Pat O'Malley Historical Steampunk Mystery Trilogy

by Jim Musgrave

  “How can you call yourself a man of God?” whined Comstock. “This so-called medicine man is breaking all moral codes known to our species! He is violating Biblical laws and the laws of human decency! I cannot stand by and allow him to continue!”

  “Very well,” said Reverend Wheeler. “Gentlemen,” he motioned toward the police, “Please escort these disruptors of this peaceful assembly out of my church.”

  We all watched as Comstock’s little group was led down the center aisle, through the double-doors and out of the church. He continued to rant as he walked, and the people seated in the pews booed and held their noses as he passed them. Some were also laughing, as Comstock kept bumping into the escorting policemen because he was walking backwards and raising his fist in the air and shaking it at Doctor Foote.

  Comstock’s interruption had succeeded in that Doctor Foote did not continue, and we broke up our gathering for the evening. Several people loitered at the book table and purchased copies, but Becky and I left the building and headed back to her place in the Theater District at Union Square near Broadway.

  * * *

  When we were back inside Becky’s apartment, she had slipped into her fashionable courtesan robe from the Far East. She enjoyed the soft silks imported on a daily basis into our international shipping docks, and she made most of the robes herself. They were modeled after the Chinese court, and she was wearing a red one with black satin borders called a Shenyi. It had drooping sleeves that made her look like an exotic bird. The open cross-collar garment was, as she advised me, worn by both sexes.

  I was sitting in my usual position at the end of her French divan. She changed the colors each week, and this week it was canary yellow. I felt like I was seated on an ear of corn. “Why are you so supportive of this Doctor Foote? He seems to be mostly a charlatan. I know he has an entire catalogue of home remedies, and this electro-magnetic device he also claims will prevent conception. What about that?”

  Becky walked in from her pantry area. She had a silver tea set with two cups and saucers, a long-stemmed pot and spoons. She set down the tray on the mahogany table in front of the divan. As she poured, she looked over at me and addressed my question.

  “Doctor Foote is the only man in New York who respects the privacy of women. He actually sells three devices for birth control purposes. His inventions are all supporting a woman’s right to choose when to become pregnant. That’s what I want for my ladies, you know that Patrick. I detest the abortionists in this city! They all get their support from Tammany Hall, and the girls go through their knives like cattle. It’s a profitable enterprise that often leaves women scarred for life.”

  “What did he invent? I’ve seen these so-called inventions. A membranous envelope made from fish bladders. A rubber penis cap. A rubber womb veil. And now, this electrical machine that’s supposed to change your electrical force during intercourse, and it costs fifteen dollars per treatment! Am I going to be electrocuted when I make love to you, Becky?” I had to laugh, and I immediately wished I had not done so.

  “My ladies have not become impregnated for over a year because of Doctor Foote’s contraceptives. I have encouraged that they use more than one contraceptive to maintain their personal safety. I am the only person who can afford to use his electrical therapy, and you will enjoy its advantages also, or you will not enjoy me, Patrick James O’Malley!” Becky’s green eyes flashed.

  “Are you certain he won’t be the gentleman providing the electrical charge?” I asked, and Becky’s right foot came from under her lap and struck me in the side. It hurt.

  “I wanted to tell you something about which my ladies have been warning me. As the real estate values near the Tenderloin have been increasing, so have the schemes to make more money in my business. There is a woman named Hester Jane Haskins who has threatened my ladies by physically accosting them on the street. She sends out her goons to warn them to stay out of the hotels and theaters where she says she has territorial rights. You know I allow my women the freedom to make friends with the men they trust will treat them like ladies. They go to the high class establishments to meet them. If they can’t go there, then my entire business will be in jeopardy. Is there something you could do to stop this woman?”

  I picked up my tea cup and looked down into it. I knew that Becky believed that one could determine one’s fortune by reading the random configuration of how the leaves settled onto the cup’s bottom. I was attempting to see what I should be telling her.

  “Of course I want to help you, Becky. You are the light in my life. However, I think you should come with me on a tour of the other side of the tracks. I want you to see what we are up against when it comes to stopping this scourge of opportunists and scoundrels. My father, Robert, whom you met on our excursion down to Tennessee, is now an alderman in his Five Points District. He tells me that the Tammany leaders at City Hall are behind all of this graft and corruption. They support women like Haskins because they pay more rent, and they sell more liquor. The only fellow fighting them is the Superintendent of Police, John Alexander Kennedy. And the only power Kennedy has over the City Hall embezzlers is his attempts to enforce the metropolitan excise law.”

  Becky sat forward in her chair. “Is that the law that licenses establishments to sell alcoholic beverages? I never allow liquor to be sold in any of my houses. It has an immediate corruptive influence, and many of my ladies have told me that many of them have been beaten, sometimes to death, by intoxicated men.”

  “You see? People like Haskins make most of their money from booze. Then, after they get their clientele drunk, they roll them for money and make even more profit. Also, they are determined to keep all their business inside where they can control the activities. Whereas you allow your ladies to roam free to solicit proper gentleman callers, as you term them, the brothels and taverns in Satan’s Circus and the Tenderloin have no such liberal policies.”

  “I understand that. I am always getting reprimanded by the City for my girls. Whereas the women in these pigsties are never arrested, I constantly have to bail out my ladies at the women’s detention facility.”

  “So, there you have it. These blackguards at City Hall get their pound of flesh one way or another. The only way we can work against these dens of iniquity is to go down there and see what we are truly up against. Come with me,” I said, and I stood up, reached down, and lifted Becky to her feet.

  “Wait one moment,” Becky said. “Do you think I can go downtown wearing this?” She twirled around in her robe. “I’ll change my attire, and then we can go on your little expedition.”

  Becky was wearing a spring frock of pink chemise, with frills on the collar and the sleeves, and her wide hoops made her step seem angelic as her petticoats rustled and her slight bustle in the rear moved provocatively so that many gentlemen out for a stroll would turn and appreciate her beauty. Her hat was also pink and the white frills daintily covered the heart-shaped front.

  Her rosy parasol was twirled as she walked, and Becky’s twirl was her signature because she would reverse the twirl and go in the other direction after four revolutions exactly, and then repeat this as she raised and lowered the umbrella’s stem, reversing the movement from her left shoulder to her right like a Navy Marine marching in a parade.

  I wanted to first show Sisters’ Row to Becky, which was located at 25th Street near 7th Avenue. These bordellos were the adverse of the ones Hester Jane Haskins ran. In fact, in both décor and cleanliness, these seven brothels were places that a woman like Becky Charming could appreciate. Sisters’ Row was a series of seven side-by-side brothels run by seven sisters, who had come to New York City from a New England village seeking fame and fortune. At first, the seven sisters tried to get legitimate jobs, but then they realized that the sex trade was rampant, out in the open, protected by the police, and quite profitable. So why not make some serious money from this phenomenon?

  Sisters’ Row is considered the most expensive bordello in New York City. It
is frequented by the blue-bloods of society, and quite frankly, only the rich can afford their prices. The working girls are advertised as cultured and pleasing companions, accomplished on the piano and guitar, and familiar with the charms and graces of correct sexual intercourse. On certain days of the month, no man is admitted unless he has an engraved invitation, wears evening dress, and carries a bouquet of flowers. And on Christmas Eve this year, all the proceeds garnered that night on Sisters’ Row was donated to charity.

  Each of these buildings looked like it had recently been painted, and the brass balustrades leading up into each brothel were polished and glistening under the bright gas lamps. There were spittoons on either side of the stairs and faux statues of Grecian goddesses standing tall on the front porches. If one did not know their real purpose, one could assume these were museums of art or some other city-sponsored cultural pleasure.

  “Sisters’ Row runs its houses the way you run yours, Becky. The elite politicians and wealthy industrialists spend their money here, so secrecy is paramount,” I explained, watching Becky’s eyes as they measured the structures’ value and compared them to her own in the Union Square Theater District.

  Next, on Sixth Avenue between 29th and 30th Streets, was the Haymarket house. Right after the Civil War, this building opened as an opera house, and the name came from a similar playhouse in London. However, it could not compete with the established playhouses in Becky’s neighborhood like the Trivoli and Tony Pastor’s, so it closed down. When it reopened, under the tutelage of crooked politicians, it became a trap for out-of-town yokels.

  “Women at the Haymarket are admitted at no charge. However, men are obliged to pay a 25 cent admission fee, which allows them to buy cheap drinks, dance, and carouse with the young ladies, the vast majority of whom are base and cheap prostitutes,” I explained, stopping in front of the three-story, yellow brick den of iniquity.

  I continued my explanation to Becky, “In addition to a huge bar, all three floors of the yellow Haymarket contain small private cubicles, where raunchy women give their marks a cheap rendition of the can-can, and for a few bucks more they turn these cubicles into a New York City version of the French peep shows. And you can imagine what a few bucks more might entice these women to do, and do quickly, so that they can move on to their next victim.”

  Becky looked up at me and smiled. “Victim? I believe your word use is quite telling, Mister O’Malley.”

  “Indeed it is,” I said. “The real action comes well after midnight, when the Haymarket’s floors are littered with drunken revelers, some of whom are barely conscious. That’s when the muggers and pickpockets spring into action, leaving the poor men, again, most of them out-of-towners, with no loose change to make their way back home.”

  Another popular Satan’s Circus hotspot is the Cremorne which is located in the basement of a building on 32nd Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. As we came up to it, I explained the business plan of this tavern. “The owner of the Cremorne, which is said to have been named after a British tavern, is an overbearing dolt known only as Don Whiskerandos. This Don is a whale-shaped man with a huge beard and a walrus-type mustache which runs down both sides of his bloated face. Don Whiskerandos’ mission in life is to make sure the scantily clad ladies he employs are able to get the men who stagger inside his dive buying the ladies drinks at inflated prices.”

  “How much is inflated?” Becky asked.

  “Men’s drinks cost 15 cents, or two for a quarter. But ladies’ drinks cost a whopping 20 cents, of which the ladies are paid a small commission by Whiskerandos. Every time a sap buys a lady a drink, the lady receives a small brass check to keep a tally on what she is owed at the end of the night. And if a fall guy springs for a bottle of wine for the lady, she keeps the cork as proof of purchase.”

  “These truly are scoundrels!” Becky twirled her parasol faster.

  As we walked to the next building, I told Becky the story of Jerry McAuley. “This is an establishment with the same name. It looks just like the Cremorne, but it’s not a drinking joint, nor a place where a man might pick up a woman. It is, in fact, a mission run by a former alcoholic by the name of Jerry McAuley. Quite often, and always by accident, some lad looking for a good time will wander into the wrong Cremorne. When this happens, McAuley springs into action. He quickly locks the door behind the befuddled chap. Then after plying him with sandwiches and coffee as thick as mud, McAuley launches into a mighty sermon on the wages of sin caused by the excesses of alcohol.”

  “I can see he would be a man after your own heart, Patrick,” said Becky, knowing my tee totaling ways because of my brother Tim’s death from drinking.

  “Needless to say, McAuley and Don Whiskerandos are not the best of pals, since The Don blames McAuley for any shortages in The Don’s cash register,” I explained.

  Next, we came to the final business on our tour of Satan’s Circus. It was the four-story former theater called The Palace. The proprietress, of course, was Hester Jane Haskins, better known as “Jane the Grabber.” On the outside, it looked like a theater, with a wide entrance that had fifteen stairs leading up to the huge double-doors. It was freshly painted red, and one could see the sparking chandeliers lighted and blazing inside the tall windows on the street side entrance.

  “Here’s where your enemy lives,” I said, matter-of-factly. “I plan to stake this establishment out with men from my friend, Walter McKenzie’s gang, the Plug Uglies. I know he hates this kind of business. Even criminals have their morals, and Walter wants to clean New York of this kind of riff-raff. As you know, Becky, Walter’s money comes from gambling and freelancing prostitution similar to yours. He calls these places ‘diseased roach traps for hicks and idiots.’ If I get something on this woman, it will be with the help of McKenzie.”

  “What kind of business does she run here?” Becky asked. “Can you put pressure on her?”

  “I told you about Kennedy, the Police Superintendent. He tries to shut down these places when they don’t have a proper license, or when they stay open past the curfew or they sell liquor on Sundays. But, damn, as soon as he gets them shut, the crooks in City Hall have them opened again. If we want to stop Jane the Grabber, we will need something much more heinous on her than just selling booze to the out-of-town yokels.”

  “Do you know anything about her or who works for her?” Becky asked.

  “No. I plan to personally investigate her and her employees. We need to know more about their ways before we put our plan into action. She is a smart woman, and she has been in business for many years. She is also constantly coming up with a new gimmick to bring more money into the equation.”

  “For example?” Becky asked.

  “She holds masquerade balls to lure more gentlemen inside. Her hookers are trained in dance and acting, and she keeps them high on drugs to keep them working at all hours of the day and night. She employs well-dressed couples, usually a man and a woman, who then go out to New England and recruit young women for Jane’s business. They lie to these girls, secretly drug them, and then bring them back here to work as prostitutes. They have no personal security, no rights and no futures. It’s slavery.”

  Becky looked up at the stairs leading to the Palace Theater. Well-dressed gentlemen were climbing these same stairs as Rebecca Charming stood there glaring at them.

  As we stood there, the doors opened, and a young woman, who looked to be no older than sixteen, stepped outside to stand on the front porch. Her eyes looked up and down the street, as if she were searching for someone she knew. She wore a cheaply made but sparkling dancehall dress with a plunging neckline and sequins all over the front and back. She was smoking a cigarette in a French holder, and her gaze finally met that of Becky.

  “Come down here!” Becky yelled at the girl.

  The young woman looked behind her at the front door, as if she were wary of being caught, but then she walked hesitantly down the steps until she stood directly in front of my friend.


  “What’s your name?” Becky asked.

  “Irene. What’s it to you?” The girl’s pupils were dilated, as she was obviously quite inebriated by alcohol or possibly drugs.

  “You don’t have to live this way. I run clean houses up town.” Becky took a card from her purse and handed it over to the girl. “Come and see me if you can get away. I can show you freedom,” she added, and the girl’s eyes became brighter for a moment, and she tucked the card down into her bodice.

  When I looked up, I saw a tall man wearing a dress suit standing just outside the doors, hands on his hips, glaring down at the girl. “Irene! Get away from there right now! You need to be serving drinks!”

  Just before she turned to run back up the stairs, the girl’s eyes became wide with terror, and she whispered, “Aunt Margaret doesn’t know I’m here! Tell her. Will you please?”

  Chapter 2: Missus Mergenthaler’s Charity

  I wanted to check with Plug Ugly Gang leader, Walter McKenzie, about giving me some assistance with my investigation into Jane the Grabber’s business dealings at the Palace Theater and elsewhere. I also heard that the widow of industrialist genius, Arthur Mergenthaler, was now doing some charity work in the city that also might be able to assist us in our case against Hester Haskins.

  Bessie Mergenthaler was also part of the liberal establishment that wanted to give women more rights over their reproductive biology, and she was even known to be part of the growing Women’s Suffrage Movement and was a contributor to this group’s weekly newspaper, The Revolution, founded by feminists Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. The eccentric railroad and clipper ship tycoon, George Francis Train, was said to be the publisher.

  I took my usual ferry transportation over to Hoboken and the docks where McKenzie had his “offices.” The weather was quite beautiful, as New York City weather goes, with wisps of white clouds dotting the sky and a sun that blazed in glory from above the bow of our craft as it cut through the waters of the Hudson.