18

MIKE SALTER’S BAR on Pell Street was as good a place as any to meet without causing too much of a stir. Big Tim sat in the back, facing the door. Photo Dave was to one side, Sasparilla on the other. They were both well armed, a wise precaution given the situation. Big Tim’s brother Dennis, known as Flat-nose Dinny, and his half brother, Larry Mulligan, stood at the bar as close to the door as possible. Between them all they had six pistols, three dirks, four pairs of brass knuckles, and three blackjacks. Big Tim wasn’t armed. He considered it beneath a man of politics to carry weapons.

Flat-nose Dinny nodded to Big Tim shortly after they had settled in and a moment later Eat-’em-up Jack McManus was framed in the doorway. McManus had a reputation out of all proportion to his stature. He had a compact physique, all chest and shoulders with only the hint of a neck sprouting from his Celluloid collar. He wasn’t more than five foot eight, but for him that was an advantage. Low to the ground, and heavy as he was, he didn’t go down easy. Many a larger man had found himself looking up at Jack. He’d been the bouncer at the New Brighton Dance Hall, Kelly’s place from years back, a place where wild nights and wilder characters were commonplace. Jack had handled them all, gangsters, drunks, bricklayers with hands like stone, upstate farmers hard as the earth. They got out of hand at the New Brighton and Jack had shown them the door. It was not his size or strength that had made his reputation, but his absolute unwillingness to ever give up, and to use whatever tools necessary to win. Brass knuckles, a knife, and at least one lead-filled sap were his standard equipage, though he was known to resort to teeth, beer bottles, chairs, and anything else that came to hand with equal aplomb. He was still head bouncer, but had left the daily bone-breaking to lesser men and was now said to be one of Kelly’s top lieutenants. He was at ease today and when he entered he stepped to one side and quickly surveyed the room, which at that time of the afternoon was hardly filled. He eyed Dinny and Larry, but gave no sign he recognized either, though he knew them both well enough. Slowly he moved down the bar and positioned himself near the back. He looked at Big Tim and touched the rim of his bowler before he ordered a beer. The door opened again and Johnny Spanish stepped in, followed closely by Paul Kelly, sporting a snappy homburg and dressed in a tailored suit over a plaid vest. Pearl buttons and cuff links gleamed and a gold watch chain hung at his waist. A diamond stick pin secured his cravat and gleaming white spats framed his black leather shoes. The man ran the largest criminal empire in the city. He strode into Salter’s like he owned the place even though Pell Street had become neutral territory just the year before.

Kelly looked neither left nor right, seeming not to care who might be in some dark corner, a measure of his confidence in Jack and Johnny. He’d left Kid Dropper at the door outside to head off any last-minute interruptions. Kelly walked over to Big Tim’s table, a warm smile lighting his handsome features. Tim hauled his bulk from his chair as he approached and stretched out a massive paw. “Ach, you’re lookin’ like a new penny, Paul. Good ta see ya.”

“You too, Dry Dollar. Always a pleasure. It’s a shame our commitments keep us so busy. It’s been too long.”

It had been about a year since they’d seen each other, when Big Tim had presided over a gangland sit-down in a dive called the Palm Café on Chrystie Street, the goal being to settle a turf battle between the Five Pointers and the Eastmans. Minor skirmishes had occurred with increasing frequency in 1903 to the point where the newspapers were starting to call for a crackdown on gang activities. But the skirmishes erupted into an all-out gun battle when a group of Five Pointers raided a stuss game run by the Eastmans. They shot it out under the Second Avenue El at the arch at Rivington and Allen. More than a hundred gangsters had blazed away, including Monk Eastman, arrested when a company of police charged into the melee, killing three and wounding seven. Nobody knew how many had really died. The gangs were known to bury their own in cellars throughout the East Side.

Big Tim and a Tammany fixer named Tom Foley had arranged a truce and set up the meeting at the Palm, which had for a while ended the war. But renewed skirmishes had required another summit later in 1903 where the famous boxing match between Monk and Paul had been arranged to settle gang boundaries. The dapper Kelly had fought the apish Monk Eastman for hours, bare-knuckled in a neutral spot in the Bronx, both men collapsing in a draw. Some said the draw was a fix, but Eat-’em-up Jack could attest that Kelly had pissed blood for a week after, a fact that had only heightened Jack’s respect for the man. Since that battle, things had remained relatively calm, which pleased Big Tim greatly. Murder and mayhem were bad business and he absolutely prohibited such foolishness around election time.

Tim sat back down and waved a hand at a chair for Kelly, who settled in after a warm greeting to Photo Dave and Sasparilla. Big Tim had always liked Kelly’s manners. The man had polish, he had to give him that. Kelly could have gone far in the Wigwam if he’d chosen politics, despite being Italian. Kelly’s real name was Vacarelli, a fact not generally known by his gangster associates. He’d named himself Kelly to better fit in with the Irish gangs when he’d started his criminal career in the eighties.

“Things are going well I hear,” Big Tim said.

“Well enough, Dry Dollar. The Tiger prospers too I trust.” The Tammany machine was often referred to as the Tiger, in political terms all too fitting.

“May it ever be so, Paul,” he said with an adjustment on the hard chair. “Is there anything the Wigwam can do for you?”

Kelly raised an eyebrow. He was unused to offers of assistance from Tammany Hall, especially the unsolicited sort. “Nothing comes to mind,” he said.

Big Tim nodded as if these were words of deep import. “Kid Twist keeping to his own?” he asked.

“Twist is Twist,” Kelly said with a shrug. “He’ll try some things now that Monk’s away for good, but it’s gonna take more than a flashy suit to fill Monk’s shoes. For now my boys are minding our own business.”

“Wise,” Big Tim said. “Give Twist enough rope and he’ll end up with it around his neck, eh? Might actually work out that way. The Kid was always a bit too bold for his own good, too impetuous. Not that Monk was a model of decorum,” he added, laughing. Kelly grinned, but said nothing. In a way he had been sad to see Monk get sent up. But Monk wasn’t the reason Big Tim had called for this meeting and he was getting tired of the chitchat.

“So, Dry Dollar, you didn’t ask to see me to talk about old times, as enjoyable as that might be.”

Big Tim smiled sadly and shook his head. He steepled his fingers in front of him and appeared to consider something before he spoke. Finally he said, “There’s a gentleman by the name of Saturn.”

“Saturn? Like the planet?” Kelly said.

“Like the planet,” Tim replied. “He owes the Bottler something around ten thousand. I’m presuming you’re aware of that.”

Kelly nodded, his mind racing, but his face a mask. “A lot of money,” he said. He made a show of plucking a bit of lint from his lapel, seeming quite unconcerned. “The Bottler must be getting lax with his accounts. I’ll have to have a chat with him, remind him of proper procedures.”

“Really?” Big Tim absorbed Kelly’s words slowly like a man tasting a new wine. This particular vintage was all vinegar. Tim knew he had the upper hand, but it wasn’t wise to show it. A man like Kelly needed his dignity, especially in front of his lieutenants.

“So, the Bottler hadn’t told you,” Tim said without inflection.

“The Bottler doesn’t tell me everything, Dry Dollar. In fact, I leave him pretty much to himself, so long as he’s on time with payments,” Kelly said evenly. The fact that he actually was ignorant grated on him.

“That’s a big number, Paul. Maybe you should ask him about it,” Tim said.

Kelly shrugged and said. “So what’s this Saturn mug to you?”

“A friend,” Big Tim said. “A friend of a friend actually.”

“Nobody’s got more friends than you, Dry Dollar,” Kelly said with a grin that had no mirth in it.

Big Tim couldn’t help but grunt a laugh. It was nice to see a man like Kelly squirm a bit. As much as he enjoyed his job, enjoyed helping his constituents, it was the exercise of power, the subtle bending of wills that he truly reveled in. “The curse of the political man, Paul,” he said with some theatricality. “And so long as I can keep ’em contented they’ll stay my friends, and voting Democratic.” He reached into an inside jacket pocket, a move that he noticed made Eat-’em-up Jack and Johnny Spanish tense up like dogs at the end of their chains. He brought out an overstuffed brown envelope and put it softly on the table. He slid it toward Kelly with one big finger. “This is to pay off Mister Saturn’s debt to the Bottler, with my compliments. And there’s something extra in there for your trouble,” Big Tim said. “A couple hundred to keep the peace so to speak.”

Kelly didn’t touch it. “I can’t speak for the Bottler, Dry Dollar, not without knowing the particulars.”

Big Tim waved a hand at the envelope. “If it ain’t enough, come see me. If it’s too much then keep the difference with my thanks, eh?” He knew Kelly had no real choice. He and the former Chief Devery had been taking protection from the Bottler for some time. They could yank that protection and let him twist in the breeze or shut him down outright. The Bottler’s game was the most profitable on the East Side. Nobody wanted anything unfortunate to happen, least of all Paul Kelly.

Kelly seemed to read his thoughts. “Why not go to the Bottler yourself? Devery knows where to find him.”

Tim smiled broadly. “Because Paul, like so many others in this great metropolis of ours—you are a friend of mine.”