by Jim Musgrave
I explained to him how I was trying to get enough on Hester Jane Haskins to put her out of business, and he kept nodding his head, his dark-brown hair neatly arranged in a pompadour. He had no face whiskers, and his sideburns were gray, and this gave one the impression that he had nothing to hide.
“Do you know how Tweed keeps his power?” Kennedy finally asked me when I had finished my explanation of how Missus Mergenthaler, Rebecca Charming and Walter McKenzie were going to assist me in this endeavor. I was not used to the direct talk of an Irish man of the law. It was an interesting exercise in focus and logic that I enjoyed immensely.
“I don’t really know. I would wager a guess that he knows how to pay the right people off,” I said, knowing I was probably wrong.
“He gives it to others. I don’t mean he supports democracy. I mean he gives control over others to men who are willing to support his goals and objectives. It is a method that goes back to Machiavelli and Tweed’s favorite text, The Prince. The important lesson learned from that short book is that followers will do your bidding if they fear you enough. Fear is more powerful than respect or love.” Kennedy adjusted his cane between his legs and moved his right index finger in a circular motion on the leprechaun’s little black hat.
“What does he allow them to do?” I asked.
“He permits the leaders of his ward political system to have free reign in the world of financial endeavors. He allows any kind of business to be conducted without any censorship from his office. If the biggest cut goes to him, Tweed allows the activity to go on. That’s the heart of his motivation and the pride of his excesses.” Kennedy smiled and rubbed his chin reflectively.
“You mean as long as his ward men pay their tributes to Tammany, they can treat women like animals and commit any crimes they can invent?” I was becoming increasingly angry at the thought of having to combat such immoral reprobates.
“It pays handsomely. If the construction of every public enterprise is obligated to pay the king rat, then Tweed’s power base gets monolithic and becomes a dynasty that can keep its tentacles in everything the city does. His investments also ensure a powerful influence on Wall Street, so this impresses the local business men as well. They can go into his dens of iniquity and become part of Tweed’s Circus of Satan. The men are free from the rigid confines of the family, at least for a brief time, and they can even reap the money from the very brothels and taverns that they visit! These are the vortices of sin that spin and spit out money which always lands in the laps of Tammany Hall. I am the only thorn in Tweed’s side because I don’t answer to him. I answer to Albany and to a more conservative constituency.”
I was astounded by the methods of the politicians we had to fight. I was about to explain to Kennedy that I would require his assistance after we were able to catch Jane the Grabber at something that violated the liquor laws or some other state infraction, when the door to his office burst open and one of his men stood there, out of breath, pointing to the streets outside the window.
“Sir, the he-she’s are marching again!”
We all heard the commotion in the street, and thus we stepped outside to see what was causing the screams, angry shouts, and curses. As I stood on the front steps of the provost-marshal headquarters on 46th Street, I watched with amused wonder as a parade of what I first took to be men and women marched past. As I examined the members of the troop more carefully, however, I realized that they were all women and that some of these females were dressed as men, with fake beards, baggy suits and leather briefcases.
The actions of these women made the sight quite humorous. The male characters were tossing fake paper money at women dressed as prostitutes, who ran around frantically picking it up and tucking it inside their bodices and down the fronts of their feathered dancehall dresses. Alongside these hookers marched the Victorian housewives of these business men. They were crying out to the men to stop throwing away their money, but the men took out horse whips and began to flail them at these women with vigorous snaps and cries of “Go back home, woman!”
This was obviously a political demonstration against the conditions of servitude that women were experiencing, and we watched with some interest as the parade passed by. It was obviously headed downtown to City Hall, and as I turned around to face John again, I said, “I wonder how far they can get before Tweed’s goons stop them?”
“Oh, they can usually get down to Washington Square,” said the Superintendent of Police. “As to your efforts to stop this Haskins woman, you can count on me, O’Malley,” he added.
It was the best news I had heard all day.
Chapter 3: The Women’s Civil War
Walter McKenzie showed up at half past noon at my place on 42nd Street. My apartment is just a few blocks from the Palace Theater, so I suppose the big lug thought he would visit me in order to get more specific instructions about how we would be watching Jane the Grabber’s place.
The three gangsters he brought with him were Irish, but they had been working for Walter over ten years, so they had no aspirations of rebelling against him or attempting to move up the chain in any way. They were just three loyal fellows, all over six feet tall, with the stevedore clothes: suspenders on gabardine trousers, long-sleeved flannel shirts and porkpie hats. I remembered my friendship with Ryan, another one of McKenzie’s men who was my bodyguard during the Edgar Allan Poe case. He was murdered by Reynolds, and I was saddened by his loss. McKenzie had men who obeyed orders and were street-wise and good-natured, and these men looked to be of the same type.
“This here’s Gator O’Neil,” said Walter, and a shy man stepped forward and took off his hat. He had a loose tangle of red hair and he squinted, making him look nearsighted, but his hands were knotted with huge knuckles, and his swollen biceps protruded beneath his shirt. “Gator does some bare-knuckle fights on the docks to make extra money. He got his moniker one time when we all thought he was down for the count. Not so. Old Gator got on all fours and dug his teeth into the other lad’s calf, and he held on, the boy-o thrashing his poor leg this way and that. But Gator never let go, and the hapless feller had to cry uncle. Some called him bulldog, but Gator wouldn’t have it. Bulldog’s English, he says, and he would never be nothin’ what smelled like an Englishman!”
The other two men, I now noticed, were identical twins. They had black, curly hair and brown eyes, and when they stepped forward they did so in unison. They both were handsome lads in their early twenties, and McKenzie seemed to show strong admiration for them. “Bill and Dan Maguire. They’re the sons of one of my girls, Tawny Maguire. Tawny died whilst birthing another child. She whispered to me that I should take care of her twins. Tawny might’ve been a hooker, but she was also a good Catholic girl. No abortions for her! These boys are smart, and they can both fight like wildcats. Show O’Malley your stuff, boys!”
One of the boys stooped down on his haunches and raised his hands, palms-upward, and the second lad immediately put his hands upon his brother’s hands. Suddenly the second twin sprang up into the air, balancing his entire body on his brother’s straining palms, until the second twin’s legs were standing straight up, his shoes grazing the ceiling of my apartment. The twin on the bottom held his brother like that, his muscles bulging, his face crimson, a perfect balancing act out of P. T. Barnum’s Show downtown. Finally, after a few minutes, with a shout from the bottom twin, the second boy’s body plunged backward and landed, feet-first, on the wooden floor.
“My! You boys are quite the acrobats,” I said. “Now it’s time to get down to business. I need to tell you some facts about what we need to look for when we spread out around the Palace Theater.”
Walter McKenzie assembled his men around me as I sat in my chair near the window. The sounds and smells of the food hawkers and other vendors were wafting up to us from below on 42nd Street. I had an idea that came to me when I saw the twins, and I wanted to express it to them immediately. I walked over to a large trunk and opened it.
“I have disguises to alter my appearance during investigations. We have a need to get inside this organization to discover how they do things. Bill, I want you to wear a false beard and this wig.” I handed him both hair pieces and he stared down at them as if they were dead cats. “You must also use these thick-lensed spectacles. They are plain glass. Your brother Dan will remain in his present state without a beard and glasses.”
Walter was intrigued. “What’s the plan, me boy-o? Will they be gambling?”
“No, I think we need to get them both inside to snoop around to see what kind of activities are behind this organization. I want Dan to pretend to be a customer and big spender. I want him to be friendly with this big John Allen so the bartender will see him as a comrade and trusted client. Once we know for sure that Dan’s in good with the workers inside, then we can send in Bill with his disguise.” I saw Walter nodding his head. My friend had been the leader of one of the biggest gangs of New York for over twenty-five years, and he could figure out a scam pretty quickly.
“Sure, and then old Bill can snoop around all he wants. If somebody should catch him in the act, presto! Bill takes off his disguise when they ain’t lookin’ and changes into friendly old Dan. Am I right, O’Malley?”
“That’s correct. Shakespeare pulled a lot of these tricks in his plays. Twins can be quite deceptive. Do you think you can spread your money around and get friendly with this Allen?” I asked the young twin.
“You betcha, Mister O’Malley! I can butter ‘em up real good. I done some bartending too in Hoboken. I knows how to switch drinks so’s I won’t be gettin’ drunk.” Dan smiled.
Bill was trying on the beard, wig and glasses. Dan moved over to stand next to his brother, and Gator laughed. “You look like those brothers on the cough drops!”
“Gator, I want you to stay outside on the chance something should go wrong. You might have to come inside to rescue us. We’ll set a time limit of one hour the first night. If we don’t come out by then, you know you have to go in. Here, McKenzie, you’ll wear this,” I said, and I handed him a black wool mask with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. Your story will be that you were wounded in the war--at Shiloh--and your face is disfigured. I am going to wear the same disguise our friend Joshua Reynolds wore when he fooled us in the Poe case.”
I pulled out the tight rubber mask that fit over the head and made one’s face look quite different. The skin looked like human skin, and the make-up that I put over it hid all of the places where the elastic ended on the skin. I became a bald man with red hair, and when I added the top hat I became a completely different gentleman.
After we all put our new disguises on, we walked over to the Palace Theater. We made certain to stagger ourselves, with about 100 yards between each man, as all of us were going to enter the premises alone except for Gator O’Neil, our look-out.
The action was starting to heat up in Satan’s Circus, and we were propositioned several times as we walked. Even Walter McKenzie, with his 300 pounds of masked avenger costume, was solicited by women of the night.
As I walked up the steps leading to the theater entrance, I remembered that Becky had invited the young girl named Irene to leave Haskins’ place and see her uptown to escape the clutches of this Allen. I had forgotten to tell Dan Maguire about the girl. I made a mental note to inform him after we left in an hour.
The inside of the theater was filled with the rowdiness I was expecting. Women dressed in dancehall dresses and feathered hats were gallivanting with gentlemen in the main ballroom. High above us, there was a near-naked woman swaying to and fro on a giant swing. On the stage near a semi-circle of standing gas lamps with multi-colored covers, was a small orchestra of five musicians playing “Beautiful Dreamer” by Stephen Foster.
I stood beside the stairway that led up to the second floor of apartments where the ladies took their gentlemen. There were also special “suites” that used to be where the wealthy theater patrons would watch the stage dramas from their boxes. These boxes were now covered with red curtains that secluded them from the view from below. I would suppose this was where each gentleman could get special treatment for an additional price. My theory was verified as I watched a man go upstairs with one of the girls. He was smiling and pulling some cash from his wallet. The girl nodded to an older woman who seemed to swoop down on them from behind one of the many curtains to extract the money from him. Could this be Jane the Grabber?
One of the waitresses came up to me with a tray of drinks. “One drink minimum, handsome, for thirty-five cents,” she told me, and I extracted a fifty-cent piece from my pocket and put it onto her tray. She handed me a drink, and I held it, knowing I would not drink from it, and said, “Thank you.”
I could see Dan Maguire, the undisguised twin, as he saddled up to the bar where John Allen was tending. He said something to the big man, who laughed and sauntered over to pour something into a shot glass and then into a whiskey glass. He pushed it over to Dan, who nodded his head and said something else. Big John laughed uproariously, tilting his head back, and then he pounded the bar with his fist.
I was just about to move over and assist Dan when I saw that Allen was simply making an exclamation point with his fist, as he began to talk at a rapid pace, waving all around the room as he did so. He then shouted loudly, so I could hear him, “Irene! Get over here!”
The same girl Becky and I had talked to on the steps the previous day glided over to the bar to Allen. The “master” spoke a few more words, and the young woman smiled broadly and put her fingers inside the top of her low front dress and pulled it down until both of her youthful breasts were revealed. Dan shook his head in appreciation and gave a low whistle.
While this was happening, I watched Dan’s brother, Bill, as he walked across the sawdust-covered floor to the stairs leading up into the offices and bedrooms on the second level. I don’t think anybody noticed him, as he chose an appropriate moment when none of the women was escorting her gentleman to the garden of earthly delights.
We were there almost an hour, when I decided we had to leave. I walked around the floor so that I passed each man and locked eyes with him to give my wink. I left the theater first, followed five minutes later by Walter, then more minutes by Dan and finally, bringing up the rear, we all greeted Bill outside on the sidewalk in front of the Palace.
“Let’s go back to my place,” I said, and we headed back the few blocks to my apartment.
“This Allen thinks he’s the rooster of the hen house,” said Dan, sitting on my window ledge and smoking a cigar. “He claims he can hypnotize those women with his voodoo magic, but I’d be thinkin’ he drugs ‘em and puts it to ‘em. He ain’t no magician, and that’s a fact. But he ain’t doin’ nothin’ illegal. The drugs are legal. The girls are all legal age, and he’s got his liquor license plastered on the mirror behind the bar.”
“Good work, Danny,” said Walter. “What did you find out, Bill? You was up there over a half-hour. See anything suspicious on the premises?”
Bill Maguire was his brother’s identical twin again, and he spoke from the chair at my dinner table in the kitchen. He was eating some of leftover meatloaf from last night, sopping up the gravy with the heel from my loaf of sourdough. He belched once and said, “Nothing out of the ordinary. There was a safe inside her place. If we go back, I think I can crack it. I can graph the wheels when I get back to Hoboken. I took down the number of wheels and the contact area. I should have the combination ready in an hour.”
I was quite impressed by the knowledge Walter’s boys showed. Even though we failed to discover anything tangible we could use on Jane Haskins, we now had a plan to get into her safe, and we also knew more about how John Allen kept his ladies in line. We could use all of this information later when we set our own traps.
“I saw somethin’ strange,” said Gator O’Neil. The big man was sitting next to me on the divan, and his long, muscular legs balancing on the arm of it appeared quite odd as well. “There w
as a group of eight to ten coppers what appeared on the street in front of the theater. At first, I thought I should warn ya, but then they all laughed and walked around the back of the Palace. I followed ‘em, and they was let inside through a side door by a woman. She had dark hair and looked like she owned the place. They all went inside, and she shut and locked the door after ‘em.”
“They were some Tammany Hall coppers. Jane must give them a free taste of liquor and maybe some frolicking with the ladies. I would like to know what they do for her, however,” I said. “I don’t expect it amounts to anything for the good of law and order in New York City,” I pointed out.
I walked over to the door and opened it. “Gentlemen, I have to get over to Becky Charming’s place before it gets too late. I want to thank you all for what you’ve done tonight. I will be in contact with you in a couple of days to discuss what we know and what we can do in the future.”
All four men filed out of my apartment, each one shaking my hand as he left. Dan Maguire looked at me for a moment as he held my hand. “Mister O’Malley, there was a little gal named Irene. She showed me her titties. Allen bragged that he got a lot of these women pregnant, but then they all get fixed by Madame Restell uptown. He said they can never have no children after that. Ain’t that a shame now? Such a pretty little lassie!”
I was taken aback by the lad’s words, and I remembered the look of fear in Irene’s eyes on the front steps of the Palace. Now I knew what that fear meant. “Yes, I know. She’s only sixteen, and it is a shame,” I told Dan, and I shut the door.
* * *
I was thinking about the woman Dan Maguire had mentioned in reference to the prostitutes working at the Palace Theater. This was the same abortionist who figured into my case in 1865 concerning the Mary Rogers murder and proving that Edgar Allan Poe was murdered. This Restell had been responsible for getting abortions for Mary Rogers, one of which led to her death in New Jersey.