over to her immediately. She’s a widow with rent to pay, children to feed.”
The alderman stood up. He and the police chief loomed over McConnell as he melted into his chair. McConnell visibly shrunk into himself half in shame and half in dread about what Fingy Conners might be up to. What might it mean to his career, this withholding of money from those who were suffering, from those within his own brotherhood? From those for whose very survival it was intended.Money that over a thousand citizens had contributed. Money contributed to a dead hero fireman’s destitute family for whom in the eyes of the public the Fire Chief was responsible.
“Our term ends the end of July, and then we’ll be out. It can’t come soon enough to suit me, I’ll say that much.”
“Your term might well end at that time, Bernie,” Regan scolded, “but your part in Fingy’s scheme, whatever that turns out to be, will not. Let’s just hope this doesn’t blow up in your face. No good deed goes unpunished, I like to say,”
McConnell went silent. The men gathered their things to go their separate ways. They shook hands.
“Let me know whatever you can, Bernie,” said JP. “The more I know about it the more I can protect you. Fingy Conners can’t be right in the head to think he can pull a stunt like this and get away with it. That should be obvious enough.”
“I’m asking this of you in confidence, JP. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking, doing such a damned fool thing,” said the fire captain. “What kind of buffoon so publicly deprives a widow and orphans of the money that others have provided them while going about his merry way, expecting nothing scandalous to come of it?”
“The same kind of buffoon,” responded JP, “who’s done this sort of thing his entire life. He’s never suffered for any of his misdeeds as far as I recall, and that is what drives him forward. With each slimy scheme he’s allowed to get away with, the more brazen and daring he becomes.”
◆◆◆
Few could deny the brilliant audacity of William J. Conners. His most sarcastic critics, New York society’s upper crust, might mock him all they wished, but his rapid accumulation of riches, the success of his many, many businesses and his brilliant choice of investments left everyone breathless with envy, wonder and fear.
The foundation of his great wealth, which was his labor contracting business, had not changed much at all since the great 1899 grain scoopers strike, a strike which he was widely believed to have “lost.” It was claimed that one of the things Conners was forced to give up at that time was the saloon-based hiring and wage-distribution arm of his contracting business.
Requiring men to come to his saloons to retrieve their week’s wage, and then strong-arming them into spending a good portion of that miserly pittance at the saloon before leaving, had proven a gold mine for Fingy Conners. At its apex his skimming profits from six thousand employees’ salaries alone put $1.2 million in cash right into his back pocket annually. In his early years he spent money as fast as he made it, which is why fighting tooth and nail for even a few hundred dollars took priority for him. Banning him from the saloon boss scheme was supposed to have greatly improved conditions for the working men and their families. It was believed that once this practice was ended, dock laborers would bring home a greater portion of their pay to the family. However, this was barely the case. There was no entity who was strong enough or had legal authority to enforce the new regulations that Fingy had accepted to end the strike. Men were still made to understand they were to spend money in his saloons lest their services be no longer required.
The practice of distributing brass checks as a means of credit to purchase alcohol was also not ended. Working conditions remained terrible, unionizers continued to meet and organize, and Conners continued to import legions of scabs to replace, and low-life pugilists to beat, maim and murder unionizing men as they continued to seek improved working conditions.
Essentially, precious little had changed.
The system of week-to-week employment was recognized as being at the heart of the iron-fisted control Fingy had over workers. It was decided a more reliable and permanent hiring arrangement whereby men would be brought on for the season or longer would at least minimize if not remove entirely the influence Conners exercised over the men to spend their children’s bread and milk money in his saloons weekly.
Conners gazed jealously at the power of Andrew Carnegie through his stooge Henry Clay Frick who faced scarce local opposition from law enforcement in their hiring of platoons of Pinkerton Detectives as a private militia to murder unionizers and labor leaders. Many a time Fingy had considered following murderer Carnegie’s lead, but since every Buffalo cop had a brother, father or son who was a dock laborer, the police department could not be counted on to not violently oppose such a foreign invasion by a hired private militia.
Stung by a continual volley of criticisms both personal and professional in his earlier days, Fingy Conners had hatched a plan, the idea first laid by his idol William Randolph Hearst, of controlling the public conversation about him and his endeavors by purchasing a newspaper. In the final decade of the 1800s, Fingy Conners bought three Buffalo newspapers; The Courier, The Record and the Enquirer, and in the following decade purchased the Express as well.
From the moment he took over the Courier, it became his favored child on whom he showered substantial effort, money, and conniving. He hired the best editors from the competition. He recognized it was not solely the message that was important, but that the visual quality of the message was essential as well. He procured state-of-the-art color printing presses and expanded the Courier’s business to include the highest-quality reproduction of beautiful posters, calendars, catalogues and specialty items for clients. The Pan American Exposition of 1901 had been a boon to the Courier’s business, as every major exhibitor coveted unique promotional items that tested the limits of the printer’s art. For these, no expense was spared. Beautiful custom promotional pieces and souvenirs for Singer sewing machines, Kulture Shoes, the local department stores, foreign exhibitors, purveyors of everything from chocolate and hams to rail travel, die-cut, embossed, lacquered and intricately detailed, equally impressed business owners and the general public. Conners established a magazine to be included with the Sunday Courier that weekly boasted a stunning color cover illustration, usually of a pretty girl.
Moreover, the Courier newspaper itself ran far more photographs than any of its many competitors, attracting so many subscribers that at
one point all his competitors’ numbers combined amounted to fewer claimed readers than the Courier’s.
Above all, Conners never lost sight of his initial attraction to publishing, the use of his newspapers to control opinion and ward off criticism of his many questionable undertakings and unmuzzled public statements.
In 1899 Hannah Sullivan’s brother and Fingy’s chief lieutenant David Nugent had led his gang of Conners’ lackeys on an armed attack aboard the ore-laden ship Samuel Mather unloading at Buffalo’s Minnesota Docks as unarmed laborers toiled deep in her holds, completely unsuspecting and defenseless.
Fingy’s Courier told a version of the story unique among all his competitors.
Every other paper splashed a similar account of the brazen murderous attack across their front pages in black headlines spread across multiple columns. The Courier on the other hand buried the story on page 5 in a single column adjacent to the center fold. Fingy’s Courier made no mention of Dave Nugent by name at all, lied about the established facts, diminished the attack’s ferocity and intent, and dismissed as “hearsay” much of what was reported concerning the incident as sworn by eyewitnesses and victims who were on site during the attack.
Fingy’s attempts at positive self-promotion were reliably countermanded by the gravity and callousness of his negative actions in other matters. Not every scandal could be covered up and the overwhelming audacity of his many ongoing misadventures contributed to an established adverse public opinion overall. Whenever the opportunity to do something that might show him in a better light came along, he pounced on it. All the better if he could also profit from it financially.
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 29