“You ask the right people the right questions and you find yourself with the right answers,” Ballister said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“That usually works if the right kind of money is part of the deal,” Ida said. “And the hands reaching for it belong to the wrong kind of man.”
Ballister lifted the gun to waist level and aimed it inches from Ida’s face. She looked away from the barrel, shifting herself slightly on the bed, the hand under the pillow moving closer to the edge of the mattress.
“There’s nothing personal in this for me,” Ballister said. “I heard a lot of great stories about you when I was growing up and I used to come drink in your Café just so I could get a look at you.”
“Angus always said I attracted the wrong kind of man.” Ida lifted her head gently from the pillow. “Didn’t know until you walked in just how right he was.”
Behind her, the sun had risen and its early-morning rays were warming the sides of Ballister’s pale face. Ida shifted her feet and began to kick aside the bottom half of her quilt. “If it’s okay with you, I never wanted to die in bed,” Ida said. “Let me get to my feet and then you can do what you came here to do.”
“Ladies’ choice,” Ballister said, taking several steps backwards, watching as Ida eased herself up on the bed, her right hand still under the pillow.
Ida sat up and looked around her cabin. It was a warm home, barren of furniture but crammed with memories. It was the place where it all began for her and now, it appeared, where it would come to an end. In between, she lived in a world dominated by men who treated her as an equal, respected her as a friend and feared her as an enemy. To all of them, she was Ida the Goose, the toughest woman ever to walk the streets of New York’s West Side.
“You mind if I ask you one last question?” Ballister said.
“Make it a good one.”
“Why are you called Ida the Goose?” he asked.
“That’s something you’re going to have to die not knowing,” she told him.
Ida pulled her hand out from under the pillow and aimed a small-caliber derringer at Ballister. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she fired off two rounds. The first shot grazed his arm, causing him to flinch slightly. The second one whizzed by his head and put a small hole in her clothes closet.
Ballister stood his ground. There was no more talk, no more questions. He aimed his gun and shot six bullets into Ida the Goose, the last one landing in the center of her forehead, its force throwing her against the headboard, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Ballister holstered his gun, turned away from the dead woman and walked over to a telephone in a corner of the room. He pulled a folded paper from inside his pants pocket and dialed the number of the Café Maryland. He waited through three rings before a familiar voice picked up the receiver.
“You got two friends to bury now,” he said into the mouthpiece, then he hung up and walked out of the cabin, leaving the front door open to the sounds of a country morning.
• • •
ANGELO AND PUDGE drove up to the cabin minutes after Jerry Ballister’s phone call. Angelo had slammed down the phone in the Café Maryland and turned to Pudge, the empty look on his face telling him all he needed to know. “It’s Ida,” he said.
The drive, which both had always found so tranquil, now seemed torturous and endless. Angelo looked out his driver’s side window and remembered the woman who shaped the man he had become. She had taught them all she knew, fed her lessons daily, preparing them both for this very day. His mind flashed back to when he was seven years old, a few months removed from the street beating Pudge had given him. He was sitting on the far end of the bar at the Café Maryland, eating a hot cup of pea soup with bacon. It was early evening and the room was crowded, drinks were flowing and tempers were all on a short fuse. Two men at a center table tossed back their chairs and pulled out knives, squaring off among the diners and the drinkers. The fury between them was enough to guarantee a bout destined to end in death.
Ida came out from behind the bar. Her hair was hanging along the sides of her shoulders, a gun was jammed in the belt of her long skirt. She walked with confidence and style, head held high, arms swinging at her sides, the patrons parting to make way. Angelo stared at her from his seat at the bar. He could never imagine anyone more beautiful, her face glowing under the hot lights of the Café, her smile causing the hardest of men to give a sheepish nod as she passed. She was an underworld queen holding court in a den of sin. Young Angelo was thrilled as he watched her step between the two men with knives in their hands and murder in their eyes.
Ida looked down at their table. “I worked all morning to make that stew just right,” she said. “Be a shame for one of you to die without finishing what’s on your plate. Let me have your knives. I’ll keep them up by the bar. You still want to kill each other after two helpings of my stew, then come up and I’ll give them to you. At least this way, whoever dies does it on a full stomach.”
The two men looked at Ida, then down at their food, their anger quelled by the words of a woman. They handed Ida their knives, picked up their chairs and sat back down. Angelo watched as Ida turned away and walked back to the bar. As she stopped to pour a fresh beer, she caught Angelo staring at her. She looked at him with soft eyes, much like a mother would look at a young son, smiled and winked. At that moment, Angelo knew he would be safe and protected in the company of a woman who would let no harm come his way.
• • •
ANGELO AND PUDGE stared down at Ida’s body. The blood from her wounds had started to jell around the sheets and blankets. Black flies swarmed over her now cold skin.
“I’ll strip the bed,” Pudge said in a low voice. “Then we’ll put a clean nightgown on her. Nobody should have to see her like this.”
“Nobody will,” Angelo said. “The only people left she cared about are here.”
“She wanted to die in this cabin and be buried up here,” Pudge said.
Angelo looked at Pudge and nodded. “I’ll get her ready,” he said to him. “You find what we need to get a strong fire going.”
Pudge stared down at Ida and stroked the sides of her head and face. He bent over and kissed her gently on the lips, then turned and left the room. Angelo lifted the body, his jacket and shirt becoming stained with her blood, and placed her on the floor as he changed the sheets. He found a crisp, clean nightgown in a bottom bureau drawer and put it on her, stripping away the blood-caked one. He laid her head down on a clean pillow and covered her with a thin white sheet. He sat next to her and brushed her hair until Pudge came back in.
“I don’t think she would have wanted us to pray for her,” Angelo said. “And she hated any kind of good-byes.”
Pudge walked over to the foot of the bed and picked up Ida’s revolver. He went to the other side of the bed and laid the gun across her chest. “But I think she would have wanted this,” he said.
They sat in silence, each on one side of the woman who had brought them together. They then lifted the top fold of the white sheet and covered her face. As they stood and walked out of the room, they each lit a match and tossed it on top of the kerosene-drenched pile of wood Pudge had assembled in the center hall. They watched the fire start to build, then walked out of the cabin, Angelo gently closing the door, leaving Ida the Goose to her final fate.
They stood outside and waited until the fire was down to embers. By then, darkness had taken over the mountaintop and a warm wind moved the thick smoke into a dense row of trees behind where the main house once stood.
“Let’s get going,” Pudge said. “We still got another funeral to plan.”
• • •
MORE THAN FIVE hundred mourners were on hand to pay their respects to Angus McQueen. They waited quietly in a two-deep line along a dimly lit hallway outside the room where Angus was laid out in his coffin, wearing his finest dark blue suit and striped red tie. Angelo and Pudge sat on two folding chairs, five or six feet away and directly across f
rom the body, looking at the faces of the mourners as they filed past. Many were former Gophers who had started out with Angus at the turn of the century, back in the years when a gang war involved only fists, knives, clubs and street savvy. The toll of those weekly battles showed on their still-young bodies. Scars lined their faces and necks, their ears were gnarled, their knuckles swollen twice their normal size, and many walked with pronounced limps. They bowed their heads in unaccustomed prayer before Angus’s body, then turned and shook hands with Angelo and Pudge. Many of the visitors walked around the small room crammed full with mounted floral arrangements to greet the friendly faces of Angus’s West Side crew. All the members except for one were present, either in the room, roaming the nearby halls or sitting out front next to their parked cars.
“It’s not right for Spider to be missing Angus’s wake,” Pudge said. “Seeing as how he’s only going to be dead once.”
“I sent him downstairs over an hour ago,” Angelo said as he nodded a silent hello to a passing mourner. “Gave him the money to pay the undertaker.”
“It shouldn’t be taking him such a long time.”
Between the shadows of two passing mourners, Angelo caught a glimpse of Angus’s coffin. The old gangster looked serene and regal in his well-tailored suit. Angelo looked up at the faces peering down at Angus and wondered how many of them were indeed his friends and how many would have acted on a whispered order and pulled the trigger that killed him.
“You need more than doubt to kill a man,” Angelo said, turning to Pudge. “And that’s all we have right now.”
“Except for us, only two people knew where Ida lived.” Pudge’s voice was low and hard. “One’s in that coffin.”
“If Spider’s the one, we’ll know it soon enough.”
Pudge shook his head. “If you’re waiting to get a confession out of him, you can forget about it. I’ve known the guy most of my life. He won’t say boo on Halloween night unless there’s a dollar in somebody’s hand coming his way.”
Angelo turned away from Pudge to look back at the long line of mourners. “What we see, not what we hear, will tell us all we need to know.”
• • •
JERRY BALLISTER, AS expected, walked into Munson’s Funeral Home on Central Park West to show his respects on the second night of Angus McQueen’s wake. He stood in the center of the long line, his head bowed and his fedora in his hands. Jack Wells was in the backseat of a parked car across the street from the funeral home, smoking a thick Cuban cigar and waiting for his turn at the sympathy wheel. Ballister’s appearance was meant to alert the other gangsters in the home that the boss would soon be on his way in. If the majority stayed, either out of fear or respect, then that would deliver a clear signal to Wells that the balance of gang power had shifted in his direction. But if anyone left before he walked in, Wells was situated in a perfect spot to identify the offender. Either way, he saw it as a no-lose.
The rumblings among the crews had already begun. McQueen’s death had made some members of the Englishman’s two-hundred-man team apprehensive. Few, if any, believed that Angelo and Pudge had either the will or the ability to take on Wells, let alone defeat him and Ballister. The boldness of James Garrett’s church murder still held their attention, but was also seen by some to be a costly move that eliminated a bought-off cop. The killing of Ida the Goose, long retired and out of the business, frightened even more members of McQueen’s crew. It matched the Garrett shooting for boldness and showed the gangsters on both squads that the beer baron from the Bronx would not accept anything less than a complete victory.
“We broke the rules with our hit on Garrett,” Pudge once told me. “Wells came right back and broke the rules with his hit on Ida. That was one of the very few times a woman was marked for a killing, even to this day. A lot of people saw it as a no-class move, given as how Ida was pretty much out of it by the time she and Ballister went at it. But they were too afraid to say anything, since they were all banking on having a new gang boss. I mean, everybody at that funeral was looking for us to fold. They didn’t think we had the stomach or the smarts to battle Wells. The word was out that we wouldn’t live a week past Angus’s funeral. That was his mistake. He gave me and Angelo way too much time.”
• • •
JERRY BALLISTER BOWED down before the coffin of Angus McQueen, made the sign of the cross and mumbled a few prayers. Angelo looked around the room and caught sight of Spider MacKenzie standing off in one corner, half-hidden by a circular wreath, intently watching Ballister’s every gesture. After several moments, Ballister stood and laid a hand on McQueen’s chest.
“If you didn’t know he was the one that put him in the box,” Pudge muttered, “you’d swear he was really upset over his dying.”
Ballister turned away from the coffin with a wide smile on his face. He shook hands and exchanged small talk with several of the men in line, making his way slowly toward Angelo and Pudge. Angelo glanced above Ballister’s broad shoulders and saw Spider holding his place near the wreath, his hands folded behind his back. “Spider’s found himself a good spot to cover somebody’s back,” Angelo whispered.
“We just have to wonder whose,” Pudge said.
Angelo and Pudge stood as Ballister came toward them, his right hand extended, the smile still on his face. His jacket was open and flapping as he walked, exposing two guns buried inside his waistband. A circle of mourners broke from the line and followed close on his heels, covering him on both sides.
“I’m sorry about all this,” Ballister said as he shook Angelo’s hand, Pudge standing just off to his right. “None of it ever should have happened.”
Angelo held Ballister’s hand in his and stood inches from his face, their eyes locked. “Life is full of things that should never have happened,” Angelo said. “Angus and Ida both learned that long before you ever came around.”
Ballister lowered his voice. “She put up a good fight.” He grimaced slightly from Angelo’s hard handshake, the flesh wound on his arm from Ida’s bullet still raw. “Stayed tough till the end. I thought you both would want to know that.”
The men standing around Ballister tightened the circle, the air in the room now stale and still. Spider MacKenzie moved away from the flowers and walked to where he was directly behind Ballister, his back to the coffin. Outside, Jack Wells sat in his car and lit a fresh cigar, anxious to bring his evening to an end.
“There’s something you should know before you go,” Angelo said to Ballister. He reached out and rested a hand on the shorter man’s wounded wrist. Pudge held his position, his eyes fixed on Spider MacKenzie, watching a line of sweat form on his upper lip. He caught a quick glance from Spider and in that blink knew all he needed to know.
“And what would that be?” Ballister said, stopping in mid-step, turning back to face both Angelo and Pudge.
“We’re not coming to your funeral,” Angelo said.
Angelo squeezed his grip on Ballister’s wrist. Pudge leaned forward and clamped down on the other arm. With their free hand, they each pulled a gun and pressed it against Ballister’s stomach. Ballister struggled to get free, but couldn’t fight off the holds. The arrogance had melted away and his eyes were wide with fear. Around him, men who seconds earlier were quick to be his ally, held their place.
“You can’t do this!” Ballister shouted. “You can’t do this here!”
“Why not?” Angelo said. “We’re not in a church.”
Angelo and Pudge held Jerry Ballister and put ten slugs into his stomach at close range. The line of mourners scattered in all directions. Spider MacKenzie was the only one not to move. Angus’s boys held on to Ballister until he slid to the ground, the life lifted from his body. They let go of his arms and let him fall face forward to the carpeted floor.
Angelo holstered his gun and walked over to Spider. “Kneel down and say a prayer in front of your old boss,” Angelo said, nodding toward Angus’s coffin. “Then take Ballister outside to your new boss
and tell him the war’s not over yet.”
• • •
JERRY BALLISTER’S MURDER shook Jack Wells. With Angus dead and Spider coming over to his side, Wells had every reason to feel the war was his to be won. Ida’s killing was meant to toss a final jolt of fear in Angelo and Pudge’s direction. While he never questioned either their toughness or determination, Wells was convinced that they were too inexperienced to withstand the pressures of an all-out war. The best they could hope to achieve, he believed, was a negotiated peace that would allow them, working together with a random array of gang members still loyal to McQueen, to keep the proceeds from selected minor territories.
“A gangster gets used to having things go his way,” Pudge would often say. “That’s because for too many years, they usually do. You go in and make a move on somebody else’s territory, his business, maybe even his wife, and nobody does anything to stop it. So it becomes habit. You want, you take. But then comes the time when it’s not so easy to reach out and grab. When you go to take a bite and somebody bites back. When that starts to happen, you begin to question your judgment and you hesitate before you plan another move. And that weakens you. That’s what Jack Wells was feeling sitting in that car outside the funeral parlor, knowing he had just let his top triggerman walk into a death trap.”
• • •
ANGELO AND PUDGE sat at a back table in the Café Maryland, one drinking hot coffee, the other cold milk, both looking over the ledgers Angus had left behind.
“You gotta speak a foreign language to make these out,” Pudge said, slamming one thick binder shut in frustration.
“I do speak a foreign language,” Angelo said, holding his glass of milk close to his mouth. “And I have no idea what it means.”
“Maybe we don’t have to know how to read them,” Pudge said, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll just let the pencil man explain it to us. He’s been doing Angus’s books for more than twenty years, if he don’t understand what these ledgers say, nobody else will either.”