Two in the Field

by Darryl Brock

  NINETEEN

  The Rensselaer & Saratoga cars wound leisurely through the lower valley of the Mohawk and flirted with the Adirondacks. The passengers in them were a richly plumed lot. Although true blueblood plutocrats commuted to their Saratoga Springs mansions in plush private rail coaches attached to trains like this one, there was no lack of ostentatious wealth around me in the public cars. And no lack of con artists eager to relieve the elegant birds of their cash; these grifters traveled the cars boldly, wielding their portable roulette wheels, dice cups, faro layouts, and various other paraphernalia.

  “Taste of the tiger?” inquired a sharp-eyed type with a gold toothpick. Squatting beside my seat, he balanced a board on his thighs and displayed three cards: one pictured a woman, another a man, a third a boy with a hoop. He aligned them face-up on the board, then turned them over after I’d had a few seconds to register them.

  “The object is to pick out the boy.” He moved the cards slowly, realigning them; it seemed obvious that the cash card was in the middle. “Care to risk a small sum on your skill?”

  I shook my head.

  He turned up the center card—the boy—and said, “You missed an easy dollar.”

  “I don’t wager,” I told him, which was a crock. Past indulgences in Las Vegas suggested a definite weakness for the gambler’s rush on my part. But not here, with the colony’s money.

  “You’re smart to stay clear,” a voice told me after the card wielder had moved on. A man with a silk ruffle-front shirt and well-tailored Prince Albert coat regarded me coolly from a nearby seat. I got the impression he regarded everything coolly. “Three-card monte’s the simplest and crookedest skin game of all—not that the rest can’t be rigged.”

  “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

  “I should.” He smiled. “I work at the business myself. Dealing faro at the Club House.”

  “Club House?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Morrissey’s.”

  My God, the enemy’s inner circle. The last thing I wanted was to be spotted before I even came near McDermott.

  “Hamilton Baker,” he said, and put out his hand.

  “Uh, Roosevelt,” I said, blurting out the first name that came to mind. “Franklin Roosevelt.”

  “Oh?” He looked at me with new interest. “The Hudson Roo-sevelts?”

  I must be an idiot. Why on earth had I picked a name from upstate New York? “No relation,” I said. “Different Dutch roots.”

  He nodded affably and rose a moment later. “Care for a smoke in the club car?”

  “Thanks, no.” I wrinkled my face as if in mild pain. “Upset stomach. Need to find the commode.” After he left I grabbed my valise from the luggage rack and moved forward several cars.

  I needn’t have been paranoid about McDermott spotting me. Saratoga Springs was at the height of its season; it would have been hard to find anybody in the clamor at the station. The usual teeming resort crowds were swelled by visitors for an impending college regatta. We spilled onto the platform, the bell in the depot’s cupola madly signaling our arrival, into a welter of hucksters, hack drivers, gamblers, hotel greeters, baggage cart handlers, and servants wrestling with mammoth “Saratoga trunks” that contained wardrobes for every exigency of resort life.

  Seeing the majority heading for the luxurious U.S. Hotel and the newly opened Grand Union, on Broadway, I hesitated. People went to those places to be seen. At length I paid a kid to guide me to a modestly priced hotel on the edge of town, a stopping place for salesmen.

  My plan was simple: locate Red Jim, find out what he’d done with O’Neill’s money, and try to get it back. Kidnapping him before he discovered I was here seemed the best way to accomplish it all.

  Semi-disguised in a newly purchased straw hat and a pair of smoked spectacles, I visited a gun shop. There I picked out a Smith & Wesson Schofield .45 caliber revolver. I had the gunsmith take two inches off the barrel—a sacrifice of long-range accuracy, but that wasn’t my concern. For good measure I bought a Derringer, also .45, so I could use the same cartridges for it. The Schofield would ride in an armpit holster beneath my jacket. The Derringer would go pretty much wherever I wanted it. The main thing was not to let myself be taken by surprise. Red Jim had proven adept at that in the past.

  Keeping an eye peeled, I bought from a sidewalk vendor a paper cone (sacks with square bottoms didn’t yet exist) of “Saratoga Chips,” which I knew as home fries, and strolled around the little town. Except for the tourist hordes, which included evangelical sects, invalids seeking restored health, politicians, gamblers, entertainers, debutantes with sharp-eyed mothers, prostitutes, drummers, ranchers, judges and jockeys—all of them, it seemed to me, on the make—it would be a very nice place to live.

  I fantasized setting up housekeeping with Cait as I passed through neat residential streets with white-washed houses, scrollwork porches and flowering hedges. Downtown, the commercial blocks boasted smart little shops—millinery, grocery, stationery—all spruced up and busy. No economic depression here. Bands played beneath the hotels’ shaded verandas, where stylishly plump women showed off the latest European fashions and cigar-puffing men talked knowingly of financial markets and sports.

  The original reason for Saratoga’s prominence was the existence of mineral pools bubbling beneath its surface. Each day saw a massive exodus to the various spas, where visitors were served by “dipper” boys, who lowered trays of glasses (or long-handled silver cups for the elite) and afterward hovered expectantly for tips. In the name of health people drank dozens of glasses each day. Which probably did some good, I figured, by flushing out their systems, although the massive diet most indulged in would kill them soon enough anyway.

  Having gotten the general sense of things, I focused on Morrissey’s Club House. A solid-looking, three-story red brick Itali-nate structure, it stood alone on acres of elm-shaded lawns and terraces. Which posed a problem in watching for McDermott. Directly across the street was a wooded area where I might spend a few hours posing as a picnicker, but lingering there would call attention to myself. It seemed clear that Morrissey had a deal with the local cops, who patrolled often.

  For several days I hung around without catching sight of McDermott, although gamblers were everywhere in town for the crew events. Each morning saw a dense migration to Saratoga Lake, four miles distant. A mammoth crowd was expected the day of the championship race. I decided to risk going, figuring that if McDermott were anywhere near, he’d be on hand.

  Everything on wheels was booked, from the flimsiest of buggies at ten dollars a day to the fancy twenty-five-dollar-a-day rigs. I paid an outrageous fare to board an over-packed omnibus that crawled along with the thick traffic on Union Avenue. We choked on dust, a surprise since Morrissey had reportedly contributed $500 for sprinkling the road. Boys with sponges and buckets wiped animals’ clogged muzzles along the route.

  The lake was a mosaic of colors from the competing schools. Harvard’s crimson, Yale’s blue and white, Princeton’s orange and black, etc. The viewing stands were jammed with some ten thousand spectators. At least that many again packed the shores and perched on chartered excursion boats. Bands played, pennants flew, oarsmen lined up in the racing channels, and the undergrads rah-rah’d. As festive a scene as one could want.

  Any excitement I might otherwise have felt was squelched by the sight of John Morrissey, natty in white ducks and blazer, leaning casually against the grandstand, a thick cigar clamped in his mouth. Gray threaded his hair now but still he was hulking and formidable, with huge hands—in his prime those hairy fists had earned him the prizefighting championship. His face wore the same insolent quality I remembered, which said, I can whip you and we both know it. From talk around town I’d gleaned that Morrissey acted as stakes-holder for events such as this, taking a sweet percentage for himself. Tens of thousands of dollars would change hands today. No wonder he looked so serene.

  The slender sculls zoomed over the
watery surface. Harvard was favored in the three-mile finale, but it was Cornell’s red and white crew surging first across the finish line a few seconds ahead of Columbia. Still without a glimpse of Red Jim and jittery after seeing Morrissey, I decided I’d had enough and took a hack to beat the crowd back to town.

  That night the luxury hotels held gala celebrations. I ventured out early and saw orchestra members arriving, gas jets on chandeliers being adjusted, paper lanterns being hung on trees. Why the hell wasn’t Cait here with me? In my room later I heard the music and the collegians’ booming cheers. It made me feel old. Hanging around the edges of things was getting me nowhere, I decided. Somehow I needed to penetrate Morrissey’s inner ring.

  Next morning I booked into Congress Hall. It occupied a prime downtown location, but its time among Saratoga’s grand hotels had passed. The dark, high-ceilinged lobby was unwelcoming, the furniture lumpy, the carpets faded, the walls

  dotted with gloomy steel engravings. But the place afforded several advantages. It didn’t cost much more than I’d been paying, and its back windows offered a distant view of Morrissey’s Club House. Shortly after occupying one of the rear rooms, I equipped myself with binoculars.

  For two days I watched. Finally, about nine at night, it happened. My hackles rose as he swaggered out of the Club House. Same old Red Jim McDermott: pale blue calculating eyes; jaw thrust forward like a ship’s prow. With him was a burly, black-whiskered tough. Not as fearsome as my former nemesis LeCaron—who could be?—but he looked like a handful. The pair returned an hour later. They didn’t appear again.

  Twice more I saw them on following days, but there was no pattern to it. No routine I could plan around. Except that apparently McDermott was never alone and, since he didn’t stay out overnight, must be lodging at the Club House. Which put a serious crimp in my kidnapping scheme.

  Finally a couple of things came together. In my growing frustration, they seemed to offer an opening. The first was a Saratoga Union item about a severe injury to a “gaming watch-man” at Morrissey’s. “With the specter of the track season looming, and an influx of sharps and gamblers of all stripes,” it read, “Old Smoke Morrissey may find himself strapped for reliable men to maintain the decorum he insists on in his establishment.”

  The second happened as I sat in one of my customary cafe spots, drinking coffee and perusing the passing scene. Who should stride by as if he owned the town but the man who’d talked to me on the train. Men and women alike watched his passage along the sidewalk. I couldn’t remember his name, only that I’d told him I was FDR.

  “He somebody special?” I asked a waiter.

  “Why, that’s Ham Baker,” came the reply. “People journey here to try the tiger against him. Hope to go home bragging how they beat the country’s top faro dealer.” He chuckled. “Few manage it.”

  No wonder Baker had complimented me; my restraint on the train must have struck him as remarkable.

  By that afternoon I’d made up my mind. With the Schofield snug in its holster and the Derringer tucked in my boot, I walked up to the Club House entrance. Green and white awnings scattered welcome patches of shade in the muggy heat. Bronze-hinged Spanish oak doors were flanked by pewter dogs who looked surprisingly cuddly. I’d have thought pit bulls more appropriate.

  I entered in the wake of an extravagantly dressed woman, aware of the subtle hiss of her layered skirts. She looked at home here among the rich carpets, frescoes, and chandeliers with little Cupids aiming arrows downward. Opposite the entrance hung an oppressively large oil painting of John Morrissey himself, looking at least fifteen years younger than the man I’d seen at the regatta stand. In the painting his hair was jet black, his square jaw enhanced by a black goatee; he sported a diamond shirt stud the size of a doorknob and a gold watch that must have weighed five pounds. If the idea was to impress and intimidate, the portrait did a pretty good job of it.

  As the socialite headed for the public gaming room she was intercepted by the burly man I’d seen with McDermott. He wore a white ascot now and a lapel pin with jewels that spelled out “Club House.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A rasping voice belied the polite words. “Are you with him?”

  She turned and shot me a glance. “Certainly not!”

  “Ladies are welcome in the dining salon,” he said.

  “I prefer a game of chance.”

  “You’re welcome in the other salons on this floor,” he insisted, “but not in the gaming room without an escort.”

  “But here is where I wish to be!”

  “Mr. Morrissey’s rule,” he said stolidly. “No exceptions, not even for Mrs. Vanderbilt.”

  I stepped forward, Galahad to the rescue. “I’ll be your escort if you wish.”

  She spun huffily back toward the entrance.

  I gave the staff man a knowing grin, as if to say, Who can figure women? He looked back unsmiling, checking me out head to toe as I passed by.

  The gaming room was resplendent with patterned velvet, gilt tapestries, carvings and bronzes. Silk drapes muted the light from high windows, and large-globed chandeliers cast strategic pools on the faro and roulette tables. They weren’t crowded this early. I circled the room, then walked back to the staff man.

  “Is Mr. Baker on the premises?”

  “Might be upstairs.” He checked me out again, apparently not judging me to be the high roller type who frequented the big-stakes private rooms on the second floor. “Who is asking?”

  “Roosevelt,” I said blithely. “He may not remember me.”

  I waited while he went off to check. And waited longer.

  Finally I was allowed up the carpeted stairway to even more palatial surroundings, where each piece of fine-grained walnut furniture carried a gold-leafed “JM” and an image of Tammany’s bengal tiger. On this level the gaming tables were kept free of kibitzers and deep carpets shut out noise from below.

  I wasn’t aware of Baker’s approach until he spoke from behind me. “Good to see you again, Roosevelt. Changed your mind about bucking the tiger?”

  “I’m here about a job.”

  Baker arched an eyebrow. “In that case, it’s fitting you’re not a gambling man. Against the rules for employees to indulge.” He gave me a speculative look. “You looking to deal?”

  “Nope. I saw in the paper where you might need extra muscle for the racing season.”

  “Muscle?” He smiled at the term. “Well, given your size and build, I imagine Mr. Morrissey might be interested. I believe he’s in his office on the top floor, so why don’t I go up and lay out your proposition.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “You might not,” he said, “if it comes to the test.”

  I was left to ponder his meaning. Again I waited. At length Baker came down again, and behind him the hulking figure of John Morrissey.

  “This is Roosevelt.”

  “How do.” Morrissey’s voice was deep, his black eyes penetrating. His nose had been broken repeatedly, which gave his large and fully maned head an even blunter aspect. His face was subtle as a fist. He wasn’t tall, five-nine max, but his chest was deep and powerful, his shoulders abnormally wide, his long arms ending in hamlike hands. I’d heard that once, challenged to a duel, he’d shown up with meat cleavers as his choice of weapons. His adversary fled. Facing him now, I could understand that reaction.

  “I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Morrissey—”

  “Senator,” he snapped. “I serve New York’s fourth senate district.”

  Thinking that I could imagine his kind of service, I addressed him properly and said I was looking for a security position in his establishment.

  “A guard?” His eyes probed me. “Why?”

  “I need the money.”

  “Ain’t I seen you before?”

  “I don’t think so,” I lied. He’d been in the Troy stands the afternoon I’d beaten the crap out of Bull Craver and done my part to cost him thousands. Not things he’d likely f
orget. On the other hand, it had been a long time.

  “You got the bulk, all right, but you’re getting this chance only ’cause Ham spoke for you.” Morrissey began to unfasten the diamond links from his cuffs. “Let’s see what you’re made of—guts or bowels.”

  To my astonishment he peeled off his shirt. As he turned and tossed it to Baker, I saw that the skin on his shoulders was charred from old burns. Till then I’d been skeptical of the “Old Smoke” story, which went that during a barroom brawl he’d been pinned on hot coals from an overturned stove. Fortunately for him, the floor boards caught fire and the proprietor threw water on the flames. As geysers of steam blinded his assailant, Morrissey kicked free and beat the man half to death, his own flesh still smoking.

  “Well?” His suspenders dangled down around his pants; tufts of chest hair peeked from his undershirt; his hands were curled into fists. “Let’s get to it. If you can’t stand up to an old man, you ain’t gonna make much impression around here.”

  I looked at Baker.

  “All the guards have done it,” he said, and now his remark about the test made sense.

  The burly staffer reappeared, mouth twisting in an expectant grin as I took off my coat.

  “Get that gun!” Morrissey told him, seeing my holster. “No weapons in the Club House.”

  I unbuckled it and the staff man yanked it away. I dropped my coat to the floor. While I removed my boots for better footing on the carpet, I surreptitiously slipped the Derringer into one of the coat’s pockets. I rose to face Morrissey. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then without preamble he charged. It was more or less what I expected. In the ring he’d been a bare knuckles champ, but he’d also excelled in brawls where men came away missing eyes and ears.

  If they came away at all.