Inside the Landmark Tavern on the curb of 11th Avenue, Bridget Mags slouched onto a barstool behind the rustic copper bar table in the underground bar. Prohibition protests had yanked alcohol of her neat shelves and sent them crashing onto the boarded floors. So the Landmark Tavern moved their space to the cellar with the permission of the Gophers and the Westies; both claimed the cellar and both agreed to let go for free drinks. Bridget left her stood and stared out. On the other side of the table, half-drunken Irish men in rough garnet top hats, half of them singing, half of them tripping over their words, asking for another drink. She stood up at a grand six feet and a half inches, taller and smarter than the men she served. Her day boring, but her accent remained Irish and deceptive. Hell’s Kitchen was survival. Bridget made an income and a reputation for no one to mess with the giant Irish woman. The lady picked up a glass or two when she met the eyes of men pleading for another round of Irish whiskey. The quivering mouths and shaky fingers took a sense of pity in her as they ordered up another glass for the day.
“Love, two more Jamesons”
“Half a bourbon for me”
Bridget skipped to it, but with two full glasses in her hands, she nearly shattered them onto the cold, concrete floor. She spun around in a flash to witness four Gopher Gang members. One holding Ida the Goose, the belle of the Gophers, by the arms; the other four Gopher Gang boys pointing pistols at a young man. His brown hair shot up as fast as his eyes widened facing all four weapons. His feet tripped backward as his lungs heaved so heavily Bridget could hear the breathing from behind the war table. His mouth quivering and his hands criss crossed against his face as if closing his eyes would make the scene vanish.
“What’s a feb 'ere doin' wi' me ida.,” asked the one holding Ida.
“A damn brit in de cellar”
“Not even close, sum bowery brit fella dat is.”
The boy’s face suddenly became smaller and smaller as the Gopher Gang cornered him. The boys pulled out their Browning Model 1900 handguns, gritted their half-broken teeth through the thin toothpick sticking out of each of their mouths, and pointed in despise at the young boy, still crunched up in the corner and another quiver away from begging for his life. The bits of scattered talk from the stunned crowd retold the story to Bridget, who despite her six-foot figure, hid behind the bar table. The last she needed was to be caught, a Brit, in an Irish gang town. The gossipy and loud drinkers were for her benefit a distraction and a news telephone: Ida the Goose-- the belle of the Gophers-- and the Brit eloped a week after a Gopher boy proposed to Ida. That poor Brit, blinded by love to the worst woman he could love. She was beautiful, no doubt. Her hair in perfect bouncy brown curls, her eyes wide and brown, her smile contagious. He, young and innocent, just a second ago, had been watching Ida with heart-dotted eyes. He reminded her of her younger brother at home.
Back home. So rainy, the storms never hush. Church towers ringing as Bridget ran down cobblestone streets, chasing her brother as the wind brushed against her red ears. The cold biting at them with the full intent of causing a cold when she returned to her warm home.
Shots fired Bridget out of her daydream. The rest of the bar folk burst out the door. Bridget sat quietly, melted down to the floor, and figured she would have to drag the dead, bloody bodies out before sunset. She stood up to her feet once again, watching the cheery muderful laugh of all the Gopher Boys and one of those hideous Lady Gophers.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Inside the dusty, dank cellar, Maggie Tricker, as the Lady Gopher Gang named her for her violent crimes, sat across from her fellow boys. She was on lookout duty for any bothersome cops or virtuous civilians. Of course, they should have known what would have been coming. She enjoyed her outbreaks as a prankster-- with evil tricks ready to be planted at any second. She especially looked out for that Brit boy, Thomas Crowley. The Feb stole Ida from the Gopher Gang and Maggie responded to the case with straight obedience. She was loyal, at least, and to the Gophers. Lady Gophers gave her a place in this hell town. Battle Annie, the leader of Lady Gophers, her obsession, her idol. Joining the Lady Gophers, she transformed herself into the brutal lady she knew she was meant to be. And now, here she was, on an honorable mission for the Gopher boys.
The shootdown was a standard crackdown of an unwanted Tommy. Maggie cringed at the sight of Brits ever since the incident. Her home, Ireland, taken over by British Tommys for the Great War. Her rebellious heart longed to join the Rebels, but so far from home, she decided her fight would be right here, in Hell’s Kitchen. Those damn Brits. They stole her brothers for the war. Now they were going to break the hearts of her new brothers.
Mags did a thorough search out of the bar before signaling the Gopher boys. The shootout was short and simple. One got Ida the Goose; the others got their pistols ready. Maggie watched with wonder and an evil smile at the tremor of the dimtwit brit. Bam bam bam. Clean, done, now to move onto the next bar. The Gopher boys took Ida the Goose back with him to the cellar hideout. Maggie sat at the bar, finishing off the Jameson’s resting in front of her. As she picked up the half-full glass in front of her, she leans over the bar to see a woman of fine figure. Damn, she looks like Battle Annie herself. Battle Annie, Mags though, doesn’t she need more women?
Maggie Trickster walked with the Gopher boys, keeping a respectful distance. Walking in line with the boys would be showing a pride she knew she could not surface. Besides, her mind kept dropping the same image of that female bartender. She did not look Irish, but she had heard her Irish accent; she must be a new one. Soon into the walk back to the cellar, she started losing her pace with the boys who had turned around to tease her dirty, messy dark brown hair.
“Ever keep the nest?”
She laughed along, supposing the thought of the bartender’s pretty eyes, her lips opened the tiniest bit, her head hanging in a curious tilt, her face detached to the screaming scene in front of her.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Gopher Gang tuned out in their usual cellar instead of the railroad tracks for a change. Battle Annie and the Lady Gophers munched over food brought in by the Gopher boys as they discussed where they were called to protest these days. Usually, some business or labor union asked them for some underground businesses for underground payment, and Battle Annie always made sure we had our fair share. A good matriarch and one Mags was determined to be on the good side of.
“Say, battle Annie, yer still lookin' ter take in a few more girls”
“Only if they can chucker de damn job”
“Oi tink oi foun' yer a perfect wan”
And so, the Lady Gophers all pushed their ears a little closer to Maggie’s mouth as she described the tall, grand, Irish bartender. The women agreed, she sounded like the Gopher type, but the risk of her being a spy or a sleazy cop or some Brit in hiding hung. But Maggie assured them this new girl brought the Irish tradition with her and she was no coward when the Gopher boys shot the damn Brit who stole Ida.
“Go ter de tavern again, spy on 'er Megs” ordered Battle Annie.
And so, with a hidden hint of excitement, Mags strolled back to the tavern, but she knew spying was not the way to go. Maggie had more in mind than a spy trip, but her plans could never have been more exciting.
Bouncing down the streets cluttered in garbage, scraps, and god-knows-what-else, Maggie took off from her cellar to the Landmark Tavern. She looked up and down the sides of the street, clustered in tight buildings on the verge of collapse. She knew these were the tenements-- where the good Irish came to live and tried to make a living. More than that, she knew the horrors of inside those tenements. People brushing in your space with no alternative, possessions stolen left and right, children rummaging through filth in the only clothes they have, babies crying then dying, sick-man in that room, dead man in the room across.
She passed by them with a chill and a praise to God she was no longer living in those. She lived with the Lady Gophers traveling with them wherever they had gone. The semi nomadic life was a hell of a lot better than those hell houses. As Mags got through them, she turned the corner to the Landmark Tavern, a smile ready.
Bridget locked eyes with her, with an intent. What Mags did not know was that Bridget had been thinking of Maggie too, sharing the same thoughts about each other.
Murder.
She knew. No accent was fooling Maggie. She wasn’t a Lady Gopher for no reason and she knew Battle Annie was looking to increase their kill count. Imagine the sweet surprise when Battle Annie finds out it had been a damn Brit.
Bridget knew too. She saw Maggie sit at the barstool with the grinch’s grin on her face, smirking at the poor young British boy. She saw the smile fade to a little smirk. Bridget, in the moment, shuddered and put her head down in horror. She knew. Maggie could practically smell the stench of British all over her.
In the moment, both of them had the same intention. Maggie was ready with a bat given to her by Battle Annie when she promoted her to seniority. Bridget shattered the bottle of Jamesons in her right hand. Her ears mapped every shard around her. A silent growl enveloped the air as both women lunged at each other, both ready with insults, attacks, and weapons. Maggie confident in her irish ways; Bridget defending her British background.
“Who yer tink yer are ter be workin' in de gopher's tavern--” accused Maggie.
“I'm a proud Brit, that's what”
“-- taking' nicker from us into yisser davy crockett”
“I’m taking the paycheck I deserve.”
“You're takin' me mony”
With that last comment, Bridget lunged at Maggie, slicing her ear with the broken bottle and snapping a good portion off just enough for it to dangle. Maggie gripped the bat with her dominant hand and took a hard swing right into Bridget’s left eye, throwing her down to the tables. The tables clattered on the floor, the chairs followed, and then Bridget slopped onto them like a dead fish in its last movement before despair. Maggie put the determined look in her eyes and her mindset. Set , set, set her mind was on bringing back a trophy. Bringing back anything that’ll prove her worth.
With those last thoughts in mind, Maggie heaved the blood and sweat stained bat up and down like a seesaw onto Bridget’s face. Deformed in blood and mush, Bridget tried to reach for one of the glass shards, but they laid out beside her in such a teasing distance. It was going to be the shards or her disoriented face. Bridget mustered by the damn energy and pushed Maggie away by the foot.
With the sharpest shard within reach, Maggie did not even get to blink into realization that she was a dead woman. The worse part, however, is that now Bridget was a dead woman too.
News of a dead Lady Gopher ruptured their community with embarrassment and disrespect. None of which would be let go so easily. Battle Annie started the hunt herself, joined by Sadie the Goat, Ida the Goose, and Gallus Mag. It was upon them now to be the hell in Hell’s Kitchen.