FISTS AND THE MAN
Between Goldberg's and the polite in indulgence there was a great gulf
fixed. From the north side, with its glittering palaces of Bacchus
dispensing varied decoctions served by irreproachable chemists, you
travelled south through a scattered series of lessening liquid glories.
Finally you came to Goldberg's, where they took it straight in draughts
of cheap, blistering stuff which maddened and incited to crime.
Goldberg's was the dive of last resort for the submerged tenth. Its maw
gaped hungrily, gorging upon the dregs it gathered in. Finally, when the
victims were stripped of their miserable resources, they were spewed
forth, with brains inflamed with the liquid damnation purveyed there.
Ripe for any crime, they were foul fruit for the gaoler and a menace to
men.
Goldberg's existed by grace of the modern god of money. Goldberg was a
tool of the autocratic Shaughnessy, who contrived to head and manage a
corrupt city government. Goldberg captained his ward, which was one of
Shaughnessy's gilt-edged assets. The ward had become Shaughnessy's by
right of Goldberg's conquest. It was a ward of thugs and human jugs and
brutal, elementary mugs; all American sovereigns, equalized with
decency under the deathless document of American independence. Born
sovereigns, or having taken out papers, the adult males in this ward had
lined up one day, now far in the past. One hand of each proudly clutched
a ballot, the badge of his sovereignty. The other hand was greedily
extended for the accompanying cash. Into the grimy palms had dropped
more cash from Shaughnessy via Goldberg, than could be afforded by any
of their rivals. So the ballots poured into the boxes for Goldberg,
whose bull-faced lieutenants flanked the line to see that the bargain
was carried out. Goldberg was the choice of his people for alderman. He
was theirs, and through his rude genius, under Shaughnessy, it
transpired that they were his forever.
He did not sit with the council now. He had long since relinquished even
the higher posts of confidence with which Shaughnessy had honored him
after his aldermanic career. Truth to tell, Goldberg had become
sufficiently notorious to convince Shaughnessy that it would be politic
to remove him from under the direct glare of the public eye. He could
perform better service from the wings. So Goldberg had apparently
retired from all connection with the politics of the city and even his
own ward, though Shaughnessy and the retired gentleman could have told
better. They now picked their puppets to run, invariably routing the
forces of law and order on election day with the tremendous majorities
for license and disorder rolled up in their several wards. There was
subsequent increment, which someone got, gathered in shady subways of a
peculiar municipal government; presenting the situation which makes the
indifferent voter a byword and reproach in many cities of this broad
and extremely hospitable land. On these triumphal election nights, too,
joy overflowed at Goldberg's place,--albeit he was "no longer interested
in politics,"--and fell like strong dew upon the unjust. There were free
draughts of the cheap in beverages flowing fast into the faces of the
unlaved, unshaved crew. The godless exulted and Goldberg continued to
hold them for Shaughnessy in the hollow of his hand.
As Micky was whirled southward, in an open trolley car, he reflected
upon his dubious assignment. How should he conduct his campaign? It will
be readily gathered that newspaper men were not especially popular at
Goldberg's. Most of the representative city sheets, irrespective of
political leanings, had for years been flaying the fifth ward king,
seeking to uncrown him. Thus far it had been without avail. Not yet had
the decent element been able to throw off the thrall. This was because
they had been indulging in that practice which so universally blocks the
wheels of progress in most lines, the pastime of quarreling among
themselves in regard to the most desirable means to the end. So
Shaughnessy and Goldberg, their colleagues and all they represented and
misrepresented, were still in control, and buying larger burglar-proof
safes. The newspapers had kept the quarreling factions of the
perennially defeated party informed as to this growing prosperity, as
well as they were able to ascertain regarding it. Naturally the gang's
leaders and their mates resented this, for it favored the chances of the
opposing party's factions finally getting together and putting the whole
evil crew out of commission. When a man has begun to make easy money,
he mourns to break off the habit; nor does he view with pleasure
attempts to compel him to do so.
Micky hoped he could get his story quietly, for discovery of his errand
in that unfriendly atmosphere would probably mean failure and perhaps a
broken head. However, he hardly thought he would encounter anyone he
knew there, so would trust to luck.
Alighting from the car at the end of South Avenue, he made his way
through a tangle of dark, rank thoroughfares, which grew dingier and
more disreputable as he continued, till he came to the street, little
more than an alley, where Goldberg's flourished like a green bay
tree,--late in season, for the structure needed painting. Low and dingy,
squat and ugly, it crouched between a couple of cheap brick tenements
like a stolid, sullen beast of prey; its few small windows alight with a
dull red glow, like vengeful eyes. From within there came the discordant
brawling of a cracked phonograph. A couple of red-eyed human derelicts,
stupid with drink, lounged against the portal as Micky entered.
It was quiet enough now. There were no signs of a disturbance. Micky was
chagrined. He had hoped to arrive before the trouble, whatever it had
been, was over; if not in the thick of it, at least before the
participants had dispersed. He could then follow some of the interested
parties and secure the details, for he knew his game too well to have
meditated seriously the idea of making any pointed inquiries in the dive
itself. That would mean an instant awakening on the part of the
questioned to the fact that a newspaper man was present. If he
persisted, there might ensue rough treatment and a swift and painful
exodus. However, he found it as quiet as the grave. It was apt to be so
at Goldberg's after a rumpus. Micky shrewdly guessed that the end of the
trouble had been the signal for a general discretionary scattering.
There were present only the bartender and two men who stood against the
bar, their backs to him. Micky noticed with relief that Goldberg was not
present. It was as well, for Micky and he had met.
Micky walked slowly to the end of the big low-ceilinged room and seated
himself at a small beer-splashed table. He chafed inwardly. What had
happened? Had the police arrived and gone, if indeed they knew anything
about it? Or, worse luck, had some man from a rival paper anticipated
him?
These disturbing reflections came simultaneously with O'Byrn's seating
himself. As he did so, a step sounded behind him and a form sank into a
chair at his left, facing his own table.
Micky's heart bounded. Luck was with him after all. "How 're ye, Slade?"
he sang out, with cordiality tempered with a sly wink. "I just got in
from the Speedway track. Just enough left to save hitting the ties
home." Micky's horsy clothes bore out the bluff.
Nick Slade was no fool. He caught the situation at a glance. Micky had
rendered him a service only a week before, the little Irishman's blarney
rescuing him from a prospective entanglement with the talons of a
policeman. Slade was a shred of a fellow, with a lean dark face and
black eyes that were as impersonal as a Chinaman's, as they gazed into
Micky's warning blue ones.
"To the bad, eh?" he rejoined, with a dry grin in the direction of the
men at the other end of the room, whom he was facing while Micky's back
was toward them. "If you'd cut out layin' your own coin, and stick to
business in tippin' off the guys who can afford to lose it, you'd be
better off. I told you not to go up against that bum line of
selling-platers."
"Well, I've got enough left to have a drink on it anyway," replied
Micky, with reckless prodigality, rapping on the table for the
bartender. "Lap up with me. Say what."
"Spivins water," answered Slade, his synonym for whisky. Micky ordered
ale, for ordinarily he avoided the little red devil. When he did not,
the little red devil played ducks and drakes with him and his prospects.
When the bartender had set down the glasses and gone, Micky said
quietly, "Slade, you know why I'm here. Do you know that story?"
"Sure," said Slade, "but you don't want to ask for it here."
"I know it," acquiesced Micky, producing cigars. "That's the reason I
just rang the bluff of a cheap sport. I know I'm one anyway, but I don't
want 'em to tumble to the fact that I write when I'm not sportin'."
"Sure not," agreed Slade. "If they did, Irish, someone would get hurt,
and it wouldn't be the sidewalk. Mulligan, the bartender, is soitinly a
baby bouncer."
"Well now, Nick," said Micky, "I want that story, and I want it right.
It's gettin' early. Now you do a heart-to-heart Uncle Tom and Little Eva
talk with me about the races, and by and by I'll go away. You're not in
it, you know; I flash no paper and mum's the word. I just keep it in my
nut, understand? Now spill it out."
So Nick spilled it out and Micky absorbed his facts, sans comment;
mentally registering the full details of a story that proved interesting
the next day, well besprinkled with gore and full of the zest which made
life worth living in the realm that was Goldberg's. Micky gave a subdued
grunt of satisfaction as it was finished, his restored complacency being
heightened by Nick's assurance that so far he was the sole reporter on
the scene. Harkins' tip must have been a private one. Micky gloated over
the prospective beat.
He had it all now, and time was forging pressward. He shoved what cigars
he had with him toward Nick, with an eloquent look of gratitude, and
rose, moving nonchalantly toward the door, Slade following.
All had been well, but one of the imbibing pair fronting the bar chanced
to turn, eyeing Micky squarely. He was a gent of agility. With a couple
of bounds he sentineled the doorway, barring the intended exodus.
Wrathful fire gleamed in his bleared eyes; the stubble of his crimsoned
face seemed not unlike the rising hackles of an enraged dog.
"Speedway track, eh?" he roared. "Busted sport, eh? You little baboon,
youse will be busted afore youse gets out o' here, an' dat ain't no lie
neither! Mulligan, d'ye know who dis is?"
"Naw!" replied Mulligan, the laconic, thrusting out an angled chin and
screwing his vicious little eyes into gimlet points. "Who t' 'ell?"
"He's dat new Irish Courier pup!" bellowed the obstacle, "de speckled
sneak wot done my game for me last week. I told youse about it."
"Youse did, Cullinan," admitted the bartender and deliberately rolled up
his shirt sleeves. Cullinan's companion, too, had slouched up and
scowlingly flanked his irate pard at guard. Mulligan thoughtfully
emerged from behind the bar. In the sinister situation, the forcible
tribute that Cullinan had just paid O'Byrn upon his professional ability
failed wholly to arouse a gentle glow of satisfaction in Micky's
disturbed breast. The recognition between him and Cullinan, general
blackleg, had been mutual.
There was an instant's silence. Mulligan broke it with salvos of
scientific and finished profanity.
"Yer here for a story," he concluded, "a hot one. An' ye've got it. But
how de 'ell--" with puzzled head scratchings. His venomous little eyes
fell upon the instinctively shrinking Slade. They flamed luridly.
"Youse little yellow leper!" he growled. "It's youse dat coughed it up!"
He lunged at Slade.
Now between the two guards at the open door there was a thin gap to
liberty. Thin it was, but enough for Slade, who had worldly matters yet
to put in order. He ducked Mulligan's hungry hands, and with a swift
spring of a body whose attenuated bulk was a decided advantage in this
time of stress, he shot like a meteor between the disconcerted guards
and landed in a heap upon the sidewalk outside. Bounding to his feet
like a rubber ball, he darted up the alley. The furious guards,
overturned by the sudden onslaught, scrambled up.
"Follow him, Dinneen!" shouted Mulligan, and Cullinan's partner obeyed,
the room echoing with his curses as he rushed out.
As Slade achieved his liberty, Micky had tried to follow suit. He had
nearly reached the door when the brawny hand of Mulligan shot out and
connected with his collar. There was a backward jerk and the choking
journalist landed in the middle of the room, falling over a table amid
jangling beer glasses. Picking himself up rather dazedly he grinned
amiably into the two scowling faces opposite him. His left hand was cut
slightly by a broken glass. He drew out his handkerchief, stanching the
flow of blood.
"Do you mugs provide free ambulance service for your customers," he
inquired airily, "or is that extra?"
"Shut your face!" remarked Mulligan savagely. "Now ye've got that story
all right, which ain't none of yer business nor yer cursed paper's,
neither. Youse done up a pal o' mine here good and proper last week 'nd
we bote otter lick de stuffin' outer you. But I bets as you didn't come
here of yer own accord, an' I tells ye wot we'll do. You tell de man wot
sent yer dat dere wasn't nuttin' doin', an' you couldn't cop nuttin',
an' we lets you go. Eider dat or--" and his swollen fist fanned the
acrid air an inch from Micky's nose.
Micky's keen Irish eyes weighed the ruffianly odds. A weaker spirit
would have temporized or lied. However, Micky was a man. His answer left
nothing to be arbitrated. It was a mere suggestion, but it held
finality.
"You go to hell!" he said. The next instant his eyes, strangely
distended, saw curious vivid, whirling flashes of crimson and orange and
violet. His tongue, curled fantastically, writhed outward like an ant
eater's. His slender hands tore futilely at brutal, strangling fists
clenched upon his throat. He was simultaneously sensible of dull
thudding blows about the lower part of his body, judging hazily but
quite correctly that Cullinan was kicking him. For a moment so, while
the vivid colors faded and resolved themselves gradually into jetty
black, and consciousness waned. Then he heard dimly a rush of feet, felt
a swift relief as the stifling hands were torn from his throat. Gasping,
he rolled weakly to one side while the shadows slowly lifted from his
protruding eyes. They saw what brought Micky staggering to his feet with
trembling interest.
For the tables were turned, not by a relieving cordon of policemen, but
by one man with vengeance in his hands. A splendid young figure, over
six feet tall, he was in the center of the room, dealing it. A swift
vision of yellow tousled hair, gleaming blue eyes and grim square jaw,
flashed before Micky's bewildered sight. A distinct appreciation welled
within him of the power behind a blow which at that instant knocked Mr.
Cullinan into a corner, where he lay and shuddered. The newcomer now
faced Mr. Mulligan, who, with malice burrowing in his gimlet eyes, at
once fell into approved position. The rescuer laughed a great mellow,
resounding laugh full into Mr. Mulligan's unlovely face. Then, dropping
suddenly, he charged into the bartender in bruising gridiron style, a
brawny shoulder heaving that gentleman in a disorganized heap near his
annihilated partner.
The athlete straightened with another booming laugh. "Come on, kid," he
shouted, "it'll be warm here in a minute." He dragged the still dazed
Micky out of the door. Up to the corner they ran to a cab in waiting.
They sprang in. "Courier office!" directed the stranger, then drew out
his watch.
"You'll have plenty of time for your story," he observed. "I know
Goldberg's, so when I happened around the office just now and Fatty told
me, among other things, what was up, I didn't know as it would do any
harm to drive over, seeing I'd nothing else to do. Makes a fellow feel
restless to get out of the grind for a couple of weeks. You get rusty
for exercise." He laughed again.
Micky remembered his talk with Stearns. "You must be--" he ventured.
"Dick Glenwood," returned the other, as they shook hands. "And you, I
think I know you. Fatty told me, all in three minutes. You know he
generally does."