Metropolis (19 page)

Johnny knew all about County Sligo and the sheepdogs. His mother was not unnostalgic and had told him many stories of her youth. But in the following days, she went into greater detail than ever before and gradually broached her idea to him.

“No, we’d look like pussies on the street if we do it that way,” he objected. The Whyos had always been famous as bullies; they loved their war cry.

“Who cares what you look like on the street, if you never get caught? The gang will know who you really are. You’ll know. But at the same time, the cops won’t. You won’t ever be thrown in jail. And you’re going to get rich. Besides, you’ve no need to worry about how you look—you always look fabulous, Johnny.”

“
Ma.
”

Soon, in addition to the whistles and calls that were common in Googy Corcoran’s day, some of the top Whyos and Why Nots were trying out a new style of whyoing, including the use of musical variation and various mimicked sounds of the city, from animal noises to slammed doors. It was obviously effective, and it was pure pleasure how easy it made jobs go. Everyone else wanted in on it, too, which had been the plan. But before Johnny and his mother taught a gang member the expanded language, they swore him or her to a new level of secrecy and allegiance. They dropped those they deemed untrustworthy or tone-deaf. Eventually, each Whyo and Why Not then had his or her own set of calls for conveying information to Johnny. A nuthatch mating song could be whistled repeatedly so as to represent figures—indicating, say, an amount or a street address or a time. A ditty hummed in F might indicate that a job had gone off, whereas F-sharp meant it hadn’t, and G would send the message that urgent assistance was required. The great complexities that could be embedded in variations in musical key quickly led to the sidelining of less musical Whyos and the ouster of anyone whose pitch was poor.

Further refinements were introduced some years in, after Mother Dolan saw a ventriloquist perform at the Old Bowery Theater one evening. She was amazed, and she wanted to know how to do it herself, so she dragged Johnny to several courses of lectures on the subject and a seminar on mesmerism, too. It could be downright confusing to be in a room with the two of them when they were practicing. They seemed to speak from the corners of the room, without moving their lips. It was all about diverting attention. Gradually, they introduced new and ever more subtle vocalizations and techniques to the gang. Soon, the Whyos were not just in constant, covert contact with one another all across the city, they were also influencing the behavior of their victims, encouraging compliance, distracting attention, monitoring and reporting on the whereabouts and activities of potential victims, potential rivals and of course the cops.

All across Lower Manhattan, the Whyos’ calls were as pervasive, as influential and as little noticed as oxygen, say, or germs. As Mother Dolan had predicted, Whyos were rarely caught in the act anymore. And yes, as Johnny feared, people on the streets said the gang was on the wane. The Whyos developed a reputation for being just a bunch of do-nothing ex-newsboys and whores too lazy even to work. Which was just how they wanted it. It wasn’t about fame or notoriety—it was about power, money and freedom. Also happiness and justice. For Mother Dolan’s rules did more than just make the Whyos a richer, more elusive and effective criminal organization; she and her son had created a quasi-socialist utopia for thieves, hookers and killers. They all lived comfortably, but none lived lavishly, not wanting to arouse suspicions about their income. If the rest of the world had to suffer as a result, their feeling was
Well then, so be it.

Part of their elusiveness came from the fact that they rarely met en masse anymore. But that didn’t mean the sense of community faltered. They still had Billy’s and the Morgue, where everyone hung out, but instead of gathering formally to talk about plans and jobs, the Dolans devised a system of remote check-ins, whereby a whispered code was passed from voice to voice, like the flashing lights or semaphore flags of a signal corps. Each Whyo and every Why Not had to report back to Johnny within three hours of hearing it, reiterating the code with variations particular to his or her own personal lingo and also reporting what he or she had earned that week. No Whyo or Why Not knew the rules for anyone else’s variations—some changed weekly, some monthly, some with the weather or the phase of the moon—so no one could cover for anyone else. And since the code and the variations alike originated from Dandy Johnny (or rather, his mother), the Dolans’ control was perfect. Only they knew everything. If anyone failed to check in, an alarm was raised, and Whyos would pour out of the woodwork, from bars, brothels, flops and even respectable homes, to comb the streets for the delinquent. If it turned out the absentee was in any trouble, it was dealt with. If the failure had resulted from drunkenness, negligence or some other oversight, a generous dose of trouble was dealt out to the offender. The check-in itself was a hassle, but not as bad as having to go to meetings that might end in busts. The gang tolerated it because it was undeniable that Johnny’s system was making the members richer and keeping them safer from the police and other gangsters than they’d ever been before.

The Whyos all quite naturally assumed that in order to have invented this scheme Johnny Dolan must be the cleverest and most eloquent Whyo of them all. That, plus his charm and ruthlessness, was why they followed him. They loved his mother, whom they thought of as a kind of mascot, because she took care of them and taught them to sing, but they did not understand the scale of her role in reinventing the gang. Even though she was the one who coached them vocally, the gang believed that Johnny himself came up with all the innovations in whyoing. That was how Meg Dolan wanted it. She also kept the books; twice a week, after the check-in, she tallied all the gang members’ accounts, which could then be settled at the Morgue’s bar over the course of the next few days. In keeping with their policy of stealth in plain sight, the Morgue was open to the public now, and the gang no longer openly did business there.

As for who became a Whyo or Why Not, Mother Dolan was the shadow boss on that front, too. She happened to be a far better judge of both character and voice than Johnny was. A Whyo had to be a very particular combination of baldly immoral, highly social, musically gifted and loyal to the core to gain her approval. She had often vetoed his candidates, but there was only one person she’d ever tapped to join the gang who hadn’t made the cut with Johnny: Luther Undertoe.

The Dolans had known Undertoe for years—he was in the Newsboys Choir, early on, when he and Johnny were still sopranos. He’d been a brilliant singer. But around the time Johnny first joined up with Googy, Undertoe had drifted another way. Mrs. Dolan had often wondered what became of him. Then, one night shortly before Johnny became the boss, Undertoe showed up again, cheating at cards down at Billy’s. He was doing it quite successfully, didn’t get caught or draw attention to himself and walked off with fifty dollars. Since Johnny had joined the game at some point, some of those dollars were his. Meg Dolan was curious enough to follow Undertoe out of the bar; she watched him rob two gentlemen of their wallets without raising so much as a shout, then step into a brothel, where she discovered he was living, providing security to the madam and her girls in lieu of rent. She remembered Luther’s voice; it had been pure and pretty. And he’d grown up nicely, too, she thought. In the following weeks, she observed him closely and saw that he killed easily, at only the slightest resistance, but also that he did it neatly, never falling under suspicion. He wasn’t as subtle as the Whyos—he was swiftly gaining the street name of
the Undertaker
in those days—but he routinely skirted justice by bribing the police. He also seemed to have a small but loyal cadre of newsboys under his control. She was thinking he could be a useful ally and told Johnny as much.

“Forget it, Ma. He’s not even Irish. Besides, it ain’t up to me to bring new guys in. I’m not the boss.”

“You brought in Piker.”

“Well, that one was obvious. Googy liked him. And he wasn’t a bloody dutchman.”

She shrugged, but she didn’t forget. Undertoe was a bit of a snake in the grass, a dirty fighter, gratuitously violent—in short, a good man to have on your side, a worrisome one to work against. She feared that if she couldn’t convert him to a henchman, he’d eventually become a dangerous rival. She decided to approach him herself one afternoon, to test his mettle.

All of Five Points seemed to be taking in the matinee at the Old Bowery Theater—a musicale of some sort about Indians and pioneers, with plenty of scalping and shooting and interracial love to keep the theatergoers happy. She spoke to him at intermission. He seemed surprised at her approach and scratched his neck nervously at first, but there was an eagerness in his eyes. She’d known there would be. She hadn’t forgotten the way Undertoe responded to mothering as a boy. His own mother had been a sideshow artist who died when he was young, and he obviously craved maternal affection. Meg Dolan knew all too well that such a yearning never goes away.

Shortly thereafter, she sent a note around to his brothel, inviting Luther for dinner on a night when she knew Johnny would be out breaking houses uptown. She served him her signature stewed mutton, cooked eighteen hours in a bed of glowing coals. Tender was not the word—it was succulent to the point of being pudding, a savory mush, and just as soothing to Undertoe’s palate as it was to her Johnny’s. It served her purpose: After that, Undertoe was more or less putty in her hands. Without telling Johnny, she took him under her wing. Subtly, she groomed him to be an excellent second string, spoiling him here, confusing him there, misleading him about certain facts, keeping him out of Johnny’s way but also going out of her own way to make sure nothing ever got too hard for him, never letting him yearn too much, whether for food, liquor or her attention. The final test was telling him she disapproved of his flagrant and bloody style of letting off steam—he was otherwise so subtle. He passed: reined himself in and actually went a fortnight without killing anyone. She encouraged him to get out of the brothel, and that was when he got himself the job as a night watchman for Barnum.

Meg Dolan told herself that when the time came, she would forge an alliance between Johnny and Undertoe based on their shared affection for her. It was one of her few missteps. She had a soft spot for Undertoe, didn’t see he had motives of his own or how her interest in another young man would froth her own son’s envy. As for Undertoe, he was not the simple creature she imagined. What he saw was that Mother Dolan thrived by taking in lost souls, the same way she’d done back at the Newsboys Lodging House. Clearly she had some need for young men to love her, and he felt it could be useful with regard to handling that annoying fop Johnny Dolan somewhere down the line. Not that he didn’t get a warmish feeling when she clasped him to her bosom, but that wasn’t why he went along for the ride.

Then Johnny took Googy down.

“That’s my Johnny-boy,” she said to him the next day. “I like it that you acted in defense of one of the boys. The others will never forget that.” Then she prodded him: “But what about Undertoe, Johnny? I know you don’t like him, but I don’t want him against you.”

Normally, Johnny never disagreed with his mother, but he said no to Undertoe. “Why are you so interested, Ma? What is it about him? He’s scum.”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Just indulge me, Johnny.”

Mrs. Dolan stewed another mutton shoulder and invited Luther over again. She didn’t warn her son in advance, suspecting he would fail to show up.

When Johnny opened the door, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Just that morning, he’d discovered it was Undertoe who’d fingered a Whyo trainee to the cops. Johnny didn’t like stool pigeons. What he did at the threshold was haul back and punch Undertoe. Then the two of them were down, wrestling in the doorway. Johnny had Undertoe’s head by the hair and was smashing it against the doorjamb and Undertoe was reaching in his waistcoat for his knife when Mrs. Dolan hurled her bucket of washing-up water at the men. They separated like dogs in the street, bits of scum and a sheen of grease adorning their hair and sodden clothes.

Undertoe’s ears were ringing loudly, as they did in times of stress, but he stood up and said, “Well, if it isn’t Dandy Johnny. Nice to see you. It smells good in here. Did you make your mutton again, Mother D.?”

“What?” said Johnny. “What, Ma? You invited him to dinner before?”

“Johnny,” she said. This wasn’t quite the scenario she had planned.

“Well that blows all.” He grabbed his walking stick and hat and stormed out. Mother Dolan encouraged Luther to stay.

“You two boys never did get along, did you?” she said, like a doddering old lady with no idea of the situation. Of course, Undertoe underestimated her, too. He boggled at her naïveté as he reassured her that he was fine and he took no offense. After dinner, she sat down at the piano and sang. Undertoe listened. She asked him to join her in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” He demurred. Then “Danny Boy.” He shook his head. She asked him if he had another song he liked, maybe a hymn from the old days.

“Leave off, Mother D. I don’t sing no more, not since I had the mumps and got this ringing in my ears, lost my pitch. You don’t want to hear it any more than I want to do it.”

“Oh,” she said. “Luther, I had no idea.” She gave him his pudding and then hustled him out the door. That was it for Undertoe becoming a Whyo. Johnny despised him, and now it turned out he didn’t have the skills. She would have to deal with the rivalry some other way. One of those ways turned out to be lowering the Whyos’ profile, and Luther, like the rest of the metropolis, had had few reminders of Johnny or the Whyos since then.

By the time Frank Harris was shanghaied by Beatrice and Fiona, the Whyos’ subtle dominion stretched wider across the island of Manhattan than any other gang’s. They chose not to cross rivers or range too far uptown because centralized command and vocal communication were the linchpins of their operation. Every Whyo and Why Not was fluent in their language, and the membership was stable.