Chick Tricker kept a house of call at One Hundred and Twenty-eight Park
Row. There he sold strong drink, wine and beer, mostly beer, and the
thirsty sat about at sloppy tables and enjoyed themselves. When night
came there was music, and those who would--and could--arose and danced.
One Hundred and Twenty-eight Park Row was in recent weeks abolished. The
Committee of Fourteen, one of those restless moral influences so common
in New York, complained to the Powers of Excise and had the license
revoked.
It was a mild February evening. The day shift had gone off watch at One
Hundred and Twenty-eight, leaving the night shift in charge, and--all
things running smoothly--Tricker decided upon an evening out. It might
have been ten o'clock when, in deference to that decision, he stepped
into the street. It was commencing to snow--flakes as big and soft and
clinging as a baby's hand. Not that Tricker--hardy soul--much minded
snow.
Tricker, having notions about meeting Indian Louie, swung across to
Roosevelt Street. Dodging down five steps, he opened the door of a dingy
wine-cellar. It was the nesting-place of a bevy of street musicians,
a dozen of whom were scattered about, quaffing chianti. Their harps,
fiddles and hand-organs had been chucked into corners, and a general air
of relaxation pervaded the scene. The room was blue with smoke, rich
in the odor of garlic, and, since the inmates all talked at once, there
arose a prodigious racket.
Near where Tricker seated himself reposed a hand-organ. Crouched against
it was a little, mouse-hued monkey, fast asleep. The day's work had
told on him. 'Fatigued of much bowing and scraping for coppers, the
diminutive monkey slept soundly. Not all the hubbub served to shake the
serene profundity of his dreams.
Tricker idly gave the handle of the organ a twist. Perhaps three notes
were elicited. It was enough. The little monkey was weary, but he knew
the voice and heard in it a trumpet-call to duty. With the earliest
squeak he sprang up--winking, blinking--and, doffing his small red hat,
began begging for pennies. Tricker gave him a dime, not thinking it
right to disturb his slumbers for nothing. The mouse-hued one tucked it
away in some recondite pocket of his scanty jacket, and then, the organ
having lapsed into silence, curled up for another snooze.
Tricker paid for his glass of wine, and--since he saw nothing of Indian
Louie, and as a source of interest had exhausted the monkey--lounged off
into the dark.
In Chatham Square Tricker met a big-chested policeman. Tricker knew the
policeman, having encountered him officially. As the latter strutted
along, a small, mustard-colored dog came crouching at his heels.
“What's the dog for?” Tricker asked.
Being in an easy mood, the trivial possessed a charm.
The policeman bent upon the little dog a benign eye. The little dog
glanced up shyly, wagging a wistful tail.
“He's lost,” vouchsafed the policeman, “and he's put it up to me to find
out where he lives.” He explained that all lost dogs make hot-foot
for the nearest policeman. “They know what a cop is for,” said the
big-chested one. Then, to the little dog: “Come on, my son; we'll land
you all right yet.”
Tricker continued his stroll. At Doyers Street and the Bowery he
entered Barney Flynn's. There were forty customers hanging about. These
loiterers were panhandlers of low degree; they were beneath the notice
of Tricker, who was a purple patrician of the gangs. One of them could
have lived all day on a quarter. It meant bed--ten cents--and three
glasses of beer, each with a free lunch which would serve as a meal.
Bowery beer is sold by the glass; but the glass holds a quart. The
Bowery has refused to be pinched by the beer trust.
In Flynn's was the eminent Chuck Connors, his head on his arm and his
arm on a table. Intoxicated? Perish the thought! Merely taking his usual
forty winks after dinner, which repast had consisted of four beef-stews.
Tricker gave him a facetious thump on the back, but he woke in a bilious
mood, full of haughtiness and cold reserve.
There is a notable feature in Flynn's. The East Side is in its way
artistic. Most of the places are embellished with pictures done on the
walls, presumably by the old monsters of the _Police News_. On the rear
wall of Flynn's is a portrait of Washington on a violent white horse.
The Father of his Country is in conventional blue and buff, waving a
vehement blade.
“Who is it?” demanded Proprietor Flynn of the artist, when first brought
to bay by the violent one on the horse.
“Who is it?” retorted the artist indignantly. “Who should it be but
Washin'ton, the Father of his Country?”
“Washin'ton?” repeated Flynn. “Who's Washin'ton?”
“Don't you know who Washin'ton is? Say, you ought to go to night school!
Washin'ton's th' duck who frees this country from th' English.”
“An' he bate th' English, did he? I can well be-lave it! Yez can see be
th' face of him he's a brave man.” Then, following a rapt silence: “Say,
I'll tell ye what! Paint me a dead Englishman right down there be his
horse's fut, an' I'll give ye foor dollars more.”
The generous offer was accepted, and the foreground enriched with a dead
grenadier.
Coming out of Flynn's, Tricker went briefly into the Chinese Theater.
The pig-tailed audience, sitting on the backs of the chairs with their
feet in the wooden seats, were enjoying the performance hugely. Tricker
listened to the dialogue but a moment; it was unsatisfactory and sounded
like a cat-fight.
In finding his way out of Doyers Street, Tricker stopped for a moment
in a little doggery from which came the tump-tump of a piano and the
scuffle of a dance. The room, not thirty feet long, was cut in two by
a ramshackle partition. On the grimy wall hung a placard which carried
this moderate warning:
[Illustration: 0018]
The management seemed to be in the hands of a morose personage, as red
as a boiled lobster, who acted behind the bar. The piano was of that
flat, tin-pan tone which bespeaks the veteran. It was drummed upon by
a bleary virtuoso, who at sight of Tricker--for whose favor he
yearned--began banging forth a hurly-burly that must have set on edge
the teeth of every piano in the vicinity. The darky who was dancing
redoubled his exertions. Altogether, Tricker's entrance was not without
_éclat_. Not that he seemed impressed as, flinging himself into a chair,
he listlessly called for apollinaris.
“What do youse pay him?” asked Tricker of the boiled barkeeper,
indicating as he did so the hardworking colored person.
“Pad-money!”--with a slighting glance. “Pad-money; an' it's twict too
much.”
Pad-money means pay for a bed.
“Well, I should say so!” coincided Tricker, with the weary yet lofty
manner of one who is a judge.
In one corner were two women and a trio of men. The men were thieves of
the cheap grade known as lush-workers. These beasts of prey lie about
the East Side grog shops, and when some sailor ashore leaves a place,
showing considerable slant, they tail him and take all he has. They will
plunder their victim in sight of a whole street. No one will tell. The
first lesson of Gangland is never to inform nor give evidence. One
who does is called snitch; and the wages of the snitch is death. The
lush-workers pay a percentage of their pillage, to what saloons they
infest, for the privilege of lying in wait.
Tricker pointed to the younger of the two women--about eighteen, she
was.
“Two years ago,” said Tricker, addressing the boiled barman, “I had her
pinched an' turned over to the Aid Society. She's so young I thought
mebby they could save her.”
“Save her!” repeated the boiled one in weary disgust. “Youse can't save
'em. I used to try that meself. That was long ago. Now”--tossing his
hand with a resigned air--“now, whenever I see a skirt who's goin' to
hell, I pay her fare.”
One of the three men was old and gray of hair. He used to be a gonoph,
and had worked the rattlers and ferries in his youth. But he got settled
a couple of times, and it broke his nerve. There is an age limit in
pocket-picking. No pickpocket is good after he passes forty years; so
far, Dr. Osier was right. Children from twelve to fourteen do the best
work. Their hands are small and steady; their confidence has not been
shaken by years in prison. There are twenty New York Fagins--the police
use the Dickens name--training children to pick pockets. These Fagins
have dummy subjects faked up, their garments covered with tiny bells.
The pockets are filled--watch, purse, card-case, handkerchief, gloves.
Not until a pupil can empty every pocket, without ringing a bell, is he
fit to go out into the world and look for boobs.
“If Indian Louie shows up,” remarked Tricker to the boiled-lobster
barman, as he made ready to go, “tell him to blow 'round tomorry evenin'
to One Hundred and Twenty-eight.”
Working his careless way back to the Bowery, Tricker strolled north
to where that historic thoroughfare merges into Third Avenue. In Great
Jones Street, round the corner from Third Avenue, Paul Kelly kept the
New Brighton. Tricker decided to look in casually upon this hall of
mirth, and--as one interested--study trade conditions. True, there was
a coolness between himself and Kelly, albeit, both being of the Five
Points, they were of the same tribe. What then? As members of the gang
nobility, had they not won the right to nurse a private feud? De Bracy
and Bois Guilbert were both Crusaders, and yet there is no record of any
lost love between them.
In the roll of gang honor Kelly's name was written high. Having been
longer and more explosively before the public, his fame was even greater
than Tricker's. There was, too, a profound background of politics to
the New Brighton. It was strong with Tammany Hall, and, per incident,
in right with the police. For these double reasons of Kelly's fame, and
that atmosphere of final politics which invested it, the New Brighton
was deeply popular. Every foot of dancing floor was in constant demand,
while would-be merry-makers, crowded off for want of room, sat in a
triple fringe about the walls.
Along one side of the dancing room was ranged a row of tables. A young
person, just struggling into gang notice, relinquished his chair at one
of these to Tricker. This was in respectful recognition of the exalted
position in Gangland held by Tricker. Tricker unbent toward the young
person in a tolerant nod, and accepted his submissive politeness as
though doing him a favor. Tricker was right. His notice, even such as it
was, graced and illustrated the polite young person in the eyes of all
who beheld it, and identified him as one of whom the future would hear.
Every East Side dance hall has a sheriff, who acts as floor manager and
settles difficult questions of propriety. It often happens that, in an
excess of ardor and a paucity of room, two couples in their dancing seek
to occupy the same space on the floor. He who makes two blades of grass
grow where but one grew before, may help his race and doubtless does.
The rule, however, stops with grass and does not reach to dancing. He
who tries to make two couples dance, where only one had danced before,
but lays the bed-plates of a riot. Where all the gentlemen are spirited,
and the ladies even more so, the result is certain in its character,
and in no wise hard to guess. Wherefore the dance hall sheriff is not
without a mission. Likewise his honorable post is full of peril, and he
must be of the stern ore from which heroes are forged.
The sheriff of the New Brighton was Eat-'Em-Up-Jack McManus. He had been
a prize-fighter of more or less inconsequence, but a liking for mixed
ale and a difficulty in getting to weight had long before cured him of
that. He had won his _nom de guerre_ on the battle-field, where good
knights were wont to win their spurs. Meeting one of whose conduct
he disapproved, he had criticized the offender with his teeth, and
thereafter was everywhere hailed as Eat-'Em-Up-Jack.
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack wore his honors modestly, as great souls ever do, and
there occurred nothing at the New Brighton to justify that re-baptism.
There he preserved the proprieties with a black-jack, and never once
brought his teeth into play. Did some boor transgress, Eat-'Em-Up-Jack
collared him, and cast him into the outer darkness of Great Jones
Street. If the delinquent foolishly resisted, Eat-'Em-Up-Jack emphasized
that dismissal with his boot. In extreme instances he smote upon him
with a black-jack--ever worn ready on his wrist, although delicately
hidden, when not upon active service, in his coat sleeve.
Tricker, drinking seltzer and lemon, sat watching the dancers as they
swept by. He himself was of too grave a cast to dance; it would have
mismatched with his position.
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, who could claim social elevation by virtue of his
being sheriff, came and stood by Tricker's table. The pair greeted one
another. Their manner, while marked of a careful courtesy, was distant
and owned nothing of warmth. The feuds of Kelly were the feuds of
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, and the latter knew that Tricker and Kelly stood not as
brothers.
As Eat-'Em-Up-Jack paused by Tricker's table, passing an occasional
remark with that visitor from Park Row, Bill Harrington with Goldie Cora
whirled by on the currents of the _Beautiful Blue Danube_. Tricker's
expert tastes rejected with disfavor the dancing of Goldie Cora.
“I don't like the way she t'rows her feet,” he said.
Now Goldie Cora was the belle of the New Brighton. Moreover,
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack liked the way she threw her feet, and was honest in
his admiration. As much might be said of Harrington, who had overheard
Tricker's remark. Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, defending his own judgment, declared
that Goldie Cora was the sublimation of grace, and danced like a leaf in
a puff of wind. He closed by discrediting not only the opinion but the
parentage of Tricker, and advised him to be upon his way lest worse
happen him.
“Beat it, before I bump me black-jack off your bean!” was the way it was
sternly put by Eat-'Em-Up-Jack.
Tricker, cool and undismayed, waved his hand as though brushing aside a
wearisome insect.
“Can that black-jack guff,” he retorted. “Un'er-stan'; your bein' a
fighter don't get youse nothin' wit' me!”
Harrington came up. Having waltzed the entire length of the _Beautiful
Blue Danube_, he had abandoned Goldie Cora, and was now prepared to
personally resent the imputation inherent in Tricker's remark anent that
fair one's feet.
“He don't like the way you t'row your feet, eh? I'll make him like it.”
Thus spake Harrington to Goldie Cora, as he turned from her to seek out
Tricker.
No, Gangland is not so ceremonious as to demand that you lead the lady
to a seat. Dance ended, it is good form to leave her sticking in the
furrow, even as a farmer might his plow, and walk away.
Harrington bitterly added his views to Eat-'Em-Up-Jack's, and something
was said about croaking Tricker then and there. The threats of
Harrington, as had those of Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, glanced off the cool
surface of Tricker like the moon's rays off a field of ice. He was
sublimely indifferent, and didn't so much as get off his chair. Only his
right hand stole under his coat-skirt in an unmistakable way.
“Why, you big stiff! w'at be youse tryin' to give me?” was his only
separate notice of Harrington. Then, to both: “Unless you guys is
lookin' to give th' coroner a job, youse won't start nothin' here. Take
it from me that, w'en I'm bounced out of a dump like this, the bouncin'
'll come off in th' smoke.”
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, being neither so quick nor so eloquent as Tricker,
could only retort, “That's all right! I'll hand you yours before I'm
done!”
Harrington, after his first outbreak, said nothing, being privily afraid
of Tricker, and more or less held by the spell of his fell repute.
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, who feared no man, was kept in check by his obligations
as sheriff--that, and a sense of duty. True, the situation irked him
sorely; he felt as though he were in handcuffs. But the present was no
common case. Tricker would shoot; and a hail of lead down the length
of the dancing floor meant loss in dollars and cents. This last was
something which Kelly, always a business man and liking money, would
be the first to condemn and the last to condone. It would black-eye
the place; since few care to dance where the ballroom may become a
battle-field and bullets zip and sing.
“If it was only later!” said Eat-'Em-Up Jack, wistfully.
“Later?” retorted Tricker. “That's easy. You close at one, an' that's
ten minutes from now. Let the mob make its getaway; an' after that youse
ducks 'll find me waitin' 'round the corner in Thoid Avenue.”
Tricker, manner nonchalant to the point of insult, loitered to the door,
pausing on his way to take a leisurely drink at the bar.
“You dubs,” he called back, as he stepped out into Great Jones Street,
“better bring your gatts!”
Gatts is East Sidese for pistols.
Harrington didn't like the looks of things. He was sorry, he said,
addressing Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, but he wouldn't be able to accompany him to
that Third Avenue tryst. He must see Goldie Cora home. The Police had
just issued an order, calculated invidiously to inconvenience and annoy
every lady found in the streets after midnight unaccompanied by an
escort.
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack hardly heard him. Personally he wouldn't have
turned hand or head to have had the company of a dozen Harringtons.
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, while lacking many things, lacked not at all in heart.
The New Brighton closed in due time. Eat-'Em-Up-Jack waited until sure
the junction of Great Jones Street and Third Avenue was quite deserted.
As he came 'round the corner, gun in hand, Tricker--watchful as
a cat--stepped out of a stairway. There was a blazing, rattling
fusillade--twelve shots in all. When the shooting was at an end,
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack had vanished. Tricker, save for a reason, would have
followed his vanishing example; there was a bullet embedded in the calf
of his leg.
Tricker hopped painfully into a stairway, where he might have advantage
of the double gloom. He had lighted a cigarette, and was coolly leaning
against the entrance, when two policemen came running up.
“What was that shooting?” demanded one.
“Oh, a couple of geeks started to hand it to each other,” was Tricker's
careless reply.
“Did either get hurt?”
“One of 'em cops it in th' leg. Th' other blew.”
“What became of the one who's copped?”
“Oh, him? He hops into one of th' stairways along here.”
The officers didn't see the spreading pool of blood near Tricker's
foot. They hurried off to make a ransack of the stairways, while Tricker
hobbled out to a cab he had signaled, and drove away.
Twenty-four hours later!
Not a block from where he'd fought his battle with Tricker,
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack was walking in Third Avenue. He was as lone as Lot's
wife; for he nourished misanthropic sentiments and discouraged company.
It was a moonless night and very dark, the snow still coming down. What
with the storm and the hour, the streets were as empty as a church.
As Eat-'Em-Up-Jack passed the building farthest from the corner lamp, a
crouching figure stepped out of the doorway. Had it been two o'clock
in the afternoon, instead of two o'clock in the morning, you would have
seen that he of the crouching figure was smooth and dark-skinned as
to face, and that his blue-black hair had been cut after a tonsorial
fashion popular along the Bowery as the Guinea Lop. The crouching one
carried in his hand what seemed to be a rolled-up newspaper. In that
rolled-up paper lay hidden a two-foot piece of lead pipe.
The crouching blue-black one crept after Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, making no more
noise than a cat. He uplifted the lead pipe, grasping it the while with
both hands.
Eat-'Em-Up-Jack, as unaware of his peril as of what was passing in the
streets of Timbuctoo, slouched heavily forward, deep in thought, Perhaps
he was considering a misspent youth, and chances thrown away.
The lead pipe came down.
There was a dull crash, and Eat-'Em-Up-Jack--without word or cry--fell
forward on his face. Blood ran from mouth and ears, and melted redly
into the snow.
The crouching blue-black one shrank back into the stairway, and was seen
no more. The street returned to utter emptiness. There remained only
the lifeless body of Eat-'Em-Up-jack. Nothing beyond, save the softly
falling veil of snow, with the street lamps shining through.