And All the Saints
No crime figure of our time influenced the course of modern American culture the way Owen Madden did. Starting as the leader of the Gophers, the most violent Irish street gang in Hell's Kitchen, the Irish immigrant Madden rose to prominence as the leading brewer and bootlegger in Prohibition New York. In due course, he also became Mae West's lover, the founder and proprietor of the Cotton Club, the owner of five heavyweight champions of the world, the man who gave his childhood friend George Raft his big break in Hollywood and more. Now, Michael Walsh has created a fictionalized memoir that uses Madden's voice to trace his life from his boyhood in England to his heyday in New York and beyond.
And All the Saints was the winner of the 2004 American Book Award for fiction.
tear to my eye every time I hear it.” “You always were sentimental, Joe.” “Maybe so, but in this business there ain’t no room for sentiment, sentiment’s for suckers, and we got our work cut out for us now, I mean, we lose this and you’re back in stir for another twelve years, fer Chrissakes, and all because of a few lines in the statutes, go figure.” “That’s what I pay you for, so things like that won’t happen. Statutes or no statutes.” The food arrived at that moment, a nice cutlet with all
for public consumption unless himself wanted it that way, which he did, and which signaled the end of Monk Eastman, as he had foretold. Because didn’t Plunkitt already know the news before I told it. “Ladies and gents,” announced Plunkitt grandiloquently. I noticed the scribbler Bill Riordan scribbling furiously in his notebook as he took down the great man’s words verbatim, as he always did. “This fine upstanding Godfearin’ boy has just brung me news of the most joyful sort,” continued
lookit them flowers.” “Patsy?” “On the lam.” “Where’s the lam?” “We’ll find out. Gotta little bird.” “Who?” “Freda.” I felt a stirring in what was left of my innards. May gripped my hand tighter. “Loretta?” I inquired. “Who knows?” “Who cares?” “That bitch.” “Hey,” says May. “She’s Mrs. Madden to you until my brother says otherwise.” I think they all said they was sorry, which they damn well ought to have been, because after all Loretta was still my wife and they had no cause for
was a sucker for receiving the broken half of the bottle right in his face. It caught him across the bridge of the nose, which meant that both shards gouged into his eyes, blinding him on the spot. A more pathetic sight than a blind man, his eyes streaming with blood, Oedipus calling for his mommy, there isn’t, but in my heart there was no mercy at all, just the vision of Monk lying there, whether bloodied in the Bronx barn or on the pavement outside the Wigwam it didn’t matter, my Monk, my
humanity in there, but I was the only white man. “How’s Johnson? See much of him?” Hiram brightened a bit as we trotted down the stairs. “He runnin’ a supper club now, the Deluxe, up where the old Douglas Casino used to be.” “Lenox, right?” Hiram nodded. “At 142nd. Northeast corner. It ain’t open yet, but he prob’ly there. Don’t got much else to do these days.” I got an idea. “Feel like a walk?” Hiram did, and half an hour later we were climbing the stairs up to the Club Deluxe. It was on