The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Dutch pulled out a small notepad. “We’ll take a description now.”

Each of the witnesses rushed to talk. Which is when everything fell apart.

“Butch had a long red beard.”

“No, it was brown.”

“No, it was Sundance who had brown hair. It was long. And he had a red patch over his left eye.”

“No. The right eye.”

“Both men were big as oxes and wore black cowboy hats.”

“No, one wore a black derby and the other a grey cowboy hat.”

“It wasn’t grey. It was white. And dirty.”

Between sobs, the weeping woman said: “A woman in a blue coat. She could give you a better description. She was standing right next to them.”

A woman in a blue coat? Here was agreement. No such person.

“Hopeless.” Bo shook his head. “Always the same. Mulligan, get everyone’s name and where they live. We’ll most likely need to talk to them again. Then send them home.” To Dutch he said, “Flora’s gonna hate missing this.” Flora was reporter Flora Cooper, the girl Bo called a humdinger. She was in South Africa, covering the second Boer War for the Herald.

* * *

Outside, on the bank steps waiting for Bo, Dutch heard someone behind the wooden horses say, “You should tell them about her, Rose.”

Dutch peered into the crowd as he moved down the steps. “Rose? Do you have some information for us?”

An old woman in a heavy blue shawl, her black hat resting atop wiry, grey hair, was pushed forward. “That’s me. Rose Fleck.”

“Don’t be shy, ma’am,” Dutch said. “What do you have to tell us?”

She paused, took a deep breath before she spoke. “Nothing. At all.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” Dutch said, watching Bo come out of the bank.

“Just a girl with one of them picture makers,” Rose said.

Now Rose had Dutch’s full attention. “A girl with a camera?”

“I think that’s what they call them. She was holding the thing, then she got knocked down by one of them robbers. Two nice boys helped her up and found her picture maker and they left.”

7

Delancey Street, not far from the Essex Street Market and the notorious Tombs, was the site of the proposed Williamsburg Bridge, construction due to start in 1902, connecting New York and Brooklyn.

All along Delancey Street were derelict taverns and basement oyster houses and tenement buildings. Some of these establishments were transient, the shopkeepers setting up, closing down, all within weeks, taking away what they could in push carts, even shopping baskets.

One of these newcomers was a narrow slice of tavern with a homemade sign nailed over the door. It said: PINKYS.

The proprietor was a reptilian little creature, whose height didn’t quite reach forty-eight inches. Most of the time he could be found outside under the sign, luring patrons with the promise of a free beer.

He was born Francis Augustus Pincus. Or so he said. His first greeting to all and sundry was: “Call me Pinky.” Pinky had a small pug nose that had been broken more than once. There were even stories, most likely self-invented, that he’d fought in the ring. At that size? Doubtful.

No matter. Pinky had several equalizers: a wooden box on which he stood when behind the bar; a shillelagh — his weapon of choice at any time during the course of an evening in the tavern and elsewhere — when and where needed.

And at times, Pinky had to resort to his third equalizer: a shiny silver and black.38 calibre Colt revolver, which he kept cleaned and polished in the embossed buffalo-leather holster hanging from the wide, thick belt around his narrow hips for all to see.

Not to be forgotten was Pinky’s fourth equalizer: the woman swathed in red velvet, including her bright red turban with its large, white ostrich feather. Lorraine sat at an unsteady, round table reading tarot cards when asked. But her preference was a simple game of poker.

No doubt about it, Lorraine was Pinky’s woman.

No family name. Simply Lorraine. Her talk was hard to follow or understand. As if, a time back, she’d bitten her tongue and it never healed right.

Even so, when she was the one standing outside under Pinky’s sign saying hello, men ogled her, for she was a sight to see, and they followed her into the tavern without a second thought. One of the reasons was her size. The woman stood well over six feet. Fully unfurled, she had to duck her head to keep from smacking into wood beams.

When she stood next to Pinky they were a comical sight. But nobody ever dared laugh. They say opposites attract. That might be why the giant Lorraine and the midget Pinky were lovers.

* * *

It was just before noon on this cold December day when the news came shrilling down the street, passed from one pushcart to the next. Most of Pinky’s tavern emptied out. Pinky didn’t leave the bar, so the news was delivered to him by one of his drunken patrons, who stumbled back into the tavern, yelling, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid just robbed the Union Square Bank and killed twenty-two people.”

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