House of Thieves (22 page)

Nolan stood at the back of the room with his best friend, Pickle Nose Johnson, an expert forger. Their gang, the East Side Cowboys, rarely held official meetings. The leader, Spike Milligan, detested all authority. He ran the gang in a very autocratic manner and preferred to meet members individually. Nolan thought it must be a serious matter for them to gather like this in the rear of the gang's saloon, the Bucket of Blood.

As one of the finest pickpockets in New York City, Nolan was highly regarded by the gang. Milligan liked him because he was respectful and a good, consistent earner. He never tried to cheat the gang out of its share either. In return, the gang provided protection from other gangs that might intrude on Nolan's territory, the Ladies' Mile. Fourteenth to Twenty-Third Streets offered a rich hunting ground, with many silk purses just waiting to be picked. Christmastime was the most lucrative season, but the area was a temptation year-round.

The Cowboys, who numbered around sixty, sat knocking back shots of Irish whiskey and draining schooners of beer. Lunch had been set out; they devoured sandwiches of rye bread, liverwurst, and salami slathered with brown mustard. Times were good for gangs in New York. The docks were full of good things to steal, and out-of-town hicks were flocking to town, ready to be robbed. The Cowboys couldn't have been happier.

Milligan walked to the front of the room, and the noise instantly ceased.

“Boys, somethin's been bothering the hell outta me,” he announced. Milligan was a barrel-chested man with flaming red hair and a long pointy nose. He squinted accusingly at his men. “I don't like it when another gang gets rich and we don't. It jest ain't fair.”

The men in the room murmured in agreement.

“There've been some real big heists in the last couple of months. You all heard about the Cook and Greene houses gettin' knocked off.” Milligan paused for dramatic effect, then growled contemptuously, “I know it was Kent's Gents that did those jobs. I just heard that they stole some valuable horses from some rich bastards too. Those three jobs took in what we clear in a whole goddamn year!” He slammed his big fist down onto the table, upsetting a schooner of beer.

The gang put down their drinks and sandwiches and started talking among themselves. Nolan stayed silent, his mind whirling. He knew that Milligan hated Gentleman Jim Kent. Milligan hated everyone who was better bred, better educated, and smarter than he. His hatred was also fueled by his unshakable belief that street crime was the province of the poverty-stricken underclass, not college-educated swells who smoked Cuban cigars and ate at Delmonico's. It was this crossing of class lines that upset Milligan most.

“Now,” Milligan shouted, silencing the crowd. “I found out that they have an inside man who set those jobs up. I don't know his name yet, but they call him the Engineer.”

The gang all seemed to think this was less than sporting.

“We have to find this man and make him an offer to join up with us. Pay 'im more than that cheapskate Kent,” Milligan said. “Every man has his price, and we'll learn his.”

“What if he won't switch sides?” a man shouted.

Milligan smiled and shook his head. “Well, we can't allow the competition to have an unfair advantage, can we?”

Cross knew what an animal felt like when it was caught in a steel trap. No matter how hard he struggled, short of chewing off his own leg, he couldn't get free.

A week had passed since he'd been forcibly made a permanent member of Kent's Gents. Until he thought of a way out, he had to cooperate. That meant planning the next job.

When he'd returned home after his meeting with Kent, he'd found Helen waiting up to celebrate the end of their indenture. She had baked a Lady Baltimore cake, his favorite dessert. When he told her it wasn't over, Helen had almost fallen to her knees, as if she were physically crushed by the news. Nothing had changed, she said; her children and husband were still in danger. There was no end in sight.

But instead of weeping, she'd sat in an armchair and stared out into space, almost as if she were in a trance. Cross had stared at her, unsure what to think.

After a few minutes, she'd stood and said in a calm, determined voice, “The Whitmans will be away in Long Branch for two weeks, starting on Tuesday.”

• • •

If he could ignore his unwanted partnership with Kent, times couldn't have been better for Cross. He'd been getting so much new work that he'd had to hire three more draftsmen. He was at the height of his career, yet his predicament canceled out any happiness he might have felt.

One of his new commissions was a theater on Longacre Square. It was a prestigious job, but since he'd never designed a theater, Cross began doing research, attending numerous shows. Instead of sitting and enjoying the performances, he paid close attention to the seating, the interior detailing, the staging logistics, bathrooms, and circulation. At the end of a show, he waited, watching how the patrons exited. He noted sight lines, measured how wide the seats were and how much leg room there was. Every night for a week, he'd attended the theater by himself. He was glad for the immersive nature of the experience. It took his mind off his problems.

Tonight, he was walking home from a revival of
The
Telephone
Girl
at the Casino Theater on the corner of Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street. The building, designed by his friend Francis Kimball, was only four years old and offered the city's most up-to-date theater design. Kimball had given him a set of drawings to study and had asked the owner to let Cross walk around backstage. It was a beautiful building, done in a Moorish style that gave it exotic appeal. The theater, which sat thirteen hundred, had a six-story, domed tower anchoring the corner. Still, its most novel feature was a roof garden, the first in the city. The garden served as a separate space, had seating to serve alcohol and food, and offered a small stage for entertainment. It was lit by thousands of electric lights and packed every night. Cross hoped he could design something half as good.

It was late September. The nights were finally getting cooler. Cross took his time, smoking and enjoying the evening. In his mind, he worked out the basic shape of his theater on its midblock site. He wanted a dramatic entry with a long canopy to protect theatergoers from the weather as they waited for their carriages.
It
should
be
bigger
than
the
one
at
the
Academy
of
Music
, he thought.

“Excuse me, sir. Can I get a light?”

A rough man in an ill-fitting green suit stood next to Cross. Jolted out of his reverie, Cross said, “Certainly,” and pulled out a box of matches. Smiling, he lit the man's cigar.

“Beautiful night, isn't it?” said the man.

Cross was anxious to be on his way but didn't want to be rude. With a sigh, he answered. “Yes, but fall will be here soon. I prefer the cooler weather.”

“Me too. It's been hotter than a nigger's ass this summer, hasn't it?”

“Yes, there were some hot days.” Cross nodded good-bye and started to walk on.

“Hey, don't I know you?”

“No, I don't think we've ever met,” said Cross over his shoulder.

“Sure, sure, you work for Gentleman Jim Kent, don't you?”

Cross stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at the man. He knew every face in Kent's gang, but he had never seen this man before.

A sense of panic enveloped Cross. How did this piece of scum know about him? It was no good to pretend ignorance. “How the hell did you know that?” he snarled.

“Oh, I hear things.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're called the Engineer.”

Cross was about to correct the man but stopped. “What else have you heard?”

“That you're a smart fellow. An expert planner who knows where the big money is.”

Cross smiled. “I'm afraid you're mistaken, my good man.”

“Nope, that's who you are.”

“What do you want of me?' Cross blurted. He was tired of beating around the bush. “Out with it, damn it.”

“You're shortchanging yourself, working for Kent. You could do better. I know a way you could make a lot more money. And work for people you can trust—not a murdering shit like Kent.”

The puzzle pieces of this mysterious encounter were slowly fitting into place. Cross was being recruited by a rival gang. Which meant someone else knew what he'd been doing.

Oddly, in a roundabout way, he was flattered by the offer. He remembered working in the office of H. H. Richardson when an architect from Stephen Hatch's office approaching him, asking him to jump ship. Hatch had done many prominent buildings in the city, including Bryant's Opera House. Cross, then a young man not long out of the École des Beaux-Arts, had been flattered to be asked to join his firm. The promises of more pay and design responsibility were tempting, and he gave the proposition a great deal of consideration. But in the end, he stayed with Richardson, wanting to learn from a master.

This was different. Richardson wouldn't have had him murdered for leaving. There could be only one response.

“Thank whoever sent you for the offer, but I'm staying put,” he said.

“Just think about it,” the man urged. “And take this. Little token of our esteem.”

The man placed a very expensive pearl-and-gold tie stud in his hand. Cross didn't protest; he didn't want to insult the man and risk a beating—or worse.
Who
had
the
stud
once
belonged
to?
he wondered. Maybe someone he knew.

“Thank you. But—”

“Just think about it,” the man repeated. “We'll talk again.”

“Jesus Christ, Georgie! You did it! We're in the clear!”

On the edge of the green felt of the faro table lay nine thousand dollars in greenbacks. Kitty had lost control, hugging and kissing George ecstatically. She grabbed a handful of bills, closed her eyes, and rubbed them against her high, rouged cheekbone. No perfume had a sweeter smell. The crowd around the table was cheering the way people had cheered when George hit the winning home run at the Polo Grounds.

George was floating somewhere in the stratosphere. He'd chased this feeling for so long. Kitty began gathering the stacks of bills and placing them in the envelope the house attendant handed her. With the money tucked safely inside his frock coat pocket, George took Kitty by the arm, bowed to the adoring crowd, and walked out of Benfield's.

On Forty-Sixth Street, Kitty gave him a long, passionate kiss, not giving a damn what the passersby thought. George patted the bulge on his left side, smiling down at her.

“I knew I'd hit a lucky streak. Mathematics all comes down to probabilities,” he said.

“We're going straight to Mallory to pay him off,” Kitty said, looking George square in the eye.

“We have more than enough,” George said. “We should go get you a special gift first and celebrate at Sherry's.”

“After.”

“Then let's get a carriage,” George shouted with glee, grabbing her arm. Across the street, a conveyance was discharging a passenger. But as they got closer, someone else commandeered it. George looked up and down Forty-Sixth Street but saw no other carriages.

“We'll go down to Forty-Second and get one.”

As they walked down Sixth Avenue, they passed a large toy store with huge, plate-glass windows. George stopped in his tracks. Without saying a word, he tugged Kitty's arm, drawing her inside.

“Why are we here?” she asked, casting him a puzzled look.

“I want to share my good luck with the children at school,” he said, already perusing the shelves. “The girls would love china dolls, and the boys like cast-iron toys—like that locomotive there.”

Overhearing his wish, the proprietor appeared with a hearty, “May I help you, sir?”

Though she was annoyed by the detour, Kitty decided not to make a fuss. Playing the good sport, she inspected the wide variety of dolls, ready to make some selections and get the hell out. George examined the trains and horses. As he mulled his choices, his eye stopped on a blue bicycle leaning against the wall of the shop. It was one of the new safety bikes and had equally sized wheels instead of the huge front wheel that made older models almost impossible to ride. The new design had spawned a bicycling craze all over America. It was the best gift one could get.

“How much is that bicycle?” he asked.

“Twenty-five dollars, sir, and they come in a range of colors,” the proprietor said, rubbing his delicate white hands together.

George stared at the bicycle and then grinned. “I want fifteen of them,” he said.

“George! No!”

The proprietor frowned at Kitty's protest but beamed a smile at George. “Certainly, sir. We only have four in stock here, but there are many more in our warehouse on Murray Street.”

“Get me a variety of colors. The address is 112 East Broadway,” George said, counting out the money.

“They'll be there tomorrow,” said the very happy shop owner.

“For God's sake, George, you can't give everyone a bicycle,” Kitty said. “It's too extravagant. What will Dr. Caldwell say?”

“Dr. Caldwell can go straight to hell. His family was rich, and he never wanted for anything,” George said bitterly.

The proprietor pressed the receipt into George's hand before Kitty could change his mind.

“That's enough, then,” she said firmly. “Don't buy anything else.”

Irritated, George thrust the envelope toward Kitty. “You hold the money then.”

On the street, though, Kitty saw the happiness radiating from George. He was smiling from ear to ear. She wasn't going to chastise him again, she resolved. After all, it was only a tiny portion of the money.

Instead of hailing a carriage, they walked down Sixth Avenue. Catching hold of his arm, Kitty matched George's brisk pace along the sidewalk. Occasionally, she looked up at his handsome face. He smiled at her but said nothing. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, with a warm breeze sweeping the avenue. Kitty felt so happy, as if her heart might burst.

As they neared the corner of Thirty-Eighth Street and Sixth Avenue, George came to a halt. He turned west and walked a few doors to a wide brownstone with forest-green canvas awnings on every window. Kitty knew this address. She took a step back, heart sinking in her breast.

“Please give me my money,” George said gently.

Kitty looked at him incredulously.

“I need my money,” he repeated.

“I'm not going to give it to you,” she said, shaking her head.

George's eyes narrowed. “You don't understand.”

“Don't understand what?” Kitty asked, looking not at him but at a porter across the street, sweeping off a stoop in slow, steady strokes.

“My good luck is bound to go on. I have to take advantage of it. It's like a strong wind behind a ship. You don't fold your sails—you keep going as far as you can, because you never know when the wind might die.”

“That's nonsense, George. We're taking the money to Mallory,” Kitty said, looking unflinchingly into George's eyes. “It's taken us too long to get this. You can't blow it now.”

“Trust me,” George said soothingly, extending his hand. “I can double this.”

“No, goddamn it.”

George's face grew dark, and he swallowed hard. He moved closer.

“Please, George, for God's sake, don't do this,” Kitty pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. “Let's get away from here. We'll have a wonderful dinner after we see Mallory, maybe go to a show.”

“Now,” he commanded loudly.

“There's no way in hell I'm going to let you do this,” she said defiantly, holding the purse behind her back.

George's blue eyes seemed full of fire as he lunged at her. Kitty backed away, but he caught her by the arm, which she tried with all her might to keep locked behind her back. George jerked her around, putting her back to him.

“No, no, don't do this,” she yelled. Passersby noticed the commotion but did nothing to intervene. Kitty was sobbing, tears running down her cheeks. “Don't you know you're going to lose?” she cried.

This enraged George. He easily twisted her arm until the purse fell to the sidewalk. Picking it up, he removed the envelope and handed the purse back, smiling amiably.

“There's nothing to worry about, my love. You'll see.” George began to climb the high stoop of the brownstone, the fire still burning in his blue eyes. “Come along.”

Kitty sprang forward, grabbing his pant leg. She fell onto the stoop and sat on the bottom step, holding George's leg in a bear hug. He tried to wriggle free, but she clung tightly to him. Furious, he took hold of her hand, roughly yanked it away, and resumed his ascent. Kitty collapsed into hysterics, lying flat on the step, bawling her eyes out. This was George's sickness, taking over his mind and soul. He was powerless to prevent it. And so was she.

A group of people paused to ask if they could help, but Kitty waved them away. She lay there for fifteen minutes, then sat up and wiped the tears that had streamed down her face like rivers, destroying her powder and rouge. Still sobbing, she stood and looked up at the glass-and-wood doors of the brownstone. She didn't want to be there when George came out.

Slowly, Kitty walked away.