Part 3 (1/2)
CHAPTER IV
FISTS AND THE MAN
Between Goldberg's and the polite in indulgence there was a great gulf fixed. From the north side, with its glittering palaces of Bacchus dispensing varied decoctions served by irreproachable chemists, you travelled south through a scattered series of lessening liquid glories.
Finally you came to Goldberg's, where they took it straight in draughts of cheap, blistering stuff which maddened and incited to crime.
Goldberg's was the dive of last resort for the submerged tenth. Its maw gaped hungrily, gorging upon the dregs it gathered in. Finally, when the victims were stripped of their miserable resources, they were spewed forth, with brains inflamed with the liquid d.a.m.nation purveyed there.
Ripe for any crime, they were foul fruit for the gaoler and a menace to men.
Goldberg's existed by grace of the modern G.o.d of money. Goldberg was a tool of the autocratic Shaughnessy, who contrived to head and manage a corrupt city government. Goldberg captained his ward, which was one of Shaughnessy's gilt-edged a.s.sets. The ward had become Shaughnessy's by right of Goldberg's conquest. It was a ward of thugs and human jugs and brutal, elementary mugs; all American sovereigns, equalized with decency under the deathless doc.u.ment of American independence. Born sovereigns, or having taken out papers, the adult males in this ward had lined up one day, now far in the past. One hand of each proudly clutched a ballot, the badge of his sovereignty. The other hand was greedily extended for the accompanying cash. Into the grimy palms had dropped more cash from Shaughnessy via Goldberg, than could be afforded by any of their rivals. So the ballots poured into the boxes for Goldberg, whose bull-faced lieutenants flanked the line to see that the bargain was carried out. Goldberg was the choice of his people for alderman. He was theirs, and through his rude genius, under Shaughnessy, it transpired that they were his forever.
He did not sit with the council now. He had long since relinquished even the higher posts of confidence with which Shaughnessy had honored him after his aldermanic career. Truth to tell, Goldberg had become sufficiently notorious to convince Shaughnessy that it would be politic to remove him from under the direct glare of the public eye. He could perform better service from the wings. So Goldberg had apparently retired from all connection with the politics of the city and even his own ward, though Shaughnessy and the retired gentleman could have told better. They now picked their puppets to run, invariably routing the forces of law and order on election day with the tremendous majorities for license and disorder rolled up in their several wards. There was subsequent increment, which someone got, gathered in shady subways of a peculiar munic.i.p.al government; presenting the situation which makes the indifferent voter a byword and reproach in many cities of this broad and extremely hospitable land. On these triumphal election nights, too, joy overflowed at Goldberg's place,--albeit he was ”no longer interested in politics,”--and fell like strong dew upon the unjust. There were free draughts of the cheap in beverages flowing fast into the faces of the unlaved, unshaved crew. The G.o.dless exulted and Goldberg continued to hold them for Shaughnessy in the hollow of his hand.
As Micky was whirled southward, in an open trolley car, he reflected upon his dubious a.s.signment. How should he conduct his campaign? It will be readily gathered that newspaper men were not especially popular at Goldberg's. Most of the representative city sheets, irrespective of political leanings, had for years been flaying the fifth ward king, seeking to uncrown him. Thus far it had been without avail. Not yet had the decent element been able to throw off the thrall. This was because they had been indulging in that practice which so universally blocks the wheels of progress in most lines, the pastime of quarreling among themselves in regard to the most desirable means to the end. So Shaughnessy and Goldberg, their colleagues and all they represented and misrepresented, were still in control, and buying larger burglar-proof safes. The newspapers had kept the quarreling factions of the perennially defeated party informed as to this growing prosperity, as well as they were able to ascertain regarding it. Naturally the gang's leaders and their mates resented this, for it favored the chances of the opposing party's factions finally getting together and putting the whole evil crew out of commission. When a man has begun to make easy money, he mourns to break off the habit; nor does he view with pleasure attempts to compel him to do so.
Micky hoped he could get his story quietly, for discovery of his errand in that unfriendly atmosphere would probably mean failure and perhaps a broken head. However, he hardly thought he would encounter anyone he knew there, so would trust to luck.
Alighting from the car at the end of South Avenue, he made his way through a tangle of dark, rank thoroughfares, which grew dingier and more disreputable as he continued, till he came to the street, little more than an alley, where Goldberg's flourished like a green bay tree,--late in season, for the structure needed painting. Low and dingy, squat and ugly, it crouched between a couple of cheap brick tenements like a stolid, sullen beast of prey; its few small windows alight with a dull red glow, like vengeful eyes. From within there came the discordant brawling of a cracked phonograph. A couple of red-eyed human derelicts, stupid with drink, lounged against the portal as Micky entered.
It was quiet enough now. There were no signs of a disturbance. Micky was chagrined. He had hoped to arrive before the trouble, whatever it had been, was over; if not in the thick of it, at least before the partic.i.p.ants had dispersed. He could then follow some of the interested parties and secure the details, for he knew his game too well to have meditated seriously the idea of making any pointed inquiries in the dive itself. That would mean an instant awakening on the part of the questioned to the fact that a newspaper man was present. If he persisted, there might ensue rough treatment and a swift and painful exodus. However, he found it as quiet as the grave. It was apt to be so at Goldberg's after a rumpus. Micky shrewdly guessed that the end of the trouble had been the signal for a general discretionary scattering.
There were present only the bartender and two men who stood against the bar, their backs to him. Micky noticed with relief that Goldberg was not present. It was as well, for Micky and he had met.
Micky walked slowly to the end of the big low-ceilinged room and seated himself at a small beer-splashed table. He chafed inwardly. What had happened? Had the police arrived and gone, if indeed they knew anything about it? Or, worse luck, had some man from a rival paper antic.i.p.ated him?
These disturbing reflections came simultaneously with O'Byrn's seating himself. As he did so, a step sounded behind him and a form sank into a chair at his left, facing his own table.
Micky's heart bounded. Luck was with him after all. ”How 're ye, Slade?”
he sang out, with cordiality tempered with a sly wink. ”I just got in from the Speedway track. Just enough left to save hitting the ties home.” Micky's horsy clothes bore out the bluff.
Nick Slade was no fool. He caught the situation at a glance. Micky had rendered him a service only a week before, the little Irishman's blarney rescuing him from a prospective entanglement with the talons of a policeman. Slade was a shred of a fellow, with a lean dark face and black eyes that were as impersonal as a Chinaman's, as they gazed into Micky's warning blue ones.
”To the bad, eh?” he rejoined, with a dry grin in the direction of the men at the other end of the room, whom he was facing while Micky's back was toward them. ”If you'd cut out layin' your own coin, and stick to business in tippin' off the guys who can afford to lose it, you'd be better off. I told you not to go up against that b.u.m line of selling-platers.”
”Well, I've got enough left to have a drink on it anyway,” replied Micky, with reckless prodigality, rapping on the table for the bartender. ”Lap up with me. Say what.”
”Spivins water,” answered Slade, his synonym for whisky. Micky ordered ale, for ordinarily he avoided the little red devil. When he did not, the little red devil played ducks and drakes with him and his prospects.
When the bartender had set down the gla.s.ses and gone, Micky said quietly, ”Slade, you know why I'm here. Do you know that story?”
”Sure,” said Slade, ”but you don't want to ask for it here.”
”I know it,” acquiesced Micky, producing cigars. ”That's the reason I just rang the bluff of a cheap sport. I know I'm one anyway, but I don't want 'em to tumble to the fact that I write when I'm not sportin'.”
”Sure not,” agreed Slade. ”If they did, Irish, someone would get hurt, and it wouldn't be the sidewalk. Mulligan, the bartender, is soitinly a baby bouncer.”
”Well now, Nick,” said Micky, ”I want that story, and I want it right.
It's gettin' early. Now you do a heart-to-heart Uncle Tom and Little Eva talk with me about the races, and by and by I'll go away. You're not in it, you know; I flash no paper and mum's the word. I just keep it in my nut, understand? Now spill it out.”