New Yorks west side. Hell's Kitchen. That's where it all started. Of course this was when it was easy being an irishman in the big apple. Not long before the Italians and the Jewish had their sit down and decided that the Irish had had their fun for long enough.

It really was a good time to be a gangster. The rackets were flourishing. The police and politicians were subserviant, and there was very little competition within the west side. You see, the Irish gangs were evenly distributed throughout the city. No one gang ever controlled more than a three block section of a neighborhood. That's not to say that conflict didn't arise between the gangs, but it never really evolved into a full scale war. The off and on spats were just part of weekly life, but it was something we accepted as being part of the life we live. The one thing that made all of us accept the anarchy and uncertainty of this life was the money and respect. That's the whole reason I got started..... the money......and most of all, the respect

to be continued

To be honest, it didn't even start in America. I was born in Liverpool. My family had fled the Famine a generation ago and sought refuge in England. My father passed when I was eleven years old and I was sent to live with family in New York. That's when I landed smack dab in the middle of Hell's Kitchen, The West Side.

It was here that I soon found The Gophers. The Gophers were a gang of kids that specialized in ripping of the West Side railroad yard. I fell in with these guys right off the bat. To me, there was nothing better. After a few weeks they asked me to come along on a couple of raids at the rail yard. That night turned out to be one hell of a score. We popped into a cargo container in the back of the yard, and what do we find? It turns out this particular containers' contents were none other than 240 Thompson sub-machine guns and roughly 50,000 rounds of ammunition. Of course we fenced all the goods, we preferred brass knuckles, lead pipes and black jacks to guns.

It was here that I really started to feel accepted. Most of all, I was good at it.

to be continued.......

The Gophers were a tirbulent bunch. We fought amongst ourselves more than against any of the other crews. Our outfit never even had a leader for more than a few months at a time. That's not to say that a few of the guys that did hold that top spot weren't tough guys.

Happy Jack Mullraney was in charge for a while. This guy was a real character, totaly fearless. This one time he blackjacked an officer and stole his overcoat. Jack gave the coat to his girlfriend at the time. She wore it everywhere, like it was a prized mink or something. Well, within a week, every hood was hunting for the same prize for their own girlfriends. It got to the point that cops wouldn't even where their coats into Hell's Kitchen.

That is how great the times were in the West Side. We had the cops scared to wear a coat for christs' sake.

to be continued.......

.......About a year after that, I was in real heavy with these guys. I could handle myself with the best of em'. My ace in the hole was a lead pipe wrapped in newspaper. This was a fantastic tool on the streets. Before some poor schlub knew what was coming, he was out cold and out of pocket.

       With my ferocity and wit, I soon was recognized as the leader of The Gophers. It wasn't as great a gig as it sounds and it came with its fair share of trouble. After it was all said and done, I had fifty-seven arrests under my belt. The cops in the West Side even dubbed me "The Killer".

       You see. I had killed a man by the age of fourteen. He was some punk Italian street vendor. He wouldn't push over so easy so he took a beating with a pipe one afternoon. I was careless and there were witnesses. I suppose by the grace of God, all of those witnesses miraculously recounted their statements. That was the code in the West Side...... the neighborhood could handle itself.

to be continued..............

About a year later I had another brush with the law. I was really sweet on a girl named Mattie. I wasn't the only one though. There was a store clerk named Willie who was also after her heart. I ran into Willie one day on a street in The West side. It turned out Willie could really run. I mean REALLY keep up a pace. I caught up with him on a trolley car around 9th street. It was midday, so there were plenty of people around. The trolley was packed.  I let a shot fly and took off like a bolt of lightning.

The cops really started to squeeze the nieghborhood . It turns out that before Willie died he identified me as the shooter. They thought they had me all the way. By the time I was in a courtroom two weeks later, all the witnesses had vanished or recounted their statements. The case against me fell apart right before their eyes.

It was around this time that i started to feel like I was becoming something. The power just felt natural to me.

to be continued........

Brushes with the law were the least of my worries at the time. Brushes with death seemed to occupy most of my thoughts.

In 1912 I had the biggest scrape of my life. There was a dance that November night. A rival gang, The Hudson Dusters, Had tailed me to the festivities. The minute I saw them I knew I had to start some trouble. Words started to fly, insults were exchanged and before I knew what was happenning, I was surrounded by eleven of these goons. Of course I smarted off "Who did you guys ever bump off"?

Shots rang out. When it was all done, I had half a dozen rounds shot into me.  They rushed me to New York Hospital and I barely pulled through. Needless to say, within a week, three of those eleven dusters were killed.

The streets always had a way of looking out for me.

to be continued...............