House of Thieves (10 page)

“You're telling me that the debt is only reduced by six thousand dollars?”

“Mr. Cross, you and George don't seem to understand the concept of compound interest. There's 15 percent interest accruing weekly on the principal.”

“Fifteen percent a week? That's usury, you bastard,” Cross yelled. “A damned Hebrew wouldn't charge that much!”

Brady came up from behind and grabbed Cross by the neck, placing his knee against Cross's buttocks and bending his back like an archery bow.

“That silver and linen was worth twenty thousand dollars, easily. The clothing had to be forty thousand dollars!” Cross cried, ignoring the choking pressure of Brady's stranglehold.

“The fence we use to dispose of the goods gets a 50 percent cut, Mr. Cross. The actual take from the robbery is thus greatly reduced,” Kent said in a patient voice. “But don't worry—you'll soon learn the economics of our business.”

Brady released Cross, who fell forward, gasping.

“Goddamn it, Kent,” he rasped out. “This is an outrage. I planned this robbery and get a pittance in return.”

“Why don't you complain to your congressman?” Brady said, erupting in laughter.

“You know the alternative, Mr. Cross. And I know you don't want that,” Kent said softly.

Cross slumped down in a chair. They were in the basement room at McGlory's, but this time only Culver and Brady had joined Kent.

“Do you remember a very short, bald gentleman, Mr. Cross? From the robbery?”

Cross looked up at Kent, puzzled. “Yes, I do.”

“That was Bald Jack Sanders, a very valuable member of our organization,” Kent said.

Cross chuckled in spite of himself. “Why do you people in the netherworld have such colorful names? In architecture, we don't have monikers like Charming Charlie McKim or Racy Richard Morris Hunt.”

Kent ignored the question. “Bald Jack has been arrested—and that means trouble for you.”

“Me?”

“Bald Jack saw you at the robbery. Under duress, he might give you up.”

“He might, but if he does, I can give you up.”

Kent smiled and took a sip of whiskey. “I know you won't do that. Like I said before, family men come with a lot of collateral.”

As he stared at Kent, Cross's mind raced, trying to sort out the various possibilities. Why was Kent trying to bluff him?

“Bald Jack is being held in the Blackwell's Island prison, in an addition I've learned was designed by your friend from the Dakota, Henry Hardenbergh.”

Cross burst out laughing. “Give me the telephone, then. I'll ring him up and say, ‘Oh, hello, Henry. I need your help springing a crook from prison.'”

“I was thinking along those lines,” Kent said.

“Is it my imagination, or is James T. Kent showing loyalty toward a fellow human being? You must really like this man if you're willing to take such a risk instead of just having him killed.”

“For a society man from Harvard, you show exceptional shrewdness. But for your own good, I insist you help me.”

“For ten thousand off the debt.”

“Four thousand.”

• • •

“It's very kind of you to meet me on such short notice, Henry.”

“Not at all, John. I'm happy to help.”

“I was down on Wall Street and saw your Astor Building. The entrance is wonderful. I wanted to see how you detailed that arch, the one with the columns? And that attic gable with the diaper-patterned terra-cotta facing.”

“Thank you, John. That job came out well,” Hardenbergh said, giving a brusque nod. He was a touch uncomfortable, Cross saw. After all, the building had been commissioned by the Astor family, and Cross was an Astor relative. Though there had been many referrals over the years, Cross had never gotten any work directly from the Astors.

“I have to be uptown for a dinner, so I can't stay. But Maxwell here will be glad to assist you.”

Maxwell, a draftsman in his midtwenties, nodded, his face expressionless. Cross guessed he was irritated as hell to be kept after work.

Hardenbergh placed his top hat on his head, waved, and departed.

It was just after six, and there was no one left in the large, open studio. The poor illumination cast by the gaslight fixtures made it useless for architects and their draftsmen to try to work into the evening. Cross had recently installed electrical fixtures in his office and had seen a real improvement in the light level—to the dismay of his employees, who now had to work late.

“These are the Astor Building drawings,” Maxwell said, pulling out the drawer of a flat file. He lifted a stack of thirty-by-forty-inch linen sheets, placed them on a table, and stood off to the side.

Cross flipped through them until he found the sheet he wanted. Pulling it from the pile, he turned to the draftsman and gave him an absent smile. “Maxwell, old man, do me a favor and go downstairs to that saloon on Forty-First. Get me a sandwich and a growler of beer.” He handed Maxwell a five-dollar bill. “And keep the change for yourself.”

Maxwell's eyes lit up like bonfires. The four dollars' worth of change was a dollar more than his average pay per day. “Thank you so much, sir,” he cried and flew out the door.

Cross immediately went back to the flat file, found the drawer labeled Blackwell's Island Prison, and pulled it out. He flung the stack of drawings on the table and quickly sifted through them to the site plan showing the whole layout of the prison, all the way to the East River. Taking some sheets of tracing paper off a desk, he placed one over the drawing and started working. Flipping through more drawings, he traced the parts he needed. Fifteen minutes later, he was finished. He had just replaced the prison drawings and was back at the table, looking over the Astor details, when Maxwell returned with his food and drink.

“You sure you want to do this?” Nolan asked, removing his derby and scratching his head.

“I'm absolutely sure,” Julia said. “I'm dying to see it. Please.”

This was the second time Julia had met Nolan in the Tenderloin since their introduction at the Haymarket Dance Hall the previous week, and she felt like Alice, falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. Somehow she had stumbled into an exciting world of fantasy and revulsion. Even the name of the neighborhood, “the Tenderloin,” had a magical sound.

At their first meeting, Nolan had showed her what a concert saloon was. Men would come to meet ladies of the evening—Nolan had explained them too—to dance and make friends. Julia thought the music was tinny but quite entertaining, and the whole joint—another term learned from Nolan—was gay and lively. The owner, William McMahon, was a genial, well-dressed gentleman who didn't allow swearing or close dancing and forbade the girls exposing their ankles. Huge behemoths of men called bouncers threw any rowdy customers into the gutter.

The curtained-off cubicles at the side of the hall, Julia was told, were for private dances, in which some girls performed naked. There was a secret tunnel from the hall to an adjacent hotel for more intimate liaisons, Nolan added.

At home, Julia hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. Her head was swimming, awash with the incredible sights she'd seen. The next morning, she decided to shelve her old novel and start a new one, based on the new world she'd discovered. To meet Nolan again, she told her mother she was going out with her school friend, Lavinia. She delighted in coming up with these lies. As a writer, she realized, she had a great talent for altering the truth.

“Shouldn't we be going? You said it starts at one on the dot,” she said.

Nolan frowned, seemingly unsure. But when he saw Julia's pretty face and looked into her brown eyes, the size of silver dollars, he relented. “It's on Twenty-Seventh Street.”

The Tenderloin had its own specific geography, she learned. West Twenty-Eighth Street was for high-end gambling, West Twenty-Seventh Street for low-end. West Twenty-Ninth Street was exclusively row houses for the ladies of the evening. She and Nolan passed the Cairo Dance Hall, where they'd gone the day before yesterday. Julia didn't think it was as nice as the Haymarket. The Cairo, Nolan told her, was a clip joint—it watered down the drinks.

All the streets had saloons. They'd visited two: the Star and Garter and the Ruins. Each had a long bar to the side with a mirror behind it, sawdust-covered floors, a pot-bellied stove, and chromolithographs of prize fighters and plump nude women on the walls. All women had to be escorted, and if you had two beers, a free sandwich lunch was offered, which Julia found delicious but quite salty. In her society world, a saloon was considered low class. But it was really a club, she learned, a second home for the men who played cards or pool and argued about politics and sports. In a way, it was no different from her father going to the Union League or Knickerbocker clubs.

Nolan was delighted to show her the sights and had proudly escorted her by the arm into dance halls and saloons. On the streets, he pointed out colorful local characters like Dan the Dude, a knockout drop artist—although Julia didn't quite understand what that was yet. Nolan was also flattered to be asked about his profession, and Julia laughed delightedly when she discovered that he'd been trained in a Fagin school right out of
Oliver
Twist
. Nolan spilled trade secrets about how to distract a mark and then pull a wallet or purse. The bicycle trick she'd seen was taught to him by one Crazy Bob, who had even trained his dog, Whiskey, to snatch purses!

Nolan hadn't hesitated to show her anything—until now. They stopped at the Last Hope. From the outside, it looked like any other saloon. “Here we are,” he said.

“Lead the way, Mr. Nolan,” Julia chirped. They addressed each other as mister and miss because, as etiquette dictated, they hadn't known each other since childhood.

Nolan smiled and took her by the arm. They strode into the saloon, past the patrons with their shot glasses and mugs of beer. The men and women looked up, surprised by the sight of Julia, who wore a stylish blue afternoon dress.

When they reached the rear of the first floor, Julia gasped, “Just like ancient Greece.”

In front of her was a wooden amphitheater that stretched down into the basement. The benches were filled almost completely with men, some of whom had gaudily dressed women at their sides. Nolan paid the attendant four dollars and guided Julia down the steep steps. They found seats near the arena floor. Men called out greetings to Nolan, who raised his derby in return, proud that they were admiring Julia.

The wall surrounding the arena was about four feet high and lined with zinc sheets. The floor was packed earth and gave off a damp, moldy smell. Off to the side stood a man in a green three-piece suit. He held an excited fox terrier on a leather leash.

“How does this work?” Julia asked above the din of the spectators.

“Fifty in a twenty-minute limit and three-to-one odds on Sampson, the mutt.”

“What should we bet?” asked Julia, removing a bill from her red and gold embroidered purse. “I've got a five,” she said, handing it to Nolan.

He caught the attention of a bookie standing at the top row behind them and nodded. “Get ready,” he yelled.

A gate opened at the side of the arena wall. In one fluid motion, two burly men set a large wooden box on the dirt floor and opened a front flap. Out came dozens of rats, scurrying like mad around the arena. The men pulled the box in and closed the gate. At that moment, a whistle blew. The man in the green suit released the dog and climbed over the wall, taking a seat.

The fox terrier ran into the mass of rats, grabbed one by the neck, sank his white teeth into him, shook him violently, and flung the dead carcass away. Then he attacked another, and another. At each kill, the crowd roared with delight. The dog killed systematically, with great discipline. He didn't waste a second chasing the rats about. The spectators cheered raucously, urging Sampson on.

Seated on a bench near the floor was a man holding a pocket watch. A man next to him held a slate, on which he made a chalk mark for each kill. As the tally mounted, the crowd went into a frenzy. The dirty gray rats formed a vortex in the arena, colliding with one another, leaping over the dead bodies of their comrades. The man holding the watch yelled out, “Ten minutes left! Twenty-nine kills.”

Julia found herself screaming Sampson's name. At five minutes left and forty-one kills, the volume of the cheering increased fourfold. The dog kept attacking without the tiniest sign of fatigue. Julia thought dizzily that he must be enjoying himself. But some rats evaded him, scattering here and there, making him race around the arena to run them down. Only three remained, and they were determined to live. Sampson sat back and waited for one rat to run right into him. Two left. The dog chose his first victim and went in for the kill.

“One minute!” yelled the timer, and the crowd went mad. The last rat was not only fast but wily, as if he knew the remaining time. In a burst of speed, Sampson caught up with him and hurled his body to the ground as the timer yelled out, “Time!”

Some of the crowd was ecstatic; others were angry and disgusted. Julia and Nolan threw their arms up in victory. “We won fifteen dollars,” Nolan yelled.

Sampson's handler had him back on the leash. He paraded him in front of the cheering crowd like a gladiator in a Roman arena. The white curly fur around the terrier's mouth was bloodstained, but Sampson was triumphant. To the delight of his fans, he stopped, picked up a dead rat, shook it, and threw it to the floor.

A few moments later, Julia and Nolan found themselves back on the sidewalk of West Twenty-Seventh Street.

“That was exciting, Mr. Nolan,” Julia said breathlessly. “Thank you for taking me.”

“Would you believe the record is one hundred in fifteen minutes, Miss Cross?”

“One hundred in fifteen minutes? That's amazing!”

“I must be honest: I didn't know if you'd like it.”

“Oh, Mr. Nolan, rats are evil. Did you know that they spread the Black Death in the fourteenth century? The plague killed half of Europe!”

It was a hot July afternoon, and Julia was fanning herself.

“Would you like something to drink, Miss Cross? Perhaps a cold sarsaparilla?”

“No, I must be getting back. I told my mother I was at the Natural History Museum with Lavinia.”

“I suppose you did get to see some animals.”

Julia gave an unexpected burble of laughter. “And they weren't stuffed.”

“I had a wonderful time, Miss Cross.”

“Next Tuesday at ten a.m.?” Julia asked, shaking his hand and smiling.