By the time we’d reached Eleventh Street, the shadows across from us had grown to about fifteen in number, and they were feeling bold enough to start throwing rocks and bottles over our way. Mr. Roosevelt and Lieutenant Kimball weren’t standing for any such behavior, and they made as much clear pretty quick: as soon as the first missile landed, Mr. Roosevelt barked out, “Kimball!”
The lieutenant responded by turning to one of his officers. “Lieutenant Commander Simmons! Take ten men, sir, and deal with those persons!”
Now, I didn’t want to pipe up and tell those navy boys their business; but it seemed to me that this might’ve been a wrong move, being as the Dusters were not likely to be expecting such a response, and the forcefulness of it could very well tip them off to the fact that they weren’t just watching a party of sailors on shore leave making their way uptown for a night of gambling and whoring. Still, there was no small satisfaction in watching one of the torpedo boat commanders and his detachment move at double time across the cobblestones of West Street, sidearm and nightsticks at the ready, and plow into the burny-crazed, confused Dusters with such determination that what followed couldn’t really have been classified as a fight. One or two of the gang members took nice shots across the head, and a couple more got good swift pokes in the gut; but the rest, alarmed by the sight of the lieutenant commander’s pistol, just ran. Unfortunately, I knew only too well that they were running back to Hudson Street, to fetch reinforcements and weapons and let Goo Goo Knox and Ding Dong know what was going on.
“Here we go,” I whispered to myself nervously, as we crossed West Street at Bethune and the detachment what’d sent the first group of Dusters running rejoined us. All of a sudden the block and a half to Libby Hatch’s house was looking very long to me, now that contact had been made, and when I saw Miss Howard and Lucius pull out their revolvers, I decided to move in behind them. Cyrus, meanwhile, slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and got his brass knuckles on: something ugly, we both knew, was most definitely coming.
We saw a few more shadowy figures bolt out of doorways and alleys on the north side of Bethune Street, and also out of the construction site of the new Bell Telephone Laboratories on our side. The sailors with us seemed to take all this scurrying as a sign that the Dusters had already gotten the message and weren’t going to be any trouble; unfortunately, we civilians knew better. Like most gangs, the Dusters didn’t favor any fight where they didn’t enjoy an advantage in both numbers and weapons, and it was pretty obvious that they were just regrouping, probably for some kind of a stand at Washington Street. This collecting of forces would, I was sure, only take place after a considerable amount of burny blowing, which meant that when we faced the gang they’d be wound up to the point where they figured they’d be a match for the entire U.S. Navy, let alone the few men what were now entering their territory.
For several long minutes, though, Bethune Street in front of us remained quiet and empty, a fact what struck me as odd; and my nervousness began to let up a bit, as I allowed myself the thought that maybe I was just being what you might call an alarmist.
But, of course, I wasn’t.
Just before we reached the intersection of Washington Street, they began to fan out in a thick line in front of us: more Dusters-maybe sixty or seventy in all-than I’d ever seen gathered in any one spot in my life. Ding Dong’d brought out most of the kid auxiliaries, and these young hell-raisers were all making the same kinds of moves what we’d seen them get up to when we’d first come to Libby Hatch’s place: slapping big slabs of wood into their palms, polishing up brass knuckles, and looking like it was all they could do to keep from rushing straight at us. To top it all off, every member of the gang’s eyes were lit up like the windows at McCreery’s department store on a Thursday night, showing that I hadn’t been wrong in supposing they’d gotten themselves good and wound up before they moved out to meet us.
Leading this very dangerous-looking mob were Goo Goo Knox and Ding Dong, who had, it seemed, patched up their squabble of earlier in the day-or, more likely, they’d just put off one good scrape in favor of a better one. As usual, Ding Dong was grinning like an idiot, in that way what, to my everlasting confusion, Kat’d found so charming. Knox, on the other hand, though the look on his face and the axe handle in his hand said that he was ready to go at it, was wearing an expression what also made it clear that he had a much better idea of who he was up against. This was understandable: for, as leader of the Hudson Dusters, he’d crossed paths with Mr. Roosevelt during our friend’s term as police commissioner many times, and he knew that if the burly swell with the spectacles showed up looking like he was ready for trouble, you could count on the fact that such wasn’t a bluff.
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 ta 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.