The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York

The Rat belonged on the west side of the town, which accounted for my having failed of his acquaintance. Big Kennedy was sure his man would find him.

“For he grafts nights,” said Big Kennedy, “an’ at this time of day it’s a cinch he’s takin’ a snooze. A pickpocket has to have plenty of sleep to keep his hooks from shakin’.”

While we were waiting the coming of the Rat, one of the barmen entered to announce a caller. He whispered a word in Big Kennedy’s ear.

“Sure!” said he. “Tell him to come along.”

The gentleman whom the barman had announced, and who was a young clergyman, came into the room. Big Kennedy gave him a hearty handshake, while his red face radiated a welcome.

“What is it, Mr. Bronson?” asked Big Kennedy pleasantly; “what can I do for you?”

The young clergyman’s purpose was to ask assistance for a mission which he proposed to start near the Five Points.

“Certainly,” said Big Kennedy, “an’ not a moment to wait!” With that he gave the young clergyman one hundred dollars.

When that gentleman, after expressing his thanks, had departed, Big Kennedy sighed.

“I’ve got no great use for a church,” he said. “I never bought a gold brick yet that wasn’t wrapped in a tract. But it’s no fun to get a preacher down on you. One of’em can throw stones enough to smash every window in Tammany Hall. Your only show with the preachers is to flatter ‘em; – pass’em out the flowers. Most of ‘em’s as pleased with flattery as a girl. Yes indeed,” he concluded, “I can paste bills on ‘em so long as I do it with soft soap.”

The Rat was a slight, quiet individual and looked the young physician rather than the pickpocket. His hands were delicate, and he wore gloves the better to keep them in condition. His step and air were as quiet as those of a cat.

“I want a favor,” said Big Kennedy, addressing the Rat, “an’ I’ve got to go to one of the swell mob to get it. That’s why I sent for you, d’ye see! It takes someone finer than a bricklayer to do th’ work.”

The Rat was uneasily questioning my presence with his eye. Big Kennedy paused to reassure him.

“He’s th’ straight goods,” said Big Kennedy, speaking in a tone wherein were mingled resentment and reproach. “You don’t s’ppose I’d steer you ag’inst a brace?”

The Rat said never a word, but his glance left me and he gave entire heed to Big Kennedy.

“This is the proposition,” resumed Big Kennedy. “You know Sheeny Joe. Shadow him; swing and rattle with him no matter where he goes. The moment you see a chance, get a pocketbook an’ put it away in his clothes. When th’ roar goes up, tell th’ loser where to look. Are you on? Sheeny Joe must get th’ collar, an’ I want him caught with th’ goods, d’ye see.”

“I don’t have to go to court ag’inst him?” said the Rat interrogatively.

“No,” retorted Big Kennedy, a bit explosively. “You’d look about as well in th’ witness box as I would in a pulpit. No, you shift th’ leather. Then give th’ party who’s been touched th’ office to go after Sheeny Joe. After that you can screw out; that’s as far as you go.”

It was the next evening at the ferry. Suddenly a cry went up.

“Thief! Thief! My pocketbook is gone!”

The shouts found source in a broad man. He was top-heavy with too much beer, but clear enough to realize that his money had disappeared. The Rat, sly, small, clean, inconspicuous, was at his shoulder.

“There’s your man!” whispered the Rat, pointing to Sheeny Joe, whose footsteps he had been dogging the livelong day; “there’s your man!”

In a moment the broad man had thrown himself upon Sheeny Joe.

“Call the police!” he yelled. “He’s got my pocket-book!”

The officer pulled him off Sheeny Joe, whom he had thrown to the ground and now clung to with the desperation of the robbed.

“Give me a look in!” said the officer, thrusting the broad man aside. “If he’s got your leather we’ll find it.”

Sheeny Joe was breathless with the surprise and fury of the broad man’s descent upon him. The officer ran his hand over the outside of Sheeny Joe’s coat, holding him meanwhile fast by the collar. Then he slipped his hand inside, and drew forth a chubby pocketbook.

“That’s it!” screamed the broad man, “that’s my wallet with over six hundred dollars in it! The fellow stole it!”

“It’s a plant!” gasped Sheeny Joe, his face like ashes. Then to the crowd: “Will somebody go fetch Big John Kennedy? He knows me; he’ll say I’m square!”

Big Kennedy arrived at the station as the officer, whose journey was slow because of the throng, came in with Sheeny Joe. Big Kennedy heard the stories of the officer and the broad man with all imaginable patience. Then a deep frown began to knot his brow. He waved Sheeny Joe aside with a gesture that told of virtuous indignation.

“Lock him up!” cried Big Kennedy. “If he’d slugged somebody, even if he’d croaked him, I’d have stuck to him till th’ pen’tentiary doors pinched my fingers. But I’ve no use for a crook. Sing Sing’s th’ place for him! It’s just such fine workers as him who disgrace th’ name of Tammany Hall. They lift a leather, an’ they make Tammany a cover for th’ play.”

“Are you goin’ back on me?” wailed Sheeny Joe.

“Put him inside!” said Big Kennedy to the officer in charge of the station. Then, to Sheeny Joe, with the flicker of a leer: “Why don’t you send to the Tub of Blood?”

“Shall I take bail for him, Mr. Kennedy, if any shows up?” asked the officer in charge.

“No; no bail!” replied Big Kennedy. “If anyone offers, tell him I don’t want it done.”

It was three weeks later when Sheeny Joe was found guilty, and sentenced to prison for four years. The broad man, the police officer, and divers who at the time of his arrest were looking on, come forward as witnesses against Sheeny Joe, and twelve honest dullards who called themselves a jury, despite his protestations that he was “being jobbed,” instantly declared him guilty. Sheeny Joe, following his sentence, was dragged from the courtroom, crying and cursing the judge, the jury, the witnesses, but most of all Big Kennedy.

Nor do I think Big Kennedy’s agency in drawing down this fate upon Sheeny Joe was misunderstood by ones with whom it was meant to pass for warning. I argue this from what was overheard by me as we left the courtroom where Sheeny Joe was sentenced. The two in conversation were walking a pace in advance of me.

“He got four spaces!” said one in an awed whisper.

“He’s dead lucky not to go for life!” exclaimed the other. “How much of the double-cross do you guess now Big Kennedy will stand? I’ve seen a bloke take a slab in th’ morgue for less. It was Benny the Bite; he gets a knife between his slats.”

“What’s it all about, Jawn?” asked Old Mike, who later sat in private review of the case of Sheeny Joe. “Why are you puttin’ a four-year smother on that laad?”

“It’s gettin’ so,” explained Big Kennedy, “that these people of ours look on politics as a kind of Virginny reel. It’s first dance on one side an’ then cross to th’ other. There’s a bundle of money ag’inst us, big enough to trip a dog, an’ discipline was givin’ way. Our men could smell th’ burnin’ money an’ it made ‘em crazy. Somethin’ had to come off to sober ‘em, an’ teach ‘em discipline, an’ make ‘em sing ‘Home, Sweet Home’!”

“It’s all right, then!” declared Old Mike decisively.

“The main thing is to kape up th’ organization! Better twinty like that Sheeny Joe should learn th’ lockstep than weaken Tammany Hall. Besides, I’m not like th’ law. I belave in sindin’ folks to prison, not for what they do, but for what they are. An’ this la-ad was a har-rd crackther.”

The day upon which Sheeny Joe went to his prison was election day. Tammany Hall took possession of the town; and for myself, I was made an alderman by a majority that counted into the skies.

CHAPTER IX – HOW BIG KENNEDY BOLTED

BEFORE I abandon the late election in its history to the keeping of time past, there is an episode, or, if you will, an accident, which should find relation. Of itself it would have come and gone, and been of brief importance, save for an incident to make one of its elements, which in a later pinch to come of politics brought me within the shadow of a gibbet.

Busy with my vote-getting, I had gone to the docks to confer with the head of a certain gang of stevedores. These latter were hustling up and down the gangplanks, taking the cargo out of a West India coffee boat. The one I had come seeking was aboard the vessel.

I pushed towards the after gangplank, and as I reached it I stepped aside to avoid one coming ashore with a huge sack of coffee on his shoulders. Not having my eyes about me, I caught my toe in a ringbolt and stumbled with a mighty bump against a sailor who was standing on the string-piece of the wharf. With nothing to save him, and a six-foot space opening between the wharf and the ship, the man fell into the river with a cry and a splash. He went to the bottom like so much pig-iron, for he could not swim.

It was the work of a moment to throw off my coat and go after him. I was as much at ease in the water as a spaniel, and there would be nothing more dangerous than a ducking in the experiment. I dived and came up with the drowning man in my grip. For all his peril, he took it coolly enough, and beyond spluttering, and puffing, and cracking off a jargon of oaths, added no difficulties to the task of saving his life. We gained help from the dock, and it wasn’t five minutes before we found the safe planks beneath our feet again.

The man who had gone overboard so unexpectedly was a keen small dark creature of a Sicilian, and to be noticed for his black eyes, a red handkerchief over his head, and ears looped with golden earrings.