The Apaches of New York

“‘Say, Commish,’ he says, ‘I sees th’ fight of my life last night. Nineteen rounds to a knockout! It’s a left hook to th’ jaw does it.’

“‘No!’ Teddy says, lightin’ up like Chinatown on th’ night of a Chink festival; ‘you int’rest me! Pull up a stool,’ says he, ‘an’ put your feet on th’ desk. There; now you’re comfortable, go on about th’ fight. Who were they?’

“‘A lad from my district named Brady,’ says Big Florry, ‘an’ a dock-walloper from Williamsburg. You ought to have seen it, Commish! Oh, Brady’s th’ goods! Pie’s th’ lad to go th’ route! He’s all over that Williamsburg duffer like a cat over a shed roof! He went ‘round him like a cooper ‘round a barrel!’

“Big Florrie runs on like that, using diplomacy, an’ two weeks later Brady’s thumpin’ a beat.”

“Ye’re r-r-right, Jimmy,” said the Wop, after a pause which smelled of wisdom; “I agrees wit’ yez. Morgan, Perkins, Schwab an’ thim rich omadauns is th’ bum lot. Now I think av it, too, Fatty Walsh minchons that wor-r-rd diplom’cy to me long ago. Yez knew Fatty, Jimmy?”

“Fatty an’ me was twins.”

“Fatty’s th’ foine la-a-ad; on’y now he’s dead – Mary resht him! Th’ time I’m in th’ Tombs for bouncin’ th’ brick off th’ head av that Orangeman, who’s whistlin’ th’ Battle av th’ Boyne to see how long I can shtand it, Fatty’s th’ warden; an’ say, he made th’ place home to me. He’s talkin’, Fatty is, wan day about Mayor Hughey Grant, an’ it’s then he shpeaks av diplom’cy. He says Hughey didn’t have anny.”

“Don’t you believe it!” interrupted old Jimmy; “Fatty had Hughey down wrong. When it comes to diplomacy, Hughey could suck an egg an’ never chip th’ shell.”

“It’s a special case loike. Fatty’s dishtrict, d’yez see, has nothin’ in it but Eyetalians. Wan day they’r makin’ ready to cilibrate somethin’. Fatty’s in it, av course, bein’ leader, an’ he chases down to th’ City Hall an’ wins out a permit for th’ Dago parade.”

“What’s Hughey got to do with that?”

“Lishten! It shtrikes Hughey, him bein’ Mayor, it’ll be th’ dead wise play, when Fatty marches by wit’ his Guineas, to give them th’ gay, encouragin’ face. Hughey thinks Fatty an’ his pushcart la-a-ads is cilibratin’ some Dago Saint Patrick’s day, d’yez see. It’s there Fatty claims that Hughey shows no diplom’cy; he’d ought to have ashked.”

“Asked what?”

“I’m comin’ to it. Fatty knows nothin’ about phwat’s on Hughey’s chest. His first tip is when he sees Hughey, an’ th’ balance av th’ Tammany administration cocked up in a hand-me-down grandstand they’ve faked together in City Hall Park. Fatty pipes ‘em, as he an’ his Black Hand bunch comes rowlin’ along down Broadway, an’ th’ sight av that grandshtand full av harps, Hughey at th’ head, almosht gives him heart failure.

“Fatty halts his Eyetalians, sets them to ma-a-arkin’ toime, an’ comes sprintin’ an’ puffin’ on ahead.

“‘Do a sneak!’ he cries, when he comes near enough to pass th’ wor-r-rd. ‘Mother above! don’t yez know phwat these wops av mine is cilibratin’? It’s chasin’ th’ pope out av Rome. Duck, I tell yez, duck!”

“Sure; Hughiy an’ th’ rist av th’ gang took it on th’ run. Fatty could ma-a-arch all right, because there’s nobody but blackhanders in his dish-trict. But wit’ Hughey an’ th’ others it’s different. They might have got his grace, th’ archbishop, afther thim.”

“Goin’ back to Teddy,” observed old Jimmy, as he called for beer, “them rich lobsters is always stirrin’ him up. An’ they always gets th’ worst of it. They’ve never brought home th’ bacon yet. Tie’s put one over on ‘em every time.

“Yez can gamble that Tiddy’s th’ la-a-ad that can fight!” cried the Wop in tones of glee; “he’s th’ baby that’s always lookin’ f’r an argument!” Then in a burst, both rapturous and irrelevant: “tie’s th’ idol av th’ criminal illimint!”

“I don’t think that’s ag’inst him,” interjected the Nailer, defensively.

“Nor me neither,” said old Jimmy. “When it comes down to tacks, who’s quicker wit’ th’ applaudin’ mitt at sight of an honest man than th’ crim’nal element? – only so he ain’t bumpin’ into their graft. Who is it hisses th’ villyun in th’ play till you can hear him in Hoboken? Ain’t it some dub just off the Island? Once a Blind Tom show is at Minor’s, an’ a souse in th’ gallery is so carried away be grief at th’ death of Little Eva, he falls down two flights of stairs. I gets a flash at him as they tosses him into th’ ambulance, an’ I hopes to join th’ church if it ain’t a murderer I asks Judge Battery Dan to put away on Blackwell’s for beatin’ up his own little girl till she can’t get into her frock. Wall Streeters an’ college professors, when it comes to endorsin’ an honest man, can’t take no medals off th’ crim’nal element.”

“Phwy has Morgan an’ th’ rist av thim Wall Street geeks got it in f’r Tiddy?” queried the Wop. “Phwat’s he done to ‘em?”

“Nothin’; only they claims it ain’t larceny if you steal more’n a hundred thousand dollars, an’ Teddy won’t stand for a limit.”

“If that’s phwat they’re in a clinch about, then I’m for Tiddy,” declared the Wop. “Ain’t it him, too, that says th’ only difference bechune a rich man an’ a poor man is at th’ bank? More power to him! – why not? Would this beer be annythin’ but beer, if it came through a spigot av go-o-old, from a keg av silver, an’ th’ bar-boy had used a dia-mond-shtudded bung-starter in tappin’ it?”

Over at Slimmy’s table, where the weaker sex predominated, the talk was along lighter lines. Mollie Squint spoke in condemnation of those harem skirts at Coney Island.

“What do youse think,” she asked, “of them she-scouts showin’ up at Luna Park in harem skirts? Coarse work that – very coarse. It goes to prove how some frails ain’t more’n half baked.”

“Why does a dame go to th’ front in such togs?” asked Slimmy disgustedly.

“Because she’s stuck on herself,” said the Nailer, who had drifted over from old Jimmy and the Wop, where the talk was growing too heavy for him; “an’ besides, it’s an easy way of gettin’ th’ spot-light. Take anything like this harem skirt stunt, an’ oodles of crazy Mollies’ll fall for it. Youse can’t hand it out too raw! So if it’s goin’ to stir things up, an’ draw attention, they’re Johnny-at-the-rat-hole every time!”

“We ladies,” remarked Jew Yetta, like a complacent Portia giving judgment, “certainly do like to be present at th’ ball game! An’ if we can’t beat th’ gate – can’t heel in – we’ll climb th’ fence. Likewise, we’re right there whenever it’s th’ latest thing. Especially, if we’ve got a face that’d stop traffic in th’ street. Do youse remember” – this to Anna Gold – “when bicycles is new, how a lot of old iron-bound fairies, wit’ maps that’d give youse a fit of sickness, never wastes a moment in wheelin’ to th’ front?”

“Do I remember when bicycles is new?” retorted Anna Gold, resentfully. “How old do youse think I be?”

“Th’ Nailer’s right,” said Slimmy, cutting skilfully in with a view to keeping the peace. “Th’ reason why them dames breaks in on bicycles, an’ other new deals, is because it attracts attention; an’ attractin’ attention is their notion of bein’ great. Which shows that they don’t know th’ difference between bein’ famous an’ bein’ notorious.”

Slimmy, having thus declared himself, looked as wise as a treeful of owls.

“Well, w’at is th’ difference?” demanded Anna Gold.

“What’s th’ difference between fame an’ notoriety?” repeated Slimmy, brow lofty, manner high. “It’s th’ difference, Goldie, between havin’ your picture took at th’ joint of a respectable photographer, an’ bein’ mugged be th’ coppers at th’ Central Office. As to harem skirts, however, I’m like Mollie there. Gen’rally speakin’, I strings wit’ th’ loidies; but when they springs a make-up like them harem skirts, I pack in. Harem skirts is where I get off.”

“Of course,” said Big Kitty, who while speaking little spoke always to the point, “youse souses understands that them dolls who shakes up Coney has an ace buried. They’re simply a brace of roof-gardeners framin’ up a little ink. I s’pose they fig-gered they’d make a hit. Did they?” – this was in reply to Mollie Squint, who had asked the question. “Well, if becomin’ th’ reason why th’ bull on post rings in a riot call, an’ brings out th’ resoives, is your idee of a hit, Mollie, them dames is certainly th’ big scream.”

“Them harem skirts won’t do!” observed the Nailer, firmly; “youse hear me, they won’t do!”

“An’ that goes f’r merry widdy hats, too,” called out the Wop, from across the room. “Only yister-day a big fat baby rounds a corner on me, an’ bang! she ketches me in th’ lamp wit’ th’ edge av her merry widdy. On the livil, I thought it was a cross-cut saw! She came near bloindin’ me f’r loife. As I side-steps, a rooshter’s tail that’s sproutin’ out av th’ roof, puts me other optic on th’ blink. I couldn’t have seen a shell av beer, even if Jimmy here was payin’ fer it. Harem skirts is bad; but th’ real minace is merry widdys.”

“I thought them lids was called in,” remarked Slimmy.

“If they was,” returned the Wop, “they got bailed out ag’in. Th’ one I’m nailed wit’ is half as big as Betmont Pa-a-ark. Youse could ‘ve raced a field av two-year olds on it.”

“Well,” remarked the Nailer, resignedly, “it’s th’ fashion, an’ it’s up to us, I s’pose, to stand it. That or get off the earth.”

“Who invints th’ fashions?” and here the Wop appealed to the deep experience of old Jimmy.

“Th’ French.”

Old Jimmy – his pension had just been paid – motioned to the waiter to again take the orders all ‘round.

“Th’ French. They’re the laddy-bucks that shoves ‘em from shore. Say ‘Fashion!’ an’ bing! th’ French is on th’ job, givin’ orders.”

“Thim Frinch ‘re th’ great la-a-ads,” commented the Wop, admiringly. “There’s a felly on’y this mornin’ tellin’ me they can cook shnails so’s they’re almosht good to eat.”

“Tell that bug to guess ag’in, Wop,” said Mollie Squint. “Snails is never good to eat. As far as them French are concerned, however, I go wit’ old Jimmy. They’re a hot proposition.”

Jack Sirocco had been walking up and down, his manner full of uneasiness.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” at last asked old Jimmy, who had observed that proprietor’s anxiety.

Sirocco explained that divers gimlet-eyed gentlemen, who he believed were emissaries of an antivice society, had been in the place for hours.

“They only now screwed out,” continued Sirocco. Then, dolefully: “It’d be about my luck, just as I’m beginnin’ to get a little piece of change for myself, to have some of them virchoo-toutin’ ginks hand me a wallop. I wonder w’at good it does ‘em to be always tryin’ to knock th’ block off somebody. I ain’t got nothin’ ag’inst virchoo. Vir-choo’s all right in its place. But so is vice.”

Old Jimmy’s philosophy began manoeuvring for the high ground.

“This vice and virtue thing makes me tired,” he said; “there’s too much of it. Also, there’s plenty to be said both ways. Th’ big trouble wit’ them anti-vice dubs is that they’re all th’ time connin’ themselves. They feel moral when it’s merely dyspepsia; they think they’re virchous when they’re only sick. In th’ end, too, virchoo always falls down. Virchoo never puts a real crimp in vice yet. Virchoo’s a sprinter; an’ for one hundred yards it makes vice look like a crab. But vice is a stayer, an’ in th’ Marathon of events it romps in winner. Virchoo likes a rockin’-chair; vice puts in most of its time on its feet. Virchoo belongs to th’ Union; it’s for th’ eight hour day, with holidays an’ Saturday afternoons off. Vice is always willin’ to break th’ wage schedule, work overtime or do anythin’ else to oblige. Virchoo wants two months in th’ country every summer; vice never asks for a vacation since th’ world begins.”

The Wop loudly cheered old Jimmy’s views. Sirocco, however, continued gloomy.

“For,” said the latter with a sigh, “I can feel it that them anti-vice guys has put th’ high-sign on me. They’ll never rest now until they’ve got me number.”

Pretty Agnes, on comin’ in, had taken a corner table by herself. She heard, but did not join in the talk. She even left untouched the glass of beer, which, at a word from old Jimmy, a waiter had placed before her. Silent and sad, with an expression which spoke of trouble present or trouble on its way, she sat staring into smoky space.

“W’at’s wrong wit’ her?” whispered Slimmy, who, high-strung and sensitive, could be worked upon by another’s troubles.

“Why don’t youse ask her?” said Big Kitty.

Slimmy shook a doubtful head. “She ain’t got no use for me,” he explained, “since that trouble wit’ Indian Louie.”

“She sure couldn’t expect you an’ th’ Grabber,” remarked Anna Gold, quite scandalized at the thought of such unfairness, “to lay dead, while Louie does you out of all that dough!”

“It’s th’ rent,” said Jew Yetta. She had been canvassing Pretty Agnes out of the corners of her eyes. “I know that look from me own experience. She can’t come across for the flat, an’ some bum of an agent has handed her a notice.”

“There’s nothin’ in that,” declared Mollie Squint. “She could touch me for th’ rent, an’ she’s hep to it.” Then, in reproof of the questioning looks of Anna Gold: “Sure; both me an’ Agnes was stuck on Indian Louie, but w’at of that? Louie’s gone; an’ besides, I never blames her. It’s me who’s th’ butt-in; Agnes sees Louie first.”

“Youse ‘re wrong, Yetta,” spoke up the Nailer, confidently. “Agnes ain’t worryin’ about cush. There ain’t a better producer anywhere than Sammy Hart. No one ever sees Sammy wit’out a roll.”

The Nailer lounged across to Pretty Agnes; Mollie Squint, whose heart was kindly, followed him.

“W’y don’t youse lap up your suds?” queried the Nailer, pointing to the beer. Without waiting for a return, he continued, “Where’s Sammy?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Pretty Agnes, her manner half desperate. “Nailer, I’m simply fretted batty!”

“W’at’s gone crooked, dear?” asked Mollie Squint, soothingly. “Youse ain’t been puttin’ on th’ mitts wit’ Sammy?”

“No,” replied Pretty Agnes, the tears beginning to flow; “me an’ Sammy’s all right. On’y he won’t listen!” Then suddenly pointing with her finger, she exclaimed; “There! It’s him I’m worryin’ about!”

The Nailer and Mollie Squint glanced in the direction indicated by Pretty Agnes. The Ghost had just come in and was sidling into a chair. It must be admitted that there was much in his appearance to dislike. His lips were loose, his eyes half closed and sleepy, while his chin was catlike, retreating, unbased. In figure he was undersized, slope-shouldered, slouching. When he spoke, his voice drawled, and the mumbled words fell half-formed from the slack angles of his mouth. He was an eel – a human eel – slippery, slimy, hard to locate, harder still to hold. To find him you would have to draw off all the water in the pond, and then poke about in the ooze.

“It’s him that’s frettin’ me,” repeated Pretty Agnes. “He’s got me wild!”

The Nailer donned an expression, cynical and incredulous.

“W’at’s this?” said he. “W’y Agnes, youse ain’t soft on that mutt, be youse? Say, youse must be gettin’ balmy!”

“It ain’t that,” returned Pretty Agnes, indignantly. “Do youse think I’d fall for such a chromo? I’d be bughouse!”

“Bughouse wouldn’t half tell it!” exclaimed Mollie Squint fervently. “Him?” – nodding towards the Ghost. “W’y he’s woise’n a wet dog!”

“Well,” returned the puzzled Nailer, who with little imagination, owned still less of sentimental breadth, “if youse ain’t stuck on him, how’s he managin’ to fret youse? Show me, an’ I’ll take a punch at his lamp.”

“Punchin’ wouldn’t do no good,” replied Pretty Agnes, resignedly. “This is how it stands. Sammy an’ Big Head’s gettin’ ready to do a schlam job. They’ve let th’ Ghost join out wit’ ‘em, an’ I know he’s goin’ to give ‘em up.”

The Nailer looked grave.

“Unless youse’ve got somethin’ on him, Agnes.” he remonstrated, “you oughtn’t to make a squawk like that. How do youse know he’s goin’ to rap?”

“Cause he always raps,” she cried fiercely. “Where’s Mashier? Where’s Marky Price? Where’s Skinny Goodstein? Up th’ river! – every mother’s son of ‘em! An’ all his pals, once; every one! He’s filled in wit’ th’ best boys that ever cracked a bin. An’ every one of ‘em’s doin’ their bits, while he’s here drinkin’ beer. I tell youse th’ Ghost’s a snitch! Youse can see ‘Copper’ written on his face.”

“If I t’ought so,” growled the Nailer, an evil shine in his beady eyes, “I’d croak him right here.” Then, as offering a solution: “If youse ‘re so sure he’s a stool, w’y don’t youse tail him an’ see if he makes a meet wit’ any bulls?”

“Tail nothin’!” scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; “me mind’s made up. All I’ll do is wait. If Sammy falls, it’ll be th’ Ghost’s last rap. I know a party who’s crazy gone on me. For two weeks I’ve been handin’ him th’ ice pitcher. All I has to do is soften up a little, an’ he’ll cook th’ Ghost th’ minute I says th’ woid.”

Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost were too much for her feelings, left the place. The Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn’t remain long.

The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. “Do youse t’ink,” said he, “there’s anythin’ in that crack of Agnes?”

“Search me!” returned Mollie Squint, conservatively. “I ain’t sayin’ a woid.”

“It’s funny about youse skoits,” remarked the Nailer, his manner an imitation of old Jimmy’s. “Here’s Agnes talkin’ of havin’ th’ Ghost trimmed in case he tips off Sammy to th’ dicks, an’ yet when Slimmy an’ th’ Grabber puts Indian Louie over th’ jump, neither Agnes nor you ever so much as yelps!”

“You don’t understand,” said Mollie Squint, tolerantly. “Sammy’s nice to Agnes. Louie? Th’ best he ever hands us is to sting us for our rolls, an’ then go blow ‘em on that blonde. There’s a big difference, Nailer, if youse could only see it.”

“Well,” replied the Nailer, who boasted a heart untouched, “all I can say is youse dolls are too many for me! You’ve got me wingin’.”

Midnight!

The theatre of operations was a cigar store, in Canal Street near the Bowery. The Ghost was on the outside. The safe was a back number; to think of soup would have been paying it a compliment. After an hour’s work with a can-opener, Sammy and Big Head declared themselves within ten minutes of the money. All that remained was to batter in the inner-lining of the box.

Big Head cocked a sudden and suspicious ear.

“What’s that?” he whispered.

Sammy had just reversed the can-opener, for an attack upon that sheet-iron lining. He paused in mid-swing, and listened.

“It’s a pinch,” he cried, crashing down the heavy iron tool with a cataract of curses. “It’s a pinch, an’ th’ Ghost is in on it. Agnes had him right!”

It was a pinch sure enough. Even as Sammy spoke, Rocheford and Wertheimer of the Central Office were covering them with their pistols.

“Hands up!” came from Wertheimer.

“You’ve got us bang right!” sighed Big Head.

Outside they found Cohen, also of the Central Office, with the ruffles on the Ghost.

“That’s only a throw-off,” sneered Sammy, pointing to the bracelets.

The Ghost began to whine. The loose lips became looser than ever, the drooping lids drooped lower still.

“W’y, Sammy,” he remonstrated weepingly, “youse don’t t’ink I’d go an’ give youse up!”

“That’s all right,” retorted Sammy, with sullen emphasis. “Youse’ll get yours, Ghost.”

Had the Ghost been wise he would have remained in the Tombs; it was his best chance. But the Ghost was-not wise. Within the week he was walking the streets, and trying to explain a freedom which so sharply contrasted with the caged condition of Big Head and Sammy Hart. Gangland turned its back on him; his explanations were not received. And, sluggish and thick as he was, Gangland made him feel it.

It was black night in University Place. The Ghost was gumshoeing his way towards the Bridge Saloon. A taxicab came slowly crabbing along the curb. It stopped; a quick figure slipped out and, muzzle on the very spot, put a bullet through the base of the Ghost’s brain.

The quick figure leaped back into the cab. The door slammed, and the cab dashed off into the darkness at racing speed.

In that splinter of time required to start the cab you might have seen – had you been near enough – two white small hands clutch with a kind of rapturous acceptance at the quick figure, as it sprang into the cab, and heard the eager voice of a woman saying “Promise for promise, and word for word! Who wouldn’t give soul and body for th’ death of a snitch? – for a snake that will bite no more?”

IX. – LITTLE BOW KUM

Since then no Chinaman will go into the room. I had this from Loui Fook, himself an eminent member of the On Leon Tong and a leading merchant of Chinatown. Loui Fook didn’t pretend to know of his own knowledge, but spoke by hearsay. He said that the room was haunted. No one would live there, being too wise, although the owner had lowered the rent from twenty dollars a month to ten. Ten monthly dollars should be no inducement to live in a place where, at odd, not to say untoward hours, you hear sounds of scuffling and wing-beating, such as is made by a chicken when its head is chopped off. Also, little Bow Kum’s blood still stains the floor in a broad red patch, and refuses to give way to soap and water. The wife of the Italian janitor – who cannot afford to be superstitious, and bemoans a room unrented – has scrubbed half through the boards in unavailing efforts to wash away the dull red splotch.

Detective Raphael of the Central Office heard of the ghost. He thought it would make for the moral uplift of Chinatown to explode so foolish a tale.

Yong Dok begged Raphael not to visit the haunted room where the blood of little Bow Kum spoke in dumb, dull crimson from the floor. It would set the ghosts to talking.

“Then come with me, and act as interpreter,” quoth Raphael, and he threw Yong Dok over his heavy shoulder and began to climb the stairs.

Yong Dok fainted, and lay as limp as a wet bath towel. Loui Fook said that Yong Dok would die if taken to the haunted room, so Raphael forbore and set him down. In an hour Yong Dok had measurably recovered, but Tchin Foo insists that he hasn’t been the same man since.

Low Fong, Low Tching and Chu Wah, three hatchet men belonging to the Four Brothers, were charged with the murder. But the coroner let Chu Wah go, and the special sessions jury disagreed as to Low Fong and Low Tching; and so one way and another they were all set free.

It is difficult to uncover evidence against a Chinaman. They never talk, and their faces are as void of expression as the wrong side of a tombstone. In only one way does a Chinaman betray emotion. When guilty, and pressed upon by danger, a pulse beats on the under side of his arm, just above the elbow. This is among the golden secrets known to what Central Office men do duty along Pell, Mott and Doyers streets, but for obvious reasons it cannot be used in court.

Although the white devils’ law failed, the Chinese law was not so powerless. Because of that murder, eight Four Brothers and five On Leon Tongs have been shot dead. Also, slippered feet have stolen into the sleeping rooms of offensive ones, as they dreamed of China the Celestial far away beyond the sunset, and unseen bird-claw fingers have turned on the white devils’ gas. In this way a dozen more have died. They have awakened in Chinatown to the merits of the white devils’ gas as a method of assassination. It bids fair to take the place of the automatic gun, just as the latter shoved aside the old-time barbarous hatchet.

Little Bow Kum had reached her nineteenth year when she was killed. Her husband, Tchin Len, was worth $50,000. He was more than twice as old as little Bow Kum, and is still in Mott Street waiting for her spirit to return and strangle her destroyers. This will one day come to pass, and he is waiting for that day. Tchin Len has another wife in Canton, but he does not go back to her, preferring to live in Chinatown with the memory of his little lost Bow Kum.

Little Bow Kum was born in the Canton district, China. Her father’s name was Wong Hi. Her mother’s name doesn’t matter, because mothers do not amount to much in China. As she lay in her mother’s lap, a chubby, wheat-hued baby, they named her Bow Kum, which means Sweet Flower, for they knew she would be very beautiful.

When little Bow Kum was five years old, Wong Hi, her father, sold her for $300. Wong Hi was poor, and $300 is a Canton fortune. Also, the sale had its moral side, since everyone knows that children are meant to be a prop and support to their parents.