"No," I said, tilting my glass back to finish up the last swallow of whiskey, "there's also the library."
"I was thinking more along the lines of Mr. Jake Stein."
A hot jet of whiskey went down the wrong pipe. "Harry," I coughed. "No."
"Why not?" he asked, patting me on the back. "If one cannot get satisfaction from the law, he must turn to the outlaw."
"Harry, this is Jake Stein you're talking about. You don't just pop in for tea with Jake Stein."
"Fine," said Harry brightly. "No tea, then. Just polite conversation." He continued rolling the coin across his knuckles.
Jake Stein is forgotten today, but in our boyhood he was a figure of awe in the neighborhood, a son of immigrants who rose to control much of the criminal activity of the Lower East Side. As children we spoke of him in hushed tones, as though the mere mention of his name would call down fearsome acts of vengeance upon ourselves and our families. "Careful what you say," the older boys would tell us. "Jake's men can hear you."
I studied my brother's open, smiling face. "So, Harry, you want to march into Jake Stein's office, wherever it might be, and ask him if he killed the Graffs?''
"Well, no," he answered, "that might be imprudent. I want to ask him if he knows of anyone else who might have killed the Graffs."
"You know, Harry, I've seen you do a lot of crazy things. I've seen you sink to the bottom of the East River with one hundred pounds worth of manacles hanging off you. I've seen you-"
"I just want to ask him a question. The man knows everything that goes on around him. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them."
"I believe you're thinking of Professor Moriarty. Tell me, why should Jake Stein even agree to see us?"
"Why not? I just want to know if he recognizes the work of a certain killer. He may have an appreciation of such things." He took the coin he had been rolling, held it at his fingertips and then-with a sharp, twitch of a motion-caused it to vanish. "You see that? A perfect back palm. When I see that, I think instantly of the work of T. Nelson Downs, the 'King of Koins.' I have an appreciation of such things. Perhaps it is the same with Mr. Stein."
"You think Stein is a connoisseur of murder?"
He seemed to consider it seriously. "Perhaps, yes. In any event, we must find out or our investigation is at a standstill." He stood up and reached for his coat.
We continued this strange conversation all the way to Mott Street, with Harry refusing to listen to any of my sensible arguments in favor of health and longevity.
"If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times," Harry said, as we stood outside Wilson's saloon, "you have-"
"-no imagination. I know, Harry, I know."
He turned and pushed through the clouded glass doors. I hesitated for a moment, gave a shrug, and followed him in.
At first glance, Wilson's appeared to be a rather nicer establishment than the one we had just left. The floor was clean and the brasswork gleaming, and a row of polished mirrors and gas jets on the far wall gave the room a bright, rosy glow. Only the clientele gave any indication of a less salubrious atmosphere. The scattering of sullen men at the bar, and clustered around the low round tables, gave an unmistakable air of menace.
Incongruously, Harry whistled a happy tune and marched to the bar, where the bartender was mopping the counter with a rag. "I say, good fellow," Harry said brightly, "would you happen to know where we might call upon Mr. Jake Stein?"
The barman stopped polishing the counter. Conversations died. Heads turned toward my brother. If there had been swinging saloon doors, we'd have heard them creak.
"I-I'm afraid I can't help you there, sir," said the barman.
"Not to worry!" said the magnanimous Harry. "But if you should happen to see him-or any of his acquaintances-I would be obliged if you would pass along a message. Tell him that the Great Houdini is looking for him. Good day!"
Harry headed for the door. I followed four steps behind, hoping no one had noticed that we came in together.
"I think that went very well," he said on the sidewalk outside. He pointed to another saloon. "Let's try in here!"
"Harry-" I grabbed his arm but he shrugged it off.
"Honestly, Dash. Sometimes I don't know who fusses over me more-you or Mama."
And so we repeated the scene in every saloon and flop house for three streets running. In each instance Harry would saunter up to the bar, slap his hand on the counter and announce his interest in Jake Stein-"the notorious criminal," as he took to describing him.
The reactions ranged from shock to bemusement to outright laughter, but Harry soldiered on with dogged persistence. "Tell him the Great Houdini is looking for him!" he called at each stop.
We were just exiting a gambling house on Humphrey Street when I noticed that we were no longer alone in our wanderings. There were two of them, stocky rough-hewn characters wearing gray cloth coats and peaked caps. They dogged us through five more stops, keeping a fair distance, but paying close attention. At last, as we worked our way over to Bowery Street, the taller of the pair stepped up and tapped Harry on the shoulder. "Understand you're looking for Mr. Stein?" His cap made it difficult to make out his features, except for his nose. It was clear he had put in some time in a boxing ring.
"Why, yes," said my brother. "Would you happen-?"
Our friend put a finger to his lips. "This way," he said, motioning down an alley.
"Uh, Harry-" I began.
"Come along, Dash!" Harry called over his shoulder, gaily. "Mustn't keep Mr. Stein waiting! Honestly-" he turned to deliver some comment on the intransigence of younger brothers, but the remark was cut short by the thud of a fist to the solar plexus. Harry went down hard, gasping violently for breath. Rough hands twisted my arms behind my back and shoved me against a brick wall. "Not-not fair," Harry gasped, raising himself up on one elbow. "I wasn't-I wasn't set."
Our two attackers glanced at each other, amused by the pluck of the little man with the tidy bow tie. "Did you hear that?" said the one who had floored Harry. "He wasn't set." He grinned and said it again. That turned out to be a mistake.
My brother and I had been fairly green when we arrived in New York some ten years earlier. We did not stay green for long. We learned to make our way with our fists, and there were few neighborhood hooligans and bullies who had not mixed it up with the Brothers Houdini now and again. We were tough boys who grew into tough young men. My brother could bend iron bars in his bare hands. Me, I was just plain scrappy.
"He wasn't set," said the one pinning my arms, still enjoying a nice chuckle over it.
"I wasn't either," I said, and I drove the heel of my shoe into his instep. His grip loosened and I bought some fighting room with an elbow to the windpipe. Harry, meanwhile, plowed his head into the stomach of the shorter man. A metal pipe clattered onto the paving stones.
"Now, my man," Harry said, "we shall see how you do in a fair contest!"
"Harry," I said, fending off a rabbit punch, "just shut up and fight."
"Very well," he said, somewhat exasperated. He cocked his arm and hurled his thunderbolt-a right hand straight to the other man's jaw hinge. It made a sound like a cracking walnut off the hard bone. The man's head snapped back but his feet never moved. He was out before he hit the ground.
This put a healthy scare into the taller one. I saw his hand move under his coat and I figured I didn't want to know what was under there. I sent a kick to the knee and hopped back while his legs melted under him. He dropped to a kneeling position as I grabbed the back of his head and brought it smashing down on my knee, which happened to be shooting upward at the time. His head made a funny sound, too, but his was a whole lot wetter. I let go and he flopped backward in a heap.