Past One At Rooney's
Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet
and Montagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of
arithmetic. If you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your
opposing house you have work cut out for your steel. On Broadway
you may drag your man along a dozen blocks by his nose, and he
will only bawl for the watch; but in the domain of the East Side
Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the niceties of deportment
to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of elbow room at the
bar when its patrons include foes of your house and kin.
So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus,
drifted into Dutch Mike's for a stein of beer, and came upon
a bunch of Montagus making merry with the suds, he began to
observe the strictest parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his
leaving the saloon with his thirst unslaked; caution steered him
to a place at the bar where the mirror supplied the cognizance of
the enemy's movements that his indifferent gaze seemed to disdain;
experience whispered to him that the finger of trouble would be
busy among the chattering steins at Dutch Mike's that night.
Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio, companion of
his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry Hill
Gang and two fo the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P's and Q's so
solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and
the other on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his
custom to seek safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival
associations congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the
Dry Docks. We must to Rooney's, where, on the most blighted dead
branch of the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first
overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were
immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like
swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane
deck. But McManus's simile must be the torpedo. He glided in
under the guns and slipped a scant three inches of knife blade
between the ribs of the Mulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick
Cleary, a devotee to strategy, had skimmed across the lunch counter
and thrown the switch of the electrics, leaving the combat to be
waged by the light of gunfire alone. Dutch Mike crawled from his
haven and ran into the street crying for the watch instead of for
a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian shindy.
The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by
three distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to
the ethics of the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There
was no Capulet to be seen.
"Raus mit der interrogatories," said Buck Malone to the officer.
"Sure I know who done it. I always manages to get a bird's eye
view of any guy that comes up an' makes a show case for a hardware
store out of me. No. I'm not telling you his name. I'll settle
with um meself. Wow--ouch! Easy, boys! Yes, I'll attend to his
case meself. I'm not making any complaint."
At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East
Side dock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug.
Brick Cleary drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes
later. "He'll maybe not croak," said Brick; "and he won't tell, of
course. But Dutch Mike did. He told the police he was tired of
having his place shot up. It's unhandy just now, because Tim
Corrigan's in Europe for a week's end with Kings. He'll be back
on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday. You'll have to duck out of
sight till then. Tim'll fix it up all right for us when he comes
back."
This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney's one
night and there looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance
for the first time in his precarious career.
Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and
Princes and hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was
unsafe for Cork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay,
perdu, in the high rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting
sheets and cursing the slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser
Wilhelm_.
It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable
to him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the
cool touch of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-
rail in the hollow of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges
of friendship and repartee along and across the shining bars. But
he must avoid the district where he was known. The cops were
looking for him everywhere, for news was scarce, and the newspapers
were harping again on the failure of the police to suppress the
gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back, the big white
finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then. But
Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would
be small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass
pleasures that represented life to him.
At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street
looking up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent
lights against a signboard over a second-story window. He had
heard of the place as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters
and its locality he was unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring
indications common to all such resorts, he ascended the stairs
and entered the large room over the caf'e.
Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-
filled with Rooney's guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end
a human pianola with drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic
and furious unprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would
roar or squeak a song--songs full of "Mr. Jonsons" and "babes"
and "coons"--historical word guaranties of the genuineness of
African melodies composed by red waistcoated young gentlemen,
natives of the cotton fields and rice swamps of West Twenty-
eighth Street.
For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he
receives, seats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is
twenty-nine. He has Wellington's nose, Dante's chin, the
cheek-bones of an Iroquois, the smile of Talleyrand, Corbett's
foot work, and the pose of an eleven-year-old East Side Central
Park Queen of the May. He is assisted by a lieutenant known as
Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who goes among the
tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now, what is
there about Rooney's to inspire all this pother? It is more
respectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens
and bundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a
stein and a chat. Even by gaslight the diversions are
melancholy i' the mouth--drink and rag-time, and an occasional
surprise when the waiter swabs the suds from under your sticky
glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The soul of Sir
Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed doublet
to a kindred home under Rooney's visible plaid waistcoat.
Rooney's is twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has
removed the embargo. Rooney has spread his cloak upon the
soggy crossing of public opinion, and any Elizabeth who
treads upon it is as much a queen as another. Attend to the
revelation of the secret. In Rooney's ladies may smoke!
McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer
that he ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his
brick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and
heaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his
innermost soul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his
taste. The sham gaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality,
the self-conscious, joyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the
loud music retrieving the hour from frequent whiles of awful and
corroding silence, the presence of well-clothed and frank-eyed
beneficiaries of Rooney's removal of the restrictions laid upon the
weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked lemon peel, flat beer,
and _peau d'Espagne_--all these were manna to Cork McManus, hungry
for his week in the desert of the Capulet's high rear room.
A girl, alone, entered Rooney's, glanced around with leisurely
swiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested
upon him for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres
all men whom she for the first time confronts. In that space of
time she will decide upon one of two things--either to scream for
the police, or that she may marry him later on.
Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn
red morocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of
frayed lace handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had
ordered a small beer from the immediate waiter she took from her
bag a box of cigarettes and lighted one with slightly exaggerated
ease of manner. Then she looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus
and smiled.
Instantly the doom of each was sealed.
The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for
a woman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon
among that humble portion of humanity that does not care for
Bradstreet or coats-of-arms or Shaw's plays. Love at first sight has
occurred a time or two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore
mania is to be found among unsophisticated cratures such as the
dove, the blue-tailed dingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk.
Poets, subscribers to all fiction magazines, and schatchens, take
notice.
With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each
of them the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive,
which is the worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as
love.
"Have another beer?" suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was
considered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction
and references.
"No, thanks," said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her
conventional words carefully. "I--merely dropped in for--a slight
refreshment." The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require
explanation. "My aunt is a Russian lady," she concluded, "and we
often have a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home."
"Cheese it!" said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. "Your
fingers are as yellow as mine."
"Say," said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,
"what do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?
What?"
She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and
bright. Uner her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side,
her crinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back. low and massy,
in a thick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still
lingered in her chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were
thinning slightly. She looked upon the world with defiance,
suspicion, and sullen wonder. Her smart, short tan coat was soiled
and expensive. Two inches below her black dress dropped the lowest
flounce of a heliotrope silk underskirt.
"Beg your pardon," said Cork, looking at her admiringly. "I didn't
mean anything. Sure, it's no harm to smoke, Maudy."
"Rooney's," said the girl, softened at once by his amends, "is the
only place I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain't a nice
habit, but aunty lets us at home. And my name ain't Maudy, if you
please; it's Ruby Delamere."
"That's a swell handle," said Cork approvingly. "Mine's McManus
--Cor--er--Eddie McManus."
"Oh, you can't help that," laughed Ruby. "Don't apologize."
Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney's wall. The girl's
ubiquitous eyes took in the movement.
"I know it's late," she said, reaching for her bag; "but you know
how you want a smoke when you want one. Ain't Rooney's all right?
I never saw anything wrong here. This is twice I've been in.
I work in a bookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have
been working overtime three nights a week. They won't let you
smoke there, of course. I just dropped in here on my way home for
a puff. Ain't it all right in here? If it ain't, I won't come
any more."
"It's a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere," said Cork.
"I'm not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don't want to
have your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School
teacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home."
"But I don't know you," said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. "I
don't accept the company of gentlemen I ain't acquainted with. My
aunt never would allow that."
"Why," said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, "I'm the latest thing in
suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin'
a lady. You bet you'll find me all right, Ruby. And I'll give you
a tip as to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns
of the Wall Street push. Morgan's cab horse casts a shoe every
time the old man sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I'm in
trainin' down the Street. The old man's goin' to put a seat on the
Stock Exchange in my stockin' my next birthday. But it all sounds
like a lemon to me. What I like is golf and yachtin' and--er--well,
say a corkin' fast ten-round bout between welter-weights with
walkin' gloves."
"I guess you can walk to the door with me," said the girl
hesitatingly, but with a certain pleased flutter. "Still I never
heard anything extra good about Wall Street brokers, or sport who
go to prize fights, either. Ain't you got any other
recommendations?"
"I think you're the swellest looker I've had my lamps on in little
old New York," said Cork impressively.
"That'll be about enough of that, now. Ain't you the kidder!"
She modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-
embellished look at her cavalier. "We'll drink our beer before
we go, ha?"
A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising
in spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and
suspended fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of
the ancient four. Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by
Rooney's liquids and Rooney's gallant hospitality to Lady
Nicotine.
One o'clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and
locking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front
windows carefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood
at the front door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand.
Thenceforth whoever might seek admittance must present a
countenance familiar to Rooney's hawk's eye--the countenance of a
true sport.
Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with
their elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed
to one side, scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a
thin white scum. Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of
Rooney's had become renovated and spiced; not by any addition to
the list of distractions, but because from that moment the sweets
became stolen ones. The flattest glass of beer acquired the tang
of illegality; the mildest claret punch struck a knockout blow at
law and order; the harmless and genial company became outlaws,
defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one in such
places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had, drink
may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
It is the law.
"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his
eloquent chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you
workin' in the bookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin'
in here--and--and all that spiel you gave me?"
"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you
think? Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and
ask 'em. I handed it to you on the level."
"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it;
because--"
"Because what?"
"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're
the girl I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me,
Ruby?"
"Would you like me to--Eddie?"
"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about--about yourself,
you know. When a fellow had a girl--a steady girl--she's got to be
all right, you know. She's got to be straight goods."
"You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't
blame me for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin'
cigarettes in places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she
said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it
any more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there.
And I'll give up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie--I'll cut 'em out
from this minute on."
Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.
"A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places . Why?
Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked
the stub of her cigarette to the floor.
"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you
of evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and
have a puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock--see?"
"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searchd his hard but
frank features eagerly with anxious eyes.
"On the dead level."
"When are you coming to see me--where I live?"
"Thursday--day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door
with me to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now.
And don't you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet
you will, though."
"On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-
dolls to me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the
dead level, I do."
Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were
delivered. The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a
trip-hammer or a policeman's foot could have been the author of
those sounds. Rooney jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the
room, turned off the electric lights and hurried swiftly below.
The room was left utterly dark except for the winking red glow of
cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of crashes came up from
the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring panic moved
among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring, could
be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table
to table.
"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise!
Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm.
We'll take care of you all."
Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers.
"Are you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get
a free ride?"
"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess
Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll
look out for you all right."
Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the
police looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with
Corrigan still on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a
police raid would mean an ended career for him. He wished he had
remained in the high rear room of the true Capulet reading the
pink extras.
Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the
police in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of
their voices came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news
station of himself at the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door,
hurried to the extreme rear of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no
noise, please!"
The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant
swung open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard,
revealing a ladder already placed for the escape.
"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less
talking, please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear--"before anything
happens, tell me again, Eddie, do you l--do you really like me?"
"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm,
"when it comes to you, I'm all in."
When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The
last of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the
yard they bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place
it against adjoining low building over the roof of which their only
route to safety.
"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will
stand the cops off, anyhow."
They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about.
One of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the
electric light. The other man was a cop of the old regime--a big cop,
a thick cop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to
the pair at the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
"Had any drinks?"
"Not later than one o'clock."
"Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he
countermanded.
He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly.
"Your name's McManus."
"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a
knife into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be
looked over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted
his fingers under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils
quivered. Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other
as they spoke or moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking--
Corrigan on the briny; and Ruby met and lost almost within an
hour! Somebody at the police station would recognize him,
without a doubt. Hard luck!
But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms
extended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened
and he stumbled back two or three paces.
"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your
hands off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you
good advice. Don't you touch him again! He's not the guy you are
lookin' for--I'll stand for that."
"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too,
if you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want?
What are you doing in here with him?"
"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns.
"Because I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know?
And what am I doin' here with him? That's easy."
She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted
draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw
on the table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly
straightened itself with little leisurely jerks.
"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin'
the usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had
your usual five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again
and I'll arrest you every time I see you."
"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses
saw me give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been
getting fixed for you."
Cork put the wad of money carefuly into his pocket, and said: "Come
on, Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll--"
The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the
money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into
her hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she
entered Rooney's that night--she looked upon the world with defiance,
suspicion and sullen wonder.
"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You
won't want to see me again, of course. Will you--shake hands--
Mr. McManus."
"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said
Cork. "Why did you do it?"
"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that
reason enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was
goin' to be the best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am;
I hated men; I was ready almost to die when I saw you. And you
seemed different from everybody else. And when I found you liked
me, too, why, I thought I'd make you believe I was good, and I was
goin' to be good. When you asked to come to my house and see me,
why, I'd have died rather than do anything wrong after that. But
what's the use of talking about it? I'll say good-by, if you will,
Mr. McManus."
Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was
the one the cop wanted."
"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make
any difference about that."
"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang
out with a tough gang on the East Side."
"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
difference."
Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get
a job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
"Good-by," said the girl.
"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
facing a little park.
"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going
in there?"
A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate
at one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the
steps. "Read that," said he.
She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan
and a scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you
do that--not now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't--you
mus'n't! Not after you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God!
Please, Eddie, come!"
Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm.
Cork's right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
Another cop--how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the
wing!--came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are
you doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
detective cunning.
"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
-THE END-
[William Sidney Porter] O Henry's short story: Past One At Rooney's
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