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Authors: Elizabeth Gaffney
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snowfall seemed lighter already and the air less raw, perhaps from the slight added warmth of so many men beginning to sweat.
“You there! Squat!” he called. “It’s a long night. And throw it in the cart.” But he found he couldn’t give the order without earning his authority. His uncle had shoveled, too, after all, if not a lot. And so he jumped from the cart into a soft, white drift and bent at the knees himself. His hands would be good for a couple of minutes before the new pink skin blistered and tore.
To squat,
he crouched and buried his blade in the snow.
Saves,
grunt, he gripped the handle of his shovel as lightly as he could.
The back,
his legs lengthened, and snow flew. A few drops of blood and fluid leaked from his blisters into the cotton lining of his gloves. He gritted his teeth but did not permit himself to grimace. The load landed cleanly on the boards. Then there were ten thuds as the crew’s ten shovelfuls hit home.
“That’s the way,” he said.
To squat saves the back,
thwack,
to squat saves the back.
6.
LA VITA NUOVA
P eople were looking at him, up to him even, and with respect, not derision. But beware what you wish for.
For it wasn’t just the men on his crew. Beatrice saw him and stared, and her interest was not benign. He had no idea of it, but she was there, in the shadows, everywhere he went that night, watching.
When she’d informed her boss, a man with ax blades embedded in his boot soles, about Geiermeier’s latest activities, he said to keep the tail up all night, to find out just what the guy was up to.
“Aw, Johnny. It’s freezing. Fiona and I have been on him all day already. Put someone else on him, why don’t you?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s your project. You’ve got an understanding for how he operates, and I don’t want to lose track of him, so you’re stuck with the job. Go on then. I want to know what he’s up to by tomorrow morning.”
She had to admit, she’d taken the initiative on Geiermeier. The other problem was she’d gotten Fiona into it, too. Fiona was not going to be happy to hear their tour of duty had been extended. Beatrice would have to convince her that there were opportunities here—to earn some extra cash and, above all, to gain the boss’s favor.
It was worth a good deal to have Johnny on your side. When he was happy, he could be generous; when he wasn’t, people suffered. He ruled the Whyo gang with a strong hand, a well-conceived master plan and a mixture of charisma and violence. Together, it worked. He’d been the uncontested boss for over five years in a city where gangsters more often had short, explosive careers.
Dandy Johnny
he was called, on account of his white teeth, red lips and how dapper he always looked, even after a fistfight or a drinking binge or a night in jail—and no one laughed at it. His dark hair was slicked back with gleaming oil, his ice-blue eyes flashed, his smile came easy. Then, too, he did love clothes—elegant clothes, the clothes of a gentleman. Johnny dressed better for housebreaking than some men did for the opera, and it wasn’t just for vanity: His grooming had helped him walk away from more than one crime scene unnoticed. No, the boss was no ponce, flashy ascots and lavish use of pomade notwithstanding. He’d killed at least a dozen men and never even come under suspicion. And thanks to him the gang he led was more powerful and safer to be in than any other gang. Whyos almost never got arrested—they looked out for one another on the streets—and Johnny had earned their loyalty by spreading the wealth around more fairly than any other boss in New York.
The Whyos were a very good gang to be in, if you were going to be in a gang. They’d gotten their name decades before, from a queer call the first boys who banded together had used to communicate with one another from down the block or across the street. Sometimes it was actually
why-oo
or
who-woop
or
hey-oh—
each variation of
“You there! Squat!” he called. “It’s a long night. And throw it in the cart.” But he found he couldn’t give the order without earning his authority. His uncle had shoveled, too, after all, if not a lot. And so he jumped from the cart into a soft, white drift and bent at the knees himself. His hands would be good for a couple of minutes before the new pink skin blistered and tore.
To squat,
he crouched and buried his blade in the snow.
Saves,
grunt, he gripped the handle of his shovel as lightly as he could.
The back,
his legs lengthened, and snow flew. A few drops of blood and fluid leaked from his blisters into the cotton lining of his gloves. He gritted his teeth but did not permit himself to grimace. The load landed cleanly on the boards. Then there were ten thuds as the crew’s ten shovelfuls hit home.
“That’s the way,” he said.
To squat saves the back,
thwack,
to squat saves the back.
6.
LA VITA NUOVA
P eople were looking at him, up to him even, and with respect, not derision. But beware what you wish for.
For it wasn’t just the men on his crew. Beatrice saw him and stared, and her interest was not benign. He had no idea of it, but she was there, in the shadows, everywhere he went that night, watching.
When she’d informed her boss, a man with ax blades embedded in his boot soles, about Geiermeier’s latest activities, he said to keep the tail up all night, to find out just what the guy was up to.
“Aw, Johnny. It’s freezing. Fiona and I have been on him all day already. Put someone else on him, why don’t you?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s your project. You’ve got an understanding for how he operates, and I don’t want to lose track of him, so you’re stuck with the job. Go on then. I want to know what he’s up to by tomorrow morning.”
She had to admit, she’d taken the initiative on Geiermeier. The other problem was she’d gotten Fiona into it, too. Fiona was not going to be happy to hear their tour of duty had been extended. Beatrice would have to convince her that there were opportunities here—to earn some extra cash and, above all, to gain the boss’s favor.
It was worth a good deal to have Johnny on your side. When he was happy, he could be generous; when he wasn’t, people suffered. He ruled the Whyo gang with a strong hand, a well-conceived master plan and a mixture of charisma and violence. Together, it worked. He’d been the uncontested boss for over five years in a city where gangsters more often had short, explosive careers.
Dandy Johnny
he was called, on account of his white teeth, red lips and how dapper he always looked, even after a fistfight or a drinking binge or a night in jail—and no one laughed at it. His dark hair was slicked back with gleaming oil, his ice-blue eyes flashed, his smile came easy. Then, too, he did love clothes—elegant clothes, the clothes of a gentleman. Johnny dressed better for housebreaking than some men did for the opera, and it wasn’t just for vanity: His grooming had helped him walk away from more than one crime scene unnoticed. No, the boss was no ponce, flashy ascots and lavish use of pomade notwithstanding. He’d killed at least a dozen men and never even come under suspicion. And thanks to him the gang he led was more powerful and safer to be in than any other gang. Whyos almost never got arrested—they looked out for one another on the streets—and Johnny had earned their loyalty by spreading the wealth around more fairly than any other boss in New York.
The Whyos were a very good gang to be in, if you were going to be in a gang. They’d gotten their name decades before, from a queer call the first boys who banded together had used to communicate with one another from down the block or across the street. Sometimes it was actually
why-oo
or
who-woop
or
hey-oh—
each variation of
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