VIII
The Third Avenue El train came to a stop at Grand Street, the doors opened with the hiss and release of steam, and Gunner and I were greeted by the boisterous nightlife of a working class’s entertainment district.
I’d tried once again to convince Gunner to wait at my apartment, saying that I’d deal with Addison as quickly as possible before returning home, but he’d merely gathered his bearings on the street out front of the field office, pointed east, and asked if we needed to catch the Third or Second Avenue line.
Typical maddening behavior.
Gunner walked across the elevated platform, set his hands on the railing, and peered down at the street below.
The train pulled away from Grand, propelled farther downtown toward Canal, and in its wake, the live music from neighboring clubs picked up and competed with one another.
A woman was singing on the corner with a group of men catcalling in response, and drunken laughter spilled out of the front doors of saloons.
After a moment of surveying the neighborhood, he stated, “The Bowery has changed since I was last here.” When he looked at me, Gunner had a wry smile on his face. “Are you catching flies, Gillian?”
I snapped my mouth shut.
“I’ve been to New York a time or two,” he explained. “But it’s lost a great deal of its charm. These two-bit street gangsters and the sorry excuse for a metropolitan police force.”
I pulled back the lapels of my coats, unclasped my badge from my waistcoat, and pocketed it. “You said to Moore—at The Buchanan—”
“Yes, the only quality outlaws left in this city tend to be wanted by your office, and Loren Moore has been decent at his job. What are you doing?”
I glanced up. “Oh. I can’t wear my badge around Addison.” I realized there was a suggestion to that statement, blushed furiously, and quickly added, “I very much wish to keep my underground contacts alive and employed, is what I meant.”
“I won’t be upset.”
“About what?”
Gunner’s gaze shifted to something on my left. “These sorts of clubs weren’t open when I was still working the East Coast,” he said by way of answer.
“I’ve—only been a time or two. For a drink, mostly.”
“Companionship.”
I shook my head. “No, nothing like that. You really were my— you know . And I’ve not returned since Arizona.”
“I imagine there’s better quality beer to be had elsewhere.”
“I wanted to be noticed,” I mumbled.
Gunner reached into his coat and retrieved his package of Black Jack. Before sticking the gum in his mouth, he said quite simply, “You’re impossible to miss.”
I smiled at my shoes before raising my head. “Thank you.” I motioned for Gunner to follow me to the platform stairs and said, once we reached street-level, “Addison is a performer in the neighborhood. He naturally picks up a great deal of gossip.”
“Naturally.”
“He’ll sell that gossip to me for the right coin or favor.”
“Hm-hm.”
“And being so close to the Five Points, there’s a lot of bluster from the Whyos and their competing gangs.”
“Dancer.”
“What’s that?”
Gunner looked sideways at me. “He’s a dancer, then? At one of these clubs?”
I let out a bark of a laugh before I could restrain myself. “Christ Almighty. No, not that sort of performer.”
The snow on the sidewalk had been stomped down by evening crowds, creating a thick, sloppy slush that mingled with the mounds of frozen trash and steam piping along the curbs.
Shops that were closed for the night pockmarked the neighborhood—their dark window fronts all but vanishing from sight under the shadows cast by the El overhead.
In contrast, the blues and reds and greens of steam streetlamps competed with the warm tungsten yellow and orange of open saloons and clubs, washing the area in a grimy, manmade color that didn’t exist in nature.
The Bowery had gone from upper-class respectability—the Astor family had invested money in the Bowery Theatre, for God’s sake—to its current state just before the Great Rebellion, and had remained as such.
Mulberry Bend was only half a dozen blocks away, so it was honestly only a matter of time before the street gangs infiltrated the neighborhood.
The Bowery Boys and Dead Rabbits were long gone, but the Whyos were the city’s new gang headache, and those bastards ruled the Lower East Side with an iron fist. If you didn’t fall into line, they sent the Fishback sort after you.
And despite my badge making me a target, I wouldn’t be bullied into taking it off.
Only when I came to the Bowery specifically to sniff out Addison did I remove it.
If he were seen talking with a federal agent, he sure as hell wouldn’t be working the area anymore, and I’d lose a very important, if irritating, point of contact.
The only other time, of course, was when I’d visited the club in my off time.
If one of the men traced me back to the Bureau…
blackmailed me… had the upper hand on my tendencies… .
I slowed as we approached a club at the corner of Bowery and Broome called Pilly’s.
It was ablaze with steam lamps and rowdy as all hell, with a placard outside the front door illustrating two bare-knuckle boxers.
A dandy of a young man stood at the open door, calling out the night’s entertainment to gentlemen in passing whose taste perhaps bordered on more, ah, stereotypical masculinity .
I sighed heavily when the pretty man glanced our way, smiled as bright as the lights of the club, and called, “Gentlemen! Don’t let his lean build fool you—Dangerous O’Dea versus Monster McGrath. Tonight only. It’s the fight of the year!”
“A mere few hours before 1882,” I noted.
Dandy pinched his face in disapproval before refocusing his energy on Gunner. “You look like you appreciate a true man’s man, sir. Five cent entrance.”
“A steal,” Gunner said flatly.
“Fighters are available for drinks after the show.” He leaned forward, held a hand to the side of his mouth, and added in a loud, scandalous whisper, “Perhaps more.”
“Who can turn down paying to ice a man’s broken hand.”
Dandy huffed and put his hands on his hips. “Do you two want to watch the fight or not?”
I reached into my trouser pocket and retrieved a dime.
I set it in his outstretched hand and led the way inside.
The hall smelled like wet wool, warm beer, and sweat.
The combination of scents wasn’t exactly pleasant, per se, but it did have a way of scratching at an itch deep behind my breastbone.
Because, in truth, Pilly’s had been the club I’d warily attended a few times before unfortunately meeting Addison and now visiting for the sole reason of dragging a nugget of intelligence from his smart mouth.
I certainly didn’t mind the more artsy establishments that existed on the Bowery, with singing and dancing and costumes, but I was rather susceptible to the whims of a half-naked, well-muscled man trying to impress with a pair of fists that’d seen a thing or two in their lifetime.
I glanced up at Gunner. He was taking in the atmosphere with his usual passive expression.
The tables were filled with patrons—a majority of them men, but also a few handsome women in trousers and suits with their prettier partners—clearly looking for unique entertainment, just as I had been, my first time attending Pilly’s.
In the center of the room was a stage, elevated about two feet off the floor, with a beast of a man walking its perimeter, flexing his arms and chest and, in general, looking very pleased with himself and the attention he commanded from the audience.
Then the volume of the crowd swelled without warning—an obnoxious combination of cheers and boos—as a second fellow hoisted himself onto the stage.
He wasn’t quite as tall as Gunner, but sported the same lithe build—lean muscle, no fat.
Where his pale complexion differed was the spattering of freckles, heavy across both shoulders, chest, arms, even his high cheekbones.
His fiery red hair shone like a beacon under the lamplight.
When he moved, it sometimes looked copper, other times blond.
He wore black trousers with braces on his shoulders, but was otherwise bare-chested for the fight.
“Dangerous O’Dea?” Gunner asked, raising his voice enough to be heard over the audience.
“Better known as Addison O’Dea,” I replied before pointing to his opponent, who looked as if he could eat Addison for a midday meal. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until the Monster is done with him.”
Gunner pushed back the folds of his coat in order to tuck his hands into his trouser pockets. “I hope he doesn’t kill your fellow.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Your contact.”
“Better.”
Gunner lightly nudged my arm with his elbow, and I couldn’t help but smile.
A referee stood in between Addison and Monster McGrath, gave them a moment to square off on each other, rile the audience, and then he called for the bare-knuckle match to begin.
McGrath took an Irish fighting stance—arms out, fists curled, feet firmly planted on the floor.
The man really was a behemoth. I had no doubt that one well-timed punch to the kidneys would leave Addison pissing blood for a week and losing the match.
Which was well and fine for McGrath. The trouble was, McGrath needed to catch Addison.
And when you’re the smaller man, the scrapper up against impossible odds, I knew firsthand that there wasn’t any room for gentlemen’s rules.
Addison bounced on the balls of his feet, moving back and forth around McGrath as he searched for an opening.
He tried for a jab at McGrath’s side, but the bigger man’s reach landed first on the counter, his fist slicing a deep cut into Addison’s lower lip.
Addison stumbled back a few steps, hand to his mouth as blood oozed from between his fingers.