Chapter 2. Crookshanks

My feet turned down East Seventh Street as a train roared overhead, drowning out the clattering horses and automobiles beside me. Hands in jacket pockets I hopped curb to sidewalk, looking back over shoulder to see electrified cars racing northward along the El against a brilliant azure sky. Above the receding tracks and canyon of brick a silver cigar coursed southward from uptown not far above the skyline, riding the wind that snapped the flags upon the rooftops above. It looked graceful up there in that breeze, and for a moment I couldn't help but remember Columbia. Reminding myself of how that had turned out, I suddenly didn't want to think about it any longer. My hand drifted to the bag in my pocket.

Money is a funny thing...I'd needed it in the so called 'White City' hardly at all, but coin had little value when the world was falling apart. As I'd found over the last days, it has every value when it isn't...especially when you're short and have someone special to clothe and feed. Up ahead on the left, behind four wooden barrels painted green, sat my last, best hope...McSorley's Old Alehouse…Established 1854.

Or so letters arced across a sign of green told me.

To either side of twin doors charcoal window frames held nine panes of glass. Before them a horse drawn wagon was tied, two men unloading barrels of what I could only assume was McSorley's finest. In the blistering heat the horses were working too, their 'end' product smelling not so fine. As I walked past the defecating steeds I gave their drivers a glance and they me. Red haired Irish boys in loose flannel shirts and suspenders...the ilk that had torched Comstock's wonder and made the jewel of the North Atlantic burn down to soot.

It had been two weeks since Elizabeth and I had tumbled out of the wall of my office and onto the floorboards of 108, and there, without buildings burning, without the sound of gunfire outside...only the occasional honk from the passing cars, I suppose we could have been forgiven for thinking it was over. I still had difficulty wrapping my mind around what had transpired, finding it hard to believe any of it real. She was real, and she hadn't come from nowhere. Neither had I, and if I didn't figure out some angle to placate the Morellos, nowhere was where we would both be.

Either by chance or plan the Terranova boys had proved scarce, perhaps coming by while we were gone, perhaps having other business to attend to. The Bowery was a long way from their Harlem turf, even by train, and I heard of unrest there...shootings. I'd hoped they had more urgent matters at hand than a broke one-time gambler.

McSorley's outer doors were open as I stepped in and out of the sun, opening inner wooden seconds to enter the bar. It was quiet inside as with shirtsleeve I wiped my brow, just before lunch and ill attended. Upon the sawdust one of the establishment's resident cats walked up to me, a gray thing that curled about the brown leather of my boots and purred as if to say hello. Behind me the doors creaked shut. I'd seen it do this to others, the ones the felines considered regulars. Aside from myself only a pair of stevedores were present, talking softly in a corner table beyond the cast iron stove. Their narrowed eyes turned my way.

Ernie Finn was working behind the bar as usual and perked up at my arrival. "Booker!" He said, hanging rag from belt. "You've been a stranger, friend! Been on a job or something?"

"One might say that." I answered and stepped forward to lend my elbows to the edge of the bar. He began to pour me a mug and I decided to cut to the chase. "Look, Ernie..." He finished and slid the frothing draught to me, so cold I could see the perspiration on the mug. I looked at it a long time, longer than I should have.

Seeing my hesitation, Finn squinted and looked down to see my bandaged hand. He brushed his dark hair back, flashing green eyes my way before continuing in his Dublin brogue. "Not in the mood to share a pint?" He said, drawing the ale away. "If I were a discerning lad, I might think you're in some trouble."

I glanced to the wrap upon my right mitt, seeing it clean if a bit damp and rubbed the bridge of my nose. "I was, but it's over. Look, Ernie...I need a favor. Nick and Ciro..." I sighed. "You know I'm in hock up to my ears. I intended to pay them off but something, uh, unexpected came up the last couple of weeks. I haven't been able to raise the cash...at least not enough." I tossed the coin pouch on the bar and a single Silver Eagle spilled out, sliding to a halt on the lacquered walnut. "By my count they're out looking for me now and I need to pay up. Before it's too late."

Finn eyed my visage, rough I knew, still a bit bruised from the ordeal weeks ago. My hand had yet to fully heal, and about it I still wore a bandage. He took a glass in hand and rag to it. "And you'd like me to spot you the change?" As he said the words a deep shame welled up inside, and by the mirror of his eyes I could tell how he saw me. Drunk, disheveled...lost. "Last I heard, you owed $200, friend. That's a lot of money when I've got a family to support o' my own."

"I know." I said, nodding my head, already sensing the plea lost. "I wouldn't ask except...except...well there is this girl. I need it to be right for her. Look, Ernie..." I continued, the thought of failing her anew more than I could bear. "I just need sixty-six bucks...I have forty in the pouch." Even as I spoke Ernie puzzled and put the glass down, taking one of the Eagles in hand to peruse it with a quizzical eye.

"I don't rightly believe I've seen such a coin as this. Where is it from?"

"Columbia." I said, and before he could ask, "It's a long way from here."

"D.C., eh? What will that get ya?"

I sighed. "Sixty-six bucks will get us both on a steamer bound for Europe and out of here. When we get to France, I'll wire the money back. It might be a couple of months, but you'll get it...every penny." His green eyes met mine, and with a metallic tap laid the coin upon the bar and slid it back toward me.

Seventh Street broiled as I hit the pavement, coin pouch in hand, fuming for burning my last bridge. I couldn't blame Ernie, though…I was a bum. An n'er do well on a downward roll. I wouldn't have trusted me either. Realizing that I needed to conserve the meager coin Elizabeth and I had, I decided to walk the three quarters of a mile home, weighing the risk of meeting the Terranovas on road or rail equal.

Leaving the horses and strikeout at McSorley's behind, I headed south on Third, keeping to the right of the El's stanchions. As I dodged pedestrians on the sidewalk, the frequent awnings offered respite from the blistering sun.

Toward the middle of Third in the railroad tracks' shadows automobiles ran, overtaking and sometimes honking at the horse drawn carts and laden trucks. The smell of crap filled my nose. Down an alley dogs barked, tearing and growling at something in the piled garbage. It usually took half an hour to make the trek back, beset as it was by cars and my general inebriation. Today in daylight I made better time, though the heat left me hot and clammy beneath my jacket. This wasn't the life I wanted for Elizabeth.

In another world I'd somehow managed to build an empire, to make a city fly, but here I was nothing, a loser, and a failure...a detective who had literally killed his own success. Whatever she saw in me, it was as much of a lie as Comstock. I had no education to speak of, I had no social standing, and I had no family whom I could fall back on. No matter how one cut it, Booker DeWitt was a failure.

As I merged into the crowd waiting to cross at Third and Kenmare, from the corner of my eye I noticed the papers upon Cushman's New Stand. Beneath the Times' front-page headlines concerning the Republican Convention and Roosevelt's inevitable nomination, a lesser banner caught my eye. "WAR CLOUDS EUROPE," beneath it the grainy photograph of "the Red Menace's newest aerial Leviathan, Engels." Struggling to find work over the last fortnight in a vain attempt to pay my debts, I'd not been reading much news let alone buying papers. I fretted at how strongly it resembled that Engels the girl and I had so grown to fear. Worried now and wishing to show Elizabeth, I purchased a copy for two cents. Tucking the paper beneath my jacket I hurried home. When finally I rounded the bend and it came into sight, I regretted not taking the train. I was soaked with my own sweat, and surely I'd stink as much as the horses.

Home. A dreary, run down tenement in a neighborhood gone to pot.

It fit the model, I supposed. I'd brought her from riches to live in rags. About me laundry hung out to dry above awnings, dangling from clotheslines suspended between the wrought iron of fire escapes dangling from brick five-stories. At my approach Moira Neary glanced upward, face wizened by the years. We'd no great affection for one another.

"Yes, Mrs. Neary, I know my rent is due." I preempted. "Look, I have ten dollars that will tide me over the week. 'll have the rest next. Would that be good enough?" I was lying, of course. I had just over forty to our name, forty dollars that would at least get us out of New York to start a new life. Still, I smiled.

"Mr. DeWitt..." The old woman said, shaking her head. "If you'd stop drinking and gambling away your life you might gain a reliable job and earn your keep. I'll take the ten now and you'd better have the thirty by next Friday or, I swear upon Saint Joseph, I'm throwing you out of the manger." Subtly I tried to move around her. Firm and stocky, she'd have no part of it. Reluctantly and with untold curses beneath my breath I dug into the purse.

"What's this?" She said as I handed the Silver Eagles over, ten of them as demanded, careful to conceal the rest within the pocket in my jacket.

"Ten dollars. I'll have the rest next Friday."

Neary glanced at the coinage queerly, biting it between her graying teeth before looking upon it again. "Can't say I've rightly seen silver dollars like these, but they do seem to be silver. Very well, Mr. DeWitt, you can stay another week but you heard what I said."

I thanked her and slipped by, heading up the creaking stairs. When I arrived I knocked cursorily before keying the lock. Before me with eyes half upon it as I entered, I held the paper up to look. "Elizabeth, what do you make of this? The paper says it's Engels, just like in Columbia." My words were met by silence. "Elizabeth?" About the place my eyes cast, its sad walls clean but wall-paper peeling nonetheless. The window was open, the desk turned against it as if to look outward. Overhead the fan turned, adding scant comfort amid the summer warmth. Thinking she'd taken to either the bathroom or old nursery, I opened the door to the empty cradle but no girl within. Frantically I turned. "Elizabeth?"

In a flurry I dropped the paper and was down the hall, down the stairs, racing through 108's open door to Moira Neary. "Mrs. Neary..." I said, grabbing her by the shoulders as she rose from her plants. Nearly out of breath and panting like a dog, I knew I must have looked a fright. "This is very important...have you seen a young woman, brown-haired, very pretty about twenty or so?" She looked at me like I was daft. "Blue eyes? Maybe wearing a green skirt and white blouse?"

Disapproving eyes regarded me and I knew the white-haired woman's thoughts. "Mr. DeWitt...if you are entertaining a woman without my knowledge that is explicitly against our agreement. And if you're paying for... "

"I'm not 'entertaining' a woman!" I groaned, realizing that was likely a lie too. "She's a relative, one who needed a place to stay until things got better where she, er, was. Please...she was under strict orders to stay inside until I returned. Please tell me you saw her!"

She shook her head, adjusting her hat against the sun. "I am very sorry, Mr. DeWitt, but I cannot say I have." For a moment she puzzled, shaking her finger at me. "But you know what, there were a couple of gentlemen who came by this morning inquiring for you. I believe they were Italians."

My eyes widened. "A couple of 'gentlemen?' And, uh, what did you tell them?"

"Nothing." She said with a shrug and knelt back to her petunias. "Other than if they had matters with you, to knock on your door upstairs. I do hate it when I get in the middle of things."

I hastened upstairs, ignoring her further chastisement. Within a minute I was back down, disregarding questions, palming my pistol within my jacket and wondering if the pittance of Silver Eagles in my pouch would sway the Terranovas one iota. The Terranovas, I thought. The Morellos.

Lupo the Wolf and his dog Crookshanks.

Dammit, I thought, looking in desperation up and down Bowery. I'd hoped so to avoid this. Now the matter was forced. Were they going to hurt her to get at me? Trying not to think about it too much, I headed down the street beneath Grand Street Terminal and west toward Mott Street.

Arthur Crookshanks was one of three main bookkeepers the Morellos propped up in Little Italy, the area around the Bowery that I'd sunken into over the last twenty years like a famished tick. Sure there were others, but having the toughest crime family in Manhattan backing your operation gave a fixer clout. In years past he'd run a handful of illicit card halls and tables around their countrymen's stomping grounds, and in time the Morellos had naturally developed a relationship with the old fart. When one of his clients failed to pay up his losses, Crookshanks turned to the Lupo the Wolf's 107th Street Mob to exact his pound of flesh.

I had no illusion about what was coming as I stormed up Grand. All around me people were looking at the stranger barging through, blissfully unaware he was likely storming off to his death. Or were they? Maybe they all knew and were laughing behind those indifferent eyes. Yet, what did I truly have to be afraid of? I'd already lived through hell and been shot more times than I could count, not to mention having my hand splayed. I knew the Morellos and I knew Crookshanks. They'd expect me to come in compliant and contrite, hat in hand. Maybe the old Booker would have been.

But that Booker hadn't met Comstock.

Just before Mott Street I took the back way, navigating a trash strewn alley to find a rearward fire escape that led up Crookshanks' back approach. It was from within the old sandstone five story at 150 Mott that the old bastard ran his operation, from a cluster of third floor offices he'd commandeered from his former Neapolitan competition. With toe to plinth at the beige stone's base I clambered up to the ladder, and as it started to lower I went up. Shortly I was at the third floor, treading carefully on wrought iron grating. From my vest holster I drew the black Broadsider and checked my load. A repeater would have been better, but without my girl to produce arsenal from thin air, I figured I was just going to have to make do.

I heard laughter as I approached the open window, curtains ruffling inward in the lofty breeze, a breeze that did well to conceal my approach. I heard Italian banter and Niko's smooth voice, followed by Ciro's high pitched, girlish chuckle. Craning my head inward, I could see the pair sitting against a desk, both unarmed…both at ease. At his ledger Crookshanks was scrawling something in black ink, rubbing the balding pate of his head with a white handkerchief in hand. With his index finger he shoved those little round glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. How many times, I thought, had I wanted to punch his lights out? And how many times had I sold my soul to his ponies? My heart was beating...I could feel it, but I also knew they had no damned idea of what was about to hit them.

I grasped the top of the window casing and swung in without fanfare, barely a rustle in the drapes, alighting upon the wooden floorboards before Ciro or Nick could move. They turned to me, eyes wide. I held the Broadsider utterly steady at Nick's head. "Where is she?"

Ciro made the mistake of moving and I smashed him in the face with an elbow, sprawling him back across the desk he'd been reclining upon. For a moment I thought he'd rise...he'd always been that type...but Nick raised an open palm to him and backed him off. "DeWitt." At his desk Crookshanks had half risen, pressing those beady round glasses in panic as he glanced over to Ciro. As Nick's brother gained his wits, blood poured from his nostrils.

"The girl." I growled. "I won't say it again. Bring her to me...now!"

As Nick and Ciro stood there, Crookshanks shook his head. "DeWitt, put the gun down. There is no need for that here."

"There sure as hell is." I retorted, feeling the pulse in my temples. "Look, I haven't been welching, I've been busy making the money I owe you. I have most but not all of it..." With my free hand I tossed the coin pouch upon Crookshanks blotter. "And I'll have the rest next week...but you're going to leave the girl out of this or I'm going to be the end of you all, right here, right now. Get her."

Whereas Ciro had moved too fast, Niko had kept his calm. "DeWitt, surely you know any inconsiderate actions here will be your last."

Crookshanks shook the purse and looked into it before tossing it back my way. I caught it with my same empty hand, a look of bewilderment surely upon my face. "It seems we have a bit of a misunderstanding here, Mr. DeWitt. This girl you speak of...we have her not. And if you are worried about my associates' visit this morning, I must tell that was before your salvation arrived but an hour ago, thanks to the U.S. Mail. I suppose communications have been lacking. My apologies."

I'd never heard Crookshanks apologize to anyone before, let alone me. "What the hell are you talking about, Arthur?"

"We don't have her. Besides, as I said there is no need for strife...your debt has been paid." With raised hands he backed away, cautiously reaching downward to draw a check from his drawer. He held it so I could see…two hundred dollars, paid in full. "Signed by one Robert Laslowe."

If I could have possibly been in any more of a hurry than I'd been getting to Crookshanks, I was in more of one getting back home. I didn't stop to say I was sorry to the 'boys,' who despite Crookshanks' pardon had followed me with bitter eyes. I exited the way I'd come with only one word on my mind, one name...one name burning in my head. One threat.

Rounding the corner beneath Grand Street Station I ran headlong into a woman, the girl yelping as produce and groceries flew into the air and she spilled to the ground. "Oh, good grief, I am so sorry." I said. I knelt to put strewn vegetables into her basket, wondering why I was wasting time I didn't have.

Looking upward, I saw a pretty girl upon rump and hands, brown ponytail knocked astray and black boot tips pointed skyward. "Booker?" She said, eyes locked with mine…eyes that after her initial astonishment gleamed brightly. I snatched her into my arms, closing my eyes, squeezing her until I realized I might just be crushing her. I pulled back and kissed her forehead. Despite our collision she wasn't mad, just dazed, and her voice was full of worry. "Are...are you all right?"

"I am now." I managed. When again I opened my eyes it was to a busy street north and south. From their cars and carts people were looking at our spectacle, proper men and women circumnavigating the odd couple picnicking messily upon the curb. "These..." I looked at her groceries and put the last of them back in the basket. "Yours?"

"Ours!" She smiled and brushed her loosened hair aside. I stood and helped her up, ending face to face where that smile of hers. It turned to apprehension. "Booker, some men came to visit this morning. They..." She brushed her hair aside from where it had strayed into blue eyes. "They said they were looking for you."

"You opened the door?!" I asked incredulously, hands upon hips. "Wait…don't answer that...why are you out here, Elizabeth? I expressly forbid you to leave without me!"

She shook her head, intentionally avoiding my gaz. "I thought we needed food, and I'm not your prisoner, you know. I do have a say in this...and besides..."

"Not if something happens to you!" I said gruffly. To our left a woman and her girl stepped around us, little girl in hand. From beneath her cap the little blonde looked up to us with pernicious blue. Elizabeth's own turned back to mine sheepishly, realizing I'd only been barking at her out of fear.

"Where have you been, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Looking for you." I said, taking her arm gently while clutching the basket firmly in my other. She'd turned her gaze sidelong to my jacket, spying the Broadsider secreted within.

"You went to see them." She said as we approached 108. By now Mrs. Neary was gone, which meant at least I didn't need to explain the girl to her.

"No, I went to kill them."

For a moment she stood there, mouth open, eyes wide. "Back in Columbia...you said they were dangerous."

"I won't lose you again." Negotiating the foyer and steps upward, we shortly came to 108.

Booker DeWitt- Investigations into matters both public & private, the words on the glass read.

As usual I checked the door, turning the key to enter. Upon the wall where vaguely I remembered Elizabeth standing in my nightmares, a broom angled in her place against those peeling walls. Despite its decrepit state inside the office was neat as could be managed. A woman's touch had come to Booker DeWitt's hovel. Not bothering to digest the changes further, I set the basket down and headed for my scant possessions, finding in the corner behind Anna's jewelry chest a knapsack.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth asked as she garnered an apple, cradling it in upraised hand with her other.

"We're leaving. Gather your things."

"That should be easy." She muttered, glancing about the barren place before turning back to me. "But to where?" I could hear uncertainty in her voice as she placed the fruit back into the basket, and despite her reassurance it was obvious mentally she was not prepared.

"Anywhere but here." Crookshanks was one thing…assuming the check I'd seen was not some crazy trap. But Nick and Ciro didn't forgive.

And Laslowe…whatever his game was, he was another matter.

"What did you do?" She said with tensing brow, the lines of her face strained by worry. Amid my frenzy she took my arm, steadied me and forced me to meet her eyes.

"I got emotional. I was afraid. I was afraid they'd taken you and were going to..."

"They didn't." Her eyes closed and she stood on her toes, lips touching mine. For a moment my arms slipped to the small of her back, feeling through blouse her corset beneath. When we parted her eyes remained closed, brow furrowed. Her cheeks were pink with warmth, nose and mouth small and exquisite. She opened her eyes and smiled and at that moment looked like her mother.

"Booker..." She whispered as I pulled away. I felt her fingertips upon my elbow, drawing me back.

"Why did you go outside?" I asked, consciously not looking, wishing as I did so that my heart might seize and spare me this agony.

She averted her eyes and crossed her arms, and by her voice I could hear her disappointment. "Because when they left, I was worried for you. I wanted to make certain they weren't lying in wait like some sort of trap. And when they'd gone…gone for certain, I thought it wise to get some food for dinner so we didn't have to go out again. I...thought I'd try my hand at cooking." She paused for a moment, and I could see unease behind her attempt at a smile. "But there was something else...something…something worrisome."

"I can hardly think of anything more worrisome than what has just transpired here. Like I said, pack your things...we're leaving."

"But I felt something." She blurted, face fraught.

From the window a wan draft caught the side of my face. Attempting to divine her meaning, I puzzled. "We can talk about that when we're out of here, Elizabeth. But for now..."

"No, Booker. This is important." She took a step toward me, wringing her hands in frustration…and tugging upon her insulted finger.