House of Thieves (27 page)

“Just think, Freddie. Two thousand dollars cash in your pocket.”

“You're asking me to take quite a risk, George.”

“Fletcher's in on it,” he lied. “We need you.”

Fred Watkins, George Cross's teammate from Harvard, was a pitcher for the Boston Beaneaters of the National League. He'd had an outstanding collegiate career, and when he'd graduated, Boston had signed him immediately. He was now an average pitcher on a fifth-place team trailing Chicago by thirty games. The season was in its final two weeks, and Boston was in town to play the Giants. George had finally hit a winning streak at faro, but he still owed a packet to a fellow named Hurley, the owner of Handsome Harry's on Baxter Street. Hurley's men had caught up with George two days prior, and he'd pleaded for one last chance before they made good on their promise to kill him. With his back against the wall, he had decided to do something he'd tried and failed with Kent: fix a game.

If all went well, Watkins would throw the game, and the Giants would win this afternoon.

“You're the pitcher, Freddie. You control the game; you know that.” George sat on Freddie's bed in the Windsor Hotel.

“Come on, Freddie, be a sport,” Kitty said. “Help us out—and help yourself too. You don't get paid shit for being a ballplayer.”

Kitty had insisted that George bring her along in an attempt to seal the deal. He'd been working on Freddie for the last two days, but the pitcher still hadn't committed. He was scheduled for the 2:00 p.m. game at the Polo Grounds, and time was running out.

“The Giants are in third place,” Freddie said. “They're far better than us.”

“Then we need you just in case you start winning,” George pointed out.

“Think of all the things you could do with two thousand. You're a Harvard man. You can get a tip from your brother at Kidder, Peabody & Co. and invest it,” Kitty said.

Freddie went over to the window and looked out at the traffic on Fifth Avenue.

“The way I'm pitching, I don't know how long the majors will keep me around.” His voice sounded distant; he spoke to no one in particular. “Sure, the money would come in handy. But it's a big risk.”

Kitty looked at George, frowning. It was 11:00 a.m.

After the incident on the steps outside the gambling hall, Kitty had sworn to stop helping George, but that resolution lasted less than a week. Just as George was compelled to gamble, Kitty was compelled to help him. She just couldn't stop herself.
Maybe
that's what love does to a person
, she reasoned.
It
makes
them
act
in
a
foolish
manner
and
do
things
that
are
bound
to
come
to
no
good.
But good or no, she and George were both under a spell too powerful to resist. And if George didn't immediately come up with the money for Hurley, it wouldn't be a beating and a warning. He'd get a bullet in the head. It was their last chance.

“George, why don't you meet me at the ballpark? Freddie and I can talk things over,” Kitty said. She nodded discreetly at the little table in the middle of the room. George got off the bed, placed five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table, and left.

• • •

After seven innings, the score was Boston 4–0, and George was getting worried.

Sitting three rows behind him were Piker Shaw and Gyp Sullivan, Hurley's collectors. The two men were laughing and rooting loudly for Boston; they wanted Freddie's team to win so that they could kill George after the game, before they went out for dinner.

In her own special way, Kitty thought she had convinced Freddie to cooperate. Her eyes darted repeatedly to Hurley's men. A scowl marred her pretty face.

From his time as a ballplayer, George could see that Freddie was trying to lose. But every time a Giant made contact, the ball wound up in a Boston glove. A strong wind blowing in from center field was making long fly balls, which normally would have been home runs, into long outs at the foot of the fence. Freddie practically lobbed the ball over the plate and still the Giants couldn't get a hit. When they did get men on, they promptly batted into double plays, stranding men on base. Freddie tried walking batters, but they got stranded too.

As if caught up in the spirit of the day, the Boston infielders—normally mediocre fielders—made spectacular plays to deny the Giants hits. Hanson, the third baseman, made a diving grab and snagged a ball that would have driven in two runs. George felt tension building in his temples. He massaged his head, unable to look at Kitty.

At the top of the eighth, Boston came up to bat and pounded two hits down the right field line, putting men on first and third with no outs. George's heart sank. But the reliever, Jack Singleton, bore down and struck out the side, finally giving the fans at the Polo Grounds something to cheer about. And in the bottom of the eighth, with Freddie's help, the Giants' bats came alive. Connor led off with a double to left center. Esterbrook smashed a home run over the fence in right center. The ball flew so far that it landed at the foot of the A. G. Spalding Sporting Goods sign. Keefe singled, and O'Rourke brought him home with a double. The score was 4–3. With no outs, it looked like a cinch for Freddie to get two more runs, but the next three batters popped up, grounded out, and fouled out.

Boston was up, and Morrill, their home-run hitter, drove the ball to the left field fence. George gasped, clutching at Kitty's hand, but the wind kept the ball in. Wise walked but was forced out at second in a double play. The bottom of the ninth had arrived.

Freddie had one chance left to lose the game.

Dorgan led off. Though Freddie lobbed him the ball, he popped up. Gerhardt followed with a ground out. George was down to the last out. People were heading for the exits. Shaw and Sullivan leaned forward, ready to ensure that their target wouldn't slip away with the crowd.

Freddie delivered four straight balls, miles out of the strike zone, to walk Johnson. Callahan came up to the plate and fouled off the next two pitches.

“It's time to go, Georgie,” Shaw said, placing a beefy hand on his shoulder.

Callahan fouled off two more pitches, prolonging George's agony. Shaw yanked the boy from his seat, pulling him into the aisle.

“Time to go,” he repeated.

On the field, Callahan swung and missed. Ten thousand people let out a collective groan. As Kitty watched helplessly, Shaw dragged George by his collar up the stairs.

But then the umpire signaled. A foul tip, dropped by the catcher. A few seconds later, the crowd started screaming wildly. George broke loose from Sullivan's grasp and ran back to the seats. His heart leaped as he saw a white orb defying the wind, sailing into dead center, and bouncing off the billboard for McCann's Celebrated Hats of the Bowery. The Giants had won on a two-run homer. Kitty threw herself into George's arms, kissing him passionately. Amid the thousands of fans yelling and jumping for joy, Shaw and Sullivan turned and stomped away, looks of disgust written large on their faces.

“I'll see you later at my place,” Kitty yelled over the din. “You see, I promised Freddie a bonus if he lost.”

Impossible as it seemed, no one knew anything about the robberies. The only word Robert heard on the street was a mad rumor about the “Engineer” who had supposedly masterminded the crimes. Usually criminals were like gossipy women, blabbing about anything and everything they'd heard. This time, there was almost total silence. In all his years as a Pinkerton, Robert had never seen such a thing. People were too scared to talk.

Following the lead of the newspapers, the public had eagerly blamed the larcenous Russian count for the robberies. Robert knew this was nonsense. The count wasn't even a real royal; he was an accomplished con artist who'd fooled the gullible rich into thinking he was of the aristocratic class. The idea that such a petty criminal had stolen the Pharaoh Blue was laughable. The man behind all this was the Engineer.

Walking west on Grand Street to the Second Avenue Elevated, he saw his nephew, George, come around the corner at Allen Street and enter a ramshackle two-story house. Robert was shocked. Seeing George in such a squalid setting was like seeing a handsome prince walking through a pigsty. Without hesitating, Robert followed George to the house. It was one of New York's vilest gambling dens, a disgusting dive where the lowest of the low went to throw away their money.
Probably
a
brace
house
, Robert thought, casting a critical eye about him. Those unscrupulous dens offered a fixed game twenty-four hours a day.

In the next instant, and to his amazement, he saw his niece following her brother. Julia was about a block behind and had a tall, handsome young man at her side. Robert could see that they didn't want George to notice them. After George went into the dive, they waited a minute or two and then followed.

Aside from the scum of the street, clerks from businesses and brokerage houses might visit the house during their lunchtimes. For a few seconds, Robert debated whether he should follow. In a cramped little dump of this sort, the risk of being seen by George or Julia was too great.

And he didn't need to enter to picture the interior. Robert knew all about these places. A narrow, dimly lit corridor would lead to a smoke-filled room with a faro table, its usual setup of thirteen cards in parallel rows glued down on a greasy, enameled oil cloth. At the table would be the mechanic, or dealer, with his assistant taking cards from a brass box that was always rigged. On the other side of the table stood the suckers, placing their bets on the glued-down cards.

The den had no amenities, which meant it was also a snap house, a place that rented space to individual gamblers. These men set up their own games in exchange for a 10 percent cut. A roulette game and a chuck-a-luck dice game were probably going on in back.

Robert walked across the street and stood in the doorway of a used clothing dealer's shop. He lit a cigarette and waited. Watching a building was an art; one couldn't get distracted and miss the suspect's exit. He was an expert, keeping one eye on the door of the gambling den and the other on the parade of characters passing by. The streets of New York were an endlessly fascinating kaleidoscope, packed with an incredible variety of people. On any given day, Robert would see Hebrews who looked like they'd stepped out of Russia, inscrutable Chinese men with long pigtails, and Greeks with jet-black hair and pointy noses. It was so different from Buffalo, where there were only white people who looked like him.

A beautiful, swarthy Italian girl carrying a huge basket of laundry on her head smiled as she passed. The street was a river of traffic, choked with delivery wagons, carriages, and dray carts. In this part of Manhattan, nobody gave a damn about whether the streets were clean; manure, piss, and rotting garbage carpeted the surface.

After ten minutes, Julia and her companion rushed out of the dive. His niece looked shaken; her face was white with shock, and her hands were clenched into fists. The sight troubled Robert, but he held to his post. Her companion was familiar—perhaps from Julia's coming-out ball?—and looked as though he would protect her in such a rotten neighborhood.

An hour passed. Robert grew hungry but didn't abandon his post. He snapped his fingers at a woman peddling hot, spiced gingerbread. It would tide him over until supper.

Finally, George emerged. From the expression on his nephew's face, Robert could tell what had happened. George leaned against the brick wall of the building and lit a cigarette. After five minutes of staring down at the dirty sidewalk, he walked off.

Robert waited until George was down the block and around the corner. Then he went across the street into the dive. He walked into the faro parlor and stood at the rear, behind some men watching the game.

The dealer was talking to his assistant when Robert walked over.

“That young, well-dressed fellow in the blue suit that was just here—does he come here often?”

“What the hell does it matter to you?” the dealer snarled.

Robert grabbed the man by his collar, slammed his head down on the faro table, and held his Pinkerton shield in front of his face. “I'm sure that's an excellent bit of cheating you do with that needle squeeze on your dealing box. The police might be interested in a demonstration. Or perhaps you can answer my question instead.”

“His name's George Cross,” the man squeaked. “Society swell. He gambles all over the Bowery and the Five Points. He was up three thousand today, but he pissed it all away. Poor bastard never knows when to quit, so he's always in hock.”

“Where does he get his money?”

“Don't know. He's got a few cons on the side. A whore gives him money sometimes. But he keeps coming back to lose.”

Robert let the man off the table with a shove. “Lose?” he sneered. “You mean win.”

The dealer started to laugh. “These fools
want
to lose. That's why we love 'em.”

Brownie Snead's left hook caught Whitey Samuels square in the jaw and bounced him off the brick wall onto the hard-packed dirt of the cellar like a rubber ball. With the agility of a cancan dancer, Brownie kicked Whitey underneath the jaw. As Whitey rose to all fours, Brownie kicked him in the stomach. Still, the tough old bastard wouldn't go down.

Nolan had ten dollars on Brownie and was impatient to end the thing. But Whitey rammed his fist into Brownie's groin, sending him to the floor where he rolled about in agony.

“Ain't none of those sissy Marquess of Queensberry rules here like they got in England!” Pickle Nose Johnson yelled.

The East Side Cowboys were in the cellar of the Bucket of Blood, enjoying what they called “a free and easy,” a bare knuckles brawl with no ring and no rules. They drank and ate as they watched, gathered around tables in an open space at the rear of the cellar.

Back on his feet, Whitey delivered the coup de grâce, stomping on the fallen Brownie's face three times. Finally, Brownie lay still. The gang groaned: Brownie had been the overwhelming favorite. Conversation resumed. No one attended to the downed fighter. Nolan took a sip of rye and dealt cards to the other men at his table, readying for a game of hearts.

“How ya makin' out with that society girl?” Pickle Nose asked. “Miss Julia's mighty pretty.”

“She's gone back to school, but I see her in the afternoons and on weekends,” Nolan said, examining his cards. He'd begun playing soon after being thrown out on the street. The cards had taught him his numbers and how to add and subtract. From an early age, he'd also learned about cheating. Nolan knew every trick—trimmed and marked cards, making two cards stick together, hold outs for concealing cards in sleeves and vests, even tiny mirrors used to read the cards of opponents. These were advantage tools and were advertised in the newspapers and sold on the Bowery.

Pickle Nose, he saw, was cheating at that very moment by palming an ace of hearts he would tuck up in his sleeve. But Nolan could cheat so well that he was able to counteract any moves against him. He'd even instructed Julia in some of the techniques, which delighted her. The game of whist was fashionable in her set, and Nolan had given her pointers on how to gain an advantage. Society played the game for money; now that she had come out, Julia was allowed to join in. Under his tutelage, she wiped out her opponents. This pleased Nolan greatly. She regularly took the proceeds and bet them on ratting contests, which she consistently won. The girl had an innate talent for picking winners, which her brother Charlie greatly resented.

Milligan came in and began making the rounds, greeting his men, telling jokes, and topping off drinks. Brownie was conscious and sitting at a table, knocking back shots to ease his aches and pains. Whitey had collected his earnings and left.

The door to the room opened again. A mousy man wearing spectacles stuck his head in. “I've got a beer delivery for Mr. Spike Milligan,” he said. His voice was loud and silenced the room.

Annoyed, Milligan walked up to the man. “Goddamn it, jackass, I'm not a saloon keeper. Deliver it upstairs to the owner,” he snarled.

The deliveryman, who looked like he'd been cursed and insulted often in his line of work, smiled and waved his hand in a friendly way. “No, sir. This a special order from Mr. Croker.”

Milligan's face lit up. He looked at his men, who nodded and smiled in approval. Richard Croker was the Grand Sachem, or boss, of Tammany Hall. He was an Irish roughneck who'd used his fists to rise from the gutter and earn appointments as coroner and fire commissioner, positions for which he was completely unqualified. When Honest John Kelly had retired as Tammany boss two years before, Croker had been heir apparent. He held political power in New York with an iron fist. The New York City election for mayor was next month, and Croker expected the gangs to do what they did best—get out the vote for his candidate.

The deliveryman rolled a huge keg on a hand truck to the front of the room. Staring at it, Milligan seemed to glow with pride.

“Boys,” he said, pointing to the keg. “This is a token of Mr. Croker's appreciation for how we've helped him in past elections.
And
it's a reminder of what we have to do next month. Mr. Croker wants Abraham Hewitt as the next mayor, not that fuckin' socialist shit Henry George or that fancy-ass Theodore Roosevelt. We have to bring out the vote for Tammany.”

Nolan laughed. Milligan would get a person to vote—and then vote six more times. He was a master at getting bums, cripples, and beggars to turn up at different polling places in the various precincts. An array of costumes was provided to disguise repeat voters. In the last mayoral race, one man had voted fourteen times.

“Mr. Croker says the greatest political crime is ingratitude, and the Cowboys ain't gonna be ungrateful. Let's do our part and not let him down,” Milligan called.

The gang cheered and whooped in response.

The deliveryman handed Milligan the tap for the keg and shook his hand heartily in Tammany solidarity. But outside the open door, he paused. “Mr. Kent hopes you enjoy the lager. And by the way, he's voting for Roosevelt,” he shouted. Drawing a Colt, the deliveryman fired at the keg and slammed the door behind him.

There was an earsplitting explosion, and an orange-red fireball engulfed the room. The men sitting closest to the keg were blown to atoms. Pieces of bodies shot into the walls and ceiling with the velocity of bullets. Shards of glass and wood penetrated skulls and torsos. The entire room filled with flames and sulfur-smelling smoke. Men screamed in agony as they burned to death. In what seemed like seconds, the wood beams holding the floor above creaked and began to give way. The first floor, filled to capacity with saloon patrons, came crashing down into the cellar.

Then the noise stopped, replaced by a silence punctuated only by low moans. The room was so thick with smoke and dust that a man could not see his hand in front of his face.

Nolan felt a crushing pressure on his stomach. He opened his eyes but saw only a thick, black cloud pressing down upon him.

He could only think of Julia.