husband.
“Do you dare to countermand me, sir? This is a private matter. I insist you-”
“And I insist you behave in a civil manner toward your wife and Miss Beale-”
“
“William, please. Desist. I’ll come home presently-”
Naturally, Martha objected. “Becky, what did you just tell us? Besides, remember the pain he has inflicted in the past under similar circumstances. I won’t allow you to be battered again.” She put a protective arm around her friend’s shoulder, which further enraged Taitt.
“You three can go to the devil! I’m William Taitt. My family built this city. I won’t be denied my conjugal rights.”
“Your rights don’t include assault, sir.” This from Martha, which drew a sneering condemnation from Taitt: “How would you, a spinster, know anything about marital rights, madam? Or fornication, unless it’s with a-?”
“Taitt. Silence-”
“Lay a hand on me, Kelman, and I’ll make certain you’re hounded from the city. I am aware that you are in the mayor’s employ, but his relationship with me is one of friendship and camaraderie.”
You may wonder where was I while this altercation unfolded. The truth is that I stood stock-still and slack- jawed. My characters speaking for themselves? Carried along by their own volition? Like the father and son, I watched the scene in silence.
“I’m waiting, wife. You have a child at home, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t, William. How could I?”
“Ah, contrition, Becky… A new guise. But I think not spoken with sufficient sorrow.”
“My sorrow is in seeing you under the influence of drink. You make a spectacle of yourself in front of our friends-”
“You call these people friends? Well, I do not. And I won’t have my spouse hectoring me.” He held her arm tightly as he spoke.
Martha snatched at his sleeve when he attempted to lead Becky away; Kelman grabbed Taitt’s shoulder. Kelman’s fingers may be as long and tapered as a pianist’s, but he’s accustomed to using force when necessary. He’s also tall; when roused he appears taller and even more imposing. Becky’s husband looked puny beside him, as if his fine garments were sturdier than his limbs.
“Let her go, Taitt. Your threats have run their course. She told you she’d return in due time.”
“I ordered you not to touch me, Kelman.” At that, William Taitt yanked a pistol from his jacket, a new derringer manufactured in the Northern Liberties. If you’re a history buff, you’re familiar with the weapon and its eponymous inventor. If not, this is no time for an aside on the Gold Rush of ’49, or the romance of the Old West.
When the gun was whipped out, everyone except Taitt froze. This included the dad and kid. I was already doing my zombie impression.
“Not quite the cock-of-the-walk, are you now,
With that he discharged it, the retort so loud that even the pigeons accustomed to backfiring motorcycles and belching city buses flapped upward in alarm. Above the bank, the starless air filled with the frantic flutterings of their wings. I watched them circling, as black and swift as bats; then I heard a groan and the thud of a body falling while Becky implored: “William, don’t.” Her voice was now whisper-soft, an echo of what it had been. “I’ll do as you say.”
My focus returned to earth, but she and my embattled creations had vanished. In their place was nothing, no muzzy wavering of ectoplasmic matter, no faint entreaties from on high. Night had descended, but it wasn’t darkness that hid my friends from view. They were simply gone, as if they’d never stood on the soil in front of me.
“Don’t leave,” I whispered, but my plea was too late. However those four had managed to materialize, they’d chosen the same means of escape.
“Coo-ool,” the boy said. “Dad, that was waaay cool.” He stood beside his father, who was now lying on the pebblestones, facedown, his head inches from the entrance steps to the Second Bank. The child’s expression as he gazed at his father’s prone form couldn’t have been prouder. Reflecting the glow of an exterior floodlight, the boy’s eyes shone white and enormous.
“Blood and everything. Wow. Just like on TV. It’s on the dirt too. How’d you guys do that? Like, how’d you know he was gonna shoot you, and not the other dude? Wait’ll I tell the kids on the block. Wow. Mom’s gonna be pissed about your shirt, but hey, it’s like reality TV. Or something, right? I’ll tell her the badass dude with the gun did it. All right? That’s what we’ll tell her, okay? I mean, she won’t care if it’s like a famous person who made a mess. Dad? You can get up now. The other actors left. It’s just the crazy lady and me. Dad? Hey, Dad.”
THE RATCATCHER BY GERALD KOLPAN
Finlayson blinked in the sun. He would normally be asleep at close to ten in the morning, but old Mitford had told him to make the sacrifice. Whoever it was that wanted him was willing to pay, and as Finlayson needed to pay Mitford, he was keeping the appointment in both their interests.
Standing outside the Hippodrome, Finlayson realized he had never been inside it, or any other theater. But then, entertainment cost money and there wasn’t much of that in his line of work. He figured that any week he could keep his belly from talking and get drunk enough to stand his life, he was on velvet. Play-actors and Chautauqua speakers were for Rittenhouse Square ladies and fairy boys, anyway. Besides, he did his business at night when they did theirs, and his quarry wasn’t about to wait around while he sat through the last act of
Until today, Finlayson’s routine had seldom varied: he woke at three in the afternoon, made up his pallet on the floor of Mitford’s stable, and ate a buttered roll purchased from Kelem’s delicatessen the night before. Then he grabbed his canvas duck bag and headed for the Franklin Refinery docks. This was, in his opinion, the place to find the city’s best rats, fed on the sugar that came in from Cuba until their small eyes fairly crusted over.
Last night had been good. His traps contained four large brown captives, all alive and fit to kill. The average Norway weighed about a pound, but you could always count on a Franklin rat to go four to eight ounces more than that. They were lively fellows too: full of sugar for energy and fresh vegetables for strength and stamina. He always said that a Franklin rat was the king of the Delaware, able to jump right from the river to a ship’s deck or swim across to Camden using only its tail as an engine. Putting one end of each trap into the bag, he tripped a spring to open its gate and dumped the screaming occupants inside. The sack vibrating like a saloon on election night, he walked down Delaware Avenue to Pemberton Street and turned left into Pier 34. Once inside, he made his way to the office of Jimmy O’Mara.
Jimmy ran what was probably the last rat-baiting operation in Pennsylvania, maybe the last in America. On Wednesday nights, he would welcome between fifty and sixty diehards to his pit in an unused storeroom. The first hour was devoted to beer and whiskey, so by the time the trainers arrived, they were greeted with whistles and applause. As the men cursed and cheered, each trainer would place his dog on a cargo scale to be weighed. Jimmy would then step to the edge of the pit and deposit a corresponding number of rats onto its dirt floor. If the
