The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [338]
Knox was a scary-looking little package, wild-eyed and strong-armed, to be sure, but with skin so pale as to make him seem like a ghost. This was due partly to his heritage, but mostly to the fact that he almost never saw daylight: before becoming one of the founders of the Dusters, he’d been a member of the Gophers, another frightening, unpredictable group of violent Irishmen who ruled in Hell’s Kitchen and got their name from the fact that they spent their days in the cellars of that neighborhood, drinking, carousing, and doing whatever else passed for “living” in their book. Only at night did they come outside, to raid the train yards on the West Side, lock horns with other gangs, or engage in their other favorite outdoor sport: beating cops unconscious and stealing their uniforms to give to their girlfriends as trophies. It was partly because so many Dusters were former Gophers that the newer gang was feared by the Police Department: along with the practice of raiding the train yards on the West Side, the Dusters’d maintained the Gophers’ taste for going after men in uniform. I didn’t know whether that taste included the uniform of the U.S. Navy; but from the look on Knox’s face that night, I figured we could be pretty sure that it did.
“Mr. Roosy-velt,” Goo Goo called, as our party drew up close to the gang. “I heard you was in Washington, playin’ wit’ boats. What brings you to Duster territory?”
“When last I checked, Knox,” Mr. Roosevelt answered, “the West Side of New York City was still part of the United States. These are men of the United States Navy, and they are here to assist the detective sergeants”—he pointed a thick finger at the Isaacsons—“in the performance of their duty.”
“And what duty might that be?” Knox asked, though it was easy to see that he knew the answer.
“What it might be is none of your business,” Mr. Roosevelt answered. “You and your—followers had better step aside.”
“I don’t think you get it,” Knox answered, looking to his boys with a smile, then sniffling and running his tongue around his upper gums. This was a sure sign that he’d been blowing a lot of burny: the drug, taken that way, had the effect of making the upper part of people’s mouths go numb, so that they seemed to have to check and see that their parts were all there every few seconds. “Like I said,” he went on, “this is Duster territory—other gangs don’t come in here, city cops don’t come in here, don’t nobody come in here, if they don’t wanna take a beating.”
“Really?” Mr. Roosevelt said.
“Yeah,” Knox answered, with a confident nod. “Really.”
“Well,” Mr. Roosevelt declared, glaring at Knox, “I’m afraid there’s one exception to that rule which you may have overlooked.”
“Oh? And what might that be, you piece of—”
As he said these last words, Knox made a sudden sweeping move and tried to swing the axe handle on Mr. Roosevelt: a bad mistake. With a speed what was always surprising, given his size and thickness, Mr. Roosevelt snatched the stick of wood out of Knox’s hands, making all of the Dusters’ eyes go wide. Then, in another quick motion, Mr. Roosevelt gave Goo Goo a wicked smack across the side of the head with the weapon. “That might be the United States federal government!” Mr. Roosevelt bellowed, as Knox fell to his knees, moaning like the injured animal he was.
The other Dusters took a couple of steps forward, like they might charge; but they were still too confused to take definite action. I could tell, though, that said situation wasn’t going to last very long: I pulled on the Doctor’s sleeve, nodding my head in the direction of the river and trying to tell him I knew a full-scale battle was about to break out and that while it was raging we’d do