The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York

“But the honor!” exclaimed the reputable old gentleman. “The honor of this mighty reform will be rightfully yours. You ought to have it.”

“I’d rather have Tammany Hall,” responded Big Kennedy with a laugh, “an’ if I get to be too much of a reformer it might queer me. No, you go in an’ do up th’ Chief. When he’s rubbed out, I intend to be Chief in his place. I’d rather be Chief than have th’ honor you tell of. There’s more money in it.”

“Do you prefer money to honor?” returned the reputable old gentleman, somewhat scandalized.

“I’ll take th’ money for mine, every time,” responded Big Kennedy. “Honor ought to have a bank account. The man who hasn’t anything but honor gets pitied when he doesn’t get laughed at, an’ for my part I’m out for th’ dust.”

Four days later the Daily Tory published the first of its articles; it fell upon our enemy with the force of a trip-hammer. From that hour the assaults on the Chief gained never let or stay. The battle staggered on for months. The public, hating him for his insolence, joined in hunting him. One by one those papers, so lately his adorers, showed him their backs.

“Papers sail only with the wind,” said Big Kennedy sagely, in commenting on these ink-desertions of the Chief.

In the midst of the trouble, Old Mike began to sicken for his end. He was dying of old age, and the stream of his life went sinking into his years like water into sand. Big Kennedy gave up politics to sit by the bedside of the dying old man. One day Old Mike seemed greatly to revive.

“Jawn,” he said, “you’ll be th’ Chief of Tammany. The Chief, now fightin’ for his life, will lose. The mish-take he made was in robbin’ honest people. Jawn, he should have robbed th’ crim’nals an’ th’ law breakers. The rogues can’t fight back, an’ th’ honest people can. An’ remember this: the public don’t care for what it hears, only for what it sees. Never interfere with people’s beer; give ‘em clean streets; double the number of lamp-posts – th’ public’s like a fly, it’s crazy over lamps – an’ have bands playin’ in every par-rk. Then kape th’ streets free of ba-ad people, tinhorn min, an’ such. You don’t have to drive ‘em out o’ town, only off th’ streets; th’ public don’t object to dirt, but it wants it kept in the back alleys. Jawn, if you’ll follow what I tell you, you can do what else ye plaze. The public will go with ye loike a drunkard to th’ openin’ of a new s’loon.”

“What you must do, father,” said Big Kennedy cheerfully, “is get well, an’ see that I run things straight.”

“Jawn,” returned Old Mike, smiling faintly, “this is Choosday; by Saturday night I’ll be dead an’ under th’ daisies.”

Old Mike’s funeral was a creeping, snail-like, reluctant thing of miles, with woe-breathing bands to mark the sorrowful march. Big Kennedy never forgot; and to the last of his power, the question uppermost in his mind, though never in his mouth, was whether or not that one who sought his favor had followed Old Mike to the grave.

The day of Old Mike’s funeral saw the destruction of our enemy, the Chief. He fell with the crash of a tree. He fled, a hunted thing, and was brought back to perish in a prison. And so came the end of him, by the wit of Big Kennedy and the furtive sleighty genius of Darby the Goph.

CHAPTER XIII – BIG KENNEDY AND THE MUGWUMPS

WHEN the old Chief was gone, Big Kennedy succeeded to his place as the ruling spirit of the organization. For myself, I moved upward to become a figure of power only a whit less imposing; for I stepped forth as a leader of the ward, while in the general councils of Tammany I was recognized as Big Kennedy’s adviser and lieutenant.

To the outside eye, unskilled of politics in practice, everything of Tammany sort would have seemed in the plight desperate. The efforts required for the overthrow of the old Chief, and Big Kennedy’s bolt in favor of the forces of reform – ever the blood enemy of Tammany – had torn the organization to fragments. A first result of this dismemberment was the formation of a rival organization meant to dominate the local Democracy. This rival coterie was not without its reasons of strength, since it was upheld as much as might be by the State machine. The situation was one which for a time would compel Big Kennedy to tolerate the company of his reform friends, and affect, even though he privately opposed them, some appearance of sympathy with their plans for the purification of the town.

“But,” observed Big Kennedy, when we considered the business between ourselves, “I think I can set these guys by the ears. There aint a man in New York who, directly or round th’ corner, aint makin’ money through a broken law, an’ these mugwumps aint any exception. I’ve invited three members of the main squeeze to see me, an’ I’ll make a side bet they get tired before I do.”

In deference to the invitation of Big Kennedy, there came to call upon him a trio of civic excellence, each a personage of place. Leading the three was our longtime friend, the reputable old gentleman. Of the others, one was a personage whose many millions were invested in real estate, the rentals whereof ran into the hundreds of thousands, while his companion throve as a wholesale grocer, a feature of whose business was a rich trade in strong drink.

Big Kennedy met the triumvirate with brows of sanctimony, and was a moral match for the purest. When mutual congratulations over virtue’s late successes at the ballot box, and the consequent dawn of whiter days for the town, were ended, Big Kennedy, whose statecraft was of the blunt, positive kind, brought to the discussional center the purpose of the meeting.

“We’re not only goin’ to clean up th’ town, gents,” said Big Kennedy unctuously, “but Tammany Hall as well. There’s to be no more corruption; no more blackmail; every man an’ every act must show as clean as a dog’s tooth. I s’ppose, now, since we’ve got th’ mayor, th’ alderman, an’ th’ police, our first duty is to jump in an’ straighten up th’ village?” Here Big Kennedy scanned the others with a virtuous eye.

“Precisely,” observed the reputable old gentleman. “And since the most glaring evils ought to claim our earliest attention, we should compel the police, without delay, to go about the elimination of the disorderly elements – the gambling dens, and other vice sinks. What do you say, Goldnose?” and the reputable old gentleman turned with a quick air to him of the giant rent-rolls.

“Now on those points,” responded the personage of real estate dubiously, “I should say that we ought to proceed slowly. You can’t rid the community of vice; history shows it to be impossible.” Then, with a look of cunning meaning: “There exist, however, evils not morally bad, perhaps, that after all are violations of law, and get much more in the way of citizens than gambling or any of its sister iniquities.” Then, wheeling spitefully on the reputable old gentleman: “There’s the sidewalk and street ordinances: You know the European Express Company, Morton? I understand that you are a heaviest stockholder in it. I went by that corner the other day and I couldn’t get through for the jam of horses and trucks that choked the street. There they stood, sixty horses, thirty trucks, and the side street fairly impassable. I scratched one side of my brougham to the point of ruin – scratched off my coat-of-arms, in fact, on the pole of one of the trucks. I think that to enforce the laws meant to keep the street free of obstructions is more important, as a civic reform, than driving out gamblers. These latter people, after all, get in nobody’s way, and if one would find them one must hunt for them. They are prompt with their rents, too, and ready to pay a highest figure; they may be reckoned among the best tenants to be found.”

The real estate personage was red in the face when he had finished this harangue. He wiped his brow and looked resentfully at the reputable old gentleman. That latter purist was now in a state of great personal heat.

“Those sixty horses were being fed, sir,” said he with spirit. “The barn is more than a mile distant; there’s no time to go there and back during the noon hour. You can’t have the barn on Broadway, you know. That would be against the law, even if the value of Broadway property didn’t put it out of reach.”

“Still, it’s against the law to obstruct the streets,” declared the real-estate personage savagely, “just as much as it is against the law to gamble. And the trucks and teams are more of a public nuisance, sir!”

“I suppose,” responded the reputable old gentleman, with a sneer, “that if my express horses paid somebody a double rent, paid it to you, Goldnose, for instance, they wouldn’t be so much in the way.” Then, as one exasperated to frankness: “Why don’t you come squarely out like a man, and say that to drive the disorderly characters from the town would drive a cipher or two off your rents?”

“If I, or any other real-estate owner,” responded the baited one indignantly, “rent certain tenements, not otherwise to be let, to disorderly characters, whose fault is it? I can’t control the town for either its morals or its business. The town grows up about my property, and conditions are made to occur that practically condemn it. Good people won’t live there, and the property is unfit for stores or warehouses. What is an owner to do? The neighborhood becomes such that best people won’t make of it a spot of residence. It’s either no rent, or a tenant who lives somewhat in the shade. Real-estate owners, I suppose, are to be left with millions of unrentable property on their hands; but you, on your side, are not to lose half an hour in taking your horses to a place where they might lawfully be fed? What do you say, Casebottle?” and the outraged real-estate prince turned to the wholesale grocer, as though seeking an ally.

“I’m inclined, friend Goldnose,” returned the wholesale grocer suavely, “I’m inclined to think with you that it will be difficult to deal with the town as though it were a camp meeting. Puritanism is offensive to the urban taste.” Here the wholesale grocer cleared his throat impressively.

“And so,” cried the reputable old gentleman, “you call the suppression of gamblers and base women, puritanism? Casebottle, I’m surprised!”

The wholesale grocer looked nettled, but held his peace. There came a moment of silence. Big Kennedy, who had listened without interference, maintaining the while an inflexible morality, took advantage of the pause.

“One thing,” said he, “about which I think you will all agree, is that every ginmill open after hours, or on Sunday, should be pinched, and no side-doors or speakeasy racket stood for. We can seal th’ town up as tight as sardines.”

Big Kennedy glanced shrewdly at Casebottle. Here was a move that would injure wholesale whisky. Casebottle, however, did not immediately respond; it was the reputable old gentleman who spoke.

“That’s my notion,” said he, pursing his lips. “Every ginmill ought to be closed as tight as a drum. The Sabbath should be kept free of that disorder which rum-drinking is certain to breed.”

“Well, then,” broke in Casebottle, whose face began to color as his interests began to throb, “I say that a saloon is a poor man’s club. If you’re going to close the saloons, I shall be in favor of shutting up the clubs. I don’t believe in one law for the poor and another for the rich.”

This should offer some impression of how the visitors agreed upon a civil policy. Big Kennedy was good enough to offer for the others, each of whom felt himself somewhat caught in a trap, a loophole of escape.

“For,” explained Big Kennedy, “while I believe in rigidly enforcin’ every law until it is repealed, I have always held that a law can be tacitly repealed by th’ people, without waitin’ for th’ action of some skate legislature, who, comin’ for th’ most part from th’ cornfields, has got it in for us lucky ducks who live in th’ town. To put it this way: If there’s a Sunday closin’ law, or a law ag’inst gamblers, or a law ag’inst obstructin’ th’ streets, an’ th’ public don’t want it enforced, then I hold it’s repealed by th’ highest authority in th’ land, which is th’ people, d’ye see!”

“Now, I think that very well put,” replied the real-estate personage, with a sigh of relief, while the wholesale grocer nodded approval. “I think that very well put,” he went on, “and as it’s getting late, I suggest that we adjourn for the nonce, to meet with our friend, Mr. Kennedy, on some further occasion. For myself, I can see that he and the great organization of which he is now, happily, the head, are heartily with us for reforming the shocking conditions that have heretofore persisted in this community. We have won the election; as a corollary, peculation and blackmail and extortion will of necessity cease. I think, with the utmost safety to the public interest, we can leave matters to take their natural course, without pushing to extremes. Don’t you think so, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Sure!” returned that chieftain. “There’s always more danger in too much steam than in too little.”

The reputable old gentleman was by no means in accord with the real-estate personage; but since the wholesale grocer cast in his voice for moderation and no extremes, he found himself in a hopeless minority of no one save himself. With an eye of high contempt, therefore, for what he described as “The reform that needs reform,” he went away with the others, and the weighty convention for pure days was over.

“An’ that’s th’ last we’ll see of ‘em,” said Big Kennedy, with a laugh. “No cat enjoys havin’ his own tail shut in th’ door; no man likes th’ reform that pulls a gun on his partic’lar interest. This whole reform racket,” continued Big Kennedy, who was in a temper to moralize, “is, to my thinkin’, a kind of pouter-pigeon play. Most of ‘em who go in for it simply want to swell ‘round. Besides the pouter-pigeon, who’s in th’ game because he’s stuck on himself, there’s only two breeds of reformers. One is a Republican who’s got ashamed of himself; an’ th’ other is some crook who’s been kicked out o’ Tammany for graftin’ without a license.”

“Would your last include you and me?” I asked. I thought I might hazard a small jest, since we were now alone.

“It might,” returned Big Kennedy, with an iron grin. Then, twisting the subject: “Now let’s talk serious for two words. I’ve been doin’ th’ bunco act so long with our three friends that my face begins to ache with lookin’ pious. Now listen: You an’ me have got a long road ahead of us, an’ money to be picked up on both sides. But let me break this off to you, an’ don’t let a word get away. When you do get th’ stuff, don’t go to buildin’ brownstone fronts, an’ buyin’ trottin’ horses, an’ givin’ yourself away with any Coal-Oil Johnny capers. If we were Republicans or mugwumps it might do. But let a Democrat get a dollar, an’ there’s a warrant out for him before night. When you get a wad, bury it like a dog does a bone. An’ speakin’ of money; I’ve sent for th’ Chief of Police.. Come to think of it, we’d better talk over to my house. I’ll go there now, an’ you stay an’ lay for him. When he shows up, bring him to me. There won’t be so many pipin’ us off over to my house.”

Big Kennedy left the Tammany headquarters, where he and the good government trio had conferred, and sauntered away in the direction of his habitat. The Chief of Police did not keep me in suspense. Big Kennedy was not four blocks away when that blue functionary appeared.

“I’m to go with you to his house,” said I.

The head of the police was a bloated porpoise-body of a man, oily, plausible, masking his cunning with an appearance of frankness. As for scruple; why then the sharks go more freighted of a conscience.

Big Kennedy met the Chief of Police with the freedom that belongs with an acquaintance, boy and man, of forty years. In a moment they had gotten to the marrow of what was between them.

“Of course,” said Big Kennedy, “Tammany’s crippled just now with not havin’ complete swing in th’ town; an’ I’ve got to bunk in more or less with the mugwumps. Still, we’ve th’ upper hand in th’ Board of Aldermen, an’ are stronger everywhere than any other single party. Now you understand;” and here Big Kennedy bent a keen eye on the other. “Th’ organization’s in need of steady, monthly contributions. We’ll want ‘em in th’ work I’m layin’ out. I think you know where to get ‘em, an’ I leave it to you to organize th’ graft. You get your bit, d’ye see! I’m goin’ to name a party, however, to act as your wardman an’ make th’ collections. What sort is that McCue who was made Inspector about a week ago?”

“McCue!” returned the Chief of Police in tones of surprise. “That man would never do! He’s as honest as a clock!”

“Honest!” exclaimed Big Kennedy, and his amazement was a picture. “Well, what does he think he’s doin’ on th’ force, then?”

“That’s too many for me,” replied the other. Then, apologetically: “But you can see yourself, that when you rake together six thousand men, no matter how you pick ‘em out, some of ‘em’s goin’ to be honest.”

“Yes,” assented Big Kennedy thoughtfully, “I s’ppose that’s so, too. It would be askin’ too much to expect that a force, as you say, of six thousand could be brought together, an’ have ‘em all crooked. It was Father Considine who mentioned this McCue; he said he was his cousin an’ asked me to give him a shove along. It shows what I’ve claimed a dozen times, that th’ Church ought to keep its nose out o’ politics. However, I’ll look over th’ list, an’ give you some good name to-morrow.”