House of Thieves (21 page)

“What the hell was that?” asked Kent in amazement.

“Goelet's aunt is scared of burning to death in a fire, so he had Stanford White put in a spiral fire escape slide just for her. It's compact and better-looking than sticking a stair on the side of the house,” huffed Cross as they ran.

At the path at the top of the cliff, he halted while Kent ran down, still clinging to his precious manuscripts. Cross saw that two rowboats were almost to the steamship. The last one was waiting for Kent on the beach. Luckily, the ocean was calm.

With the police inside in the house, Cross circled around to the front yard and back to his horse. He was mentally and physically exhausted but managed to ride back to the casino without pitching off. He slipped into the rear of the theater as the audience rose to give the Italian howler a standing ovation. The crowd filed down into the courtyard, where Cross found his wife standing with the Goelets and a crowd of other guests.

“I hope you enjoyed tonight's performance, John,” said Helen in a soft, mocking tone.

“I did. The evening was an unqualified success. We must do this again.”

“Oh, and John,” Helen said. “Mr. Goelet has invited us back to his home for a late dinner.”

“How kind. I've been dying to see the house.”

“You red devil, you'll never have me!”

“You'll be the first of all my wives in my lodge, white woman!”

“Never, you beast!”

“But first you must be made to obey!”

As the war-bonneted warrior chief hefted his tomahawk, ready to rain down a crushing blow upon the scantily clad white maiden, an explosion sounded outside the log cabin. Through the windows came the roar and crackle of reddish-yellow flames.

A bugle call rang out, followed by a volley of earsplitting gunshots. The Indians inside the log cabin ran to the windows, pointed their Winchesters, and fired.

“Holy shit, Eddie, they're using real bullets!” Charlie screamed.

Amid the chaos of the attack, the Indian chief leered at the white girl, lowered his weapon, and ripped her white lace bodice, exposing a plump, pink breast. The girl screamed, cowering back.

“He's going to fuck her right there,” yelled Eddie.

The audience was in a frenzy, screaming and cursing the Indian for what he was about to do. The girl fainted, dropping limply to the floor, and people gasped, realizing that the redskin would easily have his way with her.

“Leave her alone, you red shit!” someone in the audience screamed.

Then the tide seemed to turn. The Indians at the windows began to fall like tenpins, grasping their chests where the bullets had pierced them. More explosions followed.

With an evil smirk, the chief knelt over the helpless girl and lowered her dress to her waist.

“Ya dirty Injun bastard, don't you touch her,” bellowed a woman wearing a floppy hat ringed with fake yellow flowers.

With a resounding crash, the crude wooden door of the log cabin slammed open, and a young cavalry officer with flowing blond hair thrust his way inside. Seeing the chief, his eyes widened in shock, and he lunged forward, ramming his saber through the Indian. The chief staggered back, holding his hands over his wound, and dropped to the floor. The crowd went mad with joy, cheering and clapping.

More cavalry soldiers poured in, killing off the rest of the Indians. The officer lifted up the white maiden and embraced her. The men at the bar at the rear of the Baxter Street Playhouse raised their schooners of beer in honor of the brave soldiers, throwing amber-colored foam in all directions. The crowd rose to its feet, giving the heroes a standing ovation.

The actors proudly took their bows. When the one who played the chief took off his headdress and bowed, the audience hissed and cursed the actor, who smiled broadly. It was proof he'd given a convincing performance.

In the midst of the crowd, George, Charlie, and Eddie clapped and screamed their heads off. George had never had so much fun at the Metropolitan Opera House. He was always bored to death and couldn't understand a word of the German or Italian being spouted by the singers. Not that it mattered. The opera was merely a place for society women to show off their gowns and jewelry, and they gabbed through the entirety of the performance.

Since he'd started teaching on the Lower East Side, George had made it a habit to attend musicals and theater near the sleazy dumps where he gambled. It was wonderfully refreshing to see something so improper and salacious. The plays were always the same: a villain punished for his evil deeds, a nearly nude heroine rescued by a handsome hero.

As the audience filed out, George smiled down at Charlie and Eddie as they chattered away excitedly about the play. He had taken them to four others, but
The
Savage's Lust
was definitely the most exciting. The use of special effects was unparalleled, and while most heroines were in a state of perpetual undress, this menaced maiden exceeded the others by a long shot. It would be a very popular production indeed.

Out in the street, they followed their established after-theater ritual and headed for a restaurant.

“I tell you, they were using real bullets. Don't you think so, George?” Charlie asked.

“Sure sounded like the real thing.”

They tore into plates of beefsteak and fried potatoes. As they ate, George couldn't stop smiling at his brother. He was very pleased that Charlie had found a new world for himself, a universe free of the deadening Knickerbocker propriety they'd been brought up in. Charlie was so happy. Eddie, George had learned, was a good and loyal friend. In a way, it made George envious. He had no such person in his life.

“Her tits were popping out of that dress, did you see?” Eddie exclaimed. “We should go back tomorrow tonight!”

Perhaps
we
will
, George thought.

Nolan sat in his armchair, staring at the invitation he'd lifted from Julia's handbag at the cockfight.

Mr. & Mrs. John Cross

request the pleasure of introducing their daughter

Julia Claire Cross

to

_____________________________________

Monday evening, September 24, at half past nine

at the residence of Mr. William B. Astor
II

424 Fifth Avenue

From a side table drawer, he pulled out a pen and ink pot. In careful, flowing cursive, he wrote “John Evan Nolan” on the blank line. He blew on the ink until it dried.

Walking over to the window, Nolan looked out onto Morton Street. He liked where he lived. Greenwich Village was quiet. He was far from the bustle of the Tenderloin and the filth of the Five Points and the Bowery, where most of his fellow gang members resided. Having a nice, well-furnished flat was a point of pride for him. It might have been the home of a college man or a law clerk.

Although his parents had cast him out into the streets at the age of nine, Nolan had developed a middle-class sense of thriftiness in contrast to the “live today, gone tomorrow” philosophy of the netherworld he inhabited. He had been brought up in a savage and unforgiving jungle where only the strong and wily survived. Death from violence and disease always lurked around the corner, choosing its victims with cruel randomness. At twenty-two, Nolan had seen scores of men and women die before age thirty. To them, such constant threat meant enjoying the moment and never thinking about the future. A dollar made was a dollar instantly spent—on drink, food, gambling, or whores.

Such a life was not for Nolan. He had vowed to save his money. Of the eight hundred dollars he'd recently stolen, three hundred went to the gang, leaving him a five-hundred-dollar share. Eighty percent, or four hundred dollars, went immediately into his account at the Emigrant Savings Bank on Chambers Street. Even if he only came away from a job with ten dollars, eight went into the bank. For six years, he had faithfully built up his fortune. The gang chided him constantly for his frugality, even accusing him of having Jew blood, which he always angrily denied—to their delight. But one hundred dollars was more than enough for the basic necessities and for entertainment, which he enjoyed as much as the next crook. On a good day, he could bring in at least one hundred dollars for himself, or what a bank clerk made in a month.

Nolan went to the table in the center of the parlor and picked up a slim, leather-bound volume. As he settled into his armchair, his black cat, Jupiter, settled in his lap. Nolan opened the book to the title page:
The
Book
of
New
York
Social
Etiquette—A Description of Our Customs as Taught & Practiced by the Superior Families of New York City, by Humphrey L. Oglander
.

The introduction read, “As to the unfortunates who have been reared at remote distances from the centers of civilization, there is nothing left for them to do but to make a careful study of unquestionable authority in those matters of etiquette that prevail among the most refined people.” Nolan had no argument with this statement. While the world of the Bowery and the Five Points was separated by only two miles from Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, it might as well have been as distant as Mars.

Nolan moved on to the first chapter, “The Young Man Who Desires to Enter Society.” It proved a good primer on the basics, including attire for a ball: black broadcloth dress coat, white waistcoat, pantaloons, faultless linen, and a white cravat. No jewelry except plain finger rings, and one's nails must be beautifully cut and trimmed, “like Lord Byron's.” White gloves were essential, as they prevented perspiration from ruining the back of a lady's gown.

Nolan read every chapter carefully, pausing on “A Young Lady's Entrance into Society.” But chapter 10, “Giving and Attending Parties, Balls, and Germans,” was the most informative. First were the instructions on eating properly: the napkin in your lap, never tucked in at the collar; the fork always in the right hand, except when cutting meat. Above all, never bring the knife into contact with the lips. When arriving, a girl and her parents must stand near the entrance of the drawing room, where she is introduced to the guests. A gentleman bows to them, but not excessively.

The dinner at a debutante's coming-out ball comes first, with dancing to follow, but ending no later than 1:00 a.m. A gentleman can only ask the girl for one dance. After the dance is over, he brings her back to where her mother is sitting. He may converse with her for only a minute or two. He then continues to dance with the other ladies who have him reserved on their dance cards. A gentleman never smokes in the presence of ladies but retreats to a library or smoking room in the house.

It was almost eight o'clock when Nolan finished. It was a lot to absorb in one sitting, but there was time to reread before the ball.

He'd just finished fixing himself something to eat when he heard a knock at the door.

“Hello, Bernie,” he said, greeting a small, florid-faced man in his sixties.

“Johnny, my lad. Are you ready for your lesson?” the man asked in a refined British accent.

“Let's start,” Nolan said, waving him in. “Want a drink?”

“Best to wait on that until after our lesson, son,” he replied with a chuckle and a wink.

Bernard Covington, formerly of Birmingham, had been head butler in some of England's finest homes. Because New York society idolized anything English, he'd had his pick of jobs in the city and chose the Pembroke-Joneses, one of the richest families.

But Bernie had the curse. While cleaning up after dinner parties, he would drain every glass on the table, drinking any molecule of wine, claret, hock, or sherry left in them. At first, his master ignored his habit. Only when Bernie was found dead drunk in the wine cellar, surrounded by empty wine bottles of priceless vintage, was he given the sack. The scandal of his dismissal prevented him from landing another job, and he embarked on a new career as a con man. With his British accent and gentlemanly manner, he'd fooled many an out-of-town rube into buying fake stock certificates.

“Now, the first dance will be a quadrille, and we've already gone over that. Then a waltz, a polka, and a mazurka. Do you remember the steps for the mazurka?”

The two men clasped hands and danced the correct steps while Bernie hummed a tune.

“Good boy. Now, at a debutante's ball, there may be what they call a German, which is a circle dance led by a leader and his partner. The leader will motion for a few couples to join in what they call a
tour
de
valse
around the ballroom. When it's finished, he'll motion for two more couples and so on until everyone has danced. The ball will end with
les
bouquets
. For that, they bring a flower cart filled with favors. After each
tour
de
valse
, a couple picks a favor and offers it to a new partner. It continues until everyone has danced and everyone has a favor.”

Bernie laughed at the perplexed look on Nolan's face and slapped him hard on the back. “You're right, lad, it's confusing, but I'll teach you.
And
give you some good tips. With all those people, it's going to get hot as hell in the ballroom. Take extra starched collars and exchange the sweaty ones for fresh in the bathroom.”

The lesson continued on into the night, with Bernie demonstrating steps for more dances in the German. Finally he flopped onto the sofa.

“All right, lad, I'm ready for that drink.”

Cross and Helen had been waiting for this day for weeks.

He'd received a call from Kent that morning, asking him to come down to McGlory's at 7:00 p.m. He knew that Kent was going to tell him the debt was paid after the Goelet job. His family was out of danger. He would never have to see Kent again. The relief was so strong he could almost taste it.

The last months had seemed like a nightmare from which Cross couldn't wake up. What he had been forced to do was reprehensible, but he'd had no choice. And the people he'd helped rob were so rich that they could replace the stolen goods within a week.

But his mind always returned to the image of the Cook's servant girl. Staring out the window of the carriage, unseeing, he chastised himself for being squeamish. This was the price that had to be paid for saving his family. Would he rather see Charlie or George murdered?

At Hester Street, the usual evening depravity was underway. A man lay in the gutter; a filthy stray dog licked eagerly at his face. Whores leaned out of doorways, hectoring passersby. Cross passed through the noise and chaos of McGlory's concert saloon, ignoring the tarts who pressed him to drink with them. He made his way down to the basement corridor. The parade of fake cripples and blind men was beginning to assemble. Without knocking, Cross went into the gang's room and found Kent, Brady, and Coogan seated around the table.

Kent raised his hand in welcome. “Please sit, Mr. Cross,” he said, gesturing to the chair directly across from him.

Cross smiled and sat. On the way there, he'd decided he would control the conversation.

“I suppose my debt, including the interest payments, has finally been satisfied?” he said, using a formal, stentorian voice to show Kent that he meant business.

“Except for a thousand or two, which I forgave out of appreciation for your fine efforts.”

“Then if you and I are finished with our business, I'll bid you farewell, Mr. Kent,” Cross said, beginning to rise from his seat. “I can't honestly say I enjoyed it, but it's been an experience. I think it's best we never meet again.”

“Finished? It's just starting. Mr. Cross, we're going to make more money together. Lots more,” Kent said, rising to his feet and pointing enthusiastically with his gold cane.

“Like hell we are.”

“I'm afraid you've been under a misapprehension, Mr. Cross.”

“What the hell do you mean?” The smiles on the faces of all three men horrified him.

“In the brief time you've worked for us, you've been a gold mine for our organization. We've never cleared so much revenue.”

“I'm glad to have helped. But our business is finished.”

“
You
don't understand. We've decided to let you into our organization on a permanent basis. We'll give you a 7 percent cut of the take. That's very generous. And it's a great deal of money. Far more than you'd make in a year as an architect.”

The three men stood beaming, proud as hell to have bestowed such an honor on Cross.

“Damn you, I don't want to be part of your gang!” Cross cried.

“Organization, Mr. Cross,” Kent said.

“He don't seem to be very appreciative of this offer, does he?” Coogan said.

“No, he doesn't,” Brady said. “I don't think you really have a choice, Cross.”

“You'd be more of a consultant, really. You'll be able to continue your architecture practice. A man as talented as you should be allowed to create. I wasn't joking about having you design a summer home for me,” Kent said, smiling at Cross.

Cross felt his knees weaken beneath him. He took hold of the back of the chair. “You said once I repaid the debt, I was out,” he whispered.

“I might have misled you. I'm sorry. But you're just too damn valuable to let go, Mr. Cross.”

“You've got a real talent for this line of work,” Coogan added.

“You'll make us all rich,” Brady said.

“And I suppose I have no say in the matter.”

“Of course you do. All those in favor of Mr. Cross joining our organization, raise your hands,” Kent said. He, Coogan, and Brady raised their hands. “There you have it. Three to one—democracy in action.”

Cross sat in the chair, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You see, Mr. Cross, in our world, once you're in, you can never leave. No retirement. That's the rule. And if you try to break it, you must be punished—severely.” Kent's tone was that a pastor might use with a wayward congregant.

“You mean my family.”

Brady walked up to him and stooped, bringing his eyes level with Cross's. “Every Tuesday,” he said, “Helen goes to Arnold Constable. Anything can happen to her on the way. She gets in the way of a runaway carriage. Maybe she falls under a horse car and gets trampled to death.” He pulled out a length of piano wire and wrapped it around his hand, critically examining its length.

“Julia and Charlie go back to school in a few weeks,” said Coogan.

“And then there's George. Poor hapless boy,” Brady said. At his words, Coogan burst out laughing. “But we don't have to worry about George. Someone else will wind up killing him.”

Cross jerked his head toward Coogan but said nothing. He had a vague idea of what he was referring to but didn't want to think about it. Things were going badly enough. It was Kent who broke the silence.

“I'm glad we've come to an understanding. Let's drink to our new partner, gentlemen.”