House of Thieves (12 page)

When the carriage reached the corner of Fifty-Ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, George reached over and hugged his father, pulling him close. Cross embraced his son, tears filling his eyes. He didn't want to let him go. It was like George was six years old again. He wanted to hold him, to protect him from all the bad things in life.

As George walked away, he turned and waved to his father. Cross's anger toward his son vanished. He loved George with all his heart. He would do anything to save him.

• • •

George walked to the north side of the street and into Central Park. Running off the stone path, he stumbled into the undergrowth, fell to his knees, and threw up his lunch. His head was spinning. He turned onto his back, looking up through the canopy of trees at the cloudless sky.

His worst fear had been realized—his father had discovered his secret. He wished Kent had killed him that night in the power plant. The shame and humiliation of what had happened ate away at George's insides like a horrible pain, the likes of which he'd never felt in his life. In their world, fathers and sons weren't supposed to be close, but George and his father were, which made the revelation all the more unbearable.

He was lucky, George knew. A tyrannical father would have exposed him and cast him out of the family forever. Instead, his father had forgiven him. He was even giving him another chance—as long as he gave up gambling.

George wanted to keep his promise with all his heart, but he knew it was almost impossible. There was an illness inside him. He hadn't attempted to explain that to his father in the carriage; he knew people didn't understand, that they thought gambling a moral failing. But it was a sickness, he thought wildly, one that caused men and women to destroy themselves like a drunk or drug addict would. He didn't know if he had the strength to withstand it.

Where
did
my
father
get
forty-eight thousand dollars?
he wondered, staring up at the trees. His first thought was Aunt Caroline, but he knew his father could never go to her; such a request would have meant certain expulsion from her world. Did his father borrow from friends or clients, sell the house on Madison, or even place a bet? The amount was easily three years of his income as an architect.

Wherever he'd gotten the money, George swore he'd pay him back—after he wiped out the nine thousand he still owed.

“Charlie, meet my friend, Injun Sam Kelly.”

Charlie, who had never met an Indian, stared at the boy, looking for some trace of Indian blood. But he seemed to be completely white, a pale, blond-haired boy of about eight. He wore a man's plaid shirt that hung past his knees.

“Glad to know ya, Charlie. Call me Sam.”

“So what have ya been up to?” Eddie asked the boy.

“Doin' lookout work for the Whyos,” Sam said, voice brimming with pride.

“The Whyos are the toughest gang in town, next to Kent's Gents,” Eddie told Charlie. “When they're robbing a store at night, Sam here keeps an eye out for the cops.”

“Also been robbin' Protestant churches.” As an aside to Charlie, Sam said, “We're all Irish down here, so we hate Protestants.”

“That's way better than what you used to do—pretending to be the kid of that wop organ grinder on Mulberry and gathering up the pennies people threw at him,” Eddie said, smiling at the memory.

Sam rolled his eyes—then lit up with an idea. “Say, I know a warehouse at the end of Grand where there's boxes full of bridles and horse stuff. We can get in real easy. What d'ya say? We sell it and split it three ways.”

“Later. Charlie and me's goin' uptown to do a little wranglin'.”

• • •

Carrying a large canvas U.S. Post Office mailbag and a wooden billy club, Eddie led Charlie along Twelfth Avenue. Charlie had freed up his whole afternoon by telling his parents he'd be at dancing class. Last Thursday, he'd supposedly attended drawing lessons. Charlie's newfound interest in the arts had delighted his parents. Praising his enthusiasm, they'd given him money—which Charlie had promptly pocketed for other ventures.
Science
classes
at
the
Museum
of
Natural
History
will
be
next
, he thought, smiling.

“It's coming up on the right. All these places along the docks are good huntin',” Eddie said with an air of authority. “But I've had the best luck here.”

They stopped in front of an abandoned four-story brick warehouse, once used to store cargo unloaded from the ships that docked across the street. Eddie pointed to the arched entry that no longer had a door, and they entered. Inside was an open space, the plank floor completely covered with debris and broken glass. The tall windows allowed enough daylight for the boys to see their way around.

Eddie positioned Charlie near the rear wall and handed him the club. “When I tell you, start banging this club like crazy all over the floor,” he whispered.

Eddie walked to a door in the rear wall and out into a tiny yard. Near the corner of the building, a small basement window with missing glass stood open. Spreading the mailbag wide, he covered the entire opening. “Start banging!”

At the signal, Charlie began to pummel the floor with the club. The sound was like pistol reports, echoing throughout the building.

Eddie heard the scurrying of tiny feet and high-pitched squeaking from the basement below. Then objects started hurling themselves into the bag from the window opening with great velocity, as if someone was throwing rocks.

The bag filled up fast, until it looked like a single, vibrating mass.

“Stop,” Eddie yelled. He yanked the bag to an upright position and pulled the drawstrings tight. Dozens of gray rats with long, pink tails raced past his feet into the yard.

Club in hand, Charlie ran to the back. “There must be a hundred in there,” he said, delighted.

“I dunno. I sure as hell ain't putting my hand in to count 'em. Rat bites hurt like hell, and you can get rabies from 'em. Start foaming at the mouth like a mad dog.”

Eddie tied the drawstring around the neck of the bag, ensuring there would be no escapees. The bag was pulsating with rats, struggling in a mad frenzy. He took the club from Charlie and started beating on the canvas. “That'll keep 'em in line,” he said.

The boys took hold of the bag and dragged it through the warehouse and onto the sidewalk.

“We don't have far to go. The place is just a few blocks up, on West Twenty-Seventh,” he said.

“How much do you think we'll get?” Charlie asked eagerly.

“The going rate is twelve cents a head, and I ain't gonna take a penny less.”

Taking a rest every block, the boys finally made it to a saloon whose front was painted a bright blue. They dragged the bag through an alley on the left-hand side to a rear yard.

“Wait here, and I'll get Nardello.”

Eddie eventually returned with a lean, swarthy man who had greasy black hair. “Put 'em in the corral for the count,” he ordered.

At the rear of the yard was a walled enclosure of wood boards almost four feet high. At the bottom was a sliding panel, which Nardello opened with his foot.

“All right, let 'em out.”

Eddie untied the drawstring, shoved the bag into the opening, and kicked the rear until every rat was out.

“Eleven cents a head.”

“Fuck you and the horse you came in on. Twelve, you dago bastard. Look at the quality there. Nice and fast,” Eddie yelled.

Charlie gaped at him. He had never seen a child talk to an adult in such a manner.

“Twelve, then. So I can get rid of your ass.”

Eddie hung over the top of the wall and began counting with his index figure, jabbing at the air.

Nardello did as well.

“I got forty-eight,” said Nardello.

“I got fifty-three,” snapped Eddie.

“Fifty, then,” Nardello said.

Eddie nodded.

The man counted six one-dollar bills into Eddie's palm, and the boys exchanged triumphant smiles.

“We're about to start. If you want to watch, I'll let you in for free,” Nardello said.

“Nah, we gotta get downtown to get our papers,” Eddie said, placing three dollars in Charlie's hand.

As Charlie and Eddie came out of the alley, Julia and Nolan entered through the front door of the saloon.

George hated cooking for himself. His bachelor apartment on West Fifty-Ninth Street had a small kitchen off the parlor, but he rarely set foot in it. If Kitty didn't fix him a meal at her place, he'd eat in a restaurant or buy a sandwich. He could always go home to eat—his mother begged him constantly to come for dinner—but that would mean facing his father, and he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd thought the shame would diminish with time, but it had increased instead. Over and over, he relived the confrontation with his father. He felt physically sick every time he thought of it.

He loved his father more than anything. John Cross had spent many hours talking and playing with him. He was always there to help George when he was troubled. Although he was busy with his architectural practice, he never used it as an excuse not to spend time with his son. He was like that with Julia and Charlie too. All three children had a close bond with their parents, unlike most of George's friends, whose nannies were more like their mothers.

Dodging his father meant not seeing his brother or sister, and this too gave George a profound feeling of emptiness. He enjoyed discussing literature with Julia and baseball with Charlie. He'd promised to take his little brother to the Polo Grounds to see a Giants game this summer, and he wasn't going to let him down. He resolved to call him when he got home.

The question of where his father had found forty-eight thousand dollars to pay his debt was also deeply troubling. This weighed on George, a mystery he couldn't solve. His determination to repay his father had become all consuming—and this intensified his gambling sickness. But he kept losing.

“Why, George Cross, haven't seen you in a coon's age. How's my Harvard man?” a voice behind him called out.

George spun around to face Jack Bacon, a collector for Turk Holden, who owned the Silver Slipper gambling den on Houston Street.

“Good to see you, Jack,” said George, resisting the overpowering impulse to start running in the other direction. “What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

“Just conducting a little business for Holden,” the broad-chested thug replied. “You know, Georgie, why don't you come with me? You might find it fun.”

“Well, Jack, I was just…”

“Only take a few minutes. Come on, old boy, keep me company,” he said in a cheerful tone.

Jack took hold of George's elbow and steered him along Fifty-Sixth Street. While they walked, Jack chattered on about baseball and how well Brooklyn was doing, rattling off the season's statistics and scores. He led George to a well-to-do apartment house. On the fifth floor, Jack knocked on a door.

A well-dressed, middle-aged woman answered. A look of sheer terror convulsed her face when she saw Jack.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Todd. Is William about?” he asked in the politest of voices.

“No, I'm sorry. He…”

Jack placed his shovel-size hand in the center of the woman's forehead and shoved her violently to the floor. He walked through the doorway, turned, and beckoned George to follow him, smiling broadly.

The apartment was well furnished. The spacious parlor had a grand round table in the center, adorned with ornaments and a sculpture. Jack deliberately walked into it, sending it crashing to the ground. The woman cried out.

“Oops. So clumsy of me. My apologies.” Still smiling, he reached over and pulled a glass-fronted bookcase forward. It hit the floor with a resounding crash. While the woman wailed, Jack went from room to room in the apartment, looking under beds and in closets. George followed behind, unsure what else to do.

Sitting deep in the rear of the kitchen pantry, Jack found a paunchy, bald man of about fifty.

“So good to see you again, William,” Jack said, yanking the man out by his ankle.

“I'll have something for you tomorrow, I swear! I swear,” William screamed.

Jack kicked the man full in the face, if he were punting a football. Then he kicked him repeatedly in the stomach while William's wife screamed continuously from the front parlor. Pulling William upright, Jack leaned him against the kitchen wall and pummeled his face until blood splattered in all directions. William screamed for mercy, reaching desperately into his pockets to produce some money, but Jack was unmoved. He started working on his midsection.

Pressed hard against the opposite wall, George stood cringing at the sight.

Mrs. Todd came rushing into the kitchen to intervene, but as she approached Jack, he swung out his left arm and swatted her to the polished wooden floor with no more effort than he would have taken to strike a fly.

Growing tired of the effort, he let go of William, who slumped to the floor, and looked around the kitchen. Taking a knife from the kitchen counter, Jack placed the blade inside William's left nostril and flicked up. Blood gushed like a geyser. Jack stood over him, viewing his handiwork, then shook his head and cut the other nostril. Satisfied, he kicked William hard in the groin as a parting gesture.

“I'm coming back tomorrow, and you better have my six hundred dollars, William. If you don't, I'm going to have to hurt you,” Jack said over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. To the right of the entry, an expensive-looking vase sat on a console table. Jack grabbed it and smashed it against the wall.

At the door, George stopped and turned to view the carnage. Husband and wife were screaming in agony; blood covered the kitchen floor. It looked as though someone had slopped a bucket of red paint from one end of the room to the other. George felt faint. He steadied himself against the foyer wall, trying to breathe. An instant later, he started violently as Jack slapped his paw on his shoulder, guiding him down the iron and stone stairs.

“Now, like I was sayin', Jeffries of Brooklyn is just as good a player as anyone the Giants got.”