The Apaches of New York

One officer with whom I talked pointed to Ellison and Harrington as the principals. Paul Kelly, he said, was drawn into it as incident to his proprietorship of the New Brighton, while the redoubtable Razor became part of the picture only through his friendship for Ellison. Another officer, contradicting, argued that there had been a feud of long standing between Razor and Paul Kelly; that Ellison was there in Razor’s behalf, and Harrington got killed because he butted in. Both officers agreed that the rumpus had nothing to do with Eat-’em-up-Jack’s run in with Chick Tricker, then sundry months astern, or the later lead-pipe wiping out of Jack.

The story of the taking off of Eat-’em-up-Jack has already been told. The New Brighton missed Jack. He whom Paul Kelly brought to fill his place no more than just rattled about in it. The new sheriff did not possess Jack’s nice knowledge of dance hall etiquette, and his blackjack lacked decision. Some even think that had Jack been there that night, what follows might never have occurred at all. As said one who held this view:

“If Eat-’em-up-Jack had been holdin’ down th’ floor, th’ New Brighton wouldn’t have looked so easy to Biff an’ Razor, an’ they might have passed it up.”

The dancing floor of the New Brighton was crowded with Gangland chivalry and fashion. Out in the bar, where waiters came rushing bearing trays of empty glasses to presently rushingly retire loaded to the beery guards, sat Paul Kelly and a select bevy. The talk was of business mixed with politics, for a campaign was being waged.

“After election,” said Paul, “I’m going to close up this joint. I’ve got enough; I’m going to pack in.”

“What’s th’ row?” asked Slimmy, who had drawn up a chair.

“There’s too much talking,” returned Paul. “Only the other day a bull was telling me that I’m credited with being the first guy along the Bowery to carry a gun.”

“He’s crazy,” broke in Harrington, who with the lovely Goldie Cora had joined the group. “There were cannisters by the ton along the Bowery before ever you was pupped.”

The Irish Wop, whose mind ran altogether upon politics, glanced up from a paper.

“Spakin’ av th’ campaign,” said he, “how comes it things is so quiet? No one givin’ th’ banks a bawlin’ out, no one soakin’ th’ railroads, no one handin’ th’ hot wallops to th’ trusts! Phwat’s gone wrong wit’ ‘em? I’ve found but wan man – jusht wan – bein’ th’ skate who’s writin’ in th’ pa-a-aper here,” – and the Wop held up the paper as Exhibit A – “who acts loike he has somethin’ to hand out. Lishten: After buck-dancin’ a bit, he ups and calls Willyum Jinnins Bryan th’ ‘modern Brutus,’ says ‘Cæsarism is abroad,’ an’ that Willyum Jinnins is th’ only laddybuck who can put it on th’ bum.”

“It’s one of them hot-air students,” said Harrington.

“But about this Brutus-Cæsar thing? Are they wit’ th’ organization?”

“It’s what a swell mouth-piece like Bourke Cock-ran calls a ‘figger of speech’,” interjected Slimmy, ever happy to be heard concerning the ancients. “Cesar an’ Brutus were a couple of long-ago Dagoes. Accordin’ to th’ dope they lived an’ croaked two thousand years ago.”

“Only a pair av old wops, was they! An’ dead an’ gone at that! Sure I thought be th’ way this writin’ gezebo carried on about ‘em they was right here on th’ job, cuttin’ ice. An’ they’re nothin’ more’n a brace av old dead Guineas after all!”

The Wop mused a moment over the unprofitable meanness of the discovery. Then his curiosity began to brighten up a trifle.

“How did yez come to be so hep to ‘em, Slimmy?”

“Be studyin’ – how-else? An’ then there’s Counsellor Noonan. You ought to hear him when he gets to goin’ about Brutus and Cæsar an’ th’ rest of th’ Roman fleet. To hear Noonan you’d think he had been one of their pals.”

“Th’ Counsellor’s from Latrim,” said the Wop; “I’m a Mayo man meself. An’ say, thim Latrim la-a-ads are th’ born liars. Still, as long as the Counsellor’s talkin’ about phwat happened two thousand years ago, yez can chance a bet on him. It’s only when he’s repo-o-rtin’ th’ evints av yisterday he’ll try to hand yez a lemon.”

“I wisht I was as wise as youse, Slimmy,” said Goldie Cora, wistfully rubbing her delicate nose. “It must be dead swell to know about Cæsar an’ th’ rest of them dubs.”

“If they was to show up now,” hazarded the Wop, “thim ould fellies ‘ud feel like farmers.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” observed Slimmy: “they was lyin’, cheatin’, swindlin’, snitchin’, double-crossin’ an’ givin’ each other th’ rinkey-dink in th’ old days same as now. This Cæsar, though, must have been a stiff proposition. He certainly woke up young! When he’s only nineteen, he toins out one mornin’, yawns, puts on his everyday toga, rambles down town, an’ makes a hurrah touch for five million of dollars. Think of it! – five million! – an’ him not twenty! He certainly was a producer – Cæsar was!”

“Well, I should yell,” assented Harrington.

“An’ then phwat?” asked the Wop.

“This what,” said Slimmy. “Havin’ got his wad together, Cæsar starts in to light up Rome, an’ invites the push to cut in. When he’s got ‘em properly keyed up, he goes into the forum an’ says, ‘Am I it?’ An’ the gang yells, ‘You’re it’!”

“Cæsar could go some,” commented Goldie Cora, admiringly.

“Rome’s a republic then,” Slimmy went on, “an’ Cæsar has himself elected the main squeeze. He declares for a wide-open town; his war cry is ‘No water! No gas! No police!’”

“Say, he was a live one!” broke in Harrington; “he was Rome’s Big Tim!”

“Listen!” commanded Goldie Cora, shaking her yellow head at Harrington. “Go on, Slimmy.”

“About this time Brutus commences to show in th’ runnin’. Brutus is th’ head of th’ Citizens’ Union, an’ him an’ his fellow mugwumps put in their time bluffin’ an’ four-flushin’ ‘round about reform. They had everybody buffaloed, except Cæsar. Brutus is for closin’ th’ saloons, puttin’ th’ smother on horse racin’, an’ wants every Roman kid who plays baseball Sunday pinched.”

“He gives me a pain!” complained Goldie Cora.

“An’ mind you, all th’ time Brutus is graftin’ with both hooks. He’s in on the Aqueduct; he manages a forty per cent, hold out on the Appian way; an’ what long green he has loose he loans to needy skates in Spain at pawn shop rates, an’ when they don’t kick in he uses the legions to collect. Brutus is down four ways from the jack on everything in sight. Nothin’s calculated to embarrass him but a pair of mittens.”

“An’ at that,” remarked Harrington, who had a practical knowledge of politics, “him an’ his mugwump bunch didn’t have nothin’ on th’ New York reformers. Do youse guys remember when the city bought th’ ferries? There was – ”

“I’d sooner hear Slimmy,” said Goldie Cora.

“Me too,” agreed the Wop.

Slimmy looked flattered. “Well, then,” he continued, “all this time Caesar is the big screech, an’ it makes Brutus so sore he gets to be a bug. So he starts to talkin’. ‘This Cæsar guy,’ says Brutus, ‘won’t do.’

“‘Right you be,’ says Cassius, who’s always been a kicker. ‘That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you lobsters from th’ jump.’

“With this an old souse named Casca sits up, an’ says he ain’t seen nothin’ wrong about Cæsar.

“‘Oh, roll over!’ says Cassius. ‘Why even the newsboys are on. You know Cæsar’s wardman – that fresh baby, Mark Antony? It’s ribbed up right now that at th’ Lupercal he’s to hand Cæsar a crown.’

“Casca an’ th’ other bone-heads turns to Brutus.

“‘Yes,’ says Brutus, answerin’ their looks; ‘Cassius has got good information. He’s givin’ youse th’ correct steer.’”

“An’ did Cæsar cop off the crown?” asked Goldie Cora, eagerly.

Slimmy shook his head.

“Th’ Lupercal comes ‘round,” said he, “an’ Mark Antony is there with bells on. He makes a funny crack or two about a crown, but nothin’ goes. Th’ wind-up is that Brutus, Cassius, Casca, an’ th’ rest of th’ Citizens’ Union, gang Cæsar later in th’ forum, go at him with their chives, an’ cut an’ slash till his hide won’t hold his principles.”

“An’ wasn’t there,” demanded the Wop, with heat, “so much as wan strong-arm la-a-ad up at Cæsar’s end av th’ alley, wit’ th’ nerve to git even?”

“Never fear!” returned Slimmy, reassuringly; “th’ day they plant Cæsar, Mark Antony goes in to make th’ funeral spiel. He’s th’ Roman Senator Grady, Mark Antony is, an’ he burns ‘em up. Brutus an’ his bunch get th’ tip up at their club house, an’ take it on th’ run. With that, Cæsar’s gang gets to goin’, an’ they stand Rome on its nut from the Capitoline Hill to the Tarpeian Rock. Brutus an’ the’ other mugwumps gets it where th’ baby wore th’ beads, an’ there ain’t been a Seth Low or a Fulton Cutting along th’ Tiber from that day to this. Oh, they’ve got us left standin’ sideways, them Guineas have, in some things.”

About the time Slimmy began his lucid setting forth of Brutus, Cæsar and their political differences, Ellison and Razor, down at Nigger Mike’s in Pell Street, were laying their heads together. A bottle of whiskey stood between them, for they required inspiration. There were forty people in the room, some dancing, some drinking, some talking. But no one came near Ellison and Razor, for their manner showed that they did not wish to be disturbed. As the Nailer observed, “They had a hen on,” and when gentlemen have a hen on they prefer being quiet.

“I’ve no use for Paul Kelly,” whispered Razor in response to some remark of Ellison’s. “You bet he knows enough not to show his snout along Eighth Avenue. He’d get it good if he did.”

“My notion,” said Ellison, “is to turn th’ trick right now.”

“Just th’ two of us?”

“Why not?”

“He’d have his guerillas; youse have got to figure on that.”

“They wouldn’t stand th’ gaff. It’s the difference between guys who knows what they wants, and guys who don’t. Once we started, they’d tear th’ side out the Brighton in the get-away.”

“All right,” said Razor, bringing down his hand; “I’m wit’ you.”

“Just a moment,” and Ellison motioned Razor back into his chair. “If Paul’s dancin’, we must stall him into th’ bar. I don’t want to hoit any of them skirts.”

It was the delightful habit of Slimmy, on the tail of one of his lectures, to order beer for his hearers. That’s why he was listened to with so much interest. Were every lecturer to adopt Slimmy’s plan, he would never fail of an audience. Also, his fame would grow.

Slimmy, having finished with Cæsar and the others, had just signed up to the waiter to go his merry rounds, when Ellison and Razor slipped in from the street. Their hands were on their guns, their eyes on Kelly.

Harrington saw it coming.

“Your gatt, Paul, your gatt!” he shouted.

The rule in Gangland is to let every man kill his own snakes. Harrington’s conduct crowded hard upon the gross. It so disgusted Razor that, to show Harrington what he thought of it, he half turned and laced a bullet through his brain.

“Now you’ve got something of your own to occupy your mind,” quoth Razor.

Ellison was too old a practitioner to be drawn aside by the Harrington episode. He devoted himself unswervingly to Paul Kelly. Ellison’s first bullet cut a hole through Kelly’s coat and did no further harm. The lights were switched out at this crisis, and what shooting followed came off in the dark. There was plenty of it. The air seemed sown as thickly full of little yellow spits of flame as an August swamp of fireflies. Even so, it didn’t last. It was as short lived as a July squall at sea. There was one thunder and lightning moment, during which the pistols flashed and roared, and then – stillness and utter silence!

It was fairish pistol practice when you consider conditions. Paul Kelly had three bullets in him when four weeks later he asked the coppers to come and get him. He had been up in Harlem somewhere lying low. And you are not to forget Harrington. There were other casualties, also, which the police and politicians worked hand in hand to cover up.

Five minutes went by after the shooting; ten minutes! – no one was in a hurry. At last a policeman arrived. He might have come sooner, but the New Brighton was a citadel of politics. Would you have had him lose his shield?

The policeman felt his official way into the barroom: – empty as a drum, dark as the inside of a cow!

He struck a match. By its pale and little light he made out the dead Harrington on the floor. Not a living soul, not even Goldie Cora!

Goldie Cora?

Said that practical damsel, when the matter was put up to her by Big Kitty, who being sentimental called Goldie Cora a quitter for leaving her dead love lying in his blood, “What good could I do? If I’d stuck I’d have got pinched; an’ then – me in th’ Tombs – I’d have stood a swell chance, I don’t chink, of bein’ at Bill’s funeral.”

THE END