GHOSTS of GARRYOWEN ... by C.T. Corbitt
1. July 4, 1912 - Sitting in McSorley's
Out in the street cherry bombs cracked, rattling the alehouse's windowpanes on a humid July evening. As the firecracker's report reverberated down East Seventh Street, Addison continued hammering Joplin unfazed on the back wall piano, a dozen laughing, tipsy joes hovering about. "Slow down, kid," Finn barked from behind the lacquered oak of the bar, eyes askance my way. "Ain't never right to play rag-time fast."
Sitting next to the cast iron stove in the middle of the joint, I gripped my stein tightly, feet flat in the sawdust and eyes straight ahead. With diabolical glee receding down the street and the barroom no less boisterous, I relaxed...finished the last of my draught. With my mug empty, I rose, negotiated the men beside me and joined the scrum at the bar.
The clientele was the usual, a mix of top hats and bowlers amid the scent of beer and nausea. These were men who found the bar a better place to haunt than home, or men like me with no family at all. About them cigar smoke wafted through the air, hovering like traces of ink sprayed from a fountain pen. The only types that were not here were those looking for ladies. Snug and evil, McSorley's Old Alehouse was for men only, and not a place to find tarts, wanton or otherwise.
Over the din of the crowd I could hear a train pushing up the El, its tremor rattling the paintings on the walls more insistently than the earlier party favors. In the bar side crush two clean-cut fellows were joking and tipping mugs, hats at rakish angles as foamy ale slaked their thirst. I listened half-heartedly to their boasts of business acumen. Behind the bar, above the brass ale taps' spring of unending inebriation, an arched mirror hung, ancient powder horn affixed near its bottom. As Ernie Finn stepped away, hands juggling a quartet of mugs, in its reflection I found the face of a man...bleary eyed, unshaven and drunk.
Beside the open lid of the cash box a sketch hung, that of a farmer with a switch, finger pointed at a pig's ass, the words "WE TRUST HERE" scrawled on a placard beside it. Scavenging my pockets, I tossed Ernie Finn two bits, the coins rolling on the bar and spinning to a stop amid an amber dribble of congealing beer. Ernie knew me...knew I would have been good for my tab and more, but here I always made sure to pay. I'd learned my lesson before...what life was like without the alcohol. Looking to me with tight brow, he took the change in hand and wiped the spill, hanging the gray dish rag upon his belt. Dark-haired Irish, Finn was short and beanpole thin from Dublin, slightly balding with a rosy nose that would in later life swell to enormity. He was perhaps my best friend in Manhattan, and that meant the world. "Booker, are you feelin' well?"
"I'm fine." I stammered, loud enough to be heard over the slobbering fools nearby. My collar chafed hot against my neck.
Leaning into my confidence, Ernie glanced toward the entrance. "Hey, I know you're three sheets to the wind, friend, but you might want to consider taking the back door."
"Why would that be?"
To my left an Italian's brown eyes glanced toward the front entrance, countenance dark and fearful. "Because Ciro just walked in and he looks like he's looking for someone."
Since I was drunk and stupid, I wasted no time in taking a gander. Just inside McSorley's twin doors I saw two men in long coats, silhouetted by the mangy light coming in from the streetlamps. Ciro Terranova it was. My ribs began to ache...and my kneecaps.
"Thanks, Ernie." Slipping feet from the brass rail, I bumped into the man next to me. Like me this whop was drinking, perspiration practically dripping from his swarthy brow. I smiled. He didn't. Through the crowd Ciro's eyes had found mine. As I considered the back way out his brother Nick entered. At their approach Ernie washed his hands of my fate, tending the men calling for more beer and shots of whiskey down the bar…and away from the Terranova boys. Reflexively I brushed the automatic in my vest.
At Nick's approach a table of not so "gentle" men looked his way. The mobster's toss of head initiated a hasty exodus. By now the congregation of spirit worshipers were looking over their shoulders, eyes over mugs, sorry at the poor baitfish the sharks were about to take whole. "Mr. DeWitt. It has been a, how do you say, a long time?" Nick said in that sad excuse for English his mother had taught him. Behind me Ciro and two of his trailing goons were smiling. With a turn of palm Nick invited me to sit.
McSorley's chairs were, to their namesake, sat in sorely. Of hard wood and cracked, they left the posterior raw if not numb. "Look, Niko, I'm good for the money next week. I've got a play coming..." From behind me Ciro placed his hands upon my shoulders and I felt the boy's muscle come uncomfortably to my sides.
"Mr. DeWitt." Nick said through a broken keyboard of teeth, black hair slick and greased back. "We have heard these evasions very much by now, do you not think?" I wished then that I'd drunk more to dull the impending pain. "We happen to be in Bowery enjoying show when Ciro remember you. We attend your office, but find you not there. You are a creature of habit, no?"
"You could say that." I answered, knowing a misspoken word would end with my digits broken or worse. In my line of work, I needed them all. "Niko, I swear I'm good for it. Just hang on until next Friday."
Nick was smiling but shaking his head, dissonance unnerving. Soulless eyes hung upon me from beneath that protruding brow. "Mister Crookshanks, he inform us that we do without your payment for another week but no more. You will pay your due along with interest extended. Mr. DeWitt, as I have said, tonight you have no worries...but time is drawing short. Next week we expect payment in full or our encounter not be so 'amicable."
Despite my inebriation, I felt their call settle on me like a millstone. Nick, Ciro and his goons were one thing...I'd taken down four burleys at the Rocks and come out ahead, but behind them stood the entire Morello family. Even if I got the drop on Nick tonight, I would be a dead man a hundred times over by payday. They rose without courtesy, the Sicilian at Ciro's side knocking me to the floor as he passed.
Around McSorley's vomitus cloister there were nervous looks...paused conversations. At the Terranovas' exit, the tinking of jigs returned. Grasping the chair by its crest I pulled myself upward, realizing I wasn't the only one relieved. Brushing the sawdust from my hands, I made for the back room. It was McSorley's less dignified exit and a longer trek to my humble abode, but it was the way they hadn't taken.
#
The back door creaked as I swung it outward, pulling my jacket about myself as I stepped down upon the dingy gray cobbles. Barrels and crates adorned the alley walls, the scent of spoiling trash wafting in the muggy miasma. About the court doors were closed against the dead of night and the nearby Bowery's vagrants. Walking eastward only a handful of lights lit my way. Somewhere in the shadows I heard a tomcat scream, followed by the throes of something small meeting its end.
As dismal as Seventh Street's illumination had been it was positively daylight compared the alley behind McSorley's. Twice I stumbled, realizing after the second spill that some of the wall-stacked crates had fallen and contents disgorged. Negotiating the debris in the direction of the access to St. Marks, I looked up see two figures looming in the swirling yellow light. Upon the cobblestone my gait slowed.
"Are you DeWitt?"
"What's it to you?" I answered, hand drawing inside my vest.
"He said he'd be here..." I heard whisper one of the shadows.
Tall and thin, the first stepped into the luminance of the nearby bulb, peering at my hand. "It's him." He croaked with a nod my direction. "Do it!" In the hands of his backlit men, I saw baseball bats rise.
Backpedaling, I promptly tumbled over the stray bins of rotting produce. "Nick and I had a deal!" I slurred from the stone. A wooden slugger wheezed beside me, striking brick with an ashen crunch. Though I couldn't see his face, the first of them was the biggest, a mountain of muscle in workingman's vest and dungarees. As he reared back for another strike, I jammed my Smith and Wesson in his chest and pulled the trigger. It went off with a crack, shattering the night air and dropping him to his knees. For a moment his eyes hovered opposite mine in disbelief, blood burbling from the hole in his heart. The bat clattered from his hand and he dropped ugly side to the ground.
"God dammit, you son of a bitch!" Their leader bellowed, looking over his shoulder. "You said he wouldn't be armed!" Next to me the brickwork exploded, the blast of a shotgun echoing through the alley. As the dead guy's crony closed I rolled the mug up as a shield, a second blast tearing the flesh and blood from his lifeless back. Silhouetted in the halo of that lone light bulb, I saw the second mug stoop to reload, his weapon a double barrel. I shot him through the skull then let loose another at the leader near the alleyway's end. Stone sprayed from the wall, but where his shadow had been only the cast of yellow light came from down the alley. Too easy, I thought, pulse refusing to slow. I took to the closer wall on my left and approached the alley. I heard a muffled thud.
"Many pardons, old chap. I hazard I was mistaken." Came from down the way. Swinging around the corner with Smith and Wesson ready, I saw a man tapping a body on the pavers with his cane. In the distance I heard a whistle. He turned his gaze toward me. "Excellent handiwork, Mr. DeWitt, but I do believe we should be going."
"We should be going?" Upon the man's forehead I leveled my gun and cocked it. "Who the hell are you?" Between us on the pavement a tall Irishman lay wide-eyed in death. "And how do you know my name?"
"Let us just say that I am a business associate of these gentlemen, however our association has come to an end. You may call me Laslowe, should you wish, although I do not believe our arrangement will require such."
"Arrangement?" I muttered, kicking the dead man's flank for confidence. Nearer now sounded the whistle.
"Indeed." He sneered at my pistol before casting his eyes back toward St. Marks. "Should we go? I doubt you'd wish the Constabulary to find you under these circumstances. Particularly with your record." He removed a pocket watch from his vest.
"What do you know about me?"
"More than you'd expect." He said with a smirk. "Would you mind if I accompanied you?" Undaunting he was, but a man lay stone cold dead at his feet.
"No dice. I'm getting out of here. Stay out of my way if you want to live." I hit St. Marks at a jog, dodging piles of festering trash, wondering if I should chuck my pistol in the sewer. Behind me he followed at a distance on the deserted sidewalk, gait patient. As I turned the corner, I yanked my jacket collar up about my neck...tucked my hands into my pockets and looked about.
"Mr. DeWitt, I would like you to know that my employer has use for a talent like you." I stumbled and my head spun, still reeling from the ale. "I would doubt that many men could so dispatch a pair of hired guns such as those poor fellows, particularly in your condition."
"Your men...you sent them to gun me down, then killed one yourself. Why?" By now he'd gotten close enough that I could look him in the eye again. His hair was sandy brown, a shade lighter than mine with a tinge of ginger…almost orange. Like mine his eyes were blue, face clean shaven and distinguished, tan coat and slacks immaculate. Youngish. In the wan streetlight I could see little emotion upon his face.
"They were not 'my men,' although I must say that I did help them deduce where to find you."
I plugged my weapon into his chin. Again the whistle blew, not far away now…back from where we'd come. "Why?"
"Because I not only needed to find you, Mr. DeWitt, but remove them from our equation." With a tilt of his head he invited me to walk. After a moment I withdrew the gun, looking back over my shoulder.
"Our equation? What the hell are you tal…" A the sound of shouts I paused anew, before looking him again in the eye. "All right, jackass, let's go and quick."
Together now we turned southbound onto Third. Overhead another train raced, stifling further words. Within the deeper shadows below the El I relaxed, gambling any police attention would be unable to follow. I shoved my pistol back into my vest. As Laslowe kept pace we passed Seventh Street. The alehouse was still doing business. Nick and Ciro were nowhere to be seen.
"Okay, Las…Laslowe...do you have a first name, because you seem familiar."
"Do I?"
"Yeah...like we've met before. I don't forget a face."
"I don't believe we have. I think I would remember you."
"And those men, if not yours, who the hell were they, anyway? Nick and Ciro's Morello muscle?"
"I don't believe I know this 'Nick and Ciro,' but I can assure you they were nonetheless in the employee of a dangerous man." He replied, noting the passage of a police car wailing up 6th Street. "You may call me Robert."
"Look, Robert, I know lots of 'dangerous men' and I ain't never met those guys in my life. I appreciate your help and all, but this is where we part ways."
"Really?" Laslowe said, stopping me with the bar of his cane to the brick wall. "Because I understand that you have a matter of some debt to assuage. Would that be of interest to you?"
"What do you know about my debts?" I growled, batting his stick aside, wondering if this still weren't some crazy game of Nick's. Half a mind to take him by the collar, I looked to the black cane and thought better of it.
"How I know about these matters is less important than why I know about these matters, Mr. DeWitt. As I emphasized before, my employer has use for your, err...considerable talents. In exchange for a service provided, he is willing to make good for any monies you might owe your compatriots."
"You mean...he's willing to pay off my debt?"
Laslowe offered a curt smile.
#
My head had stopped spinning when we arrived back at my tenement. Crammed in like sardines alongside an endless parade of soot-stained brickworks, my chunk of paradise was home by necessity not choice. The Bowery had been going downhill for decades, and when I'd arrived fresh off the train from Midwest skull-cracking it had fit the bill. Taking three steps up to the landing, I opened 108's unlocked door, glancing at the iron fire escape above to ensure no surprises were in store. McSorley's was wearing off, but there was plenty of booze in the air...produced by the bum who lay just inside.
Stepping over his wreck and an empty bottle, I led Laslowe down the dusty, piss-smelling hallway. Here and there paper peeled from the walls. The dust laden floorboards creaked beneath our feet, something I worried for...my lower neighbors were asleep, and I was certain to hear about it if they didn't remain that way.
At the stair I offered him first ascent. The wooden boards strained beneath our weight until we alighted upon the second floor. I'd not anticipated a client, let alone one loaded enough to save my skin. I inspected the office door for signs of entry. Its frosted glass mocked me:
Booker DeWitt
–
Investigations into
matters both public & private
It should have said Drunken Imbecile. Into the lock I inserted my brass key…steadied myself against the doorframe. The tumblers opening with a click and mechanical turn. "So, this job...where is it? What is it?"
"It's rather simple, really." Laslowe said, inspecting the faded brown and white stripe wallpaper as I flipped the light on. Before the darkened far windows a lone desk and unmade bed were the only furniture, those and a dresser adorned with my old steamer trunk and Annabelle's small jewelry case. Above us upon the ceiling, a fan began to turn. For years my 'office' had doubled as my apartment, long and narrow, adjoined by a small bedroom and bath at the broader rear. Noting the empty bottles of whiskey upon the desk, Laslowe turned to me.
"Well, down to brass tacks. The job, should you decide to accept it and I hope you shall, is not terribly far away..." D.C., I thought I heard him say. He wandered toward the rear of the room, inspecting my wall mounted Seventh Cavalry shadowbox, extracting as he did a small envelope from his inner coat pocket. He handed it to me without looking. After a guarded moment I took it in hand, opening it to find a thin assortment of paper.
The first was a postcard…a golden angel against a sky of blue, the card proclaiming itself to be a 'Souvenir from Monument Island.' The next was a cipher of a scroll, a key and a dagger, while the third in elegant writing was the latitude and longitude for New York City. The latter puzzled me...I already knew where New York was. Perhaps most intriguing was the photograph of a dark-haired young woman in a cream dress, taken from an angle just below her waist. Though her face was turned away, she was clearly lovely. Upon the back of its faded paper was the hand-written name 'Elizabeth.'
Laslowe drew a key, three First Class boarding passes and a coin purse from his pocket. "I do believe that you shall also require these." Preoccupied with the photo, I took them in hand. "White City Lines...White Star? Why not the New York Central?"
Laslowe remained inscrutable. "Ensure that you are at Grand Central tomorrow at one. The remainder shall be self-evident."
The pouch held two dozen silver coins. "And the key?"
"Keep it close. Its utility shall also become apparent to you...in due time."
I dropped the bag on the table with a metallic slink...turned the brass in my hand, finding a black songbird on one side and a cage on the opposite of its white enamel bow. "And if I do this, Laslowe, your boss will be good for everything? It's a lot of money...I need to know that he's good for it."
"At that you may rest assured, Mr. DeWitt. Bring us the girl...and wipe away the debt."