On PHILADELPHIA

On PHILADELPHIA
Gangs of Philadelphia
Benjamin Franklin looked out from the portico of Independence Hall and saw the city of Philadelphia in flames. This was the dark side of the people that he had always heard about. He grabbed his shooting pistol and walking boots and strode out into the streets of Philadelphia.
He ran into a policeman who was looking fearfully at the flames, striding aimlessly under a lamp post.
“What is your name, officer?” Benjamin Franklin asked.
“What’s it to you?” retorted the man.
“Aren’t you going to go and put a stop to this nonsense?” demanded Franklin.
“ I ain’t going in there. That’s Gang part of town. If you’re smart, you won’t go either,” said the cop. “Who are you?”
“Benjamin Franklin,” he replied.
“There ain’t no Benjamin Franklin.” Said the man, scowling. “He long dead, and this town gone to shit since.”
“Well alright. I’ll see you another time, officer,” said Franklin, and he pushed past the policeman into an alleyway, past drunks and slums and onto the outskirts of town. He knew enough not to travel into the riot area, not now. A horse ran into view, having bolted from the fire, and Franklin leaped up onto the horse, calming it down and directing it west. He had an appointment in the village of Haddington with Mr. Tex Samuels.
Ben Franklin reached the industrial hamlet of Haddington and hitched his horse outside the Whitesides Inn. He walked in through the main door and sat down in the first table he saw. Soon a man with a handlebar mustache sat down opposite him, silently.
“How are you?” asked Benjamin.
“Very bad,” drawled Tex. “A group of vigilantes are reckoning themselves up to do away with us.”
“How many?”
“I reckon about ten or so?”
“Tombstone Allen?” asked Ben, arching an eyebrow.
“Yup. Sounds like you’ve got the long and short of it. Now what can you do for me?”
Ben looked around the tavern. There was hardly anyone down in the main room, most had holed up in their rooms, afraid the violence might spread from the downtown. There was a young woman in a bonnet, pecking at a plate of potatoes, and disheveled gentleman in a shapeless hat and a mostly unbuttoned shirt. He had a couple of bottles of beer in front of of him, and had the air of someone who wanted to get drunk, but didn’t have a lot of experience doing so. Who he didn’t see was Eddie the Shooter, with his narrow, lined face and dark eyes. Either Shooter was off on another assignment, or he was remaining hidden. Either way, Tex wasn’t going to meet with anyone without a backup watching from somewhere.
“The sherriff here, McCoy, is a friend of mine,” Ben said.
“I bet he is,” answered Tex skeptically.
“I have a few friends in town. I know that you and the Bummers aren’t the real problems in Philadelphia county, I know you and Eddie and the rest didn’t start what’s happening downtown. But I know you know who got killed last night at South and 4th.”
“Why would you say that?” asked Tex.
“Tell me more, and I’ll get Bones McCoy to lay off you boys for a while.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks,” said Ben. We wasn’t sure it would be enough.
“That’s all you can do, huh,” said Tex, leaning back in his chair. “I figure as much. Look, I’ll tell you whut. You do what you say you can do. Get Bones to walk out on Chestnut Street, look me in the eye and give me a nod. Get him to show me a little respect that way. Then, I’ll give you whut info I can gather tonight and you’ll have a clue to your mystery. I can tell you what I know right now, though: Italians and Blacks. Don’t have to look much further than that.”