“When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will.”
–William Shakespeare, “Much Ado About Nothing” (Scene 3, lines 112-114)
GUNS OF AUTUMN, PART II
The Richmond Saga, 2.2
Manhattan, New York
September 15th, 1902
The corpse was covered with a tattered blanket. Removed with little decorum from the alleyway bins by local law enforcement, it was now sprawled in the reeking lane near Morris Street, just off the Battery. Flies darted along the overpowering stench of death, mixed in with warm garbage and humid vapor off the oil-ridden Hudson.
The dead man was old—not completely uncommon in the area. More than one poor old man in Manhattan owed the wrong shark after a night out. Uncommonly, however, he was garbed in a lightly-colored sack suit, well-tailored, pockmarked with the exit of five bullet holes—likely thirty-eight caliber and fired from two semiautomatic pistols–along the gut and chest. He was shot in the back, probably by two men, neither of whom were gifted in marksmanship. It was done at close range—maybe ten feet—and they had let him lie for some time before moving him. The suit was manufactured by Gordon & Sons in Richmond, Virginia. This was odd—especially because the suit was new—and even more so because the Edwardian style was uncommonly modern for such an old man.
What struck U.S. Marshall Josiah Rhodes as incalculable was not the dead man’s hundred-dollar suit, nor his fresh haircut, nor his faded billfold still packed with $500 in cash. Rhodes jotted a few uninspired observations in his leather book, lifting his eyes to cast a judgmental frown upon the NYPD beat cop who smoked cigars and loitered near the gaslight, sharing his opinions about the Brooklyn Whales with a nearly imperceivable Killkenny brogue. Indeed, by all detectable measures, this was a vengeance kill, likely related to organized crime, likely meant to be found as he was to send a message. So, the problem, by Rhodes’s calculation, was not that an old and wealthy man was dead and discarded in the alley of a Battery cannery. The unsettling observation he made—one that he could not put to rest—was why the U.S. Marshall Service was called to intervene at all.
Rubbing his chin, Rhodes flipped his notebook shut with one hand, fishing a cigarette out of his jacket and accepting the lit match of the wide-shouldered Irishman who wore the NYPD blue.
“You always on this beat?” Rhodes looked the clean-shaven, bullfrog-faced man up and down, exhaling with steady sigh.
“Oh, aye,” the Irishman answered cordially, folding his large hands back behind his waist and looking thoughtfully to the dead man. “Not the first time a Polack’s been shaken from his mortal coil in the Battery. Won’t be the last neither, I can promise you that, my boy. Sure as springtime.”
Rhodes nodded. “He wasn’t killed here, from the looks of it. Long-dead when he was dumped. I don’t suppose anyone here saw the body as it was deposited?”
The cop shook his head slowly. “Even if they did, you’d be the last to know, me boy. All Polish bastards up this way—far more afeard of Tammany Hall then they you federal fellas. No offense, of course.”
“My mother was Polish.”
“Was she now?” The Irishman laughed, chewing on his cigar. “Then I hope she taught you better than this poor fellow.”
Rhodes studied Irishman with a thoughtful expression but said nothing.
“Odd thing, ain’t it?” the towering old Irishman ruminated with a thoughtful glint in his eye, twirling the wet cigar stub in his teeth. “Just the perspective of a humble public servant, of course. But a man walks these Battery streets for years—decades, even—and with the piles of dead bums and gangs they stack here on the lower island, not one time in recollection do they bring in two fancy-suit fellas from Albany to call a dead man dead.” The cop gave Rhodes a long, hard look before he chuckled again, shaking his large, burly head. “Still. Can hardly fault a Poley fella for keeping his gums stuck. It’s a rough town, alright. Rough enough without them Bowery sons-a-bitches at yer back, ain’t it?”
“Sure,” Rhodes shrugged, taking a long drag from the Monroe cigarette, letting it fall to the grime of the alley. He stomped it underfoot and sighed, removing his hat to wipe his brow in the evening humidity of the harbor.
Mr. John Stirling, Rhodes’s partner and some fifteen years his senior, strolled out of the Cannery, whistling a low tune. Tall, wiry, and usually drunk, old Stirling nodded to his partner and the hulking cop, kicking the polished leather shoes of the deceased and spinning his bowler with long, manicured fingers.
“Them Polacks ain’t saying a damned thing,” Stirling laughed, adjusting his bowler back onto his balding pate. The giant Irish cop offered Rhodes a knowing wink. His partner sighed, removing his pocketwatch and lifting the limp arm of the corpse to observe a silver bracelet. “Any identification in the billfold?”
Rhodes shook his head. “Picked clean of everything but the cash, as a matter of fact.”
Stirling offered a grim laugh and clicked his tongue. “Well, that makes it easy for us. Some grandpappy went to the wrong horse race. Requiem en pacem, old man.” The old Marshal made the sign of the cross with his lit cigarette, shaking his head.
With a short grunt, Rhodes offered a disinterested shrug. Stirling, meanwhile, flipped his bowler back over his head and shook the hand of the Irish cop, thanking the large man for his time—but there was no further need for the U.S. Marshal Service here. They would defer to the New York City Police Department in this matter—as the poor old man was likely the victim of a gang murder, caught in the wrong betting den at the wrong time.
Perhaps it was the late-night humidity. Perhaps it was the gaslight that darted from the cannery windows in the night air. Perhaps it was the term “Polack”—hurled at Rhodes on the streets of North Chicago throughout his youth. Whatever it was, it made him linger. He stayed a moment longer, squatting over the corpse, and entertained his curiosity. He reached for his handkerchief and unbuttoned the mans bloodied vest and undershirt—his pale chest caked with drying blood. The old man’s pale face was unusually peaceful—his bloodless lips closed over narrow teeth and his lids closed beneath white brows. With a calm expression, Rhodes lifted a small card from the dead man’s inner vest pocket.
“Who owns this cannery?”
“What’s it matter, feller? Said yourself, the gaffer wasn’t gunned down here.”
“Let it rest, Rhodes,” Stirling admonished with a yawn. “Too sloppy for the Colosimo family. Still time for a nip, if we head up Washington Street. Wont even need a report.”
“Tell me who owns it.” Rhodes rose and turned to face the massive Irishman, who cocked his head, puzzled.
“Why, the old inventor, William Barclay. Like I says.”
“The baseball club owner.”
“Aye, the same. And so?”
Working his jaw, Rhodes nodded, chewing at his lower lip and producing the card he had pulled from the dead man’s suit jacket. He tossed the card to his partner, who responded with a confused expression, catching the card in both hands, turning it over.
“Stirling, get a telegram to the Chesapeake District.” Rhodes nodded a farewell at the old Irish cop. “We’re going to Richmond.”
