Asylum and roamed the desert for four days, surviving on one bottle of water and a few crackers, before being recaptured by Indian trackers. After a quarter century of confinement, she died in 1902.
CHICAGO
1876
THE BODY SWAP
A rainy October night at the Hub on Chicago’s West Madison Street. Mullen, the jewel-eyed little barman, smoothes his thick mustache and tops up Morrissey’s glass. He leans one elbow on the sodden plank bar, considers the young man, then jerks his head toward the back. Morrissey has been fraternizing at the Hub for some weeks, telling stories of his time in Wisconsin State, but this is the first time Mullen’s invited him into his office.
It’s as plain as the front but smells better. There’s a sad-eyed character there already, sandy beard half-covering impassive features. “Hughes,” says Mullen, with only a trace of a brogue, “this is Morrissey that I was telling you of.”
The older man sticks out his hand.
Morrissey shakes it, and accepts a broken-backed chair. “So what’s on?”
Hughes looks sideways at the Hub’s proprietor. “He knows nothing?”
“I could hardly go into it at the bar.” Mullen sits down and pours three shots.
“I’m hoping you gentleman have a mind to bring me in on some business,” Morrissey volunteers.
“What kind of business?” asks the older man.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Hughes. The coney trade, the bogus; shoving the queer.”
“Knowing the lingo doesn’t mean knowing the business,” observes Hughes.
“I never claimed to. The proverbial blank slate, that’s me. You need a shover, is that it? I could pass bad bills with a straight face.”
Hughes releases a sigh like air from a tire. “The business is all done in.”
Morrissey looks taken aback. “You say?”
“Time was, there was more queer than good floating round Illinois,” Hughes laments. “With all those newfangled notes and greenbacks the Government printed during the War between the States, who could tell bogus at a glance? But since they formed this Secret Service to crack down on us, trade’s turned tight as blazes.”
“It used to be you could bribe them to turn a blind eye,” Mullen contributes, “but these days …”
“And now they’ve banged up our Michelangelo.”
The young man blinks at Hughes. “Your—”
“Ever hear of Ben Boyd?”
“Can’t say as how I have,” admits Morrissey.
Another sigh. “In any other field of art or industry, the man’s name would be on every child’s tongue. But Boyd works on the quiet, like some angel.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Ben Boyd is only the greatest living engraver of queer. Living or dead,” Hughes insists.
“We’ve never met him in the flesh,” Mullen adds.
“But by his works we know him.”
“You’d swear you’re looking at a genuine silk-thread Federal banknote,” Mullen tells Morrissey. “Big Jim wholesales them all over the Mid West. You know Big Jim?”
“Well, sure; I know of him.” Big Jim Kinealy is the Hub’s silent partner, the mover behind all business conducted in this room.
Hughes takes up the story. “But nothing’s moving these days. Since January, Ben Boyd’s been in Joliet State, doing his first year of ten.”
The young man winces. “So your best supply’s been cut off.”
“The only coney worth a bean,” Hughes corrects him. “What’s out there wouldn’t fool a nun.”
Silence; they all drink their rum.
“I’m truly sorry for your troubles, gentlemen,” says Morrissey, “but where do I come in?”
“Not just for our own sakes but for the sake of the whole profession,” says Hughes, “Boyd must be sprung.”
Morrissey lets out a small laugh. “Horse stealing or a touch of safe-cracking, and I’m your man, but—”
Mullen waves one finger to shut him up. “Big Jim has a plan. We’re going to spring Boyd, make our fortunes, and go down in history, all at the self-same time.”
“Is that a fact,” murmurs
CHICAGO
1876
THE BODY SWAP
A rainy October night at the Hub on Chicago’s West Madison Street. Mullen, the jewel-eyed little barman, smoothes his thick mustache and tops up Morrissey’s glass. He leans one elbow on the sodden plank bar, considers the young man, then jerks his head toward the back. Morrissey has been fraternizing at the Hub for some weeks, telling stories of his time in Wisconsin State, but this is the first time Mullen’s invited him into his office.
It’s as plain as the front but smells better. There’s a sad-eyed character there already, sandy beard half-covering impassive features. “Hughes,” says Mullen, with only a trace of a brogue, “this is Morrissey that I was telling you of.”
The older man sticks out his hand.
Morrissey shakes it, and accepts a broken-backed chair. “So what’s on?”
Hughes looks sideways at the Hub’s proprietor. “He knows nothing?”
“I could hardly go into it at the bar.” Mullen sits down and pours three shots.
“I’m hoping you gentleman have a mind to bring me in on some business,” Morrissey volunteers.
“What kind of business?” asks the older man.
“Oh, come on, Mr. Hughes. The coney trade, the bogus; shoving the queer.”
“Knowing the lingo doesn’t mean knowing the business,” observes Hughes.
“I never claimed to. The proverbial blank slate, that’s me. You need a shover, is that it? I could pass bad bills with a straight face.”
Hughes releases a sigh like air from a tire. “The business is all done in.”
Morrissey looks taken aback. “You say?”
“Time was, there was more queer than good floating round Illinois,” Hughes laments. “With all those newfangled notes and greenbacks the Government printed during the War between the States, who could tell bogus at a glance? But since they formed this Secret Service to crack down on us, trade’s turned tight as blazes.”
“It used to be you could bribe them to turn a blind eye,” Mullen contributes, “but these days …”
“And now they’ve banged up our Michelangelo.”
The young man blinks at Hughes. “Your—”
“Ever hear of Ben Boyd?”
“Can’t say as how I have,” admits Morrissey.
Another sigh. “In any other field of art or industry, the man’s name would be on every child’s tongue. But Boyd works on the quiet, like some angel.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Ben Boyd is only the greatest living engraver of queer. Living or dead,” Hughes insists.
“We’ve never met him in the flesh,” Mullen adds.
“But by his works we know him.”
“You’d swear you’re looking at a genuine silk-thread Federal banknote,” Mullen tells Morrissey. “Big Jim wholesales them all over the Mid West. You know Big Jim?”
“Well, sure; I know of him.” Big Jim Kinealy is the Hub’s silent partner, the mover behind all business conducted in this room.
Hughes takes up the story. “But nothing’s moving these days. Since January, Ben Boyd’s been in Joliet State, doing his first year of ten.”
The young man winces. “So your best supply’s been cut off.”
“The only coney worth a bean,” Hughes corrects him. “What’s out there wouldn’t fool a nun.”
Silence; they all drink their rum.
“I’m truly sorry for your troubles, gentlemen,” says Morrissey, “but where do I come in?”
“Not just for our own sakes but for the sake of the whole profession,” says Hughes, “Boyd must be sprung.”
Morrissey lets out a small laugh. “Horse stealing or a touch of safe-cracking, and I’m your man, but—”
Mullen waves one finger to shut him up. “Big Jim has a plan. We’re going to spring Boyd, make our fortunes, and go down in history, all at the self-same time.”
“Is that a fact,” murmurs
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