Three men wrestled in a pit of mud outside of the Woodrat. Of the three of them, only George had no idea what was happening or why he was suddenly involved in another fight. The other two were on top of him, still trading blows. George still had enough momentum to push the two men away and scramble to his feet.
The other two men did not seem to even realize George was there. They screamed insults and clutched at each other. The slickness of the mud caused them to lose their grip. They both stood up, fists raised. Without another word, they started circling each other in the muck, waiting for a chance to strike a blow.
Using his mammoth size, George attempted to stand in between the men. “Gentlemen,” he pleaded, “what is this about?”
The two men pivoted around him, angry at the interruption.
“Stay out my business,” one said. “This man is a cheater!”
The other replied to this plea for peace by socking George in the mouth. The man’s enemy did the same to George’s stomach. George fell back in the mud. Whatever argument existed between the two brawlers was replaced by a shared urge to gang up on George.
“What are yeh, some sort of limey?” the first man asked, standing over George’s prone body.
“This is New York, buddy. No Brit tells us what to do!” said the second man.
George realized that he was likely to die if he did not defend himself. Swiftly, he moved his right leg underneath the first man and tripped him, crashing into the mud. Then he stood up to face the second man.
The second man struck first. He aimed a punch at George’s neck, but George was fast enough to block it and grab the man’s hand. While the man was unprotected, George struck. First, he aimed a jab to the lower pelvis. Then, as the man doubled over in pain, George sent a chop to the back of his head. Finally, George made the dazed man face him once more. His right fist connected to the man’s jaw. There was a cracking sound. The man fell for good. He was out cold.
The first man had freed himself from the mud again. He tried a different strategy, staying an arm’s distance away with his fists raised. George did the same. They moved around each other, each waiting for a sign of weakness.
George found a weakness first. The first man moved in and tried to land a kick, but George grabbed the man’s foot and delivered a devastating chop to the man’s ankles. Then George twisted the foot around as the man howled in pain. From there, all it took was a back-fist blow to the man’s head to bring him down.
Two men lay unconscious. George, only a bit scuffed, tried to rub the mud off his clothes. At that moment, another man stepped outside the bar. He was better dressed than the men in the crowd and looked better fed. He did not seem like the type of person who would frequent a grimy bar in the Bowery.
George was prepared for another round of violence, but the man held out his hand instead. “Lew Mayflower,” he said. “I own this bar.”
“Call me George.”
“George, I want to thank you for dealing with this matter, even if it was not intentional.”
“What exactly happened between these men?”
“Why don’t you come inside?” Mayflower asked. “We can try to clean your clothes, and I would like to reward you for your service. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks. But I will take some food.”
Lew shouted into his bar. “Give this man a meal!”
George sat at the bar of the Woodrat, eating peas and potatoes from a plate while somebody washed his clothes. It had been a while since he had a satisfying meal. Lew sat with him and named the personnel of the Woodrat.
“That’s Tracey,” he said, pointing to the bartender serving customers. “My best bartender. He scares customers. That’s why I like him. Over there is Silas, a young boy we brought over recently. You could call him a janitor. You could call him a doctor too. The boy knows how to dress a wound.”
“Is there a man here named Oakley?” George asked.
Lew frowned. “There was. He’s not been present these past two workdays. Not sure why.”
“I met his brother, Steve, on my boat ride to America. He said he was looking for work here.”
“Oh, Steven,” Lew said. “I told him earlier this afternoon that his brother was gone, so Steven went to go find him.”
“Find him where? What might have happened?”
Lew put his hand on George’s shoulder. “George, I like you, but it is very important that you keep what I say secret. I trust you. You are an intelligent man who is not afraid of his fists. Even if you are a Brit. Can I trust you?”
“Of course,” George said. He decided then to hide the fact that he was a journalist. Nothing shut down a conversation faster than telling a man with secrets that you write for the papers.
“I run fights in this club. Some would call them illegal. Certainly, the police do.”
“What does this have to do with Oakley?” George asked.
“Oakley is my enforcer, but he just went missing. You see, recently I’ve been doing business dealings with Big Jim Dickinson. Big Jim’s a major politician in these parts. You may have heard the name.”
George did recall the name—Van Thomas had mentioned the man. Big Jim had taken Boss Tweed’s spot after Tweed had been thrown in jail.
Lew continued: “Big Jim has been using our club to scout for fighters. See, we put on fights in the Woodrat, but they ain’t the main show. Last few months, Big Jim has been paying me and Oakley to send him our best fighters.”
“So what happened?”
“I’m not sure. One day, Oakley said he’d been noticing something suspicious. His guys kept losing at the Big Jim fights. It didn’t seem right. So he went to talk to Big Jim. Then he disappeared.”
“You think Big Jim did something?”
“I’m sure of it, but keep it under your collar,” Lew said. “If Big Jim finds out, he has the power to humiliate us, kill us, throw us in jail … whatever he wants.”
George realized he might have a story. He needed to go home and write about it.
“Let me ask you a question, George. Are you looking for work?”
George was in too deep now to let anyone know he was employed. “Er … no. I’ve been looking for a job.”
“You found one. Come back here tomorrow. I still need fighters, and you clearly have the skills as well as the build. And the money is good. You might like it.”
“I accept,” George said, though in his mind he hated the idea of inflicting more violence. “But now I have to be leaving.”
“Leaving without a single drink, eh? Come back and visit tomorrow evening.”
“I will.”
As George was about to exit, Lew stopped him and asked another question. “George. What’s your last name?”
George tried to summon a name that would keep him from being outed as a journalist. His thoughts turned to Bleak House. He remembered a man in Dickens’s novel who mysteriously exploded.
“Call me George Krook,” he said.
“Krook, eh? I think you’ll fit right in at the Woodrat,” Lew laughed.
George took the opportunity to leave and walk the several blocks home. When he entered his room, he lit a candle and began to write.