The Striker

“Cyclops!”

Again it roared, blazing through the night, and again they jumped. From the ditch, Mary Higgins caught a fleeting glimpse of the horses as they galloped ahead of the light, nostrils flaring, eyes bulging, heads thrashing against their harness, terrified by the whip, the dark, and the screaming.

It was still raining when the last of the marchers straggled into the tent city at dawn. Mary was last, carrying a child in one arm and propping up the mother, a woman with a racking cough. She was surprised when church ladies, who looked like they had never missed a meal or ironed their own linen, rushed to help. They took the child and the mother to a makeshift infirmary and directed Mary to a soup kitchen under a stretched tarpaulin. Hundreds of people had lined up to eat, and she had just found the tail end when John Claggart appeared out of nowhere and pressed into her cold hands a mug of hot coffee that smelled better than seemed possible.

Claggart had men with him. They were dressed like miners. But none, she noticed, looked like they worked with their hands, and she recognized the flash operators who hung around prize rings, pool halls, and racetracks. She saw in their eyes their contempt for the miners.

“Who are those men?” she asked.

“Not choirboys,” Claggart replied boldly. “But they’ll get the job done.”

The word accomplices wormed its way into her mind.

“Criminals?” she asked.

Claggart shrugged. “It’s not for me to judge. But I’ll bet that you and your brother know plenty of men who have been railroaded into prison for fighting the good fight.”

“Those I know,” she said, “don’t resemble criminals.”

Claggart said, “Give me a brave man, quick on his feet, and I don’t care what you call him as long as he knows that the bosses are the real bums. Now, listen carefully. I have more barges tied along the banks and more boats to move them into the cha

“Missed your spittoon. Sorry, chief.”

Henry Clay recognized the brown trail of tobacco juice that soiled his pale blue Aubusson carpet for what it was, a challenge by a thug who had never lost a fight and was too stupid to imagine that he ever would. A dozen of them — all blood-oath members of the Hudson Dusters, a West Side New York docks gang — had crowded into his front office through the back hall. He would never permit these scum in his private rooms. Most didn’t know him from Adam. All they knew was their boss had ordered them to appear for a special job. But now, instead of quietly listening to Clay’s orders, they were snickering at the mess on his carpet.

The spitter’s second mistake was to underestimate a Wall Street swell just because he wore a splendid suit of clothes. Clay stood up. The Dusters’ boss and his enforcer exchanged expectant glances. Pain was about to be suffered.

“What’s your name?” Clay asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Tell him your name,” said the boss, signaling Clay that he had no desire to get in the middle.

“Albert,” said the thug, watching with amusement as Clay walked closer.

“Not to worry about missing the spittoon, Albert. Just lick it up.”

“What?”

“Lick it up.”

“Go—”

Clay hit him high, low, and in between, then put him in a hammerlock, slammed him facedown on the floor, and jerked his pinioned arm higher and higher until the gangster screamed. Eventually, his screams turned to pleas. Clay jerked harder. Pleas dissolved into sobs.

Clay let go.

“Don’t bother licking it up, Albert. We know you would, and that’s all that matters.”

Eleven Hudson Dusters laughed.

“All right, boyos, you’re here because I have a strong feeling that I am going to have an angry caller bursting into my office. When he arrives, I want you to beat him slowly to a pulp. Make what happened to Albert here seem like a friendly wrestling match.”

“When’s he coming?”

“Soon. Meantime, there’s a spread laid out in the back room and cots where you can nap. Don’t get drunk, don’t molest my staff, and don’t spit on the carpet. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

After they had trooped out, Clay unlocked his private office and focused his telescope on Judge Congdon’s window. The Judge was hard at work, bullying someone on the telephone. Clay put on his hat, bid his staff farewell, went down to the street, entered the Congdon Building, and rode the elevator to the top floor.

Congdon kept him waiting half an hour. When he did allow him into his office, he said, “I’m busy. Make this quick.”

“This may be my last report in person for a while,” said Clay.

Somehow, Isaac Bell had survived. Clay blamed himself. He had made a rare mistake sending assassins instead of doing the job himself and he had no option but to pay the price.

“What’s wrong?” Congdon demanded.

“Suffice it to say that events are on schedule.”

30

Isaac Bell reported to Joseph Van Dorn in Van Dorn’s office twenty minutes after the Pe

“I’m afraid Wish got stabbed. The blade missed his vitals, but it was a shock to his system, and he’s out of commission for weeks.”

“Stabbing Aloysius Clarke used to be near impossible. I’ve warned the man a hundred times that drink would slow him down.”

“Not drink,” Bell answered coldly. “He took a knife meant for me.”

Van Dorn lowered his gaze. “Sorry, Isaac. I should not have said that. He’ll be O.K.?”

“I found him the best doctor in Chicago.”

“The agency will pay for it.”

“I already have.”

They sat silent for a moment, Bell biding his time until Van Dorn felt impelled to speak.

“How’d you make out with Rosania?”

“As I hoped. He is indeed studying shaped charges. And so is our provocateur.”

“Is that so?”

“Rosania actually ran into him up in Newport outside the Torpedo Station.”

“You’re sure Rosania wasn’t having you on?”

“Positive. He described a man who looked very much like the one I’ve seen. He thought he had a Chicago accent, but he swore he’d never seen him before.”

“So if he was from Chicago, he was gone before Rosania went into business.”

“Judging by what Wish and I ran up against, he’s stayed on speaking terms with the Chicago police.”

Van Dorn shrugged. “Money talks to Chicago cops.”

“You’re friends with some, sir. Could you ask around?”

“We won’t stay friends if I just go fishing. Do you happen to have a name I could lay on them?”

“His name is a bit of a dead end so far,” Bell admitted and fell silent again.

At length, Van Dorn asked, “Where’s the rest of your gang?”

“Weber and Fields are in Pittsburgh with Archie. Mack discovered a county sheriff is making secret arrangements to extradite union leaders back to West Virginia for the murder of Black Jack Gleason.”

Van Dorn gave an admiring whistle. “Mack must have burrowed mighty deep into the sheriff’s office to find that.”

“Wally claims that the sheriff’s girlfriend took a shine to Mack.”

“I’d have thought Mack’s seducing days were over.”

“And Wally’s collected rumors of a radical attack on the railroads.”

“What sort?”

“Trestle bombings, Wally thinks.”

Van Dorn shook his head. “Lunatics.”

“Plenty of lunacy to go around. Pittsburgh is bracing for the marchers. Half the Monongahela Valley is joining up along the route. So the Pinkertons and the Coal and Iron Police are offering a bounty for city prisoners released early to fight the strikers.”

“Good God! How’d your squad find that out?”

“Archie infiltrated the Coal and Iron Police.”

“He’s only an apprentice.”

“Archie convinced them he’s on the lam from Idaho for beating a miner to death with his fists. They welcomed him like a brother.”

“That is very dangerous for an apprentice to be alone inside. Too dangerous. What if they tumble to him? He doesn’t have the experience to see it coming, and with no one to back him up, God knows what will happen.”