Two in the Field (34 page)

“I’m here about a job.”

Baker arched an eyebrow. “In that case, it’s fitting you’re not a gambling man. Against the rules for employees to indulge.” He gave me a speculative look. “You looking to deal?”

“Nope. I saw in the paper where you might need extra muscle for the racing season.”

“Muscle?” He smiled at the term. “Well, given your size and build, I imagine Mr. Morrissey might be interested. I believe he’s in his office on the top floor, so why don’t I go up and lay out your proposition.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“You might not,” he said, “if it comes to the test.”

I was left to ponder his meaning. Again I waited. At length Baker came down again, and behind him the hulking figure of John Morrissey.

“This is Roosevelt.”

“How do.” Morrissey’s voice was deep, his black eyes penetrating. His nose had been broken repeatedly, which gave his large and fully maned head an even blunter aspect. His face was subtle as a fist. He wasn’t tall, five-nine max, but his chest was deep and powerful, his shoulders abnormally wide, his long arms ending in hamlike hands. I’d heard that once, challenged to a duel, he’d shown up with meat cleavers as his choice of weapons. His adversary fled. Facing him now, I could understand that reaction.

“I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Morrissey—”

“Senator,”
he snapped. “I serve New York’s fourth senate district.”

Thinking that I could imagine his kind of service, I addressed him properly and said I was looking for a security position in his establishment.

“A guard?” His eyes probed me. “Why?”

“I need the money.”

“Ain’t I seen you before?”

“I don’t think so,” I lied. He’d been in the Troy stands the afternoon I’d beaten the crap out of Bull Craver and done my part to cost him thousands. Not things he’d likely forget. On the other hand, it had been a long time.

“You got the bulk, all right, but you’re getting this chance only ’cause Ham spoke for you.” Morrissey began to unfasten the diamond links from his cuffs. “Let’s see what you’re made of—guts or bowels.”

To my astonishment he peeled off his shirt. As he turned and tossed it to Baker, I saw that the skin on his shoulders was charred from old burns. Till then I’d been skeptical of the “Old Smoke” story, which went that during a barroom brawl he’d been pinned on hot coals from an overturned stove. Fortunately for him, the floor boards caught fire and the proprietor threw water on the flames. As geysers of steam blinded his assailant, Morrissey kicked free and beat the man half to death, his own flesh still smoking.

“Well?” His suspenders dangled down around his pants; tufts of chest hair peeked from his undershirt; his hands were curled into fists. “Let’s get to it. If you can’t stand up to an old man, you ain’t gonna make much impression around here.”

I looked at Baker.

“All the guards have done it,” he said, and now his remark about the test made sense.

The burly staffer reappeared, mouth twisting in an expectant grin as I took off my coat.

“Get that gun!” Morrissey told him, seeing my holster. “No weapons in the Club House.”

I unbuckled it and the staff man yanked it away. I dropped my coat to the floor. While I removed my boots for better footing on the carpet, I surreptitiously slipped the Derringer into one of the coat’s pockets. I rose to face Morrissey. We stared at each other for a few seconds, then without preamble he charged. It was more or less what I expected. In the ring he’d been a bare knuckles champ, but he’d also excelled in brawls where men came away missing eyes and ears.

If they came away at all.

Ducking under his gorilla reach, I sidestepped and slapped the side of his head. Which, predictably, pissed him off. What was I supposed to do? Knock my prospective employer silly? Let him beat me to a pulp? He wheeled with a growl and came again, brawny arms spread wide. Getting caught up in those would be a disaster. Grateful for the work I’d put in with Tim, I poised on the balls of my feet and concentrated on basics. I had a good twenty years on Morrissey and I needed to use them. Dancing away, I reached out with an open-handed jab and slapped him again. Face contorting, he kept coming. I feinted, slapped, confused him with jabs, kept footwork and breathing balanced, stayed just out of his reach. The point, I figured, wasn’t to inflict damage, but to show I could handle myself.

Then I got careless or he got lucky.

He rushed again but veered at the same instant I danced aside. As I delivered an open-handed punch—no use breaking a knuckle on that hard skull—he nailed me with a right that spun me halfway around, then buckled my knees with a rabbit punch thrown full force. Jesus, I thought numbly, he’s out to kill me.

“Yeah!” yelled the staff man.

What saved me was that by then Old Smoke wasn’t moving very fast either, his wind coming in labored gasps. As he reached for me I began to backpedal, then caught him off-guard by suddenly launching myself forward and throwing my first real punch, a left hook that went deep into his gut. He deflated like the
P.T. Barnum
and sank heavily to the floor.

“Christ’s privy!” said the staffer in alarmed tones, bending over him. “He’s got a bad spleen.”

Then why did we do this?

“I’m satisfied,” Morrissey groaned, and rose ponderously to one knee. “You’re employed.”

He reached out his hand for help. The instant I took it, his fingers closed like a trap. Yanking me downward, he butted me in the face with his forehead. It felt like being hit with an anvil. I fell atop him, blood already streaming into my eyes. Desperate, I rolled away before he could do more, but he wasn’t trying, and allowed me to get up. With the realization of how I’d been tricked came a surge of anger. I stepped forward with a vague notion of payback, but the other two grabbed me.

“Hold on, Roosevelt,” said Baker. “You got the job.”

“Fuck the job,” I said, “if it means I—”

“I know you!”
Morrissey bellowed. “It just came to me! You’re that ballist what knocked out Bull Craver’s lamps.” His eyes narrowed. “Fowler. The one Red Jim’s dying to get hold of.”

Baker eyed me with new interest as he handed me a handkerchief to soak up blood. “Not Roosevelt?”

I stood there panting, unable to think of anything to say.

“If I was your age, I’d break you.” Morrissey almost crooned the words; his cheeks were red where I’d slapped him, his eyes slitted onyx.

I believed him.

“You’ll do,” he said, “but there’s few who’ll stand and fight Queensbury like you. We’ll teach you some tricks. Right, Grogan?”

Studying me, the staffer nodded.

When we’d pulled our shirts on again, Morrissey put his arm around me as if we were bosom pals. “Go fetch Red Jim,” he said to Grogan.

Wait!
I wanted to shout it. No doubt Morrissey felt me react beneath the heavy pressure of his arm. My brain was working at top speed. I’d wanted to get more of the lay of things here before encountering McDermott. But maybe, on reflection, this was a better way for it to happen.

Morrissey released me and I put on my coat, aware of the Derringer’s weight. Several tense minutes passed and then McDermott strode into the room.

“You wanted—” he began, then stopped dead as he saw me; his eyes darted rapidly to either side as if seeking escape routes, then to Morrissey.

“Hello, Red Jim.” I tried to sound at ease, hands in my coat pockets. “I’ve come for the money you and Devlin stole.”

His face turned ashen and his pale blue eyes flicked again to the others. Nobody moved or spoke. It was our show.

“You fork-tongued lying bastard.” He began slowly and gathered momentum as he went. “The brazen nerve of you, showing up after killing an Irish hero who—”

“Cut the shit,” I interrupted. “I didn’t kill anybody. And I didn’t sell shares of property rightfully belonging to Irish settlers.” I kept my voice level. “You did those things.”

“Did you, Jim?” said Morrissey, again in that odd crooning tone. “Did you take the money of our Irish brothers?”

“No, sir, that I never did.” McDermott looked about to cross his heart.

If it was an act, the two rogues were pretty convincing.

“He stole money that should be helping poor Irish families,” I pressed. “And maybe used the Club House to launder that money.”

I couldn’t tell if the charge struck a nerve or even if Morrissey understood “launder.” He studied us as if at ringside, analyzing a pair of pugilists. Grogan alertly awaited orders. Baker looked on placidly; we might have been playing faro at his table.

“Cat got your tongue, dickhead?” I said to McDermott.

He must have decided that it would cost him too much face to back down. His hand suddenly jerked to his waistcoat and produced a stiletto-type stabbing knife, the blade gleaming in the glow of the gas globes. My stomach shrank to the size of a nut. I hate knives.

“So much for no weapons, huh?” I said to Morrissey.

Silence.

McDermott inched forward awkwardly, blade held high. His old killing companion, LeCaron, would have come up underneath, gone for the guts. “Take it back, you shit-mouth liar.”

Red Jim was used to having others do his dirty work, and I suspected he’d still rather try to bluster his way out than mix with me. I stood silently until he maneuvered to about six feet away.

“Go ahead,” I said in my best Clint Eastwood imitation, hands in coat pockets, the right one poking conspicuously toward him. “Make my afternoon.”

The pale eyes fixed on my pocket. Was I bluffing? His face registered his dilemma: risk humiliation or risk death?

A long moment passed.

“If you ain’t gonna use your damn pigsticker, Jim, drop it!” Morrissey said disgustedly.

Mumbling something about facing guns, McDermott finally tossed his knife on the carpet.

“And you, Fowler, let’s see what you’re so proud of.”

Slowly I withdrew my right hand. It was empty and the pocket lay flat.

Baker and Grogan grinned; Morrissey roared his approval. McDermott’s face purpled and he reached behind his back. “It’s guns, then, you sonofabitch?” This time he produced a sawed-off revolver, ugly and black, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

“Hey!” Morrissey yelled.

As I twisted sideways I fired the Derringer in my left pocket, where I’d had it all along. A muzzle flash and a sharp
pop!
erupted there, and then I was tumbling on the carpet, hoping the others would grab McDermott before he drilled me.

It turned out far better.

When no shot came, I stopped rolling and looked up. Hopping spasmodically, McDermott clutched his hand to his chest, blood seeping from his fingers.

Where was the gun?

The others, even Morrissey, stared at me with what looked like varying degrees of awe. I thought I’d fired in the general direction of McDermott’s legs. Either my aim had been so bad or the Derringer so unreliable that by purest luck the bullet had struck McDermott’s shooting hand. I tamped out smoldering threads on my coat as if I did this routinely.

Grogan picked up the pistol. “Didn’t get nicked.” He smirked. “Didn’t get fired, neither.”

“I wasn’t aiming for the
gun,”
I said breezily, feeling almost drunk with relief.

Morrissey gave me a look. Maybe I was overplaying things.

“Holy God,” McDermott moaned. “The bastard shot me.”

“As if you weren’t gonna do the like to him,” Morrissey said acidly. “I’m thinkin’ you got your due for bringing weapons in.”

“I was bluffing,” he said. “I wasn’t gonna shoot.”

Morrissey rolled his eyes.

Grogan bound his hand with a handkerchief. Luckily for McDermott, the bullet had passed through the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Had it hit bone, his hand would be useless for a long time.

“I’m thinking how sweet it’ll be,” Morrissey said, “to have the both of you here.”

“What?” McDermott howled. “Keep that fooker on the premises instead of draggin’ him to a gallows?”

“You can keep a good eye on each other,” Morrissey said levelly. “That way, maybe I’ll learn more about dead Fenians and stolen money.” He eyed us balefully. “But if you fight in here again, I’ll kill the one who’s left. Understand?”

We understood.

“If there’s a bullet in the wall,” Morrissey told me, “the repair comes out of your pay.”

“When do I start?”

“Tomorrow.” The dark eyes probed me. “The track season’s almost on us.”

“This is a godawful mistake—” McDermott began.

“Shut up,” Morrissey barked, and turned back to me. “Mr. Grogan and Mr. Baker will coach you, Fowler. And sometimes”—the crooning tone again—“perhaps even Mr. McDermott.”

 TWENTY