Read Online The Floor of Heaven by Howard Blum - Free Book Online
Authors: Howard Blum
Tags: United States, History, Biography & Autobiography, Canada, 19th century, Adventurers & Explorers, Post-Confederation (1867-)
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the assembly, “then I will simply bid you good day.”
Now all pretense of ceremony would be gone. His tripe and keister would be packed up with a well-practiced speed. Then Soapy would jump up into his buggy, give the bay the whip, and practically gallop away across the cobblestones. He’d pay no mind to the rude and angry shouts chasing after him. He was already comforted by his confidence that he’d soon enough find a fresh crowd of marks to fleece.
WITH HIS soap game, Soapy struck it rich. New arrivals flocked to Denver each day, and the prospect of virtually free money never failed to attract a gullible crowd. He worked nearly all the downtown street corners. It was in the course of putting together this con, recruiting the shills who’d pose as feverish bidders and the intimidating hulks who’d provide the muscle to, as the grifters say, “blow off the mark” if the losers starting showing too much temper, that Soapy built his gang.
Since his days with Clubfoot Hall, it had been one of Soapy’s ambitions to be the fixer, the ringleader of his own crew. Now, as crooks and bunco men from across the West drifted into the shiny city of Denver, it wouldn’t be long before they’d hear about Soapy Smith. He was a man, rumor had it, who always had a con or two in play. And so they’d track him down in a saloon or at a faro table with the hope of finding work. Soapy, taking to his kingpin role, would make a show of buying the applicant a glass of “the best Irish” and in the short course of the drink would take measure of the man. If he liked what he saw and heard, Soapy would explain that he demanded only one quality from his associates: total loyalty. They must be willing to lie, cheat, steal, or, if the occasion warranted it, kill on his command. If that didn’t strike the prospective gang member as too onerous an obligation, he’d welcome the fellow on board. There was no contract, or even a discussion about how large a share of the weekly take they could expect. A firm handshake would be sufficient to seal the vague but tightly binding deal. If you entered Soapy’s world, the expectation was that there’d be honor among thieves—and bloodshed if there wasn’t.
The recruits became known as the Soap Gang, and what a collection of cunning, broken, and just plain criminal sorts they were. Reverend—the title, naturally, was one more con—John Bowers was their “grip man.” By nature a bookish individual, the self-ordained good reverend had put in some long but ultimately valuable time memorizing the fraternal greetings and handshakes of a large variety of secret societies. Now he would patrol the hotels and train stations looking for the telltale lapel pin or ring that identified the bearer as a Mason, or an Odd Fellow, or a Knight of Pythias, or any of a half dozen other orders. Offering the prescribed salutation and the appropriate handshake, the pious-looking man of the cloth would greet his fellow brother. In the course of the ensuing conversation, he would volunteer that he would be only too eager, one brother to another, to show his new friend around Denver. Inevitably, their destination would be a con or a rigged card game that Soapy had in play.
Syd Dixon’s role was to give the mark the breakdown. He’d pose as a man of means and he’d encourage the mark to invest, as he already had, in an opportunity that was too good to miss. It was a part for which Dixon was well cast since, like all the best cover stories, it was grounded in a small bit of truth. There had been a time when handsome, bright, smiling Syd, the pampered son of a wealthy father, had lived a cushy life back east as a well-heeled lawyer. His reputation as a ladies’ man had been famous. But in the twisting course of the long downward spiral that eventually brought him to Denver, he’d squandered his inheritance, gotten disbarred, and had acquired a taste for opium. These days his remaining Jim Crow eastern suits were
Now all pretense of ceremony would be gone. His tripe and keister would be packed up with a well-practiced speed. Then Soapy would jump up into his buggy, give the bay the whip, and practically gallop away across the cobblestones. He’d pay no mind to the rude and angry shouts chasing after him. He was already comforted by his confidence that he’d soon enough find a fresh crowd of marks to fleece.
WITH HIS soap game, Soapy struck it rich. New arrivals flocked to Denver each day, and the prospect of virtually free money never failed to attract a gullible crowd. He worked nearly all the downtown street corners. It was in the course of putting together this con, recruiting the shills who’d pose as feverish bidders and the intimidating hulks who’d provide the muscle to, as the grifters say, “blow off the mark” if the losers starting showing too much temper, that Soapy built his gang.
Since his days with Clubfoot Hall, it had been one of Soapy’s ambitions to be the fixer, the ringleader of his own crew. Now, as crooks and bunco men from across the West drifted into the shiny city of Denver, it wouldn’t be long before they’d hear about Soapy Smith. He was a man, rumor had it, who always had a con or two in play. And so they’d track him down in a saloon or at a faro table with the hope of finding work. Soapy, taking to his kingpin role, would make a show of buying the applicant a glass of “the best Irish” and in the short course of the drink would take measure of the man. If he liked what he saw and heard, Soapy would explain that he demanded only one quality from his associates: total loyalty. They must be willing to lie, cheat, steal, or, if the occasion warranted it, kill on his command. If that didn’t strike the prospective gang member as too onerous an obligation, he’d welcome the fellow on board. There was no contract, or even a discussion about how large a share of the weekly take they could expect. A firm handshake would be sufficient to seal the vague but tightly binding deal. If you entered Soapy’s world, the expectation was that there’d be honor among thieves—and bloodshed if there wasn’t.
The recruits became known as the Soap Gang, and what a collection of cunning, broken, and just plain criminal sorts they were. Reverend—the title, naturally, was one more con—John Bowers was their “grip man.” By nature a bookish individual, the self-ordained good reverend had put in some long but ultimately valuable time memorizing the fraternal greetings and handshakes of a large variety of secret societies. Now he would patrol the hotels and train stations looking for the telltale lapel pin or ring that identified the bearer as a Mason, or an Odd Fellow, or a Knight of Pythias, or any of a half dozen other orders. Offering the prescribed salutation and the appropriate handshake, the pious-looking man of the cloth would greet his fellow brother. In the course of the ensuing conversation, he would volunteer that he would be only too eager, one brother to another, to show his new friend around Denver. Inevitably, their destination would be a con or a rigged card game that Soapy had in play.
Syd Dixon’s role was to give the mark the breakdown. He’d pose as a man of means and he’d encourage the mark to invest, as he already had, in an opportunity that was too good to miss. It was a part for which Dixon was well cast since, like all the best cover stories, it was grounded in a small bit of truth. There had been a time when handsome, bright, smiling Syd, the pampered son of a wealthy father, had lived a cushy life back east as a well-heeled lawyer. His reputation as a ladies’ man had been famous. But in the twisting course of the long downward spiral that eventually brought him to Denver, he’d squandered his inheritance, gotten disbarred, and had acquired a taste for opium. These days his remaining Jim Crow eastern suits were
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