Queenie Takes The Match
Gerald E Sheagren

 

I took a long drag on my cigar and blew out a perfect ring of smoke, watching as it floated out over the street before slowly unfurling and drifting off. The second one lasted equally as long and the third made it all the way to the opposite sidewalk. Three beauties in a row! I was going to have one lucky day!

I watched the hustle and bustle all around me; a typical afternoon on the streets of Manhattan. The swish of women’s dresses, the clap of their high-buttons on pavement, the plumage of their hats limp in the hot, humid air. Men wearing derbies and Brooks Brothers suits, handlebars waxed to fierce points. The clop-clop-clop of horses’ hooves and putter-spit-putter of those new-fangled automobiles. Paperboys in cloth caps and knickers, waving the latest editions and barking the headlines. A policeman, with a rosy Irish kisser, whistling and tapping his daystick against his leg. Kennedy or O’Toole or whatever his name might be. The squawk of pigeons strutting along the window ledges. Ah, New York! No better place in all the world

But in Hell’s Kitchen, the Bowery and the old Five points, as grim and grimy as they be, it was a whole different ball game. A netherworld of killers and muggers, knee breakers, bunco artists and moll buzzers. Young whores, who were turning tricks before they were old enough to sprout breasts. All overseen by gangs that would as soon carve a bloody smile across your throat as look at you. The Gophers and Hudson Dusters. The Eastmans and Five Pointers. The Gorillas, the Rhodes Gang and the Parlor Mob. All with enough psychopaths to fill every mental ward in the city. Goo Goo Knox and the Jewish Neanderthal, Monk Eastman. Gyp the Blood. Kid Twist and any number of others with less colorful names. And as strange as it may seem; every one of them was politically correct and in bed with Big Tim Sullivan, the sachem of Tammany Hall.

And stranger yet; despite my love of downtown Manhattan, I much preferred the aforementioned dark underbelly of the city. Hell, on more than one occasion, I had broken both bread and knee caps with none other than Monk Eastman himself. It was a high-wire act to be sure, but I loved every damn second of it. I carried a blackjack in my left pocket and a pair of brass knuckles in my right, and, for good measure, a barber’s razor stuck in my boot. And all-and-all, not a heck of a lot between my ears.

I spotted by brother, Sean, coming down the sidewalk, with our dog, Queenie,

squirming in his arms. He put the terrier down and she dashed over to me, lifting a leg and pissing on my boot. I felt like wringing the little mutt’s neck, but thinking of all the money she had earned us, I scooped her up and planted a kiss on the tip of her snout. She yelped, licking my cheek.

Although small and good-natured, Queenie was a hell fire in a fight, having killed and maimed untold numbers of rats and cats and ferocious dogs. Her left ear had been chewed to a nub and what little remained of her tail was hardly worth a wag. Clumps of her tawny fur had been ripped out, replaced by patches of stunted growth as white as snow. One eye, surrounded by scar tissue, was a mere slit, and on damp and rainy days, her many injuries caused her to waddle instead of prance. Yet she had never let us down, even during the toughest of conditions.

Sean plucked off his bowler and used it as a fan. "Ah, me b’hoy, ‘tis a good day to stick the ol’ noggin in an ice chest."

"Have ya filed ‘er teeth, Sean?"

"Aye. They’re as pointed as dago stilettos."

I wiggled a finger into Queenie’s mouth and checked to make certain. "An’ where’s t’e fight gonna be?"

"The Bowery. Moe Ginsberg’s ol’ mill building."

"Ya packin’?"

Sean opened his suit coat, displaying a .38-caliber Smith&Wesson in a shoulder holster. "Ya gotta be crazy to go down there without one."

"Ya wanna take the el or hoof it?"

"We’ll walk. It’ll give Queenie the chance to loosen up ‘er muscles."

"What’ll ya t’ink it’ll be? I hear Tommy O’Flynn has a mongrel he wants ta debut."

"Who knows? Mebbe a dozen alley cats or a slew a starved rats. No matter. Queenie’ll hold ‘er own. A’ways has."

"She’s gettin’ mighty beat up, Sean."

"Jus’ a l’il while longer."

"Money ain’t ever’ting."

"Jus’ listen ta you." Furrowing his bushy brows, Sean jabbed a finger into my chest. "Without money, we’re nutin’ but a coupla dumb paddies, jus’ like the rest of ‘em. Like Da was. An’ Uncle Mike."

We started out, heading in the direction of the Bowery, with Queenie dashing ahead, yelping and dodging through the pedestrians. It was damn hot and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and collecting it that little hollow just above my butt. My shirtwaist felt as though I had just taken it out of the wash. Looking up at the cloudless sky, the sun reminded me of an egg yolk sizzling in my mother’s big, old, cast iron frying pan.

As usual, Sean walked along with his eyes constantly on the prowl, jerking at every loud noise he perceived as a threat. He was a good man with his fists, and, only a week previously, had beaten one of the Hudson Dusters to a pulp, after a verbal tit-for-tat at the Pelham Cafe. And since the Dusters were most always hopped-up on the white powder, there was no telling what sort of retribution they were planning. I could only hope and pray that none of them would be present at Ginsberg’s old mill.

With my shirt plastered to my body like wet tissue paper, I slipped off my coat and slung in over my shoulder. "Sean, me bucko. How’s that l’il darlin’ you’ve be seein’?"

"Ya mean Bridget?"

"Aye. She’s seems like a wild lass."

"Ah, that she ‘tis. She runs me ragged, b’hoy. She runs me purely ragged."

"You an’ Bridget an’ Queenie, all in one bed. Must be a sight to behold."

"You need one jus’ like ‘er, Mickey."

"Naw. Ma would never allow a woman in t’e house."

"High time ya got a place of yer own ‘stead of livin’ wid Ma an’ sis."

"Aye. I been thinkin’ on it."

We fell silent for the last six blocks, lost in thoughts of our own. By this time, Queenie sensed that there was some bloodletting coming up and she began to

yelp and run in crazy circles. If it was possible for an animal to have a split personality, Queenie sure fit the bill; joyful and docile one minute and a ferocious killing machine the next.

We cautiously approached the vacant mill; an ugly, three-storied monstrosity of sooty bricks, its windows crisscrossed with scraps of lumber. Sean knocked on a side door and we waited until it creaked open, welcomed by a current of humid, musty-smelling air. A tall, massive-shouldered man, with a swarthy complexion and blocky jowls, took up the entire doorway, his eyes roaming us over from head-to-foot. It was none other than Roundsman Charles Becker, one of the most crooked coppers to ever defame the city of New York. He would go to Sing Sing’s electric chair in 1915 for ordering the murder of gambler Beansie Rosenthal. Becker was so powerful that it would take repeated jolts of electricity to finally end his life. It took a lot to scare me, but just the sight of him gave me the chills. He could do us in right here and now and say that it was in the line of duty.

"Well, well, well, if it ain’t the fearsome Mulligan boys."

"Hello to you, Roundsman Becker," I warbled. "I judge you’re havin’ a fine day."

"Jus’ wonderful."

He extended a hand the size of a hamhock and I accepted it, trying not to

wince as he made a point of grinding my knuckles together.

"Me an’ Roundsman Donnelly are keepin’ order here. So youse two

stay nice an’ respectful like an’ there won’t be any trouble." With that, he looked down at Queenie and gave a throaty chuckle. "So dis is the little champ, huh?"

"Yes, sir. Do ya know what she’ll be up against?"

Another chuckle. "You’ll see soon enough. Go on in. There’s a full house an’ a heap of money bein’ spread."

I snatched up Queenie and cradled her, cooing gently in her ear, and we headed through another door into the main room. The sweltering air was nose-flinching; a terrible concoction of cigar smoke, body odor, mildew and spilled whiskey. Over a hundred people were gathered around the railing of a four-sided pit, its dirt marked with paw prints and a reddish-brown in color from the blood of past contests. A cloud of blue-gray cigar smoke hung lifeless in the humid air.

I spotted Monk Eastman in all his terrible ugliness, a much too small derby balanced on his huge, odd-shaped head. He was carrying his sawed-down baseball bat with a notch for every brain he had busted. Nearby, stood his trusty lieutenant, Kid Twist, and his near child protégé, Owney Madden. A trio best given a wide berth, but Monk was a friend and I gave him a wave.

The Gophers, to my great dismay, were present in great numbers. Goo Goo Knox, Happy Jack Mulraney and the tubercular One Lung Curran. Due to a partial paralysis of his facial muscles, Mulraney always appeared to be smiling, thus the nickname "Happy Jack." But "happy" was hardly befitting, for he was a psychopath in every sense of the word. The slightest word, look or gesture out-of-line, or what he perceived to be out-of-line, and he would joyfully send you to the world of the dead. Also in attendance, to my greater dismay, was Razor Riley; a small man, barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, who could stop your heart equally as well with a gun, a knife, a slungshot, or as his moniker bespoke, a razor. And to make the nightmare even worse, there were half dozen Lady Gophers about. Hell Cat Maggie and Battle Annie, with teeth and nails as sharp as a tigers. In a room full of such misfits, Sean and I would have to walk on egg shells and neither of us could ever claim that as a talent.

As no surprise to me, I spotted the hulking form of Big Tim Sullivan, the sachem of Tammany Hall, and his top conniver, George Washington Plunkitt. Both of them, all gussied-up and respectable looking, but, all-and-all, not much out of their element. Politics and crime went together in the great city of New York, just like a shot with a beer chaser.

As we entered, a mixed chorus of cheers and boos went up, which I answered with a sweeping bow and a flourish of my derby. Not quite certain as how to

respond, Queenie gave a joyful bark, followed by a long growl through barred teeth.

Sean leaned toward me, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. "I don’t trust those two-faced Gophers. You watch my back an’ I’ll watch yours."

"Jus’ be thankful dere ain’t no Dusters around."

I noticed a Negro standing not far off; a huge guy as big if not bigger than Becker, his skin so black that it had a blue sheen to it. He was dressed better than most of them, wearing a derby, a gray Brooks Brothers suit and spats. A diamond ring was sparkling on the sausage-like pinky finger of his right hand. He held a large box with air holes and as I watched, it jiggled around, whatever was inside trying its darnest to get out.

I nudged Sean in the arm and jerked my head in the guy’s direction. "Look at dat black dude, b’hoy. If I’m not mistaken, what’s in dat box is gonna be Queenie’s opponent."

"Whatta ya t’ink? Mebbe some crazy alley cat, wid fangs as big as a tiger."

"I gotta funny feelin’ it’s somethin’ else. Much worse."

Whatever was in the box, everyone else seemed to already know. As Becker made the rounds, the half-drunk Gophers were calling their wagers and shoving greenbacks into his beefy hands. Meanwhile, Roundsman Donnelly was licking the tip of a pencil and entering each wager into a small ledger. I watched as Big

Tim Sullivan pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off a few bills, adding them to the mounting collection. Plunkitt, his stoogie spewing more smoke than a steel mill’s chimney, pulled out his own wad and anted up an equal number of bills. Becker collected from a couple of dozen other men, their faces flushed with whiskey, and headed in our direction. By this time, there was so much money that he had to stuff it in flour sack.

"Awright, you two, it’s time to place yer wagers. Most likely on dat mutt of yours, right?"

I pulled out a fifty, folding it down the middle and holding it up. "What’s Queenie gonna fight here? Is it in dat box o’er there?"

Becker shrugged his massive shoulders. "Don’t’cha want it to be a surprise?"

"I don’t like surprises, ‘less it’s my birthday."

"C’mon. Ante up or shut up."

"Awright, awright. Fifty to win, Queenie. An’ keep dose Gophers straight. We don’t want any trouble."

"Monk’ll back ya up. He’s yer buddy, right?"

"Sometimes. Dependin’."

Sean offered up a fifty of his own. "Queen’ll best whatever ya throw at ‘er. She’s never lost yet."

Becker gave a wink. "A’ways a first time."

Battle Annie jumped on a man’s back, screeching like a bobcat and raking her long nails across his cheeks, drawing blood. Razor Riley attempted to pull her off, but she gave him an elbow in the nose, knocking off his derby.

Becker whirled. "That’s enough crap! If ya don’t watch it, I’ll take bets an’ throw youse two in the pit."

Goo Goo Knox gave the wild-eyed Annie a few sharp slaps across the face and she calmed down, taking a long pull on a pint of whiskey.

Becker handed the sack off to Donnelly and waved his hands. "Awright, quiet down! Quiet down here!"

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of claws scraping the inside of the box.

"The defender of ‘er title will be Queenie here!" he shouted, waving a hand in our direction. "The champion! Never lost a fight!"

Cheers and clapping mixed with boos and thumbs-down.

"The challenger is owned by none other than Jerome Watkins from up Little Africa way! Goes by the name of Snow Ball!"

I rammed an elbow into Sean’s ribs. "Snow Ball for chrissakes. What kinda name is dat?"

Watkins removed the lid of the box and pulled out a rat, holding it up for all to see. Not just any rat mind you, but one as big as a well-fed cat! And an

albino to boot, with pink eyes the same color as its quivering snout.

Queenie let out a long, gurgling growl.

The monster rat scratched Jerome’s wrist with its claws and he quickly cradled it like a baby, cooing and whispering sweet nothings.

"Gentlemen, it will be a match to the death! Are there any objections?" Becker looked to Watkins and got a resounding "no." Turning to us, we answered likewise. "Awright, before the combatants are placed in the pit, are there any last minute wagers?"

Impressed with the girth of the albino, a few dozen men swamped Becker with additional money, Donnelly scribbling names and amounts as fast as he could.

Sean looked at me, his eyes flashing with doubt. "Jesus, Mickey. Whatta ya t’ink?"

"Queenie’s gonna win an’ we’re gonna walk off wid a bundle."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The room was filled with raucous voices and the clinking of bottles. When Queenie won, we would have to get out of here as quick as possible. Otherwise, there was a damn good chance we’d get a knife in the gut or a Bessie alongside the head. Or worse yet; Battle Annie’s fingernails would be scooping out our eyeballs like oysters from a shell.

Satisfied, Becker pointed one finger at Watkins and another at us. "All wagers are in! Gentlemen, place the combatants in the pit!"

I gave Queenie a kiss on her wet little nose. "Good luck, girl. Give that mutant hell. After this, sweet retirement."

I tossed her down and she landed on all-fours, clawing at the dirt with her forepaws and her butt end high in the air. The rat landed at the other end and immediately retreated to a corner, its whiskers flinching as it sniffed the air. As usual, there would be a feeling-out period before the action started. Their eyes met, judging and weighing each others intent. Finally, Queenie began to inch forward, spurred on by the shouts of the spectators, adding her short, sharp yelps to the growing din. Snow Ball merely watched, unmoving, pink nose quivering and sniffing the smoke-filled air.

"Come on, Queenie!" yelled Sean. Go for the throat, girl! Go for the throat!"

Queenie ventured closer, barking, eyes glued on her quarry. A whiskey bottle, flung by one of the Gophers, nearly conked her on the head and she flinched, jumping to the side. Cursing, Becker gave the culprit a backhand, sending him sprawling to the floor. In that instant, the rat, sensing no avenue of escape, released a strange mewling sound and launched itself through the air, bowling Queenie off her feet. They tumbled across the dirt, yelping and squealing, teeth snapping, claws ripping at fur and hair. Then separating,

they began to move in a circle, searching for an opening, Snow Ball’s whiteness splotched with red.

"Get that damn mutt!" screamed Goo Goo Knox. "Tear its udder ear off!"

Monk Eastman whirled his bat over his head like a Cossack would his saber. "C’mon, Queenie! I got a bundle ridin’ on ya, darlin’!"

"Kill the mutt!" bellowed another voice.

"Finish that goddamn rat, ‘fore it breeds others!"

"Get ‘er, Snow Ball! We be wantin’ a new champ!"

Still they circled, teeth barred, eyes fixed. And, finally, when the moment was right, Queenie leapt forward and clamped her mighty little jaws around the rat’s neck.

"Thar ya go now!" hurrahed Eastman. "Thar ya go!"

Squealing in pain, the albino broke free and made a mad dash for the dirt wall, scrambling halfway up before Becker knocked it back down with a stick. As the stricken rat tried to regain its footing, Queenie pounced, again clamping her jaws around its neck.

Jerome Watkins was about to climb over the railing, when Becker tapped him on the shoulder with his stick. "To the death, Jerome. To the death."

Snow Ball struggled in vain, feet flailing, teeth nipping at Queenie’s head.

"Ya got it now, girl!" Sean shouted, pumping his fists. "Finish it! Finish

it, girl!"

Queenie shook her head from side-to-side, putting on more pressure, and finally the rat’s body grew limp, its feet pumping a few times before growing still. A few death quivers and it was over.

The room fell completely silent for a few moments, almost in reverence for the rat’s passing. And then all hell broke loose; a ballyhoo of cheers and curses, catcalls, hoots and hollers. Cigar stubs, whiskey bottles and even a blackjack sailed in Queenie’s direction, and she quickly scrambled from the pit and into my arms. Her pink tongue darted out and licked my cheek.

"There’s my girl! There’s my l’il champ!"

One Lung Curran, besides himself with rage, stomped along the railing, heading in our direction. "That goddamn mutt jus’ cost me a -----!" Suddenly the walking cadaver broke out in a coughing jag, as he whipped out a bandanna and hacked up a gob of bloody phlegm.

Before we knew it, Razor Riley was at Curran’s side, snatching a set of knucks from his hind pocket and slipping them over his fingers. "You two yahoos jus’ cost me a fortune! Ya ain’t gonna get away dat easy!"

"Dem’s the breaks!" I exclaimed. "Everythin’ was on the pure up-an’-up, Razor. Ya seen dat wid yer own eyes."

Sean, always lacking finesse in such situations, cackled a laugh. "I might have known; a rat bettin’ on a rat."

Cursing, Riley started forward, but came to an abrupt halt when Sean whipped out his .38 and pointed it in his direction.

"Back off or I’ll put one square ‘tween yer eyes."

"Ah, now, not wid all me b’hoys backin’ me up."

The other Gophers trooped up behind him, pulling out guns and knives, Bessies and slungshots and sawed-down lead pipes.

Sean clicked back the hammer of his .38, displaying his very best evil smile. "Ah, but you’ll be t’e first, Razor. Jus’ like I promised; right ‘tween yer shifty, l’il eyes."

Monk Eastman and his men came forward in our defense and the Gophers, showing no signs of backing down, squared off with them, nose-to-nose. It looked as if one hell of donnybrook was in the brewing.

"Hold on there, b’hoys!" came a thunderous voice. Big Tim Sullivan strode forward, his broad face as red as a lobster. "We won’t be havin’ none of dis fuss. Twas a fair fight an’ the darlin’ mutt won."

Razor squinted. "An’ I supposin’ ya bet on the mutt, right, Tim?"

"Right as rain, b’hoy. But Big Tim’s a winnin’ man, I am. If ya can’t pick a champ, that ain’t no fault of da Mulligans, here. So back away an’ give dese

fine fellas some breathin’ room."

"An’ if’n we don’t?"

Sullivan’s eyes narrowed, his face flushing a shade redder. "Then Tammany Hall will be rememberin’."

Razor thought for a few moments, weighing the consequences, then shrugged and stomped off, waving for the others to follow.

I gave Big Tim a small salute. "Thanks."

He scratched Queenie under her good ear, then handed me a monogrammed handkerchief to dab the blood from her wounds. "It’s me who be owin’ you thanks. Made me a tad a money." A wink. "Stop by da ol’ Wigwam sometime an’ we’ll have a might a whiskey." With that, he wrapped an arm around Plunkitt’s shoulder and they walked off, laughing and waving to their constituents.

After a few uneasy minutes, Becker sauntered over and held out a thick wad of cash. "Helluva haul here. I took a fair share for myself, for my services an’ all."

"How much we wind up wid?"

"Enough to keep ya in whiskey an’ women for a few months."

That wasn’t the answer I was looking for, but I grabbed the wad and tucked it away in a pocket.

"If I was you two, I’d beat it outta here right quick. The Gophers aren’t what you would call ‘happy losers.’"

"Losers are losers."

We took Becker’s advice and made a hasty exit, scurrying up the darkening street as fast as our legs would carry us. I still held Queenie in my arms and she appeared content to stay there, her stump of a tail wagging as best it could.

"We’re rich, b’hoy!" exclaimed Sean, walking backwards so he could keep an eye on our rear.

"An’ Queenie is now retired. Right, girl?"

A joyous yelp.

"As for meself, Sean, I’m gonna find a nice woman an’ settle down. Mebbe even get inta somethin’ legit."

We hurried on our way, laughing and sipping from a flask and patting Queenie on the head.

 

 

Copyright © 2003 Gerald E Sheagren
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"