The battle of Nash’s Cafe is legend now, but I’m here to tell you exactly how it was. Rivington and Allen was bigger, and some of the shoot-outs down at Nigger Mike’s in the old Monk Eastman days may have had more rounds expended, but I don’t think there was a one up to this time that could rival Nash’s for expert gunplay. It was like a prizefight, with two of the best shots in the city going toe-to-toe for the first time.
Mary Frances snuck me down a service lift so that the hospital records would alibi me, and I mowed her molly for luck as I got into the backseat and pulled my overcoat over my head. My stitched-up belly hurt like hell, but as I thought about what we were going to do, the pain began to pass, and before we even got to Eighth and 41st Street I was feeling my old self. We glided by the 22nd Precinct station house just to make sure nothin’ was up, and it wasn’t.
Johnny sat next to me in the back. Art rode up front. I was surprised to see who was drivin’: little Georgie Ranft. Him I hadn’t seen for a while, not since he started wearing fancy pants and dancing for a living, if you can call it that.
“Hiya, boss,” he said. He was even wearing a chauffeur’s cap, what an actor that kid was.
“Might be some lead,” I said.
“This I gotta see,” he replied, and stepped on it.
“Wrong. You stay in the car while we’re taking care of business, or else you get out right now and if you won’t get out, I’ll have Art tap you with a sap and put you to sleep.”
Georgie looked both mad and relieved. “Aw, you never let me have any fun.”
“Safer that way.”
It was half snowing, half raining that night in late November as we pulled up. This was all to the good, because it meant we could pull our collars up and our hats down and nobody would look twice at us. We came through the front door one at a time, first Art, men Johnny, and me bringing up the rear.
I knew going in we were outnumbered, me and Hoppo and Art, but we had two advantages, the first of surprise and the second of marksmanship. True, I was in somewhat weakened condition, but I wasn’t exactly planning on hand-to-hand combat, just a few well-placed slugs finding their marks, and then back to the hospital, where nurse Blackwell would vouch for my whereabouts.
I scanned the joint, looking not so much for trouble, which is what we were bringing, but for trouble spots, bottlenecks, unexpected combatants, interfering civilians and the like. There was a clump of mugs down one end of the bar, one of which in particular stood out.
He wasn’t much more than a kid, fifteen or sixteen, light on his pins, like a dancer; like I was as a kid, or Georgie was now. Smooth. He was skinny, also like me, but not as good-looking; well dressed, like me, but not as well dressed. Taller than me. I hated him on sight.
I took a place at an unobtrusive lounge table, my hat still low over my left eye, and this time when the waitress came over, I waved her away.
“Waitin’, ” I barked.
I featured Freda, sitting cross-legged on a barstool, her skirts hiked up high, her blouse cut low, lookin’ like far more than your ordinary occasion of mortal sin.
Next twist I saw was Margaret, chattin’ up a coupla fellas at the bar, laughin’ and tossin’ her head back the way she did. Maybe it was just my mood, or maybe it was my recent experiences with Mary Frances, but she didn’t look so hot to me anymore. The lads, though, I did have eyes for, since they was the two punks who fed me some lead at the Arbor. I nodded to Art, which meant these two bozos was marked for death.
No Patsy.
The thought flickered across my mind that I was bein’ set up again. One day you can trust a bloke and the next day you can’t. Alliances shift; power changes hands; greed or lust will all of a sudden get ahold of your best mate and ruin him for life. Trust is the only thing we got in our racket, and once that’s gone, well, sir, you are in real trouble. So you spend half your time making friends and the other half worrying about them and sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which.
These musings was flittin’ through my brain, so that I almost missed Little Patsy’s big entrance. He’d been in the loo and was still fastening his trousers as he lurched toward the bar, buttonin’ with one hand and gesturing to the barman with his other. I was glad I wasn’t going to have to shoot him in the shitehouse. Freda flashed him a lamp, threw her arms around his neck and started in to spooning as he reached for his beer.
I rose and moved through the crowd, keeping my face shielded by my hat as much as possible. Ordinarily a gentleman such as myself would remove his hat in the presence of ladies, but the females in Nash’s by and large were no ladies, so, protocol be dammed, I kept my hat on and tacked in close to the bar.
“…all busted up about it,” Freda was saying.
Patsy took a big draught. “Don’t know what you saw in that runt anyway,” by which I took he meant me.
“Me neither,” agreed Freda. Dames always make the best double-crossers; comes natural to ’em, you ask me. “Just another punk.” She ran her hand up his free arm. “Not like you, Pats.”
Fats slid his free hand down in the direction of Freda’s arse, which was territory I claimed as my own. “Might as well just stay in the hospital, he’ll have a quicker trip to the morgue.” Patsy seemed very proud of himself. “I got boys all over the West Side, waitin’ for him to show.” He slammed his beer mug down on the bar and called for another as I moved in closer.
Out of the corner of my left eye I could see Johnny, and out of the corner of the other Art hove into view. Our strategy was to form a triangle; no one in our line could stand that kind of crossfire, and since the bar was pretty close to the entrance, we aimed to be out the door and into the car before any lurkers could get us in their sights.
I was armed pretty much as I’d been that night at the Arbor, a .45 in each holster and my .38 in my pants for good luck. The reason for this was simple. In a serious gunfight you could lay down an awful lot of firepower with the twin .45s and if one of them jammed, why you always had your handy revolver to finish off anybody still standing.
Most gangsters back then was pretty much as dumb as dirt, but wouldn’t you know it, the kid spots me as I approach. One more mug in a hat pushin’ toward a bar shouldn’t be the cause of no notice, but there you go. He had that sense.
I’m slipping a hand into my coat just as the kid taps Fats on the shoulder and directs his attention my way. Fats, Little Patsy—his eyes met mine and I knew I was made.
Fats shoves Freda hard and she goes flying off the barstool, which is what saved her life.
Her drink goes flying, spilling all over the mug next to her and shattering on the barroom floor.
Pow, it splinters into a thousand pieces sounding like a shot, and every mug in the joint reaches for his heater before the last shards of glass have finished spinning.
My first slug caught Fats in the lung, drilling a hole through his shirtfront and coming right out his back, which also dropped the yegg standing right behind him. Two more shots from the .45 hit him in the throat and the lower jaw.
Even hit this bad he didn’t fall right away, but just stood there looking at me, stupid as ever for a blink or two, then hit the deck as dead as McKinley.
This I remembered later, because at that point I was already blasting the two punks who had popped me. I clipped ’em both, one with each hand, knocking them off their barstools into kingdom come glory hallelujah. Hoppo and Art had opened up as well, and all I can say is that I’d trained them good, because Dusters went down like they was shot, which of course they were.
By now there was screaming and general carrying-on among the womenfolk. I stood there for a moment over the body of the late Fats, our long score finally settled in my favor. I looked up and saw Freda’s eyes all alight and Margaret’s echoing her sentiments and I felt a brief tingle through my poor penetrated loins because nothing gets a dame hot and bothered like blood.
A hand on my shoulder brought me around. “Let’s beat it,” says Art.
On the way out I caught the bartender’s eye and give him a look that said forget about the cops till we’re gone and forget you ever saw anything, in fact forget your own name for a while, and I thought by return flicker that he got the message.
We were out the door now, Art and Johnny sprinting for the car. Georgie had the wagon all fired up and in gear, and I swear it was buckin’ like a prize racehorse. But I’d only taken a few steps when I noticed I was bleeding pretty bad. The Dusters had got off nary a shot, but then again they sort of had, because my stitches had popped and was starting to leak pretty good. I felt gravity having its way with me, and the closer I got to the car the farther away it was, till there was at least a mile of wet pavement for me to cross, and I could hear the sirens already starting up in the distance, which reminded me I ought to turn back and shoot the bartender for disobedience, but Nash’s doors were just as far away as Georgie’s car, which I wish I could tell you was a Nash, but Nashes didn’t come along till a couple a years later.
It was pouring down rain now, and pretty obvious that I wasn’t going to make it. Another half-step and then something else popped, and then another something else, and now I was in real agony and I could see the cop cars tearing up Broadway and so I waved for Georgie to scram.
Johnny was half out of the car, half on the running board, reaching toward me, when the first bullet creased my hat; I could hear it splinter the doorjamb behind me.
My first thought was those coppers were some shots, until another slug whizzed past my ear. It woulda hit me pretty much square if I hadn’t already been falling, which is what saved my life on this occasion, because the shooter musta figured he’d got me a good one.
I caught myself with my left hand as I hit the sidewalk. The cops were almost upon us now and Art and Johnny were both firing out the windows. “Step on it, George!” I shouted with the last of my strength, but I don’t think anyone could hear me.
Falling down behind the car gave me just enough protection to grab a quick breather. I knew the bulls would grab me, sure as shooting, but I wanted to see my antagonist and give him what for before they nabbed me.
Then a shape stepped out of the shadows across the street and I knew right away it was the punk I’d seen in the bar, the one who’d clued Fats in to my presence.
Somewhere along the line I’d dropped both my .45s so I yanked Monk’s .38 out of my pants. I came up firing as the cops poured out of their paddies. I could hear the mook grunt in pain as I slammed one into his leg.
I tossed the Smith to Johnny through the open window. “Scram,” I cried, and this time they heard me. Little Georgie hit the pedal so hard Art and Johnny almost went flyin’.
Then the cops were on me and that was pretty much that.
I held my hands up to show I wasn’t armed. Luckily nobody shot me. I took one last step in their direction, punch-drunk, and went down for the count.