Murder on the Waterfront

By Leslie Micone

Maggie Pennyworth, a homeless woman, walks along the 1910 Hoboken waterfront now cast in darkness. Seeing the shape of a bundle under the pier, she kicks it, hoping its money. Instead, its Fred Throckmorton, a recently murdered business man whose disappearance is front-page news. She runs to a trusted resident of the docks, Mike Chambers, who looks out for the less fortunate. However, Chambers is not his real identity. A man with a great deal of clout and the ability to live in the shadows has long arms influencing more than just the docks. Digging into the details of Throckmortons death proves more dangerous than expected. An unlikely friend, Jerry Murphy, gets involved, and there are those who would like Chambers out of the waypermanently. Jerry and his family have an impact on Chambers, causing him to begin questioning where his loyalties lie: the job or those he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524601614

Leslie Micone

A native of Rahway, New Jersey, Leslie Micone is a self-employed writer who now resides in Clark, New Jersey. Leslie spent much of her childhood in Hoboken, New Jersey, visiting her grandfather, aunts, and uncles. The love of the Hoboken waterfront and family childhood memories gave rise to the writing of Murder on the Waterfront. She has a deep love of family, her Christian faith and classic literature. Her daughter and son-in-law live close by in New Jersey with their twelve-year-old daughter.

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Prologue

H oboken began as a riverside resort. People from every corner of the globe who eventually settled in Hoboken enjoyed strolling along the river walk, now known as the waterfront. Colonel John Stevens purchased the land that is now Hoboken in 1784 for $90,000; the name Hoboken originated from the Holland Dutch. Colonel Stevens was an entrepreneur and an inventor. In 1804, he invented a turnscrew-driven steamboat; it was named Little Juliana. In spite of his success, he was forced to invent a horse-driven paddle wheel boat to carry passengers until 1824, due to a legal battle to break Robert Fulton’s steamboat monopoly on the Hudson.

The first organized baseball game was played at Elysian Fields in 1846.

Stephen Foster lived in Hoboken for quite a few years and composed many of his ballads about the old South there, and Napoleon III lived in Hoboken until he returned to France to assume his duties as emperor.

The Delaware, Lackawanna & Western Railroad in Hoboken and commuters from New Jersey to Manhattan used the Hoboken Lackawanna ferries. The Port Authority Trans-Hudson (PATH) tube was opened in 1908 after thirty years under construction.

By 1910, Hoboken had already become a booming shipbuilding town. The city opened its arms to endless immigrants—40 percent of which were German. Irish and Italian immigrants were also plentiful. It was a small town, one square mile to be exact.

The beginning of the twentieth century was, to many, a sign of prosperity, hope, and the opportunity to dream; it was the continuation of the age of innocence. Faith and morals were still a part of family values, but self-righteous piety was becoming a thing of the past, much to the chagrin of the elders.

More and more sailors and merchant marines were making their appearances and becoming longshoremen on the waterfront. Some were uneasy hearing of the recent murders on the docks, but work they must in spite of the risks.

1

1910

I t was a night of moonlit shadows along the Hoboken waterfront. Maggie Pennyworth was one of the unfortunates living in the small cabins built near the shore of the Hudson River. She was walking along the dock as she did on so many nights. As the water swelled and retreated, she noticed by a glint of moonlight what seemed to be a dark bundle near the wood columns under the pier. She hesitated and then rushed to the uneven wooden stairs leading down to the water. Feeling the returning tide brush against her feet, she lifted her skirt and continued. The closer Maggie came to the pile, the more uneasy she felt.

The bundle turned out to be a large sack. Maggie kicked it gently; it seemed harmless. As she knelt and carefully untied the knot, a flash of hope entered her mind that it could be money or something else of value. When the thought of a body came to mind, she pulled her hand back for an instant. Greed, however, persuaded her to go on. She opened the sack further and then pulled away quickly. She stood looking around for someone to call to, but the waterfront was deserted. Inside the sack was the body of Fred Throckmorton, the president of a major corporation. His murder was front-page news of every newspaper in town.

Out on the river, the European Hamburg-American and Holland American steamships loomed in the mist behind the fishing trawlers and the freighters that were beginning to sway in the upcoming squall along the Hudson. Keeping an eye on her surroundings, she hurried back up the steps to the row of cabins where she lived. At cabin number four, she tapped lightly, hoping her trusted friend Mike Chambers would open the door.

Just as she was starting to move on, the door opened. What is it, Maggie? asked a tall man with dark hair and beard lightly sprinkled with gray and disarrayed by sleep. Relief swept over her at the sight of him in the doorway. Mike Chambers was working undercover on the docks to bust a Sicilian crime ring that brought theft and violence to the area.

Mike, quick, let me in, and close the door, she said, shaking.

Mike did as she asked and put his hands on her shoulders to steady her. What’s the matter? he asked her.

She moved away and sat down at the table. Throckmorton’s body’s under the pier.

Wait here. I’ll get dressed.

Maggie was in her fifties, slim with salt-and-pepper hair covered by a red bandanna. Her difficult life had caused her to appear worn and older than she was. As she sat at the table, her mind wandered back to a time when she had been curled up in a doorway on Washington Street; if it hadn’t been for Mike Chambers, she would still be there. He’d told her about the cabins along the waterfront and one that was vacant. She’d been in cabin number two ever since; Mike lived two doors down.

She’d learned a great deal about Mike over the years; it was obvious he was much more than most people knew. He looked after Maggie and made sure she had food in her stomach. As a regular of the waterfront, she kept her eyes open for anything out of the ordinary and kept Mike informed about the corruption on the docks. It wasn’t always a safe job, but it was a life that kept her mind quick and ensured she was needed.

When Mike came out the door with lantern in hand, Maggie was still sitting at the table, a distant look in her eyes, her feet tucked under her chair. Maggie, Mike called, tilting his head toward the docks. Taking her arm, he lifted the lantern to lead the way down to the pier. When they reached the sack, Mike examined the body. Maggie could tell that he knew exactly what he was looking for.

Well, Mike said, standing, Throckmorton didn’t drown. He was murdered and his body dumped here.

Maggie moved closer to the body. On the back of Throckmorton’s head was a large, swollen gash surrounded by crusted specks of blood, as if he had been hit with a heavy object.

This is definitely a warning; they’re getting close, Maggie, Mike said, running his knuckles across his lips.

Whatcha gonna do now? she asked, licking her lips nervously.

What’s wrong? It’s not like you to be so edgy.

I’m scared. S’pose some o’ them thugs round here saw me?

Looking around, Mike said, I doubt if there’s anyone here now. Come on, help me put him under the pier. There’s going to be a storm; the wind is shifting.

After moving the murdered man’s body, Mike put his arm around his companion. Don’t worry. We’ll have coffee, and I’ll take you back to your house.

Who’s gonna watch me when ya leave?

I’ll be near.

She knew he had developed a fondness for her over the years.

With a coy expression on her face, Maggie said, Ya gonna call that guy from New York, ain’t ya?

Mike looked down at her and winked.

*

After Maggie was safely in her home, Mike returned to his cabin. Putting on his cap and pulling the collar of his pea coat up around his neck, he approached Washington Street. A group of street urchins who were regulars at the neighborhood pubs huddled in the doorway of an abandoned warehouse. Mike singled out a boy named Tommy Callahan. He caught the boy’s eye and nodded to him. The freckled, redheaded ten-year-old followed Mike to a storefront two blocks up. Mike handed Tommy a note.

Will she be up? Tommy asked.

Mike nodded. Tell her it has to be done immediately. He retreated back into the shadows cast from the brick building, looking out at the street still lit by moonlight and a few sparse streetlamps. A carriage drawn by a lone horse clip-clopped past with the rider gently tapping the reins against the horse’s neck. Mike stepped back deeper into the shadows.

Soon after, Tommy ran around the corner. Mike stepped out and took Tommy by the arm. Catching his breath, Tommy said, She’s gonna call that guy in New York now.

As Tommy started to run back across the street, Mike grabbed the collar of his coat. Tommy looked up, thinking he was in trouble. Mike smiled. Here. He put two bits in the boy’s pocket, and Tommy’s eyes widened. You deserve it, son. Don’t let on that you have it. Shaking his finger, he said, If you buy booze with this, I’ll tan your hide. Now get going.

Where do ya come from? the boy asked.

Mike knelt down. I come from a country far across the ocean called England. Why?

I like the way ya talk.

Mike smiled, ruffling the boy’s hair. As Tommy ran to his friends, Mike’s expression became serious. Walking across the street, he turned back to the boy, shaking his head.

Trying to keep out of the light of the streetlamps, he put his hands in his pockets and moved on. After standing in the shadow of an old, rundown tenement house for almost an hour, someone bumped into him. Watch where you’re goin’, mister, a man said as he turned to Mike and shook the rain from his raincoat. It was Marshall Washbourne. He was tall with medium-blond hair that was beginning to thin on top, and he was dressed as a longshoreman.

How did you make it in this rain? Mike asked.

I didn’t realize it was raining until I got off the PATH tube, he said, pointing to a doorway a block down the street. Sitting on the ground, Marshall handed Mike a paper bag containing a bottle. Here, warm your gizzard.

Please say this is the good stuff, Mike said, and Marshall laughed. Mike opened the bottle and took a drink. Ugh, this is rotgut.

Marshall smiled and raised his own paper-hidden bottle. Cheers! This is worse than rotgut. They clinked bottles and drank. Mike closed his eyes and shook his head.

They turned to the sound of bells on a horse-drawn police wagon as it headed toward the waterfront. I reported Throckmorton’s body, Mike said and took another drink.

Let’s see how Striker handles this, Marshall replied. I’m curious as to what part he’s playing in the murder.

Mike nodded thoughtfully. Striker had been kicked off the force for not playing by the rules but had recently been reinstated as a detective. Mike took another drink and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. My stomach will never be the same again.

Marshall chuckled. What I want to know is how Striker got back in the graces of the police here.

Mike put his arm around Marshall’s shoulders and said, smiling sardonically, My dear, deluded friend, half the guys on the force down here are on the take. Let’s get going. Maggie will be beside herself with the police trampling around down there. Maybe we can nose around and see how things are going with our illustrious police.

They stood and walked toward the docks, staggering like many of the local drunks to go unnoticed.

Wilson’s equal partner, Marshall Washbourne, had taken over the firm of Washbourne and Washbourne on Park Avenue in New York. The firm had been founded by Marshall’s father, Foster Washbourne. The firm assisted people in trouble. Their methods were within the law as often as possible, but when necessary, they used other means. When Wilson was working on a case, he remained at the docks under the alias Mike Chambers. Wilson hoped his identity would stay hidden long enough to gather enough evidence to uncover who was heading up the disappearing cargo shipments.

*

It was a beautiful Saturday in Hoboken. Neely, a tall woman of good proportion—buxom was the term—was standing at her cast iron stove shaving chips of brown soap into a large kettle of boiling water. The windows were open in her third-floor railroad flat, and the breeze felt wonderful. Brushing a strand of raven-black hair from her forehead, she took a deep breath, inhaling the first sweet scent of spring. Neely smiled upon hearing the laughter of children playing and their feet clanking up and down on the metal fire escape.

The kitchen was the room where everyone congregated. It was spacious and bright. On either side of the main wall were two large windows with white lace curtains. Between the windows was a table with a blue-and-white kerosene lamp. Above the table was a shelf that her husband, Jerry, had built to hold a clock that Neely’s aunt Josie had given them as a wedding gift. The ticking of the clock made Neely smile. It would only be another two hours before her husband returned from work. Above the clock was a painting her grandmother had sent to her from England, the land of her ancestors as far back as the sixteenth century. The painting, entitled Riding to Hounds, depicted a scene of foxhunting.

While using a long wooden pole to immerse her husband’s work clothes into the hot water, she heard the front door open. Aida called, Hello, sister of mine, any coffee?

Come on in, Neely called. Yes, there’s coffee, and it’s hot. Neely’s coffee was a brew to be remembered; the spoon nearly stood up on its own. Aida glided into the kitchen with her usual flare. She was not as full figured as her sister, but neither was she petite. Her white blouse and brown fitted skirt showed her hourglass figure off nicely. She put her hat with ostrich feathers on the table, patted her auburn Gibson-styled hair in place, walked to her sister, and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. Pouring out two cups of coffee, Aida pointed to a chair at the table. Neely sat down with a sigh. I could use a break, yes.

They sat and chatted about their mother, Lottie. She was a woman of strong will, with discerning eyes that never missed a trick, and she had been very much against her daughter Neely marrying a longshoreman. Lottie had wanted Neely to marry someone of consequence, whether for her daughter or for herself was often the subject of discussion.

When their coffee klatch was over, Neely finished scrubbing the clothes on the washboard and put them into the basket. Then she and her sister carried the basket up to the roof. While hanging the clothes on the line from the pole to the pigeon coop, Aida looked up at the sky. It’s a gorgeous day for drying clothes. I love the smell of spring. It smells of new life.

Neely smiled. It certainly does. They finished their task and returned to the kitchen for some lunch.

*

Jerry was sitting in his chair by the window reading the newspaper next to the kerosene lamp in the kitchen of the Clinton Street flat. Jerry and his sister, Florence, were children of Irish immigrants—David Murphy, a coal miner in Pennsylvania, and his wife, Mary, who took in laundry. Jerry loved and respected his father but refused to follow him into the danger and darkness in which he had spent his life. After Jerry had completed his service in the merchant marines, he’d made Hoboken his temporary home, working as a seaman at the insistence of his sister, affectionately known as Flossie. Three months later he’d met Cornelia Johnson, and Hoboken had become his permanent home. Neely, as Cornelia was called by family and friends, was one of two children of George and Charlotte Johnson. Charlotte Witherspoon had been born born and raised in England. When she’d left for America in 1875, her mother, Margaret, had been, to say the least, unhappy. Charlotte had very little correspondence with her mother. Neely’s correspondence with her grandmother, however, was a common occurrence. Charlotte had met her husband, George, in New York, and they had been married soon after. Both Neely and Aida had been born in a two-room, cold-water flat over a warehouse in New York, a section known as Hell’s Kitchen. George drove a team of horses delivering items for Mr. MacPharlin’s mercantile establishment. Aida was as different from Neely as day from night. Aida was a fun-loving, kick-up-your-heels girl; as for Neely, she had common sense and quiet wisdom. In spite of their differences in character no two sisters could have been closer. When Mr. MacPharlin had branched out in his business to Newark and to Hoboken, George had moved his wife and children to a two-bedroom flat on Clinton Street in Hoboken. To them this was surely moving up in the world, especially to Charlotte.

Jerry was above average in height with dark, curly hair. He was slim but not thin, with tanned, leathery skin. He had a quiet nature, but when push came to shove, he could hold his own. He didn’t have a large family, only his sister. His parents’ siblings were still in Ireland. A family, especially a caring family, was a source of strength and comfort he hadn’t known in a long time.

When he heard the front door open, he smiled, and when he heard other voices, he looked up. Neely entered the room followed by a man and woman. The man was tall with dark hair sprinkled with gray. The woman was of medium height and full figured and wore her blonde hair in the Gibson style; she seemed to be several years older then the gentleman. Neely came to her husband’s side. Jerry, I’d like you to meet Caroline and Wilson Davenport.

Jerry, Caroline said, walking toward him, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Cornelia has spoken of you often.

The couple was very well dressed and obviously wealthy. Jerry felt uneasy and glanced around at his humble surroundings. He smiled and shook hands with Wilson. Neely went to the stove to make coffee, calling over her shoulder, Jerry, please take Mr. and Mrs. Davenport’s coats.

Jerry moved quickly, embarrassed that he had forgotten his manners. When he returned, Wilson said, I understand you’re a longshoreman. Jerry stiffened, and Wilson continued, It must be a fascinating job. I’ve always enjoyed watching the vessels being unloaded of their treasures from all over the globe.

It’s not always so fascinating, Mr. Davenport. It is hard work, Jerry said in an abrupt tone. Neely turned to her husband, frowning.

Please, call me Wilson. He sat at the table, looking slightly perplexed. I’m sure it is. He was keeping his eye on Jerry’s expressions and manner, and Jerry was paying close attention to him as well, which Wilson was aware of. Jerry could swear he had seen the man before.

Jerry, while working at the docks you must have heard of Throckmorton’s death, Wilson said.

Jerry frowned. Flashes of a man in a pea coat, cap, and beard went through his mind. He was almost positive he recognized Wilson as Mike from the docks. He was the one spending time with the regulars and digging into Throckmorton’s death himself.

Everyone who works on the waterfront must have seen it in the papers, Wilson added.

Yes, Jerry said. Word gets around fast with or without newspapers. There are few people you can trust down there. We have to watch our backs. Even the cops down there can’t be trusted. I’m sure you know what I mean.

I do, Wilson replied. There’s word some of the more-valuable shipments have gone missing.

Yeah. We keep to ourselves. It’s best that way.

They drank their coffee. Neely and Caroline were deep in conversation while Jerry and Wilson continued closely observing each other. After a while, the Davenports excused themselves due to another engagement. Wilson shook Jerry’s hand and said, Thank you for your hospitality. I hope we will meet again. Jerry nodded, half smiling.

I don’t think there’s any doubt of that, Caroline said, seemingly happy with their new young friends.

Neely too was happy. Oh, Caroline, I certainly hope so. Maybe you and Wilson will join us for dinner some Sunday. I’d love to have you meet my family.

That sounds wonderful, dear, doesn’t it, Wilson?

Wilson took one last look at Jerry and nodded to his wife as he walked to the door. The Davenports said their good-byes and left. Neely closed the door and turned to her husband. What in heaven’s name was wrong with you?

How did you meet them? Jerry asked, ignoring her remark.

From church. Several months ago, they attended their niece’s baptism. They liked the church and began coming regularly. We became friends when we started serving on the altar committee together. I saw them while I was out and asked them over for coffee. Why?

"I know I’ve seen Davenport before. There’s a man I’ve seen down at the docks who lives in a cabin near Maggie. Remember the woman I told you about?