by Jim Musgrave
My old friend McKenzie was getting more robust at sixty-three, even though his over 300 pounds of weight kept him at a lumbering gait whenever he had to walk any distances. He grabbed my hand in his usual python grip. “O’Malley, me boy-o! I heard you was up to no good down south. Did ya find yer rich little Jew?”
I remembered the direct instructions of President Andrew Johnson not to divulge any details about what we discovered down in Tennessee, and thus I was not about to break my promise, even to my best friend. President Johnson, however, was having his own problems. In February, the House voted to impeach Johnson for violation of the Tenure of Office Act and for bringing disgrace and ridicule on Congress. He was tried in the Senate and acquitted by one vote.
“Yes, we found Doctor Mergenthaler. My father and Becky were able to assist me greatly in that endeavor. I wanted to thank you personally for your help. The information you gave me about the Dead Rabbits and its leader, Shannon O’Hara, proved to save me from going down a dead end in the case. O’Hara, as it turns out, was not responsible for the kidnapping of Doctor Mergenthaler.”
“And who was? Was it one of the Irish?” McKenzie pushed out a stool for me to sit on. I did so.
“No, it was those fanatics down south who belong to the racist groups. You know, the Ku Klux Klan and those dimwits,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t telling even half of the truth. I wanted to get back to my main purpose for being there. “I have a new problem. This one might be a measure of both your industry as a business man and as a friend.”
“Oh, you know me, O’Malley. A friend like you is like a brother. Just name it, and it’s done.” The big man’s eyes glistened with emotion.
“My friend, Becky Charming, is being harassed by Jane the Grabber and her lot. I need to stake her place out with a few fellows to see what I can get on her. She sent her men out to threaten Becky’s girls and keep them out of the Theater District’s fine hotels and taverns. It looks like this Haskins wants to move up-town. What do you know about her dealings, Walter?”
McKenzie’s cheeks expanded roundly and he blew out a bunch of air. “Whoremongering’s the second biggest business in this city, me boy-o. See, I call it by its real name. Every woman who sells herself for money must have a master to protect her interests. Without muscle, she’s a dead woman. No woman I ever knew was able to do her business alone. This is where this Haskins has made her mark. She keeps the master of all masters to tend her flock ’o dames.”
“Master? What do you mean by that word?” I asked, determined to get to the heart of the matter. I felt uncomfortable talking about such affairs, as I was new to having sexual feelings of any kind toward a woman, and my Becky was certainly not a usual kind of woman.
“She pays a real stud to keep the ladies drugged and happy in bed, don’t’cha know? The lad’s name is Allen. John Allen. He’s a real strange one, he is. When he first come to the city, he worked for the police as a paid informant. When he saw that the hooker trade made more money, he hooked up with his wife, and they ran a place in Five Points for a while. Allen would slip mickeys to the gents and his wife, Little Susie, would roll ‘em. But that still didn’t whet this rogue’s appetite.”
“For women?” I asked.
“There’re many stories buzzin’ about this stud. Some says he hypnotizes these women with religion. Some says he does it with just drugs and sex. Whatever the method, the men I know says he’s an animal. His Daddy was a preacher, and this Allen went to study the good book. His brothers in New York lured him down here, and they taught him how to steal and con the rubes. Do you want me to put muscle on ‘em? We could make them all go back to church!” McKenzie laughed, and the rolls of fat under his waist waggled like jelly.
“No, it’s not that simple. If Tammany Hall is behind this group, then we may be up against a lot more than what your Plug Uglies could accomplish. I think this Haskins wants to impress the big men downtown with her ideas about making new money. We need to catch her at something that will put her out of business forever. We can either set her up or give her enough rope, so she’ll hang herself.”
“I got ya, O’Malley. We can do some snoopin’ at her place of business and find out what rips her bodice. Every woman I’ve known had a weak spot. With my wife, it was the theater. She got herself killed by that Reynolds bastard standin’ in line at the playhouse. I ain’t been to a theater since!”
“Well, they work inside the old Palace Theater, I’m afraid, Walter. Can you handle that?”
“That’s fine with me. Ain’t no plays goin’ on inside that old beast. This is the first time you’ve asked me to go out on a case with yer. I guess I should be honored.” McKenzie stood up and thrust out his mammoth chest. “I’ll round up three of my best men and tell ‘em what we’ll be up to.”
“Good. We can meet over there tomorrow at one PM. It’s on 42nd Street between 6th and 7th Avenues.” I also stood up and extended my hand. Walter shook it, and we walked toward the exit to his wharf office. As we stepped outside, I could see hundreds of seagulls fighting over fish guts being strewn out on the water by fishermen at the stern of a boat who were doing some cleaning of their catch.
“I’m getting Becky involved, naturally,” I said, “but I want to also see Missus Mergenthaler. She has some connections with the wealthy folks who want this city cleaned up like those fish are getting fileted out there,” I said, pointing to the trawler. “They aren’t part of Tammany Hall, and they see what folks like Jane the Grabber are doing to infect New York with venereal disease and abortions for profit.”
“I’m with ya, boy-o! But, don’t start jugglin’ yer women!” said McKenzie, laughing, and he turned and stepped back inside his offices.
* * *
Bessie Mergenthaler was still the administrator over at Mount Sinai Hospital on 28th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. I nodded to Lois, her assistant, as I stepped into the offices on the ground floor.
“Good day to you, Mister O’Malley,” said the young secretary, waving me through to the inner office where Bessie did her business. There were no patients waiting to be served, so I knocked and Bessie answered almost immediately.
“Patrick! How wonderful to see you again!” her dark and sparkling brown eyes lit up and fastened on me. “Please, come in. Lois? Please don’t let anyone disturb us,” she added, craning her neck around me to better speak to the secretary.
“Yes, Missus M.,” said Lois.
As I seated myself in the leather chair in front of her desk, she settled back into her larger chair behind it. I noticed that Bessie had added some feminist posters on the walls of her office. One was of Susan B. Anthony speaking at the National Women’s Rights Convention. Others were front page displays of The Revolution newspaper.
“How have you been doing? And how is little Seth?” I knew Bessie enjoyed talking about her family, and since the death of her husband, Arthur, she was getting more involved in the family of women and Negroes who were seeking further civil rights.
“I stay busy with the hospital and with Seth at home. He’s growing now. I don’t believe you could recognize him from a year past, Patrick.”
I noticed the look she was giving me was not one a woman gives a man unless she has what Becky would call “animal magnetism.” As a young widow in her early thirties, I also knew she was someone who believed in the concept of “free love” that was advocated by many of these women’s rights advocates. In fact, one of these women, Victoria Claflin Woodhull, made her fortune as a magnetic healer, much as Becky’s Doctor Foote had. She believed that women had the right to leave loveless marriages, if the men were allowed to have mistresses and visit prostitutes. Bessie also supported several orphanages where the children came from women who did not want to abort them. Instead, with the kindness of wealthy women such as Bessie Mergenthaler, they were given a chance to survive, such as it was, another day.
Bessie was a victim of this kind of loveless marriage, as her marriage had been arranged in Germ
any when she was sixteen, and her husband later became physically cold toward her. I wanted to explore her ideas about prostitution and how we could entrap a person like Hester Jane Haskins.
“What do you think about the business of prostitution?” I asked. I knew Bessie enough to know that if I were to beat around the bush she would instantly become impatient with me.
“I believe it should be a legal business. If women were allowed to control their own bodies, then the dangers of abortion deaths and the horrors of venereal disease could be prevented much more than is the case today. Look at the facts, Patrick. The women who become trapped in a marriage where they have no say over when they should spread their legs for their legal husband are really no better than legal prostitutes, are they not?”
“I suppose not,” I said, knowing full well I was going down a road much traveled by Bessie and my Becky. I was certainly now skating on thin argumentative ice.
“I ask you. What is the definition of rape? Under today’s law, it is sexual intercourse without the consent of the victim. The victim can be forced, however, if she is ten years of age or older. Why? Because consent by these victims is implied under this law merely because of their age! In effect, when a woman reaches the age of ten, this male can have his way with her. However, if she is to be considered a chaste and moral woman by society, she dare not have sexual intercourse with a male of her own choosing before marriage! Do you not see the obvious hypocrisy in this, Patrick?” Bessie was angrily fingering the front buttons of her dress as she spoke as if those buttons had been riveted there by men who wanted to entrap her body.
“I can see your logic, Bessie. The markedly lower legal standard of protection for girls making sexual decisions communicates the message that whereas a boy requires years of education, nurturing, and experience to develop the intellectual, moral, and emotional strength and judgment to fit him for manhood, a girl needs only to reach the age at which she can be sexually penetrated without grievous physical injury to function as a woman.” I was thinking very hard as I said these words. I hoped they made sense.
“Exactly my point. If a woman is not grievously injured with witnesses present, she is presumed to have permitted such penetration. Of course, we have yet to discuss those instances under a legal marriage wherein the husband takes such liberties. Why, I recently read a decision by a Tennessee supreme court justice that ruled against a wife’s charge against her husband who had taken a horse whip to her!”
“What did he say?” I was very curious because I was leading her into my main purpose for being there.
“He said that a husband has every right to horse whip his wife in that he needed to show her who is in charge in the marriage!” Bessie literally spat the words out.
“Bessie, I need your assistance in a case that involves women who are being held to prostitute themselves against their will. This woman named Hester Jane Haskins uses drugs and physical intimidation to keep her girls at work. She also sends out well-dressed couples to recruit these girls--possibly even kidnapping them--and now she wants to take over the area where my friend, Rebecca Charming, has her independent call girl business.” I specifically used the term “call girl,” as it best suited the nature of what I knew many of these feminists believed to be ethical practice in the women’s oldest profession.
“Your Miss Charming. Does she allow these girls their freedom of movement and choice?” Bessie raised her dark eyebrows.
“Oh yes, she also provides them with proper medical care each week, and they use the latest birth control devices by Doctor Edward Foote. Are you familiar with his work?” Of course, I was also aware that these liberals like Doctor Foote would also give women the right to abort their fetuses just because of their human right to do so. But, I always ask myself, what about the right of society to prevent the selfish acts of women who simply want to abort in order to make more money fornicating? I suppose it came down to whether one believes a person has the right to be master over his or her own body and, ultimately, over the destiny of others. That’s exactly what these politicians in Tammany Hall and even in the White House wanted also! The recent War Between the States was an excellent example of the state abortion of adults. The state versus the individual is the story of America. Do the paradoxes of life never end? Obviously not.
“Indeed! He is one of the progressive men of our age, and his work is well respected in the Jewish community. Does this friend of yours want to stop Miss Haskins just because she is losing business?”
I knew she would ask me this question, and I was prepared with my response. “We believe this woman Haskins wants to gain the favor of Tammany Hall. My friend is aware of this, and she wants to keep women’s rights at the front of her agenda to stop such activities. The men who run things downtown care nothing about women’s or any other persons’ rights. They only want to make money. I am well aware that there are many people in this city who do not want that kind of white slavery business being conducted. This Haskins woman not only drugs and confines her prostitutes inside the Palace Theater, she has also threatened Miss Charming’s free roaming girls with physical harm if they go into the hotels and restaurants in the Theater District.”
Bessie’s eyes bulged and her neck became quite crimson. “I have never in my life heard of such audacity! What do you need done to stop this woman?”
“I am doing some investigation work at Miss Haskins’ place of business, the Palace Theater in the Tenderloin. What I would like from you is a voice in the community of progressive liberals of New York City. Without your support, we really don’t stand a chance against Jane the Grabber and her support from Tammany Hall.” I took Bessie’s hands, and she moved in to rest her head on my shoulder.
“Oh, Patrick! It’s so lonely now that Arthur is gone. Seth is becoming just like his father. I can’t get him to see the world as it is. He still maintains that he is a mazikeen--half angel and half human. Doctor Jacobi says he’ll eventually grow out of it, but I’m not so certain. Could you come by again the way you used to? Seth really enjoys your company, and so do I!” Bessie nuzzled her lips against my neck, and I shivered involuntarily.
I pushed her at arm’s distance from me. “Bessie, I want to help Becky on this problem with Jane the Grabber. I think you and I need to maintain a professional relationship during this time. However, I will come over when I have time to give you the information you need to communicate to your community. Would that be sufficient?”
Bessie cast her eyes down and then looked up at me again. “Yes, I shall help you, Patrick. I will enjoy your company whenever you decide to come over, and so will Seth. I’ll be certain to tell him about it because it will give him something to expect besides his private world of make-believe.”
I got up from the chair and moved toward the door. Bessie followed me and watched me leave. I walked down the steps to the front of the hospital and into the city’s traffic and noise. I now had two close associates I could count on in this investigation into Hester Haskins and her activities, and I expected I would need one more person.
This person happened to be perhaps the only official in New York City who stood up to City Hall. His name was John Alexander Kennedy, and he wore two hats in this city. He was both the Superintendent of Police and the Provost-Marshal of New York. His job as provost-marshal was to report directly to the State of New York to enforce the liquor licensing laws, and it was in this capacity that I knew he could help me. His position as superintendent of police was basically ineffectual, as his bosses were the same ones that supported the graft and illegal activities going on throughout the city.
As a result, John kept his offices at the state building on 46th Street and 3rd Avenue, the same location where he was nearly beaten to death by the mob of mostly Irish citizens during the Draft Riots of 1863. He was 59 years of age at the time, and the experience hardened him even more against the lawlessness of the times.
Kennedy kept his own state-paid officers, and they greeted me inside the
building as I entered. They were sitting at various desks inside the office, but I could ascertain that they were there only when they had to fill-out paperwork, as they were joking and laughing when I told them I wanted to see their boss. There were five of them, and they were all big bruisers, probably Irish, and their faces were flushed and their hair was long and auburn, except for the biggest fellow who looked like a black-Irish, as he had long black curls along his wide collar, and his suit was unkempt, as were those of his brethren. One could assume that their honesty kept them on the meager state payroll.
The fact was that the official police of the Society of St. Tammany wore new uniforms and shoes, and they sat around playing cards or even drinking in the many taverns around the city, protecting the vice and gambling going on. I knew that Kennedy was constantly playing a game of cat-and-mouse with the city police. When Kennedy and his men would close a brothel or tavern because of liquor law violations, the city police would soon follow after, with newly signed approvals from City Hall, and reopen the joints, most often the very next day.
I first met Kennedy in church, at St. Patrick’s, and he talked with me after mass in the garden outside next to the grotto of the Virgin Mother. He told me all about his private war with Boss William M. Tweed and how the Tweed power organization used immigrants to fortify this power. I told him about my previous dealings with The American Emigrant Company and the World Eugenics Collective, and we instantly became friends. I knew I could trust this Kennedy, so I wanted him to be part of my plan to bring down Jane the Grabber.
“O’Malley! Come in, lad. Take a seat,” said Kennedy, limping up to me on a red oak cane with a leprechaun’s head on its handle. His injuries in 1863 had indeed taken their toll on the older gentleman, but he still was a handsome and striking figure. He wore a dark suit, waistcoat, white shirt with ruffled sleeves and a bowed tie. His angular face contained a set of riveting hazel eyes that bore through one with their integrity and Irish stubbornness.