The Final Adversary (5 page)

Unknown to him he had bumped into at least half a dozen men who knew Barney fairly well, but they weren’t about to talk to a well-dressed stranger asking loaded questions. Most of them thought he was a policeman; others, a lawyer. And the people who roamed the Lower East Side of New York had little use for either breed.

It was afternoon before Andy got to Tony Barone’s place. “I’m looking for a friend of Barney Winslow,” he said to the bartender. The men drinking on both sides of him gave him a quick look, then ignored him.

“Don’t guess I know him,” the bartender answered.

“He’s a fighter,” Andy insisted. “You must have heard of him.”

The bartender shook his head. “I don’t go to the fights.” He left the bar and headed straight for Barone’s office. “Boss, there’s a guy out here, says he’s looking for a friend of Barney Winslow.”

“You know him, Ed?”

“Never seen him, but the word is he’s been in every bar in town asking questions. Thought you’d better know.”

Barone nodded and followed him into the bar. He recognized
Andy immediately from the evening with Barney’s family. Feigning surprise he said, “Hey, it’s Mr. Winslow, ain’t it?”

Andy turned quickly. “I’m Andy Winslow.”

“You may not remember me, but we had supper together once. I’m Tony Barone.”

“Oh yes, I remember. Maybe you can help me. You heard about Barney’s arrest?”

“Sure, it’s too bad. He’s a good kid.”

“Well, I think he’s being railroaded! What I want to do is—”

“Let’s go where we can talk, okay?” Barone interjected, indicating a table in an angle of the room. “No sense letting everybody know your business. Now, about Barney, you don’t think he did it?”

“No, I don’t,” Andy nodded. “And I met one fellow who told me as much.”

“Who was that?” Barone asked quickly.

“He didn’t want to talk at first, but finally agreed—if I’d pay for it. I didn’t have the money then, but I will when I meet him tonight. He said Barney didn’t shoot Adams, and that he knew who did.”

“I don’t think I’d hand over cash for talk like that,” Barone shrugged. “He’s probably just after your dough.”

“That may be, but I’m checking it out anyway.” Andy went on, bent on pursuing every scrap of information. “Who’s Studs Ketchel? Someone told me he was mixed up with the shooting.”

Alarmed, Barone’s mind raced. This man might be dangerous.

“Why, Ketchel wouldn’t have anything to do with a smalltime job like Barney’s mixed up in,” he said. “He’s Dan Carmody’s right-hand man. And you know Carmody—the big boss of the whole city! Even the mayor walks softly around Big Dan!”

“I don’t give a continental about Dan Carmody!” Andy
exploded. “I’m going to find out what this man Ketchel had to do with Barney!”

“I guess you can do that,” Barone replied.
This guy has got to be stopped—but quick!
he thought. “I can give you a phone number, and you can talk to him yourself!”

Andy took the slip of paper and on his way out stopped at a table where Katie Sullivan was playing solitaire.

As soon as Andy left, Barone called, “Turk—come here!” A thick-shouldered man with a battered face responded immediately.

“Go find Studs,” he ordered. “Tell him a guy named Winslow is stirring up trouble. Tell him it’s Barney’s brother, and he’d better do something about the guy.”

“Bury him?” Turk asked bluntly.

“No, just cool him off until after the trial. Just tell Studs. He’ll know what to do.” Barone dismissed the man and continued to watch Andy and Katie at the table, his eyes cold and thoughtful.

Andy said quietly, “Miss Sullivan, do you remember me?”

Katie looked up. “Why, you’re Barney’s brother, aren’t you?”

“Yes. May I sit down?”

“I guess so.” She regarded him carefully, then said, “I’m sorry about Barney.”

Andy studied her. She looked different from what she had been at the dinner party. That night he had wondered how such innocence could exist in a saloon entertainer. Now Katie seemed hard, as if she were slipping down hill. It was not that she was less attractive, but the hard light in her eyes had replaced the softness he had seen before. She also had a glass of liquor in front of her. He remembered distinctly her refusal to drink that night, though she had given in after much persuasion.

But he said only, “I’m looking for help. Barney goes to trial tomorrow, and he’s going to be sent to prison if something doesn’t happen.”

Katie shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Winslow.”

“You know Barney. Who were his friends? Somebody was in it with him. Did you hear anything about the shooting—anything at all?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said.

The flush in her face and her answer had been too quick, Andy noticed.
She knows something,
he thought, and for the next few minutes, he tried to get her to talk.

His questions upset her, and she shot back, “I tell you I don’t know
anything!
And even if I did, this is a rough place, Mr. Winslow. People who talk too much have been found in the river with a bullet in their heads. Now, I’m sorry about Barney, but I just can’t help. I’ll have to go now.”

He had failed again. He looked at the number Barone had given him and left the saloon, unaware of Barone’s deadly eyes following him.

****

Simon Jolson searched the courtroom anxiously for the Winslows. It was ten minutes before the time assigned, and he had expected them to show up early. He needed them, for he felt they might have some influence on the jury.
Even a mother’s tears never hurt,
he thought.

“Your people are late, Barney,” he said testily, turning to face his client, pale and subdued. “Still time for you to tell me whatever it is you’re keeping back.”

“I’ve told you all,” Barney said stubbornly.

Jolson had expected as much. Then he looked up as the Winslows walked in. “There they are,” he said with relief. “I’ll go have a word with them.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“It’s Andy,” Mark said, bitterness edging his voice. “He was beaten up last night. He’s in the hospital. That’s where we’ve been.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Yes, but he won’t be too active for a few weeks,” Mark said. “You were right about it, Simon. That’s a rough part of town.”

“Did he come up with anything?”

“We don’t know,” Lola said. Her eyes were swollen and her hands unsteady. “He was unconscious all the time we were there. We hated to leave, but the doctor said he might sleep for twenty-four hours. We rushed over to be with Barney.”

“All rise!”

“There’s the judge!” Jolson left the Winslows and made his way back to his seat beside Barney.

Judge Presson, a tall, lean man with keen, piercing eyes, took his seat, and the trial began.

Simon Jolson was a master at cutting trials short, or stretching them out. But this time he had nothing to work with. There were few witnesses for the prosecution and none for the defense. By midafternoon, the prosecuting attorney said, “Your Honor, the prosecution rests.” And at ten the next morning, Jolson had to say, “The defense rests.”

Judge Presson instructed the jury, practically giving them an ultimatum to bring in a verdict of guilty; then the jury retired. The judge left, and Jolson walked back to the Winslows. “How’s the boy?” he asked.

“Better this morning, thank God!” Mark said. “But he’s all confused. He can’t remember much about what happened.”

“May have had nothing to do with the trial,” Jolson shrugged. He talked with them for a time, then was surprised when the bailiff announced, “Court is in session!”

“So quick?” Lola asked. “I thought it would take longer.”

“So did I!” Jolson said grimly. “I must get back.” It was proverbial that a quick verdict usually was bad news for the accused. He watched with apprehension as the jury filed in.

“Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Presson intoned.

“We have, Judge Presson.”

“Prisoner will rise and face the jury.”

Barney stood beside the lawyer as the judge asked, “What is the verdict?”

“We find the defendant, Barney Winslow, guilty as charged.”

“No!” a woman’s cry went up.

The judge continued. “The court thanks the jury. You are now dismissed.”

Judge Presson turned to face Barney. He gave a short speech about the rise of crime and his duty to hold it back by putting criminals where they could not harm society, then said, “I sentence you to twenty years at Sing Sing. Court is adjourned.”

“I’m sorry, Barney,” Jolson said solemnly.

Mark and Lola rushed forward, shocked beyond words. “God will be with you, Barney,” Lola said, unable to say more.

Barney’s head shot up, and he looked at her with such bitterness she cringed.

“I’ll
never
believe in God again—and I’ll
never
trust a human being again as long as I live!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Castle on The Hudson

Barney awoke to a cold icy rain pelting down on the city hall jail. It was the fifth day of March and Barney had been there five days—an eternity to him. He and five prisoners were rousted out of their cells at dawn and led to a room on the first floor of the jail. There the convicts were bound together with chains attached to each right ankle. As the manacle on Barney’s ankle snapped shut, the sound sent a sickening lurch to the pit of his stomach. He wanted to run and scream. But there was no place to run.

On their way from the city jail, the prisoner chained to Barney’s left, Larry Imboden, a slight man, short of stature, with thin features and a small mustache, filled him in about Sing Sing. “This is the second jolt for me. I already done three years in the Castle.”

“The Castle?” one of the prisoners asked. “What’s that?”

Imboden laughed. “Well, it ain’t like no castle you ever heard of in fairy tales. That’s what they call Sing Sing—the Castle on the Hudson. You ain’t never heard it called that?”

“Never even heard of Sing Sing,” another inmate said. It was dark in the closed carriage, and Barney couldn’t see the faces of the men.

“Well, you heard of it now,” Imboden snorted. “But you’ll wish you hadn’t.” The carriage rattled on, and after a silence he said, “It ain’t like no other jail, Sing Sing ain’t. The guy that built it was named Elam Lynds, and he was the first warden, too. He’s the one who made the no-talking rule.”

“No-talking rule?” Barney asked. “What’s that?”

“What’s it sound like?” Imboden snapped. “The rule that no cons can say a word. They can’t talk to each other, can’t write nothin’ to each other, can’t look at nobody or even wink! Can’t whistle, sing, dance, run or jump or nothin’!” He broke off, and after a moment’s silence, added, “Don’t know why he made all them rules. Nobody in the Castle’s in much of a mood for singin’ or dancin’ anyway.”

“I knew a guy who did time in Sing Sing,” a prisoner spoke up. “He never moved his lips when he talked. I thought that was just his way.”

“Naw, that’s the way you’ll get,” Imboden said. “I can spot a man who’s done time in the Castle anywhere in the world. Shifty eyes, a shuffle when he walks and no movin’ his lips—except me.” He sighed deeply. “If you got anything to say, you better say it now, ’cause you won’t be talkin’ much on the inside.” Suddenly the carriage jolted to a halt, and he said, “All out. Watch yourselves. These people will give you all the grief you need and then some!”

As Barney stumbled out of the closed carriage, a chain that was attached to his left leg and joined the ankles of five other prisoners caught, and he stumbled, falling against the man in front of him. The man cursed loudly and turned to face Barney, but a surly guard yelled, “No talkin’!” He rapped the prisoner on the head sharply with a nightstick and walked toward the steel gate set in the face of the grim, gray building before them, blocking out the sky.

Sing Sing was located on the edge of the Hudson River about thirty miles north of New York City. It consisted of cell blocks five tiers high with two hundred cells to each tier. The cells were back to back so that one hundred faced out on each tier, with a narrow walkway running alongside. An outer wall was built around this cell block. It was pierced by windows only ten inches wide and twenty-four inches high, mere slits to admit the slender rays of daylight.

The new convicts were taken to a room where their shackles
were removed and regulation prison dress—baggy suits with stark horizontal stripes—were issued. As soon as the prisoners were dressed, a stone-faced prison official appeared. “All right, listen to me!” The lower part of his skinny face was covered with a full beard, and a pair of steely sharp eyes, set close together, bored into them. “I’m Captain Nathaniel Dollar.” His high-pitched voice reverberated against the walls. “We don’t waste time on formalities here. Behave yourself and you’ll be all right. Get out of line, and I’ll break you down. I expect some of you will try me out. You just fly right at it.” He smiled grimly. “It’s been tried before. But I’m still here and most of the cons who thought they could beat me are in the lime pit just outside the wall.” He walked down the line, staring each man in the eye, then said, “Wallen, give them the rules; then lock them up for the day. They can go on work detail tomorrow.”

“Yes, Captain.” A short roly-poly guard stepped in front of them as the captain left and began to read the list of regulations, skipping over words that were too difficult for him. He closed the book and grinned. “What all that means is keep your trap shut, do your work, and don’t cause no trouble. You make waves, you’re gonna get drowned! Now, come on.”

He waddled ahead of them, leading the prisoners through a series of steel doors with a guard stationed at each entrance. As they were waiting for one guard to open a door, a small man behind Barney whispered, “Boy, it won’t be easy to break out of this place!”

“Hold it!” Wallen shouted. He walked back to the man and barked, “You’re Mackey?”

“Y-yes, sir. Tim Mackey.” The inmate was more boy than man, no more than seventeen, Barney guessed. About five feet five inches tall, thin as a rail, with watery blue eyes and buck teeth that clamped down on his trembling lip, the timid man shook before the guard.