The Alienist - Caleb Carr [59]
By the time I reached Cooper Square I was feeling fairly alert and mighty cold. As I passed the big, brown mass of Cooper Union I began to think of the large glass of brandy I intended to order at Paresis Hall; I was thus caught thoroughly off guard when a workmen’s truck, bearing the legend GENOVESE & SONS—IRON WORKS—BKLYN., N.Y., came careening around the north end of Cooper Square Park behind a huffing gray horse that looked like he’d rather be anywhere than out on such a night. The truck ground to a halt, and four toughs in miner’s caps got out of the back, rushing into the park. They soon reappeared, dragging two expensively dressed men.
“Filthy fags!” one of the toughs shouted, catching the first man a nice blow across the face with what appeared to be a piece of pipe. Blood came instantly from the man’s nose and mouth, spattering across his clothes and onto the snow. “Get off the streets, if you want to bugger each other!”
Two of the other ambassadors from Brooklyn held the second man, who appeared older than the first, while a third put his face close. “Like to fuck boys, do you?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re really not my sort,” the man answered, with a composure that made me think this had happened to him before. “I like young men who bathe.” That one cost him three solid blows to the stomach, after which he doubled over and retched onto the frozen ground.
It was one of those moments for fast thinking: I could jump in and get my head cracked, or I could—
“Hey!” I shouted at the toughs, and they turned their cold-blooded stares on me. “You boys’d better watch it—there’s half a dozen cops on their way, saying no guineas from Brooklyn better start anything in the Fifteenth Precinct!”
“Oh, there are, eh?” said the tough who seemed to be the leader, as he moved back to the truck. “And which way’re they coming from?”
“Right down Broadway!” I said, jerking a thumb behind me.
“Come on, boys!” said the tough. “Let’s settle some mick hash!” That brought shouts and cheers from the other three as they piled into the truck and headed up Broadway, asking if I wanted to come along but not waiting for an answer.
I moved over to the two injured men, but could only say, “Do you need—” before they ran off in full flight, the older man clutching his ribs and moving with difficulty. I realized that when the toughs failed to find the cops, they’d probably return for me, and I therefore moved quickly across the Bowery under the tracks of the Third Avenue Elevated to Biff Ellison’s place.
Paresis Hall’s electric sign was still burning bright at close to three in the morning. The joint had taken its name from a patent medicine that advertised in dive toilets, promising protection and relief from the more serious social diseases. The windows of the Hall were shaded, and honest citizens of the neighborhood were grateful for that fact. Inside the busy doorway—around which stood a wide range of effeminate men and boys, all of them attempting to drum up business with entering and departing customers—was a long, brass-railed bar, along with a large number of round wooden tables and simple chairs of the sort that were easily broken in fights and easily replaced afterwards. A rough stage had been built at the far end of the long, high-ceilinged room, on which more boys and men in various