qualms about partaking in his new wife’s success, evidently having desired the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl, whether he knew it or not, not only for love, not to mention what a bleak mort like her represented in his ward, but also for the lucre she’d bring in.
But not surprisingly, with all the warnings and dire onus, the gay blades, the biggest contributors to her business, stayed away in droves, and the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl found her income shrinking.
Like his brother before him, Tommy Coleman was not good in taking disappointment, especially disappointment of the economic kind. Scarcely eight weeks into the marriage, when she came home with less than five shillings, Tommy became volatile. Day after day, her income had failed to measure up to his expectations. By now, at the end of two months, he was able to endure no more. She had been making sixteen, eighteen dollars a week, now she made only five. Since they were married she handed all her money over to her new husband, but Tommy did not like only five shillings, and they were squabbling, shades all over again of her murdered sister and his hanged brother.
“Can’t you make money on your own?” the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl shouted back at him following Tommy’s rage and rampage against her. “Give me a break? Why don’t you use your gang? Do you always need to depend on me?”
“You’re right,” Tommy admitted reluctantly. “I have the boyos and they’ll make plenty of conscript for me when I give the say-so.”
“So there you have it,” the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl said gaily to her husband, and kissed him.
“The only catch is, they’re not you. It speaks well of a bloke to be supported by his woman.”
“I’m going to give up peddling corn on the street for a while, Tommy,” she said. “I’m pregnant,” truly heartfelt, touching even him who was not so touchable. “I’m tired. Maybe I need to rest before the baby comes.”
“Okay,” Tommy relented as the notion of an heir intrigued him. “But just until the baby finishes suckling. We got a good thing going here. I’d hate to see you spoil it.”
Tommy had wanted a son, but he swore, his eyes misting, that the newborn Daughter of the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl was the most beautiful baby in the Five Points, and maybe on the face of the earth.
“The spitting image of her mother!” he boasted.
For a number of months Tommy did not mind that his wife was not on the street plying her trade, raking in the money. His Forty Little Thieves were doing well for themselves, lying in wait, jacking drunks, stealing purses, smacking heads, leaving their victims naked and unconscious on the sidewalk for the roundsmen to discover and— if luck was with the mark—wake.
But then one crisp day there came a problem.
Two skull-bashers, older boyos left over from the reign of his brother, Crags Mahoney and Greedy Armond, who had run in the days with the original Forty Thieves, were strolling by the waterside, near the seawall at Castle Garden, when they came upon a newly arrived German immigrant. The man had twelve cents in his pocket. They clubbed him and tossed him in the river, where he promptly drowned, while Crags and Armond repaired back to the Green Turtle’s to divvy up their plunder.
First they asked for a drink. The Turtle took a hose and squirted some swill down each of their gullets. Then Greedy Armond, living up to his name, announced that because he’d tossed the fat German into the river he deserved seven cents of the twelve.
“No!” Crags Mahoney retorted. It was he who had struck the blow that put the man out. If anyone deserved seven cents, it was him. Common sense said if the man weren’t jacked out, Crags argued, Greedy Armond never would have been able to lift him up to propel him over the seawall in the first place.
Such a statement infuriated Greedy Armond. With deep conviction he took hold of Crags’ nose in his teeth. Lest his nose be bit off, Crags pulled a knife and slid it between Greedy Armond’s ribs. Unfortunately for Crags, the knife between the ribs barely slowed Greedy Armond, although he did let go of Crags’ poor nose, but sorry to say, the alcohol-swollen fleshy bulb of it was still clenched in the vise of Armond’s brown teeth.
For the next half hour the two of them rolled around the barroom floor, looking for advantage. Eventually Greedy Armond got hold of the knife and thrust it in Crags’ throat.
Crags collapsed on the floor, weak from loss of blood. Seeing him helpless there, Greedy Armond promptly stomped him to death with his heavy hobnailed boots.
Tommy Coleman and all the Forty Little Thieves present that evening at the Green Turtle’s, of which there were many, stood in abject silence.
After that Greedy Armond made good his escape, leaving poor Crags lying dead on the floor with his head caved in.
The timing of these two rogues couldn’t have been worse. Only a few weeks before, the body of Mary Rogers had been discovered floating in the Hudson, and from Jersey came word that Fourth Ward gangsters might have been at work in the woods nearby.
For rowdies it was not a good time to call attention to oneself.
When it was learned that Five Points gangs were prime suspects, Sergeant McArdel of the Night Watch with five leatherheads came around the neighborhood to Rosanna Peers’ greengrocery and One-Lung Charlie Mudd’s Murderers’ Mansion, asking for alibis. Old Hays came poking around the Green Turtle’s again, for the second time questioning Tommy.
No one could ever connect any of the Forty Little Thieves strong enough to the killing of Mary Rogers to make indictment. Still, Tommy’s income took a dramatic plunge, seriously wounded by his gang’s persecution, the inevitable result of such social and political heat.
Tommy flatly told his wife it was time for her to hit the city byways again. Always thinking and considering, he had his own ideas for her to improve sales from what they had been at their best. Not only would she walk the streets of the Broadway by City Hall Park peddling her wares, but their little daughter, the beautiful blue-eyed two-year-old Daughter of the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl, dressed identically to her mother, carrying her own little cedar bucket, would also toddle the streets. Their sweet voices in tandem a sweet song of jingling coins:
Corn! Hot corn!
Git your lily white hot corn!
All ye that’s got money,
Poor we that’s got none,
Come buy our lily white hot corn
And let poor us’n git home!
What realistically might the expected income from such a setup be? The righteous man dare not hope, confabulated an ecstatic Tommy, but even a conservative soul might in these hard times speculate twenty a week minimum.
So here was the motive, later to be underscored by a staunch prosecuting attorney in the Essex Street police court, and eventually pondered by a jury of Tommy’s peers, because less than a month after they had returned to the city’s best thoroughfares to peddle their golden wares, the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl, like her doomed sister before her, and even more tragically, her beautiful darling, the little innocent Daughter of the Sister of the Pretty Hot Corn Girl, were found in the back of Cow Bay, lying
