Night of the Sicilian Vespers

By C. P. Burbridge

Joseph Pulaski is an honest cop in turn-of-the-century New York City. A tough badge to wear, along with the one he serves for, the City of New York. But it gets even harder when probably the best friend he has turns up missing. Lt. Gus Petrano has been Pulaski's friend since their days in Five Points. Now his dwelling has been ransacked, and his famous Italian Squad has been disbanded. The daughter of the commissioner of police (Petrano's boss) has been kidnapped. He finds the United States Secret Service is involved, along with a mafia don from Sicily, a Chinese Tong leader, and the most powerful street gang leader in the city of New York. If that's not enough, he has pissed off Tammany Hall, who may be the most dangerous of them all.

What ensues is a battle of wits that puts Pulaski and his team of Kelly Donaher and Noah Weber in a fight for their lives. It entails the Sicilian list, the Black Hand, and a battle for control of New York City's rackets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662417511

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Night of the Sicilian Vespers

C. P. Burbridge

Copyright © 2021 C. P. Burbridge

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-1750-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-1751-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Pulaski, Petrano, and McRoberts

To Dwight and Joey guts personified, to Mom, Dad, Vicki and Geni for loving and putting up with me, and all my dogs who I loved with all my heart and could have done better.

Pulaski, Petrano, and McRoberts

The Triune

The pretty blond twirled though the sea of bodies as though she had been born to dance. Her long blue dress, which complemented her trim figure, trailed strategically behind. The look on her face showed that even though she enjoyed dancing, at the moment she wasn’t. This was due mostly to the fact that she was tired, and also to the fact that her partner had stepped on her feet more often than the dance floor. Whenever he made eye contact, though, her face would brighten into a false facade of enjoyment. The etiquette she had been brought up with would never allow her to hurt the young man’s feelings with the truth.

She struggled through the last of the dance, and then mercifully, it ended.

Linda thanked the young man, a nephew of some influential New York City banker. Or had that been the one before him? Frankly, she had forgotten.

The young man begged her for another dance, but she made an excuse about her sore feet, which he reluctantly accepted.

Linda McRoberts hadn’t really wanted to come to the party in the first place, but since her longtime friend Alicia McLain was hosting it, she couldn’t refuse.

The excuse she had given her young suitor really wasn’t an excuse at all. Her feet did hurt, and she crossed the dance floor like a wounded soldier seeking refuge. She found it in a nearby chair on the circumference of the dance floor.

The long blue dress that looked smashing on the dance floor proved to be a difficulty when trying to sit. It billowed up around her, much like what the eligible young men of the party had been doing all night.

She removed her black kid slippers, examining her feet. Flexing her much trampled upon toes, she set her feet on the cold stone floor. Her sore feet were forgotten for the moment as she examined the strange design of the floor. It had something to do with Druid history. Alicia had explained it to her once, but she had long since forgotten. She did remember that Alicia had had the stone brought all the way over from Britain. Linda shook her head and smiled. Sometimes she thought Alicia had too much money and too much time on her hands.

Returning the slippers to their place, she stood up to look for Alicia. The twin French chandeliers sparkled above the heads of the dancing socialites.

The brightly lit room was adorned with paintings and sculptures that would have been the envy of most museums. This wasn’t due to Alicia’s great love of art but more to show her social standing. The rich had to spend their money on something.

Linda hadn’t really wanted to come to this evening’s party, but Alicia was such a good friend that she couldn’t refuse. Since Linda’s mother died when she was three, Alicia had been like a second mother. James, her father’s personal manservant, and Alicia had helped fill the void left by her deceased mother.

Alicia McLain was now a widow for about a year. Her period of mourning was now officially over with tonight’s party.

When not in New York, she spent most of her time traveling in Europe. Now that the official mourning period was over, there would be many more parties given at the McLain mansion. Tonight’s party was in honor of a new park to be built in the Chelsea section of New York City, also known as Hell’s Kitchen.

Not seeing Alicia, Linda waltzed across the dance floor, keeping rhythm to the four-piece string quartet. The music was good even if her mood wasn’t up to the occasion.

Still scanning the room, she came upon the refreshment table garnished with punch and hors d’oeuvres.

Swaying dreamily to the soft waltz, she picked at the hors d’oeuvres and poured herself some punch.

The punch is very good.

Linda turned toward the voice. The originator was a tall dark young man with a mustache.

Linda was caught somewhat off guard but recovered quickly. Probably because it’s laced with a touch of the banshee’s brew.

She examined her handsome questioner. He was immaculately dressed in a black tuxedo that fit him perfectly.

Banshee…that’s Irish, is it not? said the young man with a hint of an accent.

I guess my Gaelic roots are showing. Linda smiled. At that moment, she spied Alicia across the room. Excuse me.

She had been flirting and acting coquettish all night. At the moment, she wasn’t up to it.

Alicia was a short redhead who, in her younger days, had been quite attractive. Even though she was now well into her fifties, she looked younger. She spied Linda coming through the throng. Excusing herself from the young army officer she had been speaking to, she met Linda on the floor.

Come on, let’s go out on the terrace where we can hear ourselves, said Alicia, gently taking Linda by the arm.

Once outside, Alicia said, I see another Romeo didn’t succeed.

Linda looked at her blankly for a moment. Then she remembered the young man at the refreshment table. Do you know who he was?

Alicia shrugged. Maybe he knew one of my husbands.

The moon cast a faint glow over the terrace as they walked toward the far end.

Has the belle of the ball had enough? teased Alicia as they both sat on the short restraining wall.

I don’t think I’ve missed a dance all night, said Linda, remembering her tender feet.

If you leave now, you’ll disappoint every young man here tonight, teased Alicia.

Linda leaned back on the railing and looked up at the baleful moon. The pale light reflected off her blond locks, giving it the look of spun gold.

Alicia grasped Linda’s small smooth hand in her own. It’s amazing how much you look like your mother, said Alicia softly.

Linda pulled the shorter woman into her with a hug. Thank you for always being there.

No, thank you. If not for you, I would have never known the joy children can bring to a parent.

Linda hugged her tighter, knowing what Alicia meant. She was barren and had never been able to have a child of her own.

Alicia gently extricated herself from Linda’s arms.

Even in the dim light, Linda could see the wet spots at the corner of her eyes.

I… I better see to my other guests. Avoiding eye contact, she walked back into the fray of the party.

A gentle wind rustled the tall trees in Alicia’s backyard as Linda stared out over the mansion’s garden.

She thought of the many times that James and her had played hide-and-seek around the pale white gazebo.

Childhood games and James seemed to go hand in hand. He had been around as long as Linda could remember. He was her father’s manservant, part-time chauffeur, and now Linda’s full-time companion when she wasn’t away at school. He had become her best friend.

She stood on the terrace for a few more minutes, contemplating childhood memories.

Her mood was at low ebb, and she knew now that it was now time to go. For that she would have to find James because she could not drive the Marmon.

Ian McRoberts, her father, had given the automobile to her as a birthday gift. As of yet, she did not know how to drive, but she was slowly learning under James’s tutelage.

She looked over the sprawling backyard one more time and then returned to the party.

The string quartet was in excellent form as she waltzed across the floor toward the kitchen. She knew James would be there because it was where he always gravitated at one of these functions.

Cooking was one of his many duties as her father’s manservant, and he seemed to enjoy it more than the others. Linda didn’t know if it was for the sheer pleasure of creating a culinary delight or the simple fact that he liked to eat what he cooked. In any event, he was constantly picking the brain of any cook he came upon, especially Alicia’s chef, Claude.

As she entered the kitchen, she found James trying to coax one of the assistant chefs out of a tasty morsel.

Raising two fingers to her lips, she emitted a shrill whistle.

The sound temporarily distracted the chef from his argument, and almost as though it was planned, James used the diversion to pluck the tasty tidbit from the cook’s extended hand.

As soon as he had the food, he turned and walked out the door, tipping his cap to Linda.

Time to go, Ms. McRoberts, said James, winking as he passed.

Linda couldn’t suppress a smile as she looked back at the flabbergasted chef.

James was a big man with a scraggly, genial face and a croft of blond hair that was now grayer than its original color.

He went out to the automobile while Linda collected her coat and said her goodbyes to Alicia.

When Linda walked onto the court of the oval drive, James already had the Marmon running and was in the process of lighting the acetylene headlamps.

While the engine was warming up, Linda slipped off her shoes and walked around the grass yard. The moist grass felt heavenly against her feet, and the cool breeze heightened the pleasure she already felt.

After a few more moments, James motioned to her, and she climbed into the small back seat.

Letting out the brake, the automobile slowly moved out of the drive and onto the road. Creaking and rattling, the early American automobile slowly gathered speed on the dirt road.

As the automobile shuddered down the road, a figure moved out of the nearby shadows of the house. The young man dressed in the immaculate tuxedo watched the automobile for a few seconds and then walked slowly over to his own machine.

Pulling a match from his pocket, he struck it against the automobile. It flared to life. Touching it to the acetylene headlamps, it brightened then sparked with radiance. The young man let it burn brightly for a moment then doused it with his coat sleeve. He lit it again and did the same to its matching counterpart. Cranking the engine to life, he then climbed behind the wheel and followed the same path as the Marmon down the road.

Several miles down the road on a steep hill just off the only road to the mansion, but with an excellent view, sat two men in another automobile. When they saw the light flash on and then almost immediately go out, they knew it was their signal. The larger of the two lumbered out of the automobile and around to its front. After several tries, he cranked it to life. He returned to his seat, and the automobile moved slowly out of the underbrush and then picked up speed as it headed to a prearranged spot down the road.

James guided the Marmon over the rutted road with the easy assurance of an experienced driver. He had been driving the newfangled invention for five years now, and even though they were at the moment innovative, he was sure that in the near future, they would become a necessity.

As he was taking a corner at a higher rate of speed than he should have, he heard a loud crack, which he first mistook for one of the annoying backfires the automobile emitted. But when the windscreen shattered, followed by the ripping of the canvas canopy, he knew this was not the case.

James slammed on the brakes, and the automobile skidded to a stop on the shoulder of the road.

Loosening his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, James turned to his young charge. You all right, miss?

What happened? said Linda as she squirmed back into the crevice of a seat. Then she lifted her eyes and saw the cracked glass and ripped canopy just above her head. She let out a sharp intake of breath but said nothing.

James slowly got out of the automobile and circled to the front. In the woods off to his left, he thought he heard sounds as if someone was running through the brush. He stopped and listened again, but all he heard was the quiet of a nighttime forest.

Assuming it to be a nocturnal creature of the forest, he turned his attention to the automobile.

We must have kicked up a rock, said the chauffeur, not believing it as he said it. A rock might have caused the damage to the windscreen, but there was no way it could have ripped the hole through the top of the automobile. His eyes were riveted on the small hole that was at the center of the cracked windscreen. It was unmistakably a bullet hole.

The headlights cast an eerie shadow on his face as he stood there examining the windscreen. The coppice now emitted new sounds that were closer. James slowly walked to the edge of the road, staring out into the maze of shrubbery and trees.

Suddenly, the foliage erupted toward him. The branches coming toward him materialized into short wooden clubs. They were the last things he saw as the two men wielding them viciously bludgeoned him across the head and body. Even after he collapsed, they continued the onslaught.

Linda let out a scream of warning, but it was far too late. Kicking open the small door to the Marmon, she bolted into the forest as fast as her bulky dress would allow.

Seeing her disappear into the woods, the smaller of the two assailants immediately took off in pursuit. The second attacker stayed behind for the moment, delivering the coup de grâce to James.

The thick foliage seemed to reach out and grab Linda as she tried to maneuver through the forest. The first attacker temporarily lost sight of her, giving her precious seconds for her escape.

The second attacker now took up the pursuit, crashing into the woods with an elephantine disregard.

Linda could hear them now, tramping noisily through the underbrush. Her only advantage was the darkness and the fact that they had allowed her to get into the forest.

Linda coolly assessed her chances. If she could remove her dress, which was not only bulky but light colored and stood out like a beacon, she might have a chance to elude her pursuers.

If Linda had had time to think about it, she would have been amazed at how calmly she was thinking. Maybe it was because if she didn’t, she had the sinking suspicion she would end up like James.

In any event, survival told her she had to discard the dress.

She came upon a short incline and started down it in a haphazard fashion. Her foot caught part of the dress, and she tumbled headlong into a bush. Stunned, she lay there for a few seconds. Then, sure that she hadn’t damaged anything vital, she crouched behind the bush.

She listened for her pursuers, but only silence touched her ears. They had stopped when they could no longer hear her. Her breath came in short pants. Fear was now starting to take its grip.

Movement off to her right and about ten yards back told her they were no longer stationary. Seconds later, she saw one appear in a patch of moonlight unobstructed by the thick foliage. He cocked his head to listen slowly, scanning the forest with his small ferret eyes.

Linda clasped her hand over her mouth in an effort to stop her wheezing breath.

Slowly, he edged forward like a carnivore aware of his prey but not certain of its location. Linda held her breath as he walked by her position not ten feet to her left. When he was some distance off, she slowly exhaled her breath.

The wheeze she emitted seemed to echo off the forest walls. She fully expected the attacker to turn and head straight for her location. Fortunately, he had not heard and was still moving forward in his predatory stalk.

The second pursuer didn’t have the first one’s stealth, for he crashed through the forest with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Suddenly, he came into view beside a tree. If he kept moving on his present course, he would pass within feet of her position. She had no choice. She would have to move again in the bulky dress.

Waiting for him to pass behind another tree, she lifted up the cumbersome garb and wafted some ten feet to another bush. The big man stopped just as she reached her objective. Freezing, Linda waited agonizing seconds for him to continue on into the forest.

Linda let out another wheeze of relief and started unfastening the dress that had almost been her undoing.

Unencumbered now by the large dress, she moved swiftly back through the coppice.

Stopping at the edge of the road, she shivered momentarily.

The lamps of the Marmon were still lit and illuminated the surrounding greenery.

James was nowhere to be seen.

Hesitantly, she emerged from the forest. Walking slowly to the automobile, she surveyed the surrounding.

Where could he be? she thought. He was in no condition to move very far under his own power, of that she was certain.

Suddenly, off in the distance, she heard the metallic rattle that was not unlike her own automobile.

Climbing into the automobile, she struggled with the clutch and brake lever before she remembered that it had to be cranked. The rattle of the automobile grew louder. Suddenly, light flooded over her shoulder. Instinctively, she shielded her eyes and turned toward the sound.

What she saw in the back seat caused her to take a sharp breath.

James lay on the seat with his head at the far corner. Blood had soaked the back of the seat and covered the whole side of his face.

The wave of panic she had kept under control now surged over her at the sight of her dear friend.

Springing from the automobile, she ran toward the oncoming machine, waving her hands frantically.

The automobile skidded to a stop a few feet from her.

Please, we’ve been attacked, and my driver is badly hurt.

There was no response.

The two attackers had probably heard the second automobile and would be returning any minute. Taking a step forward, Linda pleaded, Please, we need your help.

There was still no response from the automobile, just the two headlamps staring at her like malevolent eyes.

She heard sounds from the forest. The attackers were almost upon them.

Please! she screamed. They’re coming!

There was movement inside the automobile with the door swinging open. Feet touched gravel and walked around the side of the automobile.

A surge of hope enveloped her, and then the two attackers broke through the underbrush onto the road. They stood in the twilight of the lamplight, looking stoically at Linda.

Frantically, Linda clawed the figure just behind the lamplights. Grabbing his coat, she pulled him close.

That’s them! Please help us. Linda raised her head and looked into the face of her rescuer.

High cheekbones…mustache…thin mouth.

She recognized him as the young man from the party.

With a strength that surprised her, he clamped his hand down on her slender arm.

Linda suddenly realized the young man was not her rescuer.

The young man grinned, white teeth gleaming against the dark background. There’s no place to hide, Miss. McRoberts.

* * *

The big man sat and watched the foam head of beer slide down the side of the mug and onto the bar. He raised the glass in the air and let the last of the foam slide down. He took a long swig of the beer and peered down the length of the bar.

The small cozy bar was starting to fill up with stevedores from the nearby docks. As the flow of happy immigrants finished entering the bar, a look of annoyance crossed the big man’s face.

Captain Joseph Pulaski of the New York Police Department reached into the vest of his suit. He pulled out the gold watch, which he had received from the city for twenty-five years of service. He looked at the watch and then at the Roman numerals of the large clock over the bar. The times were the same: 8:30 p.m.

Pulaski had not been to Carolain’s Bar in years. He and Petrano had frequented it years before when they had walked a beat nearby. They went back to the time when the area had been called Five Points, one of the worst slums of its time.

Petrano was never late for a meeting, especially one that he called.

The note had been sitting on his desk when he returned from the Criminal Courts Building. He had been told that it had been phoned in earlier that day. Meet me at Carolains’, 8:00 was all it said.

Pulaski ran his large Slavic hands through his grayish red hair and pulled on the last of the beer. He slid off the barstool and dropped some coins on the bar. Placing his bowler hat atop his head, he walked out of the bar. Thirty minutes was late enough.

The big Pole stood outside the bar and lit a cigar. Above him, a large sign which proclaimed Carolain’s in Old English script creaked in the spring breeze.

Puffing the cigar, Pulaski looked up, and to his left, in the distance, he could see the steeple of Old Trinity Church. It seemed as though it had been their forever.

A slight fog hung in the air as he started walking briskly down the street. After several blocks, he entered Chatham Square, at the intersection of Park Row and the Bowery.

The nightlife was in full force; peacocks, dandies, and beggars lined the street. A prostitute with a very noticeable figure walked by and batted her eyes in Pulaski’s direction. The Polish cop smiled and tipped his bowler but kept walking.

He passed a nibbler who was sitting up against a building wall, clanging his tin cup whenever someone walked by. Stopping momentarily, Pulaski tossed the beggar a coin from his pocket. Aptly, the nibbler caught the coin with his tin cup.

Thanks, friend, said the beggar with a thick Brooklyn accent.

Pulaski dodged a carriage crossing the street and ran up the stairs to the elevated railroad. As he stood on the platform waiting for the El, his thoughts drifted to Petrano.

Petrano, like Pulaski, had moved up the ranks as the years passed. Although Petrano was a lieutenant to Pulaski’s captain, his accomplishments more than made up for the discrepancy in rank.

His Italian Squad had become a very effective weapon in fighting ethnic crime in New York City.

New York’s Little Italy held one of the largest congregations of Italians outside Italy at that time. America and its strange new ways were foreign to them. It was far easier for them to talk to someone in a familiar language than someone else in unfamiliar English.

His reputation had grown so that he was consulted by other police departments around the country about Italian crime in their cities.

Petrano had taken all the notoriety and praise in stride. Pulaski knew him to be the same cop he had walked a beat with in Five Points. The little Sicilian was still a cop’s cop.

The shrill whistle of the El broke Pulaski’s concentration as it whined into the station.

Pulaski boarded the train and took a seat in the back. He waited as the platform full of people filled up the car. Several minutes later, the El slowly chugged out of the station.

Sitting back in his seat, Pulaski watched the buildings of the famous Tenderloin district rush by. It had been so named by an Inspector Alexander S. Williams, notoriously known for having his hand out. He was being transferred to the Twenty-Ninth Precinct. He said, I’ve had nothing but chuck steak for a long time, and now I’m going to get a little of the tenderloin. Reporters had picked up the name, and it had stuck.

Pulaski, as most New York City policemen, had done his time in the Tenderloin. For an honest cop, life in the Tenderloin was a difficult time. For Pulaski, it had been one of his most trying assignments.

Pulaski exited the train at the Forty-Second Street station and started walking toward the waterfront. He walked briskly through the tree-lined lanes past Ryan’s Park toward the East River.

He stopped at a four-story warehouse on the edge of the waterfront. It was a gray brick building that had the look of emptiness.

Gray lettering on the side of the warehouse announced Van Beuren and Munson Bill Posters.

Pulaski walked up to the main door of the warehouse and examined the large mailbox. The original name of the company had been painted over. In its place was the initial A and the last name Petrano.

The warehouse was empty except for the top floor, which Petrano occupied.

Pulaski puffed on the cigar. Its end glowed red in the evening darkness.

He walked to the large frame door and entered.

The ground floor was bare except for dust and scattered machinery that no longer functioned.

Finding the stairs in the corner, Pulaski propelled his six-foot three-inch frame up the steps. The second and third floors were the same as the first. It had dust, old machinery that didn’t function, and rats that scurried at the slightest sound.

Petrano’s fourth floor, unlike the first three, was immaculately clean. Only a small portion of the spacious top floor was being used for Petrano’s living space.

From what Pulaski saw, Petrano had not recently been home. The place had been ransacked. The bed was overturned, and the mattress had been ripped open. The drawers to his dresser had been pulled out, and the contents were strewn across the room. Petrano’s private library had been dumped on the floor, with many of the volumes ripped open. Even his large Michigan refrigerator had been tipped over and the sides beaten out.

Pulaski stood among the litter, examining the wreckage. Immediately in front of him, he could see lights twinkling across the East River in Long Island. They seemed peaceful compared to the turmoil of the room.

Pulaski gave the litter a cursory search, not really knowing what he was looking for. After several minutes of searching and finding nothing of interest, Pulaski retreated to the street.

He retraced his route back to the El station and caught the southbound train. In twenty minutes, he was standing outside the main police headquarters for the city of New York.

The desk sergeant, after seeing Pulaski’s credentials, directed him to Petrano’s office on the second floor. It was room 212, located near the end of the hall.

Upon entering, Pulaski saw that there were five desks crammed into the office. They were placed in oblong positions as to fit in the room. Against the far wall stood a lone filing cabinet.

He walked over and opened up the top drawer. It was empty. He did likewise with the remainder of the drawers and found them the same.

He checked the desks and found them to be barren. The whole office had been cleaned out.

He returned to the desk sergeant and found him doing what most senior police officials do—shuffling paper.

Where’s the rest of Petrano’s squad? asked Pulaski.

They’ve been reassigned.

By whose authority?

The sergeant looked quizzical then said, Hold on. I’ve got the paperwork right here.

He thumbed through the stack of papers he just set down and pulled one out. He handed it triumphantly to Pulaski. Pulaski took the paper and examined it. It was an interdepartmental transfer order. The authorizing signature was the police commissioner of New York City, Ian McRoberts.

Pulaski thanked the sergeant and left.

He walked down the steps of the police headquarters, and an uneasy feeling hit him. In all his twenty-five years on the force, he had been confused and stumped many times. He was confused now and didn’t like it one bit.

* * *

The old Chinaman shuffled down the street as though the weight of all of his ancestors’ sins were upon his shoulders. The dingy tunic and cap he wore were made of the same drab gray material. In the light of the streetlamp, his clothing looked even worse than it really was.

His braided pigtail hung down to middle of his back and swung from side to side with each step he took.

When he was in full light of the lamppost, he stopped. His attention on the brownstone across the street was so intent that he didn’t notice the two young Chinese in the alley to his left.

Seated on the steps of the entrance to the brownstone that had the old Chinaman’s attention was another Chinese. He sat laggardly on the steps as though he didn’t have a concern in the world. The old Chinaman, however, knew better.

The two Chinese melted out of the shadows and slithered toward their aged countryman.

Down the street, a middle-aged man in a brown suit and bowler leaned forward from his vantage point in a deserted doorway.

The old Chinaman cocked his head as he noticed the two Chinese move toward him. The one closest defiantly moved into his path. The old Chinaman raised his head and looked into the face of his young countryman. The young Chinese’s stringy hair stuck out from under his bowler. His already slanted eyes crinkled even more as he smiled and said something in Chinese. He motioned toward the alley. Placidly and without fear, the ancient Oriental glanced across the street at the brownstone and then shuffled obediently into the alley. The two Chinese followed him like two cats after a mouse.

The man down the street in the deserted doorway leaned forward slightly. A concerned look crossed his face. He watched as the old Chinaman moved into the alley, and the two younger Chinese eagerly followed. After a moment of decision, he leaned back to wait.

Once inside the alley, the two Chinese reached inside their tattered vests and extracted a pair of knives. They brandished the knives menacingly as they moved toward the ancient Oriental. They were sure they wouldn’t have to use them against this elderly specimen. He would plead for his life and gladly give them all the valuables he possessed.

Please put the knives away, said the old man in perfect English.

Puzzled, the two Chinese stopped and glanced at each other with inquiring looks. Then the one who had stopped the Chinaman initially smiled again, showing the large gap between his teeth. It was some trick that this ancient homelander was using to bluff them. Those were the only English words that this old Chinaman could know.

Slowly, he started to move to the left of the old Chinese. Nimbly, the Chinaman took another step backward. He knew if one got behind him, the ensuing fight would be over before it started.

Taking the cue from his partner, the other Chinese started slowly closing in upon the elderly Oriental. Suddenly, he lunged forward, bringing his knife forward with a striking motion. Deftly, the old Chinaman sidestepped him and clamped his hand on the man’s knife hand. With a short crisp motion, he brought his foot up full force into the younger Chinese’s open legs. Grunting, the Chinese bent over in pain. Moving quickly with his advantage, the old Chinaman twisted the younger antagonist’s arm, causing the knife to clatter to the ground. Spinning, the old Chinaman straightened him up with an uppercut to the chin. The force of the blows propelled the young Chinaman against the alley wall. He grunted as he slid slowly to the trash-strewn ground.

Picking up the abandoned knife, the old Chinaman turned to his remaining attacker.

Take your friend here and leave, said the Chinaman, again in perfect English with a note of Brooklynese.

The younger Chinaman stood, mouth agape, and stared at the old man.

Go on. Get outta here, said the Chinaman, making a threatening gesture with the newly liberated knife.

The younger countryman needed no further prodding. He helped his defeated friend to his feet, and they stumbled down the alley, hopefully toward a less pretentious victim.

Waiting a few minutes to make sure they didn’t return, the old Chinaman walked to the edge of the alley. The Chinese on the steps of the apartment building still looked as though he didn’t have a care in the world. The disturbance in the alley hadn’t been noticed. Slumping into his stooped walk, the Chinaman shuffled toward the nearby lamppost.

Down the street, the man in the doorway smiled and let out a sigh of pent-up relief. He continued watching as the Chinaman walked toward the lamppost.

Stopping at the lamppost, the old Chinese removed his cap and examined it for a few minutes in the light. Then, seemingly satisfied, he placed it on his head and started across the street.

The man in the doorway turned and motioned to someone in the alley to his left.

The old Chinaman dodged a hansom cab and made it to the other side of the street without further incident. The Chinese seated on the steps of the brownstone hardly looked up to notice.

Keeping parallel to the building, the old man shuffled away from the sentry. Reaching the narrow gap between the brownstone and adjoining building, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at the sleeping Chinaman on the steps. The sentry was oblivious to everything. Quickly, with one bound, the old Chinese scaled the fence and headed toward the back.

Flattening himself against the wall, the Chinaman peeked around the corner. Trash cans lined the opposite side of the alley. There was a small concrete porch leading to the back door. Perched in a chair at the bottom of the stairs was another Chinese. He looked bigger than the front sentry.

Scanning the alley once more with his slanted eyes, he flattened against the wall again. The clock in his head told him precious minutes were waning.

The sentry checked his watch. He was bored. He would have rather been inside where the action was taking place. Or he would have liked to have been back at his apartment on Mott Street. Soon he would be relieved, and then he could smoke his opium pipe.

He looked up into the nighttime sky and leaned back in his chair. His thoughts wandered, and after a moment, his eyelids began to droop. He pushed his straw boater over his forehead to cover his eyes and was soon breathing deeply.

His slumber was awakened by a grating noise. Pushing the straw boater back, he looked to his left. He could see nothing in the dim morning light. Then he heard the noises again. It sounded like something scratching against metal. Rising, he noticed a lone figure near the trash cans. It was an old Chinaman rummaging through the garbage for scraps. In his right hand, he held a flat piece of wood like a Delmonico waiter. Watching for a moment, the big Chinese saw that whenever the old man found something of interest, he rested it on the flat piece of wood.

The sentry picked up a pebble and flung it across the alley. It struck with a ping at the base of a trash can near the old Chinese.

Move away, ode man. Dis alley awf limits, said the big Chinese.

The old Chinaman acted as though nothing had happened. He continued searching the trashcans.

Grimacing, the sentry raised his six-foot-plus frame from the chair and walked across the alley.

The old Chinaman continued picking through the trash, seemingly not noticing the approach of the big sentry.

This time, the big Chinaman said something in Chinese. The oldster seemed unaware of his surroundings.

Exasperated, the big Chinaman grabbed him by the shoulder to forcibly move him from the alley. Straightening, the old Chinaman drove the piece of wood into the Chinese’s gut. The force caused the sentry to emit a short bellow and double over. With a smooth motion, the old Chinese brought the piece of wood down full force onto the sentry’s head. Flying forward, the big Chinese’s head thudded against the alley wall. He fell in a heap on the trash cans and didn’t move. Pushing the sentry behind the cans, he arranged them so as anybody walking through the alley wouldn’t spot him.

Scampering up the steps to the back door, the Chinaman listened for a moment.

Nothing.

He tried the knob. It moved a quarter turn and then stopped. Locked!

Cursing, the Chinaman returned to the unconscious Chinese sentry. The mental clock in his head told him time was running out.

Searching the Chinese, he found the key and returned to the door. Inserting the key, he turned it right. It clicked. Turning the knob, he eased the door open and peered inside.

He could see a dim light down the length of an empty hall. Slipping inside, he waited a few seconds to let his eyes become accustomed to the dim light.

Silently, the Chinaman moved down the length of the hall to the first door. He bent down to the keyhole and listened. His nostrils were assaulted by a sweet sickly odor.

Opium!

The Chinaman had smelled it many times before. Listening, he heard some faint stirrings. He tried the knob, and it slipped through his sweaty palms. He wiped them and tried again.

The door slowly creaked open. Inside, the room was even dimmer than the hallway, if that was possible. The intruding Chinaman could make out three figures. Two were lying in the middle of the room, passed out, surrounded by large fluffy pillows. The third figure, a Chinese who looked even older than the intruder, sat perched upon one of the larger pillows. He puffed on his long opium pipe, not even noticing the stare of his fellow countryman.

Silently closing the door, he continued down the hall. A staircase loomed to his right. Voices floated down from above. They were happy and gay. The Chinaman knew that would change in a few minutes.

Checking the rest of the rooms down the hall, he found more of the same.

Finally, he came to the room at the end of the hall emitting a light. Keeping close to the wall like a patrolling rat, the ancient Chinaman approached the door. He was running out of time. He hoped what he was looking for was in this room.

Kneeling at the keyhole, he peered into the tiny aperture. Finding what he was hoping, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room was small and well lit. In one corner was a desk with a small Chinaman seated at it. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he had been writing in a medium-sized ledger. He looked up as the ancient Oriental entered the room. In the other corner of the room sat a safe. It was open, showing its contents of stacked money and papers.

Thinking the old Chinaman had strayed from one of the opium dens, he said something in Chinese. The intruding Chinaman stood his ground, glancing from the seated Oriental to the open safe. Rising from his chair, the younger Chinese moved between the intruding Chinaman and the safe.

Don’t do that, hissed the old Chinaman.

Startled by the type of English the old Chinaman spoke, the younger Chinaman stopped in his tracks. Stepping forward, the old Chinaman threw a right cross that landed full force on the younger man’s jaw. Careening backward, he fell on the desk, rolled off, and landed on the floor. He didn’t move.

Shaking his hand in pain, the Chinaman gathered up the ledger. Scanning the pages, he let out a small cry of joy. More than satisfied with what he had, the Oriental slipped the ledger into his baggy pants.

The mental clock in his head told him he had only seconds left.

Slipping out the door into the corridor, he headed for the stairs.

* * *

The man in the brown suit motioned, and the horse-drawn wagon pulled out of the alley. As the light from the street hit it, the words New York City Police Department could be distinguished on the side. Emerging from his hiding place, the man in the brown suit jumped on the side rail.

Move it, he said tersely to the uniformed driver.

* * *

The stoic sentry scanned the street through slitted eyes. It was well past midnight, and in his section of Manhattan, most people were indoors. It didn’t pay to stay out