The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

The dead woman’s legs were slim, her stockinged feet narrow; her boots were still warm. Dutch’s big hands were ill-suited for the search, but his fingers touched a piece of folded paper in her left boot. He fished it out and unfolded it. He read it once, and again. He rose and offered the paper to Bo.

“Her real name was Jenny McCracken. She was a Pinkerton.”

14

“Holy shit!” Little Jack Meyers was standing on the corner of Essex and Delancey across from PINKYS, watching for any unusual activity, when who should show their Irish mugs and head into the saloon but Inspectors Clancy and Tonneman.

He’d been wedged in the narrow entrance of Moishe’s Delicatessen since noon, trying to ignore the pungent smell of corned beef. Moishe had chased him away twice before Little Jack gave him two-bits for a sandwich to leave him be.

As he took a big bite of the sandwich, he saw Pinky tossing out a couple of drunks and had to smile. The midget could hold his own. The tavern door slammed shut. Little Jack gnawed another bite of corned beef and drifted across the street and up to the door of the saloon.

He stepped back, considering the door. Was there an alley? He could hear Big Jack in his head. “Drag your arse back and use the alley.”

No, the coppers would check the alley. He played at pushing the door open — it was planked tight, all right. Big Jack always told him never assume, so he ran around the corner to check the alley, but Dutch Tonneman was there and just missed seeing him.

Little Jack returned to the tavern door. He pulled a small flask of rum from his back pocket and swallowed a mouthful. Eyes almost closed, lips slack, he let his body relax against the door. Couldn’t see anything, but maybe he could hear what was going on. The voices inside were muffled. Lots of yelling. Not only was Bo Clancy a bulvan, he was also a good yeller who could scare the shit out of a statue.

It wasn’t long before Little Jack heard the scraping sound of the plank being removed.

Shoving the last of the sandwich into his mouth, he sprinted back to the corner of Essex Street, dodging a horse and wagon, and colliding with a bearded man wheeling a pushcart full of roasting potatoes. The pushcart man cursed him: “a broch tzu Columbus

,” which made Little Jack laugh because the man’s curse was aimed not at him but at Christopher Columbus.

In front of Moishe’s again, Little Jack saw the two inspectors leave PINKYS and head off east towards the river. Should he follow them? What would Big Jack think? Easy. Stood to reason, they’d learned something from Pinky; otherwise they wouldn’t be moving so fast.

He might have followed, but out came Pinky from his tavern, looked around, and off he went, turning on to Essex Street. Little Jack held himself in check for a moment, then he followed.

All of a sudden, Pinky turned around and rushed back the way he had come, running smack into Little Jack, giving him a mean shove out of the way. So, Little Jack thought, Pinky had changed his mind and chosen to go towards the East River, after Clancy and Tonneman.

Rutgers Street was packed full of coppers, wagons, horses, and an ambulance. It looked like most of the neighbourhood was on the street, and those that weren’t hung out the windows.

The area was blocked off by a sideways-parked wagon, with one patrolman standing guard.

“Uh oh,” Little Jack said out loud, hanging back behind Pinky. He saw right away that he’d messed up because Pinky heard, turned and looked at him hard.

Little Jack shrugged and wormed himself into the crowd. Good thing, too. Tonneman and Clancy were coming out of the tenement. Blood on Tonneman’s face.

“Hey, brass-buttons.” Pinky pushed his way to the patrolman, keeping his head low. “Another bank get robbed?”

The patrolman shook his head. “No banks here. Woman got herself shot.”

“Dead?”

The officer said, “… than a blessed mackerel.”

Pinky looked around. He couldn’t see Little Jack, who had ducked under a cart. Satisfied, Pinky shoved through the gawkers.

This time, Little Jack was more careful about being seen, and followed at a discreet distance. Pinky was heading back towards Second Avenue.

* * *

Pinky felt it in his bones. Someone watching him. “Don’t stand out,” Mister William liked to preach. “If you don’t stand out you can slip through the world and never be caught.”

Who was it? That trumbanick he’d bumped into? The one he’d seen again on Rutgers?

The school on Essex Street was letting out. Boys running, brawling, shouting. Pinky took off his cap, turned it inside out, and became one of them. He managed to blend with a group until Second Avenue, where he broke free. And at Second Street, he mounted the steps to the small three-storied brownstone. He lifted the heavy knocker and pulled it down hard against the oak door. A shadow appeared behind the diamond-shaped glass. The door opened; Pinky charged in.