Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins

by Richard Sullivan

  “This night, cousins and comrades, is one we shall not soon forget!” proclaimed Jim Jr. in theatrical tones, inspired by the presence of so many visiting thespians.

  They laughed and smoked and coughed by river’s edge and gazed back across the street at the handsome boathouse overflowing with music and laughter. As they enjoyed each other’s company, Fingy Conners arrived with Dave Nugent and quickly ducked inside without greeting anyone out front. John L. will keep him in his place, thought Jim Jr. Just one withering look from John L. was all it took to shut Fingy up and put him on his best behavior. Junior remarked that cousin Dick Nugent did not accompany Fingy and Uncle Dave, which must be just about killing him, being the budding boxing promoter he was.

  Junior glanced toward the spot in the black river where his little brother’s life had ended. Melancholy momentarily overtook him, exacerbated by the alcohol. Drink had a tendency to make him sad. He wished Johnny were standing right there, right then, together with him and his cousins, alive, smoking and laughing and all grown up. He wondered what kind of man he’d be. Tall? A musician like Nellie, or an electricity enthusiast like himself? Or perhaps something entirely different altogether.

  The club’s Christmas tree was yet displayed and aglow with strands of colored bulbs. Laughter and music drifted out the windows from the jubilant celebrants, echoing into the clear, very frigid, full-moonlit night. After the close of the uptown vaudeville houses the affair had turned into an all-star exhibition, every playhouse in the city contributing talent and show business glamour to the festivity of the occasion.

  W.C. Fields teetered toward the door with a schuper of beer in one hand and an open bottle of whiskey in the other. As he squeezed passed towering Mike Regan, W.C. looked askance at Six, the Boston Terrier puppy cradled in the Chief’s arms. Fields was little more a cop lover than a dog lover. To no one in particular he announced, “Any cop who names his dog “Sex” can’t be all bad!” followed by, “Who the hell stole the cork out of my dinner?” raising the bottle high in emphasis.

  The vaudevillian teetered across South Street upon seeing the cousins to join them in a smoke, taking many playful jabs at his young cohorts. The boys laughed soundly at his caustic and downright scandalous observations about some of the other guests and his dry sense of humor in general. They quickly decided they liked him very much.

  “I saw you at the vaudeville theater just last night Mr. Fields. I enjoyed myself immensely!” said Daniel.

  “Call me Bill, son.”

  “Okay, Bill,” grinned Daniel. “You sure can juggle up a storm, Bill!”

  “Ah, yes. The trick to becoming an astute juggler, my boy, is practice. It’s been proven that the ideal method of practice is to cultivate more than one lady friend at a time.”

  The boys guffawed.

  “You would be a grand addition to the club, Mr. Fields, uh, I mean, Bill,” Thomas said. “We’d be laughing all the time with you in it!”

  Fields deadpanned, “Son, I would never consider joining any club that would solicit someone like me as a member.”

  Once they had paused a half second to ponder the wit in his wisecrack the boys howled.

  “I must say this is a nice little outfit your folks managed to build here, boys,” Bill complimented.

  “Yeah, and all the members are real fine fellows,” said Thomas.

  “You don’t allow women to join, I hope!” exclaimed Fields, alarmed.

  “Well...as a matter of fact, no,” stated Thomas, surprised at Fields’ passion on the subject. “Don’t you believe in clubs for women, Mr. Fields?”

  “I do if every other form of persuasion fails.”

  Again it took a moment or two for the line to sink in before everyone was rolling on the ground.

  “Is it true what they say about the vaudeville life, Mr Fi… uh, Bill? I mean, the girls? Are they really, uh, you know, uh…?” Daniel grasped for the proper word.

  “Fast?” Fields offered.

  Daniel flushed a bit, evident even in the dull glow of the street lamp.

  “A true gentleman doesn’t like to reveal such things, Daniel my boy, but since you and I are practically family now, I’ll make an exception in your case.” He lowered his voice to a dull rasp. “The ladies of the stage are breakneck! Blue streak!”

  “Wow!” The boys were enthralled, expecting additional details, but Fields just puffed on his cigar.

  “Is that Mrs. Fields who accompanied you here tonight, Bill? She sure is pretty,” said Jim Jr.

  “Hardly, son. She’s merely a stage girl. Melinda’s her name. Or maybe it’s Sally. At any rate, a great performer such as myself has an obligation to the fine art of vaudeville never to marry.”

  “You don’t ever get the urge to tie the knot?” said Thomas.

  “I do believe in one’s tying the marriage knot, my boy, so long as it’s around the woman’s neck.” Another round of laughter.

  “So, Melinda is just your, uh, sweetheart?” probed Thomas.

  “Let’s just say, boys, that this particular young lady displays an exuberance for my protuberance.”

  Alcohol had loosened everyone’s garters, and all were nearly howling on the ground at this point.

  “Do you think you’ll ever marry?” Thomas asked.

  “Tom —” Daniel’s tone chastised his brother on his lack of tact.

  “Here’s some advice to you, young man. Never try to impress a woman, because if you do she’ll expect you to keep up that standard for the rest of your life. Marry an outdoors woman. Then if you have to throw her out into the yard on a cold night she can still survive. It was a woman, boys, who first drove me to drink, and I regret now that I never had the courtesy to thank her for it. In my particular case, if I had my life to live over, I’d live over a saloon.”

  True showman that he was, W.C. turned on his heel and leaving them laughing, reentered the clubhouse to join the party.

  “Bill!” called JP to Fields as he reached the top of the stairs. “C’mere, I want you to meet somebody.”

  Side by side there was definitely a resemblance, but W.C. Fields had no patience for bullshit and smelled its distinctive odor on Fingy Conners from clear across the room. He excused himself as soon as he could and went in search of superior company.

  The cold had driven the boys back inside from their smoke with hopes of reconnecting with Fields.

  JP and Fingy proceeded to carry on like the old pals they were as Hannah and Annie observed, barely concealing their repulsion.

  “I thought JP said that little reptile changed his mind and wasn’t going to be coming here tonight after all,” harrumphed Hannah.

  “Jim told JP to lie to you so he could get you here without you putting up a fuss,” said Annie, “but now I find he’s made me lose my appetite. That wet cigar stub he sucks on is so disgusting.” She put down her half-eaten ladyfinger sandwich. “Let’s go back downstairs and watch the dancers. Maybe we’ll get a chance to brick him as he leaves, if we’re lucky.”

  The two giggled uncontrollably as they took the stairs.

  Jim Jr. had devoured Will Irwin’s profile of Fingy in Collier’s magazine again a few months previous. He’d thought Irwin quite brave and admirably articulate. He found himself reading certain sentences over and again, so beautifully did Irwin capture the essence of the cruelty inherent in Fingy Conners. He was perplexed, though, standing there watching his uncle and the saloon-boss enjoying a barrel full of laughs. Irwin’s quote concerning “Alderman John P. Sullivan’s sworn hatred of Fingy Conners...” baffled him. It baffled him when he read it the first time, and it would baffle him on each occasion when he saw them together just like this, having a grand old time in each other’s company.

  Meanwhile, John L., a bit tipsy, continued to hold the rapt attentions of his worshipful court, among which included almost two dozen Sullivans all told. He loudly declared a new “Sullivan Society.”

  He stated without irony, “There are enough of us Sullivans
to repel an army, and we’re always ready: we Sullivans could go up and take Canada without asking help from any other first family. There are Sullivans enough to fill every position you may name. Do you want brawn? Look at the Sullivan in Boston who is six feet three and a half inches tall, working as a longshoreman for $1.50 a day. Do you want brain? Look at another Sullivan in Boston, five feet five inches short working as president of the railroad at a salary of $25,000. There are Sullivans of all grades in between these two samples and I hope some day to see the family reunited—if any place is big enough to hold us all! Let all the Sullivans take hold and help this thing along. I propose that a society be formed under the name of the Amalgamated Sullivans. If this is done, we can control everything in the land. We are certainly the balance of power. I’d love to join such a family reunion and I’ll make a side bet that when it is pulled off the whole country will sit up and take notice. As for the Sullivan women, they are the prettiest, the wittiest of any, and they raise families large enough, too!”

  It was well past two o’clock before the party began to slowly break up. But once Chief Regan left with John L. to drive him back to his hotel, the place fully emptied inside of ten minutes. Regan handed off Six O’Clock to his son David, who was officer in charge of entertainment for the night’s festivities. They dropped David and Six off at the family’s Louisiana Street house, as it was on the way.

  They waited to make sure David was safe inside the house before driving off. The Chief had recently been made aware that some holding grudges against him might target his family. Then the two old friends drove back to the Iroquois, both men chattering away in the cold.

  Suddenly John L. grew pensive.

  “Me and Kate found an infant once, on a night just like this.”

  “What?” Regan wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

  “We found a little newborn baby. I wanted to keep it but Kate said she was too old to raise a baby.”

  Regan wasn’t sure if John L. was delirious or drunk or perhaps something else.

  “How in hell did you happen to find a baby?” asked the incredulous Chief.

  “She was in an ash can on the street. We were returnin’ from dinner one night when I heard a desperate little cry. Kate said it was a cat and walked on. But I lifted the lid and in the dim light of the street lamp I barely recognized a tiny hand. And then it moved. I reached in and lifted it out. It was wrapped in an old rag and almost lifeless. Kate screamed. “We have to call the doctor,” she said. “And the police!”

  We brought it home and unwrapped it. She was as red as a little beet and looked as if she wanted to cry but hadn’t the strength. My heart went out to her. Kate trembled.

  “‘She’s cursed,’ whispered Katie.”

  “Kate called the doctor and the police and they came and took the baby away, and I saw a fear and distress in my woman’s eyes that was new to me. It told me she was keeping a secret even though from the time we met she said on that first day ‘Let’s not keep secrets.” I asked her what it was that made her so afraid. She wouldn’t speak of it. For days she was dour and morose and finally I became enraged and demanded to know. She made me promise I wouldn’t leave her if she explained why the nearly-dead baby had affected her so terribly. I said I would never leave her. She said that when she was eighteen she had an illegal operation that left her unable to have children thereafter, and that the woman who performed the rite had forced her to hold and caress the tiny dead fetus as a lesson and a warning as she cried hysterically.”

  Regan had no idea what to say.

  “Just let me off at the curb, Mike,” said the Champ. “Right here will be fine.”

  “No! Are you sure? Let me walk you inside.’

  “No, I’m all right. Good-goodnight, my old friend. Take care of our little friend Six, won’t you?” John L. squeezed Mike Regan’s shoulder and hurried inside where it was warm.

  Regan waited at the curb to make sure John L. was safely inside the hotel and remained there until he saw him enter the elevator and the gate close. Then he quickly drove away, anxious for the warmth of his wife and the popcorn smell of his new puppy’s belly.

  Early the next morning, the chilled wind rustled the pages of the evening’s printed program that lay discarded in the street out front of the clubhouse. It was designed in booklet form and of an odd motif, the paper used to make it appearing as much distressed as possible. Nine year old Mickey Black stooped over to pick it up on his way to his sweeper’s job at the H-O Oats factory.

  “John L. Sullivan! Gosh!” he exclaimed. He looked up at the decorated second floor parlor windows of the boathouse for a little moment, then continued reading as he walked, stumbling on a crack in the sidewalk every now and again.

  From the Buffalo Courier:

  JOHN L SULLIVAN HERO OF MUTUAL CLUB’S BALL

  Former Champion Guest of Honor at

  Rowing Organization’s Calico Ball.

  John L Sullivan was the lion of the calico ball last night under the auspices of the Mutual Rowing Club in South Street. He was introduced by Chief Michael Regan, who is one of the big fellows of the M. R. C. ranking scarcely second to Billy Aman, champion veteran sculler, and Charlie Sheehan, winner of the amateur championship at Toronto and of the intermediates at St. Catharines last year.

  It was the first calico ball ever given by the Mutuals, and with the “champion of all champions” on the floor with the belles of the South Side, accompanied by their beaux, everybody had a good time.

  The committee of arrangements, consisting of Ald. John P. Sullivan, Daniel T. Noonan, John L. Sullivan (another John L.) and James Boland covered itself with glory. Altogether it was one of the swellest costume dances of the season.

  The thirty-three dances on the programme included something to suit the most fastidious taste. The boys in bluejeans cavorted with belles arrayed in calico of every conceivable hue. After the close of the uptown vaudeville houses the affair became an all-star exhibition, every play house in the city contributing to the gaiety of the occasion. The calico dance of the M.R.C. is destined to become one of the annual events of Buffalo’s social season.

  President Taft

  ◆◆◆

  Detective Jim Sullivan pounced on the alarm clock the moment it jangled and depressed the button. He hated the racket it made.

  Hannah needed her sleep if she were to overcome her illness. It had only occurred to Jim the day she fell ill how seldom she ever was. She had nursed him, the kids, Annie and JP’s kids, neighbors, members of her pedro club and God knows who else. But she herself was seldom ill, or at least had not been until just yesterday.

  He tiptoed out the room toward the bath, damning himself with each squeak of the floorboards for not carrying out the cure: the sprinkling of talc between the boards. A prostitute on Canal street had instructed him about it in minute detail as he escorted her to the Women’s Cell at Headquarters.

  “If anyone might know such a resourceful trick it’d surely be you, Moxie,” Jim chuckled at hearing her antidote. He’d imagined in her profession she might well need such a useful fix for the common problem vexing both cheating spouses and sneaky children. Moxie had offered the detective more than just her tidbit of professional wisdom but Jim had more than just one reason to turn down the offer.

  It was dark and cold. He found his slippers. He went downstairs to retrieve the newspaper. The stairs squeaked. He’d shaved the night before to lessen the bleary-eyed burden of the morning ritual. It was going to be a long busy day. He removed his suit from the hall closet. He closed over the kitchen door. He lit the old kerosene lamp and turned it low. He made coffee and sipped it as he dressed. He checked himself in the dim light. He repeatedly took out his pocket watch and opened it to make sure he was on time. It was 5:40 o’clock. President Taft’s train was due to arrive at half past seven.

  Jim Jr. stumbled into the kitchen in his bathrobe and shuddered with cold. He stood by the stove.

  “Why are you sittin’ here
in the dark, Pop?” Junior asked as he reached to turn on the electric light.

  “Didn’t want to wake nobody,” the detective replied. “We’re meeting the President at the depot this morning. So it’ll be a long day. He doesn’t leave for Pittsburgh until late tonight. Make sure you come straight home from work so you can tend to your mother.”

  By “we’re” he meant the slew of detectives assigned to protect the President. It was the first formal visit of a sitting President to Buffalo since the assassination of McKinley almost nine years previous. Everyone was skittish and on edge. All kinds of copy-cat incidents in general had become epidemic, if you were to believe the stories in the press; elopements, divorces, murders, arsons, kidnappings. The newspapers discovered that making celebrities out of misfits and law breakers sold papers. Now other nobodies were seeking their own infamy and excitement by mimicking the dastardly acts of the notorious. Viewing one’s own name in print had become a fad and an obsession in recent years among bored citizens attempting ridiculous extremes to achieve fame.

  “It’s Saturday Pop. I don’t have to work Saturdays.”

  “Oh. Forgot. Well, you keep an eye on things til I get back. Make sure your mother’s comfortable and that she takes her tonic.”

  “Okay. You be careful too, Pop. You know how Ma worries.” He looked his father in the eye. “I worry too,” he added.

  “Aren’t you a little too grown up to be so concerned about your old Pop? You needn’t be. Rather, worry about yourself now. You’re twenty five years old with nary a sweetheart in sight. That makes me worry,” chuckled Jim.

  Junior hadn’t yet told anyone that he and Mary Ellen Diggins from Mackinaw Street had yet again resumed their troubled relationship. The family had hoped after their most recent drama that Junior had finally closed the Diggins chapter on his life, especially so Junior’s hypercritical sister Nellie. Nellie didn’t stand for Mary Ellen’s holier-than-thou attitude and was quick to let her know as much.