Murder in the Bowery Read online

  “You can’t save everyone, Sarah, and it sounds like the Children’s Aid Society is doing a good job of finding homes for these children.”

  “For some of them, yes, but how do they know what happens to the children after they’re left? I’m sure many of them find loving homes, but certainly not all. And if a child were beaten or starved or abused in any way, who would know? And how frightening it must be for them to be taken hundreds of miles away from the only life they’ve ever known. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Then don’t imagine it, Sarah. Leave it to those whose calling it is and worry about your own affairs. You’ve set yourself a formidable task with the maternity hospital. I should think that is quite enough for one lifetime.”

  Sarah was sure that it was, but she couldn’t help thinking about poor Freddie Bert with his maimed foot and no home. Was Will really his brother? Did he really want to give the boy a home? At least Malloy would make sure the boy wasn’t forced to do anything he didn’t want to do.

  But if the boy didn’t go with his brother, what would become of him?

  * * *

  Frank hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to find newsboys if they weren’t selling newspapers. Where did they all go? He’d seen boys sleeping in stairways and alleys and under bridges, but he’d never paid much attention. A large city, he now realized, provided millions of hidey-holes where a boy could escape notice.

  Even when he did find a boy or a group of boys, his plan to ask if they knew Freddie Bert had also failed miserably. The first boy had gladly taken the offered nickel in exchange for information and then darted away without completing his end of the bargain. The next time Frank tried telling a group of boys that Freddie had inherited some money, which led every one of them to claim to be Freddie. None of them could show a mangled foot, however, and they’d run off laughing, leaving Frank feeling like Cinderella’s prince must have felt at the beginning of his quest with the glass slipper. He was starting to agree with Maeve about fairy tales.

  He and Gino spent the entire morning “under the bridge,” searching the neighborhoods in the shadow of the imposing Brooklyn Bridge, which included Park Row—commonly known as Newspaper Row—where the major papers had their offices. Frank and Gino had arranged to meet at noon at the foot of the bridge to compare notes and grab a bite to eat from a street vendor. They were also glad to find a shady spot in the shadow of the bridge where they could escape the summer heat.

  Gino hadn’t had much better luck than Frank, but he’d learned one important thing. “There’s a meeting here at the bridge in about an hour. I heard one of the boys telling some others. Kid Blink is giving a speech.”

  “Who’s Kid Blink?”

  “From what they said, he must be one of the leaders of the strike, which probably means there’ll be a big crowd.”

  “How will that help us if none of the boys will talk to us?”

  Gino shrugged. “We might see a kid with a limp, for one thing. And if not, maybe we can get one of the leaders to help us. They’ll probably be older and more reasonable, at least.”

  Frank wasn’t so confident, but it seemed like a good idea to watch the gathering crowd to see if they could at least spot a boy with a limp.

  The boys began to gather well before the appointed time. They stood around smoking cigarettes and antagonizing each other the way boys do. Frank found it disconcerting to see boys so young smoking, but with no parents to care, the boys were bound to pick up all sorts of bad habits. Before long, they proved his theory by breaking into small groups to play craps. This was truly living dangerously, since shooting craps in public was a crime that could get them arrested, but only if the police caught you, of course. With no police in sight, the boys weren’t too worried.

  Frank and Gino had split up to watch the assembly from different vantage points, and Frank had bought one of the newspapers still being sold from a nervous boy who scurried away when he saw the other boys gathering. He was right to be skittish. Reports of newsboy violence covered the front page of this rag. Boys were overturning news stalls where vendors were still selling the World and the Journal, and beating up boys who dared hawk the offending papers on the streets.

  While pretending to read his newspaper, Frank watched the boys streaming in from all directions. Although he saw one boy hobbling on a crutch, he saw none limping, not even a bit. At last the crowd started to stir as if from some silent signal, and a half-dozen older boys marched up in a cluster. The crowd parted for them and then closed and followed, crap games and cigarettes forgotten as they gathered around. The tallest boy wore a patch over one eye, and he hopped up on an overturned crate. Kid Blink, Frank thought.

  “You know me, boys!” the Kid shouted.

  “You bet we do!” the boys called happily.

  “Well, I’m here to say if we are goin’ to win this strike we must stick like glue and never give in. Am I right?”

  “Yes!” a hundred voices replied.

  “Ain’t that ten cents worth as much to us as it is to Hearst and Pulitzer, who are millionaires? Well, I guess it is. If they can’t spare it, how can we?”

  “Soak ’em, Blink,” yelled one of the boys.

  “Soak nothin’,” the Kid said. “I’m tellin’ the truth. I’m tryin’ to figure out how ten cents on a hundred papers can mean more to a millionaire than it does to a newsboy, and I can’t see it. Now, boys, I’m goin’ to say like the rest: No more violence. Let up on the drivers. No more rackets like that one the other night where a Journal and a World wagon was turned over in Madison Street. Say, to tell the truth, I was there myself.”

  “You bet you was, Blink, an’ a-leadin’, too,” another shouted to much laughter.

  “Well, never mind. We’re going to let up on the scabs now and win the strike on the square. Kid Blink’s a-talkin’ to you now. Do you know him? We won in 1893 and we’ll win in 1899, but stick together like plaster.”

  The boys cheered, and the Kid went on, cautioning them against violence and encouraging them not to give up. Frank couldn’t imagine Pulitzer and Hearst giving in to a bunch of powerless children, but the strike was already five days old, and virtually no copies of the two newspapers were being sold. He’d heard the strike had spread to Brooklyn and Staten Island. How long until the moguls began to feel the pinch?

  A few more boys got up and spoke, each one stirring the boys to even greater excitement, until Kid Blink took to the crate again and finished up. “Now, you all know me, boys, don’t you?”

  “We do! We do!” they shouted.

  “Well, we’ll all go out tomorrow and stick together, and we’ll win in a walk.”

  After the cheers finally died away, most of the boys ran off, eager to do whatever was left to them, since Kid Blink had requested no more violence. Soon the leaders were left with just a small group of hero worshippers anxious to bask in their reflected glory. Gino approached the group, waiting until it had dwindled down as much as it was going to. Frank waited in his spot, still pretending to read his newspaper.

  “Great speech, Kid,” Gino said.

  The Kid looked him over. “And who are you?”

  “He’s a copper,” one of the boys said.

  “No, I’m not,” Gino said, his smile never wavering.

  “A reporter then,” the Kid said with approval. “You want a story? I’ll give you a story.”

  “Not a reporter either. Private investigator.” He handed the Kid his card.

  “Told you he was a copper,” the first boy said.

  “I don’t want to cause you any trouble,” Gino hastily explained. “I think what you’re doing is great. I was a newsie myself, and I know how hard it is. Those millionaires have a nerve trying to squeeze you boys.”

  “You’re right about that,” the Kid said. “So if you’re not a copper and you’re not a reporter, what do you want with us?”
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  “I’m looking for a newsie. His family is trying to find him. His brother has made good, and he wants to give the boy a home. The problem is, the brother doesn’t know where to find him, so he hired me.”

  “And you don’t know where to find him either,” the Kid said, and the other boys laughed appreciatively.

  Gino grinned, happy to be laughed at if it got him the information he needed, Frank knew. “But I’m hoping you do, or at least that you’ll help by spreading the word.”

  “So who is it you’re looking for?” the Kid asked.

  “Freddie Bert. He goes by Two Toes.”

  The boys exchanged glances.

  “Walks with a limp?” one of them said.

  “That’s right. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him,” the boy said.

  “Me, too,” another admitted.

  “Any idea where I could find him?”

  Some head shaking and shrugs.

  “Well, if you do, there’s a fiver in it for you.” That was as much as boy could make in ten days selling papers. Gino gave one of his cards to each of them who would take it. “Good luck with the strike. I’d sure like to see Hearst and Pulitzer taken down a notch.”

  He shook hands with Kid Blink and walked away, but slowly, so the group of leaders was gone before he was. The rest of the boys drifted off, too, but one drifted much more slowly than the rest, and when he was the last one left, he drifted over to where Gino had stopped, waiting.

  Frank put down his newspaper and strolled over.

  “Hey, mister,” the boy called to Gino.

  “What is it, son?” Gino asked, giving the boy his friendliest grin.

  “Why are you looking for Two Toes?”

  “His brother came into some money, and he wants to give Freddie a home,” Gino repeated.

  “No, I mean the real reason.”

  The boy was small, but Frank judged he was older than he looked. His hair was blue-black, shining in the bright sunlight, and his sun-browned face was handsome. Gino stared straight into the boy’s big, brown eyes.

  “That is the real reason.”

  The boy frowned impatiently. “I ain’t no rube, mister, and Two Toes ain’t got no brother that I ever heard about.”

  “Maybe he has one you didn’t hear about,” Gino suggested. “You could ask him when you see him.”

  “I could do that.”

  “What’s your name, son?” Frank asked, earning a suspicious frown.

  “Who’re you?”

  “That’s my boss,” Gino said. “We’re both trying to find Freddie.”

  “And if you find him, what’re you going to do?”

  “Ask him if he’s got a brother, I guess,” Gino said. “If he does, ask him if he wants to see him. After that, it’s up to him.”

  “I’m Raven,” the boy said, satisfied enough to give his name. “That’s what they call me, Raven. Because my hair’s black.”

  “Of course,” Frank agreed.

  “You have another name?” Gino asked.

  “Saggio. Raven Saggio. That’s the only part of my real name I remember.”

  “Well, Raven, I would be happy to pay you the fiver if you help us find Freddie Bert,” Gino said.

  “I’ll have to ask him.”

  “Sure,” Gino said. “I understand.”

  “Would you like to bring him to our office or can we meet you someplace?” Frank asked.

  Raven frowned. “I don’t expect Two Toes would go to some office.”

  “Then tell us where to meet you and when.”

  Raven considered the matter for a moment, scrunching up his handsome face in a way that Frank knew Sarah would think was adorable. Better not ever let her see Raven.

  “How about I meet you outside of the Devil’s Den Saloon. You know it?”

  “Uh, no,” Gino admitted with a grin.

  “It’s on Chrystie Street between Broome and Grand.”

  “We’ll find it,” Frank said. “This time tomorrow?”

  “Fine with me. If Two Toes don’t want to come, though, I can’t help it.”

  With that, he was gone, clutching Gino’s card in his grubby hand.

  “Should I follow him?” Gino asked.

  “Good luck with that. Do you think you could keep track of him for twenty-four hours?”

  Gino chuckled at the thought, then his smile died. “That saloon is in the Bowery, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but at least we’ll be there in broad daylight. Don’t wear your good suit, though. That’s just asking to get robbed.” They started back toward City Hall and the nearest elevated train station. “Let’s get off the El at the Bowery station and take a look at this place before we go back to the office.”

  Gino pulled a face. “Why?”

  “Because I’m thinking there’s a reason Raven chose it. Maybe that’s where Freddie has a spot where he sleeps when he’s not at the lodging house.”

  “Carrying the banner.”

  “Right, carrying the banner. Maybe we can figure it out and find Freddie without Raven’s help.”

  “To save five dollars?”

  “No,” Frank said with a grin. “To make sure Raven doesn’t warn Freddie off.”

  3

  The Devil’s Den Saloon was fairly quiet in the middle of a hot summer afternoon. Even the usual Bowery bums had disappeared from their spots along the sidewalk, probably in a quest for shade somewhere. Lined with the usual dives and seedy brothels, the street offered nothing that looked like an inviting spot for a newsboy to hole up, though.

  “Would it even be safe for a boy to sleep anywhere in this part of town?” Gino asked. “Seems like the drunks would rob him every night.”

  “You’re right. He’d have to have protection of some kind. Maybe he runs errands for one of the madams and she lets him sleep on her porch or something.” Frank let his gaze wander up and down the street again, looking for some likely shelter.

  “A kindhearted madam?” Gino scoffed.

  “I know, it’s far-fetched, but there must be some reason Raven chose this spot to meet us.” Frank’s gaze returned to the saloon. It was the sturdiest-looking building on the block. No broken windows, no peeling paint. The front door stood open in the heat, and suddenly the opening filled with a very large man in plaid pants and shirtsleeves, lazily fingering his red suspenders. He had a head like a bucket and his eyes were as cold as marbles.

  “Can I help you gents?”

  “Yes,” Frank said, figuring the man was the saloon’s bouncer and that he’d take Frank for a cop. People always did. “We’re looking for the newsie who lives here. His name is Freddie Bert, but the boys call him Two Toes.”

  The bouncer took a long minute to size them up again before he said, “Ain’t seen him for a while.”

  Ah, so they were in the right place, although Frank figured the bouncer was lying about not having seen him. He’d protect the boy from the police from pure instinct if for no other reason. “He’s not in trouble,” Frank said. “His brother is looking for him.”

  “Says you. Black Jack looks out for him.”

  “Black Jack Robinson?” Gino asked in surprise.

  The bouncer gave him a pitying look and spat on the sidewalk. “He owns the Den and most of the buildings on this block. You want the boy, you’ll have to ask Black Jack.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s in,” Frank said, faking a bravado he didn’t feel. Black Jack was notorious.

  “Come back tonight,” the bouncer said with a grin that revealed a gold front tooth. “If you’re slumming.”

  “Do the swells come here to slum?” Gino asked doubtfully.

  “Willy Arburn brings ’em. You can find him at the boardinghouse on Sixth Street and Second Avenue.”

  “He’s a guide?�
� Gino asked.

  “Yeah,” the bouncer said with a knowing grin. “You don’t wanna visit the Bowery at night without one.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Frank said, figuring they’d learned all they could for now. “Come on, Gino.”

  They walked back to the train station in silence and climbed the stairs up to the platform. The tracks ran beside the first-story windows of the buildings along Bowery. Not many people were waiting for the train at this time of day, and Frank led Gino as far from them as he could. “What was all that about slumming and a guide?”

  “It’s a new thing the swells are doing. People with money and no brains, I guess. They hire a guide to take them on a tour of the Bowery and the Tenderloin and other parts of the city where decent people don’t go.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good idea. I can’t imagine the customers in those places like to be gawked at by people from Park Avenue.”

  “They don’t, but the guides don’t take them to real places. It’s all fake.”

  Frank considered this amazing information for a long moment. He hadn’t thought anything that happened in the city could surprise him anymore. “I wonder if Black Jack has that whole block set up for the tours,” Frank said.

  “Could be. I can’t imagine he’d make enough money from it, though.”

  “Oh, the swells wouldn’t just look. They’d be customers, too.”

  “I guess you’re right. They could impress their friends with tales of drinking and gambling and visiting a brothel in the Bowery.”

  “And they’d have more money to spend than the locals. Still, I can’t imagine that many rich boys want to visit dives.”

  Gino grinned. “Maybe you’re wrong about that.”

  “Maybe I am. And Black Jack owns more places than this, I know. At least we found out we’re in the right neighborhood to find Freddie, though.”

  “Did you notice the windows on the second floor of the saloon?” Gino asked.

  “Yeah. Lace curtains over a saloon doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Unless somebody lives there,” Gino said. “Somebody with a wife.”