Brewster Claypool was headed for Tammany headquarters, above Tony Pastor’s vaudeville house in an opulent three-story Italianate building on 14th Street, when he heard chorus girls singing Victor Herbert’s latest hit, “I Want What I Want When I Want It.”
He stepped into the theater.
They were rehearsing a spoof with a bandy-legged comedian, who was costumed in a yellow wig and short skirt. Claypool exchanged blown kisses with the girls and got a wave from the comedian, then climbed the stairs with a world-weary smile.
“I Want What I Want When I Want It” summed up with grim precision the job of pulling wires for J. B. Culp.
Boss Fryer—wan, potbellied “Honest Jim” Fryer—greeted Claypool expansively. He would have inquired about his family, if Claypool had one, so asked instead about mutual friends on Wall Street. Claypool reported on their successes and travails, and asked about Honest Jim’s family, who were prospering.
Jim Fryer ran the Tammany Hall political machine that ran New York City. Strict administrator of a party pecking order—district leaders down to election district leaders to block captains to saloonkeepers and building captains—he got out the vote on Election Day in the majorities required to beat the Reformers and dominated a confederation of police, clergy, streetcar magnates, and construction contractors.
They clinked glasses of seltzer lemonade with the fond respect of friends at the top of their games—men who ran cities had not the luxury to drink like elected officials—and traded gossip that others would pay fortunes to hear. Eventually, Fryer, who had a reception room full of cops, contractors, priests, and franchise grabbers waiting to see him, asked Claypool, with only the merest hint of time’s pressure, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”
“I would like to meet a fellow who can help arrange something unusual.”
The word “unusual” caused Fryer’s eyes to narrow fractionally.
“Brandon Finn’s your man. Tell him I sent you.”
“It could be too unusual for Finn,” Claypool answered carefully.
Boss Fryer stood up. “Brandon will know who to send you to,” he replied, and both men knew the Boss had washed his hands of work best left to henchmen and heelers.
“Run-a! Run-a, Pasquale!”
They were after him again, and Sante Russo ran for his life, wondering why tramps, who were growing thin as food ran out and the first waves of winter cold oozed down the Wasatch Mountains, would waste their strength tormenting a single soul as poor as themselves.
He wanted to turn around and say, I won’t eat much. Just leave me alone.
“Run, you dago!”
The out-of-work miner leading the mob had a pick handle. If they caught him, he would die. An awful voice inside said it might hurt less than running. But he ran anyway, praying he didn’t trip and fall on the rough ground, fleeing the hobo camp, fleeing the hobos and the woods and swamps where they hid from the police.
Russo veered toward a distant creek, hoping the bed was dry enough to cross. But it was deep, the water running hard. They had him trapped. He turned hopelessly to his fate. As if things couldn’t get worse, an enormous automobile suddenly careened out of the gloom, headlights and searchlight blazing. Now it was a race. Who would get to him first? The miner with the pick handle? The second mob, scooping up rocks to throw at him? Or the auto, belching blue smoke as the driver accelerated to run him over? Russo, who had dreamed of someday earning enough money to buy an auto, recognized a fifty-horsepower Thomas Flyer. It was heaped with spare tires, outfitted for crossing rough country. Would they use its tow rope to lynch him from a tree?
Russo was turning to jump in the creek when the driver shouted, “Sante Russo!”
Russo gaped. How did he know his name?
The auto skidded alongside in a cloud of dust. “Get in! On the jump!”
The driver grabbed Russo’s hand and yanked him into the seat beside him. A rock whizzed between them, just missing their heads.
A tall man stepped from the mob with another rock in his hand. He wound up like a professional baseball pitcher, slowly coiling strength in his arm, and began to throw. The driver pulled a pistol from his coat. The gun roared. The pitcher fell backwards.
“Mister?” asked Russo. “Who are you?”
“Bell. Van Dorn Agency . . . Hang on!”
Isaac Bell depressed the Flyer’s clutch, shifted the speed-changing lever, and stomped the accelerator pedal. Drive chains clattered, and the rear tires churned sand, fighting for a grip. The Flyer lurched into motion, and Bell zigzagged around brush, rocks, and yawning gullies. The bunch he had shot at was backing off. But the main mob, egged on by the guy with a pick handle, was blocking their escape. Bell raised his voice. “I’ll shoot the first man who throws another rock.”
“There’s twenty of us,” the leader bawled. “Gonna shoot us all?”