House of Thieves

by Charles Belfoure

  Kent went immediately to their office, located at Leonard and Centre Streets across from the Tombs, for a consultation.

  “You’ve got a problem here, Jim,” Hummel said. He sat behind his desk, obscured by a haze of cigar smoke. “Byrnes won’t budge on this. He wants your man hanged.”

  “How much will it take to change his mind?”

  “That’s not gonna work this time. And bribing the guards is out.”

  Kent stared out the window at the Tombs. True to its name, it looked like an Egyptian mausoleum, framed by four massive stone columns trimmed with carvings of acanthus leaves. Such an impressive and palatial building, he thought, to house the scum of the earth. It had an execution yard between an inner and outer building, linked by a bridge of sighs across which the condemned took their last walk.

  The Tombs usually housed New York’s most serious criminals. It was unusual for Byrnes to move Bald Jack to Blackwell’s, an island in the middle of the East River. But despite its formidable appearance, there had been many successful escapes from the Tombs. Byrnes is being very careful indeed, Kent thought, drumming his fingers idly on the desk.

  “His cell is in the new addition, you say?”

  Hummel nodded.

  “I’ll need to know the number,” Kent said, rising from his chair.

  18

  “Welcome to my house.”

  “This is incredible,” Charlie cried.

  Charlie’s rescuer, Eddie Mooney, had graciously invited him to visit his home. He stood before the open hatch to a huge, unused steam boiler in an abandoned factory near the corner of Cherry Street and the East River. Together, they crawled inside an iron-lined compartment furnished with an old mattress, a table, and a chair. It was big enough to stand. Eddie lit a candle, throwing a spooky light against the rusty walls.

  “Pretty cozy, eh?”

  “I’ll say. And it’s all yours?”

  “Yep. Until they tear down the building, which’ll probably be never,” Eddie said. “Have a seat.”

  Charlie had been so grateful to his rescuer that he’d given Eddie three dollars of the money he’d saved for the Crandall steam engine. Eddie, touched by this gesture, offered to buy Charlie a drink. To his amazement, Charlie didn’t drink beer or whiskey, so he treated him to a sarsaparilla.

  Eddie plopped down on his bed and pulled out a sack of tobacco. He rolled a cigarette for himself and his guest. He didn’t dare think that Charlie didn’t smoke. Everybody he knew smoked. He didn’t want to offend the boy. Smiling, he lit Charlie’s cigarette.

  Charlie inhaled, coughed, and gagged a bit. “It’s marvelous that your parents let you live here,” he said when he was able to speak.

  Eddie, who was skinny and bucktoothed, with a prominent cowlick of greasy hair, shot him a puzzled look. “My parents? I ain’t seen ’em in five years. They kicked my ass out onto the streets when I was seven.”

  “Why’d they do that?”

  “Couldn’t afford to keep me, what with the five other tykes. My ol’ man was a worthless ass drunk, and my ma was a drunk and a two-bit whore to boot. Every kid I know down here got kicked out like that. What about you? Your parents kick you out yet?”

  “Well, no, not yet,” said Charlie, surprised by the question.

  “I used to sleep in doorways, cellars, on old barges. Slept in a carriage in a stable for a month before they found me. But I’ve had this place almost two years now. I got me a real padlock for the hatch so no one can take it away.”

  Charlie was distracted, replaying their conversation in his mind. “What’s a whore?”

  “A woman who fucks a stranger for money,” Eddie said. It struck him as an odd question, like asking “What planet do we live on?” He smiled at his young guest. “Charlie, old boy, there’s a lot of learning I gotta teach ya.”

  “So who takes care of you?” Charlie asked, still puzzled.

  “I take care of myself,” Eddie said indignantly. “I work as a newsboy…and some other things, to scrape up money.”

  Charlie had seen newsboys all over the city. They weren’t much older than him, ragged-looking waifs standing at the entrances to elevated stations, on busy street corners, and in front of the department stores on Ladies’ Mile, yelling out, begging people to buy their papers. “How much can you make?” he asked. He’d never earned a nickel of his own; he had to beg his parents for change or wait for birthdays and Christmas.

  “On a good day, fifty cents. That’s after overhead like buying the papers and paying for selling space. Mine’s the Hanover Square Elevated—lot of Wall Street swells there. I do a good business. I used to pay this older kid, name of Mikey Harrigan, protection money, but he took half my profit. So last year when I got to be big, I got a lead plumbing pipe and beat the shit out of him. No more protection money,” Eddie said.

  Charlie was old enough to understand that he was related (in a distant way) to the Astor fortune. Somehow, though, Eddie’s entrepreneurialism impressed him far more.

  “It’s getting late,” Eddie said. “I gotta go down to Park Row and get my evening papers from the folding room at the Sun. That’s my rag. Come along with me.”

  As Eddie locked up his abode, he patted the old boiler affectionately.

  “I’ll tell ya, it’s a lot better living here than at the Newsboys’ Lodging House. You can get a bed and meal for six cents each, but you know what they do? If you stay there a month, they ship your ass off to Kansas or some fuckin’ place out west. Make you work on a goddamn farm like you’re a nigger slave or somethin’. Can you imagine? You’d never make it back to New York. And New York’s the best place in the world to live. You know that too, huh, Charlie?”

  They walked up to Madison Avenue and headed east, Eddie chattering like a magpie.

  “I used to clean pigpens. Then I shoveled coal for a while. Tried factory work, making twine and paper collars, but I couldn’t stand being cooped up all day, and the pay was shit. A fella with the Little Daybreak Boys on the waterfront found me a place in the gang as a lookout on robberies. I crawled through the portholes of the ships docked at the piers to steal shit for ’em. But then I got too big to fit through, so I left.”

  The boys approached a grocery stand on the corner of Madison Avenue and Rutgers Street.

  “Ya hungry, Charlie?” Before Charlie could answer, Eddie pulled him inside a doorway. “Well, I’m gonna show you a trick. See that old man in the apron? You go up to him and ask what’s the best way to City Hall. Then pretend to be confused and ask him to repeat it.”

  Charlie felt a flush of excitement surge up his back. He casually strolled up to the man, who could see by his clothes that he wasn’t the usual filthy guttersnipe. The old man was straining to see if the kid’s mother was behind him when Charlie asked for directions. With the man’s back turned, Eddie helped himself to generous amounts of fruit from the stand, stuffing them inside his tattered shirt. He crossed the street and continued up Madison Avenue. A moment or two later, Charlie caught up with him.

  “Good job. Have a peach.”

  Charlie bit into the ripe fruit, wiping the juice from his mouth with his sleeve. It seemed to taste more delicious because it was stolen.

  At the newspaper office, Eddie pushed his way through dozens of other newsboys to get his papers. They all seemed to know and like him. Charlie was proud to be with someone so popular. The two boys took the Second Avenue Elevated downtown to the Hanover Square station. During the ride, Eddie opened the Sun and scanned the pages.

  “You know,” he boasted, “I can read and write real good. And I can read big words too—like parliament.” A moment later, he cried out, “Look, a man got bit by a rabid dog on Avenue A. That’s what’ll be our hook. Murders, animal attacks, fires, robberies. Those all sell papers. So you yell out, ‘Man killed by rabid dog.’”

  Charlie looked down at the article.
“It says he was just bit. We’d be lying.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be dead before the week’s out. The newspaper business, Charlie, is nothing but lies.”

  Eddie and Charlie each took a position at the bottom of the uptown and downtown stairs to the Hanover Square station and hawked their papers. As the crowds rushed by, Charlie screamed out the headline. To his delight, pennies were thrust into his hand until every paper was sold. When Eddie was finished, they met by the entrance to the nearby Hanover Bank.

  “Here you go,” Charlie said, proudly pouring his money into Eddie’s hands.

  “Hey, you’re a born newsie.”

  “I have to get home, but I’ll meet you at your place tomorrow morning,” Charlie said and bounded up the station steps.

  • • •

  Eddie watched Charlie as he left and could see that he was beside himself with joy, which made Eddie feel happy and sad at the same time. That always happened when he thought about Harry, his little brother, and Charlie reminded him of Harry. Thinking about the fun times they’d had made Eddie feel so good, but then he would descend into a deep sadness.

  Harry had been thrown out of the house at the same time as Eddie. Together, they fended for themselves on the streets. Harry would serve as lookout while Eddie lifted items from a store or warehouse. Sometimes, Harry would even squirm inside an open window and do the stealing himself. They were quite a team. But Harry wasn’t as strong as Eddie, and the street life wore him down. He was sick all the time, coughing up blood and getting such bad night sweats that his body would shake convulsively, as though he were in a carriage moving over cobblestones.

  Three years ago, they’d had one of the coldest winters on record. Shivering, Eddie woke one morning from a bed of rags at the bottom of a basement stair off an alley. His feet and fingers felt numb. He gave Harry a gentle shake, but his brother didn’t stir. Pulling the filthy, torn blanket away, Eddie discovered that his brother had frozen to death. Harry was stiff as a board, his eyes staring up at the sky.

  That morning, Eddie did something he hadn’t done for years: cry. He sobbed for hours, hunched over by the side of his brother’s body. He knew he couldn’t call the police or a doctor. If he did, he’d wind up in an orphanage for sure. So he waited until dark, and then he wrapped his little brother up, carrying him to the front of a Methodist church a few blocks away. He knew the congregation would give Harry a real burial.

  Walking away from Harry’s body was one of the loneliest things Eddie had ever done. The feeling of that horrible day stayed with him.

  19

  “You’re telling me that the debt is only reduced by six thousand dollars?”

  “Mr. Cross, you and George don’t seem to understand the concept of compound interest. There’s 15 percent interest accruing weekly on the principal.”

  “Fifteen percent a week? That’s usury, you bastard,” Cross yelled. “A damned Hebrew wouldn’t charge that much!”

  Brady came up from behind and grabbed Cross by the neck, placing his knee against Cross’s buttocks and bending his back like an archery bow.

  “That silver and linen was worth twenty thousand dollars, easily. The clothing had to be forty thousand dollars!” Cross cried, ignoring the choking pressure of Brady’s stranglehold.

  “The fence we use to dispose of the goods gets a 50 percent cut, Mr. Cross. The actual take from the robbery is thus greatly reduced,” Kent said in a patient voice. “But don’t worry—you’ll soon learn the economics of our business.”

  Brady released Cross, who fell forward, gasping.

  “Goddamn it, Kent,” he rasped out. “This is an outrage. I planned this robbery and get a pittance in return.”

  “Why don’t you complain to your congressman?” Brady said, erupting in laughter.

  “You know the alternative, Mr. Cross. And I know you don’t want that,” Kent said softly.

  Cross slumped down in a chair. They were in the basement room at McGlory’s, but this time only Culver and Brady had joined Kent.

  “Do you remember a very short, bald gentleman, Mr. Cross? From the robbery?”

  Cross looked up at Kent, puzzled. “Yes, I do.”

  “That was Bald Jack Sanders, a very valuable member of our organization,” Kent said.

  Cross chuckled in spite of himself. “Why do you people in the netherworld have such colorful names? In architecture, we don’t have monikers like Charming Charlie McKim or Racy Richard Morris Hunt.”

  Kent ignored the question. “Bald Jack has been arrested—and that means trouble for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Bald Jack saw you at the robbery. Under duress, he might give you up.”

  “He might, but if he does, I can give you up.”

  Kent smiled and took a sip of whiskey. “I know you won’t do that. Like I said before, family men come with a lot of collateral.”

  As he stared at Kent, Cross’s mind raced, trying to sort out the various possibilities. Why was Kent trying to bluff him?

  “Bald Jack is being held in the Blackwell’s Island prison, in an addition I’ve learned was designed by your friend from the Dakota, Henry Hardenbergh.”

  Cross burst out laughing. “Give me the telephone, then. I’ll ring him up and say, ‘Oh, hello, Henry. I need your help springing a crook from prison.’”

  “I was thinking along those lines,” Kent said.

  “Is it my imagination, or is James T. Kent showing loyalty toward a fellow human being? You must really like this man if you’re willing to take such a risk instead of just having him killed.”

  “For a society man from Harvard, you show exceptional shrewdness. But for your own good, I insist you help me.”

  “For ten thousand off the debt.”

  “Four thousand.”

  • • •

  “It’s very kind of you to meet me on such short notice, Henry.”

  “Not at all, John. I’m happy to help.”

  “I was down on Wall Street and saw your Astor Building. The entrance is wonderful. I wanted to see how you detailed that arch, the one with the columns? And that attic gable with the diaper-patterned terra-cotta facing.”

  “Thank you, John. That job came out well,” Hardenbergh said, giving a brusque nod. He was a touch uncomfortable, Cross saw. After all, the building had been commissioned by the Astor family, and Cross was an Astor relative. Though there had been many referrals over the years, Cross had never gotten any work directly from the Astors.

  “I have to be uptown for a dinner, so I can’t stay. But Maxwell here will be glad to assist you.”

  Maxwell, a draftsman in his midtwenties, nodded, his face expressionless. Cross guessed he was irritated as hell to be kept after work.

  Hardenbergh placed his top hat on his head, waved, and departed.

  It was just after six, and there was no one left in the large, open studio. The poor illumination cast by the gaslight fixtures made it useless for architects and their draftsmen to try to work into the evening. Cross had recently installed electrical fixtures in his office and had seen a real improvement in the light level—to the dismay of his employees, who now had to work late.

  “These are the Astor Building drawings,” Maxwell said, pulling out the drawer of a flat file. He lifted a stack of thirty-by-forty-inch linen sheets, placed them on a table, and stood off to the side.

  Cross flipped through them until he found the sheet he wanted. Pulling it from the pile, he turned to the draftsman and gave him an absent smile. “Maxwell, old man, do me a favor and go downstairs to that saloon on Forty-First. Get me a sandwich and a growler of beer.” He handed Maxwell a five-dollar bill. “And keep the change for yourself.”

  Maxwell’s eyes lit up like bonfires. The four dollars’ worth of change was a dollar more than his average pay per day. “Thank you so much, sir,” he cried
and flew out the door.

  Cross immediately went back to the flat file, found the drawer labeled Blackwell’s Island Prison, and pulled it out. He flung the stack of drawings on the table and quickly sifted through them to the site plan showing the whole layout of the prison, all the way to the East River. Taking some sheets of tracing paper off a desk, he placed one over the drawing and started working. Flipping through more drawings, he traced the parts he needed. Fifteen minutes later, he was finished. He had just replaced the prison drawings and was back at the table, looking over the Astor details, when Maxwell returned with his food and drink.

  20

  “You sure you want to do this?” Nolan asked, removing his derby and scratching his head.

  “I’m absolutely sure,” Julia said. “I’m dying to see it. Please.”

  This was the second time Julia had met Nolan in the Tenderloin since their introduction at the Haymarket Dance Hall the previous week, and she felt like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. Somehow she had stumbled into an exciting world of fantasy and revulsion. Even the name of the neighborhood, “the Tenderloin,” had a magical sound.

  At their first meeting, Nolan had showed her what a concert saloon was. Men would come to meet ladies of the evening—Nolan had explained them too—to dance and make friends. Julia thought the music was tinny but quite entertaining, and the whole joint—another term learned from Nolan—was gay and lively. The owner, William McMahon, was a genial, well-dressed gentleman who didn’t allow swearing or close dancing and forbade the girls exposing their ankles. Huge behemoths of men called bouncers threw any rowdy customers into the gutter.

  The curtained-off cubicles at the side of the hall, Julia was told, were for private dances, in which some girls performed naked. There was a secret tunnel from the hall to an adjacent hotel for more intimate liaisons, Nolan added.