“I don’t like Bolsheviks,” Clay replied.
“But don’t you think that things are unfair? That the rich have so much and the poor so little?” Hark arched an eyebrow. “This is called the Land of the Free, where immigrants from around the world can arrive and succeed. In Shanghai, they dream about this country, tell stories about it. I’m sure they did the same in the land where you were born, Herbert. But then we immigrants come here and what do we find? The same cruelty from police, the same rich men with their mansions out of town, and their corrupt politics. The same ineffective charities, which ease the consciences of do-gooders and kindly dowagers, without addressing the real problem. It may be better than your home, but is it much better, Mr. Clay?”
“My home was full of war and death,” Clay said.
“So was mine. Capitalism is cruel in America—but it is crueler in Shanghai. Do you not agree?”
Clay let out an annoyed creak. “Perhaps. But is a revolution necessary to change things?”
“A lot of people say it is, Mr. Clay,” Harvey chimed in. “Or at least, a great insistence on unions. I was looking up articles about the policeman’s union that you said had Detective Flynn worried, and some of the labor organizers made a lot of good points. Policemen work really hard in this city, and their pay is so low. I think they should strike, if that’s what they n-need to do to get their point across, I mean.” He seemed a little nervous, not used to speaking out on these sorts of issues.
“And leave this town without police?” Zipporah asked. “Are you certain, child?”
Herbert snorted. “What would it matter? The cops are servants of the rich anyway.”
A harsh shout came from the street leading to the Sylvan Cafe, amplified by a speaking trumpet. It blared over Neri’s speech, and he faltered. Clay and the rest of the audience turned. A column of mounted police approached—uniformed cops on the back of powerful, black chargers. They carried billy clubs and sported Sam Browne belts and peaked caps, with goggles protecting their eyes. Other officers followed on foot, toting bulky shotguns and clubs. They formed a line of black across the street, and didn’t appear to be eager to listen to Neri’s speech. Clay formed his hands into fists as his stony skin creaked in panic. He needed to get his friends to safety.
“Case in point...” Herbert muttered.
The cop with the speaking trumpet pointed a gloved finger at the crowd. “This is an unlawful assemblage!” The trumpet gave his voice a loud, tinny urgency. “You are discussing illegal, subversive topics. Disperse to your homes immediately or face the consequences.” Nobody moved. The crowd glared at the cops, daring them to try something. Neri folded his hands and carefully removed his pince-nez. Clay’s panic grew. The cop sighed. He sounded weary. “Come on, you goddamn yids. Leave or we’ll make you leave.”
“You will not insult my audience!” Neri cried. “Or threaten them. We have the right to freely assemble, and to speak freely as well.” He scowled at the cop. “Besides, I am not a ‘yid’, as you charmingly put it. I’m from Campania.”
“Goddamn greaser, then.” The cop nodded to his friends. “Clear them out.”
That was all it took. The cops spurred their horses, who broke into a gallop. They charged for the crowd, their hooves pounding on the pavement in a rapid, terrible drumbeat. It reminded Clay of the Cossack charges he had battled in the Old Country—though the snow always muffled their hooves. The policemen brandished their batons, which shone in the gray sunlight, and reached the audience before they had a chance to flee. The billy clubs rained down, the momentum of the charge adding more power to the blows. Clubs bashed aside Haven Street residents and locals, sending them reeling and tumbling to the street. Blood and teeth struck the sidewalk and the gutter as the audience dropped. Some of the mounted police smashed their way into the outdoor cafe, and their hooves shattered tables and chairs. Screams and shouts of pain joined the whinnying of horses as the batons rose and fell. The other police moved in, cuffing and arresting everyone.
Harvey panicked. Clay knew the boy had experienced danger before while helping Zipporah and Clay—usually in the form of some Talmudic demon or antediluvian monster with a complicated name and too many teeth—but never anything like this. He drew closer to his friends, motioning for Herbert and Hark to join him. “Why are they doing this?” he asked. He turned to Clay, as if the golem knew the answer. “Why are they just attacking, Mr. Clay? Mr. Neri wasn’t hurting anyone. Why are they doing this?” Clay didn’t have time to answer. They needed to leave.
A cop on horseback spotted Herbert and charged him. He galloped through the crowd, smacking the back of a young woman’s head with his baton and dropping her, then turning his club on Herbert. The baton hummed through the air, ready to connect to Herbert’s chin—but Hark grabbed the boy’s arm and tugged him out of the way. Her eyes flashed. Perhaps in Shanghai, she had dealt with this kind of thing before—or maybe worse—and knew how to conduct herself.
Clay moved in. He faced the horse and glanced at the cop. The officer had a drooping nose, which seemed almost too low on his face. His eyes widened behind his goggles when he gazed at Clay’s size, but he raised his baton anyway. Clay struck first, delivering a rapid right hook to the horse’s head. Hair pressed against his knuckles. The horse let out a single whinny and its legs slipped on the ground. Its hooves slid on pavement and then it dropped. The cop tumbled from the saddle and crashed to the ground. He rose growling, going for the pistol on his belt.
Zipporah grabbed his head and drove it into her knee. He groaned a final time and dropped; the revolver still in his hand. Zipporah glanced at the others. “We need to get out of here—now. If I get pinched, they’ll find the Mills Bomb in my pocket and we’ll probably be deported. Or shot.”
“Mills Bomb?” Herbert asked.
Clay grabbed Harvey’s hand and started forcing his way through the crowd. “Follow me. Stick together.” They moved toward the end of the melee, pushing their way around officers swinging away with their batons and wheeling, whinnying horses, as well as the terrified audience. Clay shouldered an officer walloping a towheaded kid with the butt of his shotgun, knocking the cop into the gutter and clearing a path. He pointed to the mouth of an alley, just across from the Sylvan Cafe. The others got the message.
They scrambled out of the brawl in progress and hurried across the street. Clay and Zipporah ran together flanking Harvey—who still seemed consumed with a mixture of fear and confusion. Herbert and Hark followed, holding hands as they moved together over the road. The mounted cops didn’t notice them. They had plenty of other people to beat, after all.
The alley offered long shadows and a relief from the scuffle. Clay slowed his pace. Harvey slipped on a piece of trash come from a set of overflowing bins on the concrete, and Clay reached over to steady him before he fell. He winced and thanked Clay with a nervous nod. Hark and Herbert joined them, and paused for breath. They stood together, saying nothing and breathing heavily after their close escape. Clay was just glad that Harvey hadn’t been hurt.
A loafer clicked on the alley floor. Clay raised his fists and Zipporah reached for her swords. “Easy there, Mr. Clay. No need to gut me, Miss Sarfati.” Detective Ollie Flynn emerged, his hands raised. He had his gabardine coat hanging open, revealing the stubby revolver in his shoulder-holster. “I’ll not run you in. You don’t need to worry about that.”
Herbert knew Detective Flynn—and didn’t like him. “What are you doing here?”
“I seem to remember Haven Street being my bailiwick. Came to watch the festivities. Make sure things didn’t get out of hand.” Detective Flynn waved his hand at the alley. “This seems like a luxury box, you know.”
“You just watch, Detective Flynn?” Herbert asked. “You can’t s-stop this?”
“Ah, the mounted boys won’t kill anyone. They’re just knocking around a few Reds, is
all.” Detective Flynn shrugged. “They need this little dust-up, too. Let’s them work out their frustrations after having the union proposal rejected by the mayor and his Wigwam Club backers again. And besides, who gives a damn about a bunch of Bolsheviks? Pardon my language, of course.” He grinned at Clay. “You fought those Reds in their homeland, didn’t you? You know what I mean.”
Nothing excused the sheer violence going on just outside. “These people don’t deserve this.”
“They’re agitating for the destruction of the country which has given us all so much. They deserve every blow we give them.” Detective Flynn pointed to Herbert. “And shame on you, lad, for exposing Harvey to this sort of claptrap and the accompanying violence. I’m taking the pair of you back to Rabbi Holtz’s house. Mr. Clay and Miss Sarfati, you’re welcome to come along. I hear he’s got a job for you, and he can send you off properly.”
“If you think I’ll walk away from my comrades—” Herbert started.
“Herbert.” Hark patted his arm. “You need to stick with your family. I don’t have that luxury. Don’t throw it away.”
“There’s some wisdom.” Detective Flynn pointed to Hark. “Now, why don’t you find your own way back to your heathen enclave, with the rest of your Yellow brethren.” He grinned at Herbert. “I can’t wait to see what the rabbi’s gonna say when I tell him your best girl is slant-eyed—”
“Don’t talk about her!” Herbert looked like he was going to slug Detec-tive Flynn.
Hark kept her grip on his arm. “Goodbye, Herbert. We’ll see each other tomorrow, at the meeting.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “And it was very good to meet all of you. Particularly you, Harvey Holtz. You are a perfect little gentleman, just as your uncle said.” She patted him on the head, causing his face to redden. Even when he was terrified, Harvey could still be embarrassed. “As the detective said, I can find my own way back.”
She turned down the alley, ducked around the dumpster, and hurried away. “Goodbye!” Harvey called, waving after her. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Hark!” He gave her a parting wave as she left, and turned back to Herbert. “You really think papa will be mad?”
“We’ll have to see, child,” Zipporah said. “Now let’s get moving. We have work to do.”
They headed down the alley, following Detective Flynn. He brought them back to his car and drove around the block to Clay’s Studebaker. They both headed back to Atlas Avenue, where Rabbi Holtz kept his house. Behind them, the melee had mostly ended. The cops handcuffed the audience and dragged them aboard waiting paddy wagons. The Black Marias would speed them to the downtown Station House, where they’d be tossed in the drunk tank, perhaps worked over a few more times, and shoved back on the street without being charged. It wasn’t right, but it was America—Clay’s adopted country. It was better than the chaos of Russia, of course, but Clay kept thinking about Hark’s words. Could there be an alternative? Maybe not the utopia promised by Herbert’s socialist friends, but something else? It was a question that Clay just couldn’t answer.
~~~
As expected, Rabbi Holtz was not happy. He and Herbert lived in a small manor, next door to the King Solomon Synagogue, which Rabbi Holtz had purchased when it was near bankruptcy and turned into the largest place of worship on Haven Street. A maid and cook kept the house running, and always gave Harvey a home that he was happy to return to. Now, that didn’t seem to be the case. The cook served them a quick dinner of cold chicken and cucumber salad in the large dining room. Clay sat next to Zipporah on one end of the table, with Harvey and Rabbi Holtz at the other end. Herbert took the middle, but didn’t seem too keen on sitting down. The dining room could have belonged in the home of any palatial residence, with the tasteful refinement of the upper class. Only the touches of Judaism—silver Shabbat candlesticks in the center of the table, framed images from holy books, and a gilded mezuzah on the wall—marked it as unique.
They ate silently for a little, crunching on the cucumbers and slicing the chicken. The cook hadn’t provided Clay with a plate of food he couldn’t eat. That spared him some embarrassment, at least. Rabbi Holtz carefully skewered a chunk of cucumber, dripping in sauce, and crunched on it loudly. He pointed the fork at Herbert. “Do you remember the meals you used to eat, Herbert?” He asked the question calmly, like any friendly bit of conversation.
“Frankfurters from the stand on the corner,” Herbert said. “And chicken soup. Chaim always had a way with chicken soup. I remember that you’d bring back a hot dog when you returned from some job in the evening, wake me up, and let me eat. We would share the same bed, and you never complained about the crumbs.”
“I would steal those meals. Oftentimes.” Rabbi Holtz raised another cucumber. “You don’t remember at all what we ate in the Old Country. I do—as much as I want to forget the taste and the growling of my belly. America has given us so much, and now you insult our adopted land by spending time with these communists, these Marxists. This anarchist filth!” He let his fork fall and it clattered on the plate. “And you bring my son to these people, straight into danger? It is a shanda!”
Herbert flinched. The word shanda meant shame—but the mention of Harvey, and the vehemence of Rabbi Holtz’s words, must have truly burned. “I did not mean for the police to attack. You know I would never cause harm to my dear nephew. You know how much I care for Harvey.”
“Papa...” Harvey stared between his uncle and his father. “You don’t need to—”
“If you care for your nephew, why would you drag him to meet your subversive friends?” Rabbi Holtz asked. “Why do you hate this country, which has been so good to us? America has given Harvey a safe place to grow up, and you a good education at the university. We are American, Herbert, and we must respect the land that has given us so much.”
“So I turn a blind eye to the oppression of the poor? The exploitation of the people on this very street?” Herbert slammed down his fork and pushed back his chair. “You talk about how much you love America, but you know something? If you didn’t break the law on a regular basis, if you weren’t a bootlegger and some, some gangster king of Little Jerusalem, then—”
Harvey turned to his uncle. “Please, Uncle Herbert, don’t call him—”
“You say that I’m a shanda?” Herbert continued, his rage growing. “What about you? You lie, sin, swindle, and sell bootleg liquor thanks to your phony rabbi’s license. You’re a shanda, brother. A common criminal who thinks that he’s some protector of his people, a modern day Maccabee, when he’s nothing more than a common goniff.”
Clay rested his thick fingers on the table. “Rabbi, we could leave if you wish.”
Zipporah nodded. “Perhaps we could go to the study, or—”
“Stay right where you are.” Rabbi Holtz kept his tone level. He stared at Herbert. “Call me whatever names you like. Your older brother certainly did. I suppose I shamed Chaim, just as I shame you. I’ll tell you what I told him. I will do whatever it takes it takes to protect my family. That includes Harvey, and that includes you—whether you like it or not. Even if I disagree with your politics, I’ll watch over you.” He leaned closer. “Now what’s this I hear from Detective Flynn about you falling for some Oriental twist?”
“Papa.” Harvey stammered as he tried to befriend his uncle. “Miss H-Hark is really nice. She was very kind to me, and she’s from Shanghai, and had all kinds of adventures there. She protected Uncle Herbert from the attacking police, and—”
Herbert pushed back his chair. “I’m leaving, Herman. I won’t let you insult her.”
“I’m merely describing her. She’s an Oriental. Lower than a shikse, even.” Rabbi Holtz shook his head. “A goyish woman, maybe I could understand. At least she’d be white. But someone from Chinatown? What can you possibly see in her?”
“I don’t believe I could ever convey my feelings.” H
erbert reached for his hat. He paused to squeeze Harvey’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Harvey. Thank you for coming today. I’ll let Miss Hark know that you stood up for her.” He headed for the door and then paused and looked at Zipporah and Clay. “The same to you. Goodbye, Mr. Clay—and goodbye, Miss Sarfati.” He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. It fell with a resounding bang, and silence once again returned to the dining room.
Rabbi Holtz sighed. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“Why are you so mean to him, papa?” Harvey asked. “Uncle Herbert’s a swell fellow, and he really likes Miss Hark. You didn’t need to call her those names.”
“I know.” Rabbi Holtz rested his hands in the lap. “Perhaps I didn’t mean what I said. I just got angry. I provide for Herbert, just as I did when we were boys. I put money in his pockets, food in his mouth, and he insults me. It causes anger that should not be in the heart of a holy man.” He smirked suddenly. “Not that I am a holy man.” He leaned over and patted his son’s head. “You like the chicken, boychick?”
“It’s pretty good,” Harvey said. “Can we have pastrami some time?”
“Perhaps tomorrow. I’ll have it delivered from the butcher shop above the—” He caught himself before mentioning the name of his speakeasy to his son. “Delivered from the butcher shop, I mean.” He glanced at Clay and Zipporah. “You’re ready for tonight’s work, I take it?”
“Always ready, sir.” Zipporah had finished her meal. Surviving in the desert had taught her not to waste. She glanced out the window.
Clay glanced out the window, which overlooked Atlas Avenue—the richest section of Haven Street. “It’s sundown,” Clay said. “We should be leaving soon.” The sun had set, bathing the street in shadow. It turned the numerous ancient oaks into large, outstretched outlines over the sidewalk, and made the King Solomon synagogue look like a giant tombstone.
The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 5