The bandit was coming at Lonergan now, cracking the whip across the seats. Lonergan didn’t have a strategy. He merely reacted. Whip be damned-he lunged for the bastard.
The two of them stumbled backwards into the center door. Made impact. Glass spiderwebbed behind Lonergan’s body. Lonergan could smell beer on the man’s fevered breath. He was skinny but strong. The El start to slow down again. Orthodox-Margaret station, coming up.
Lonergan gathered a fistful of the bandit’s duster, put his foot against the wood, and pushed forward. They spun until they collided with the center door opposite. The glass, again, cracked-and the bandit went partially through it. Shards rained down on the track. Lonergan drove a fist into the bandit’s face. Then again. And again. And again. The train stopped, jolting both of them to the left. The center door opened.
The bandit pulled himself free, crashed to the ground, and then scrambled backwards on the platform, leaving the whip in Lonergan’s hand. Lonergan took two steps back then fell to the floor of the car. His face was no longer numb. The pain was starting to appear in deep, angry throbs. He felt nauseous and dizzy.
By this time the conductor had gotten the hint something was wrong. Maybe he saw the bandit scrambling for the concrete steps leading to the street. The El idled at the station, doors open. Night air blast-freezing the interior of the car.
Lonergan glanced up at the green-eyed girl, who’d been left behind. He felt hot blood run over his jaw and down his neck.
“Seems Clayton’s left you,” he said.
The girl appeared afraid now.
“So you’re the lookout, I suppose. Did you follow someone from one of the gambling houses? Did one of them hit it big tonight?”
She wasn’t looking at Lonergan. She was looking at the whip in his big hands. If Lonergan peeled off her shirt and saw her bare naked, what would he see?
“What are you going to do?” she asked softly.
It was a good question. What should he do? He wasn’t wearing the bluecoat. He didn’t have his gun. He wasn’t in his district. He still had his two bucks in his front pocket. He didn’t have to do a thing.
After a while the operator, a florid-faced man, came rushing into the car, asking what had happened. The green-eyed girl made a small cry as she rushed out of the car and ran across the platform. Lonergan said nothing. He listened to the rapid clicking of her shoes on concrete as they faded away.
But he wanted to tell her,
He wanted to tell her:
REALITY BY CORDELIA FRANCES BIDDLE
I should explain that I write historical dramas, so as I wander the streets of Philadelphia I ponder how they looked before the curse of the internal combustion machine, and what vile secrets lurked behind the brick facades that now appear so
I take my dog on these exploratory jaunts. I figure she adds an air of respectability to what otherwise might be mistaken for a stalker’s prowl-my beady glance measuring eyebrow windows hidden under the eaves, or mismatched brick work where once were doors.
Our route is simple: 6th Street (6th and Lombard was a red-light district a century and a half ago, the “fancy houses” now converted to upscale residences-or so local realtors insist), through Washington Square (frisbees zooming over the unmarked graves of Revolutionary War soldiers-Americans planted feet-first, Brits buried head- down in retribution), past the rear entrance of Independence Hall (oft-promulgated tales of Colonial derring-do). After that I cross 5th Street toward the Second Bank of the United States where I customarily pause to parlay with Nicholas Biddle, ancestor and financial wizard, before continuing my journey into the alleys and courtyards the tourists avoid. Nick died in 1844, so it’s a one-sided conversation, but I envision him standing there lordly and a trifle vain (Byron would have admired the long, wavy locks) amidst the marble columns that mark his particular temple to Mammon.
Now isn’t the moment for a diatribe against that snake-in-the-grass Andrew Jackson and the fiscal ruin he visited upon the nation, but let’s just say I bear the ex-pres a colossal grudge. The root of my wrath is lucre, not the noblest of motives for revenge, but there you have it. At any rate, as I stop, I ask old Nick (or old Nick’s spectral self) to find a miraculous means to shower me with money-which would permanently cure my writer’s block. I figure an ex-banker should have ready access to the celestial till. I do this while the dog noses around looking for the perfect place to pee. At least
I’ve digressed.
It was during a late afternoon at the end of September, a day that had been unremittingly dreary and depressing, and while I was nearing the Second Bank I heard them-the reenactors, that is. If you’ve ever strolled the city’s landmarks, you’ve encountered these ubiquitous street performers. They dress exclusively in period garb and bombard passersby with tales of eighteenth-century moxie. Don’t misunderstand; I have nothing against idealism, or spunk either, but I become suspicious when the Founding Fathers are portrayed as action heroes. It makes me want to canvass the Founding Mothers for their opinions.
These particular actors weren’t the predictable for-God-and-country types, however. For one thing, despite the advanced hour and waning light, they’d attracted a large, enthusiastic crowd, big enough and noisy enough that I couldn’t get near the players who stood on the pebblestone road fronting the bank. For another, the script was more trenchant than the usual family-style (read: Disney-fied) entertainment. The change of pace was a welcome variation to the traditional bell-ringing and saber-rattling. I decided to listen in. Besides, old Nick needs the cold shoulder treatment once in a while. Most captains of finance and industry do.
“He keeps slaves on his Southern plantation-which doubtless you’re aware. The crimes perpetrated upon them are demonic: floggings until their flesh comes away in bloody strips, children snatched from their mothers and sold-”
“You tell ’em, sister!” a female audience member yodeled at the actress delivering the lines. Other voices sprang into action, attempting to shush the interruption.
“I’ve a right to my opinion,” the provocateur shot back. Naturally, this was met with more orders to cease and desist.
“Let the gal finish, why don’tcha? The wife and I didn’t come to Philly to listen to you.”
“This is a free country, bro. In case you haven’t heard.”
“Just shut up, okay?”
“You gonna make me? You and
“What’s that crack supposed ta mean?”
“Whaddaya think?”
“Hey, c’mon, you two. Take it elsewhere.”
As additional members of the crowd joined the enlightening argument and then settled into a tenuous peace, they-and I-pressed closer to the improvised arena. I couldn’t see the performers yet, but the initial actress’s vocal quality and range was impressive, a professionally trained instrument that could hit the back of any theater. I wondered what she was doing hustling tourists for tips.
“This isn’t merely abolitionist fervor. My entire life is affected by his shameful philosophy.” She paused to let the dramatic tension build. As I mentioned, she knew her stuff. “For I must also consider the mulatto bastards his seed has produced-”
A gasp from two protective parents arose. The crowd opened to let them and their children scurry through, the boy and girl lagging behind, eyes glued to the ground lest anyone assume the totally dorky choice to vamoose
