In case you haven’t seen Gangs of New York, “Boss” Bill Tweed is one of the most corrupt figures in New York City history, which is saying something. He got into politics in 1850, had a system for large-scale graft set up by the end of the decade, became the leader of the Tammany Hall Democratic machine and one of the biggest landowners in the city (New York City real estate has always been a good way to launder money) in the 1860’s, took total ownership of the City in 1869…fell from power and died in prison of pneumonia in 1871, aged fifty-five. Never held an elected position more exalted than U.S. House Rep, and most of the time it was things like State Senator, City Alderman, Commissioner of Public Works. All politics is local, and if you know where the levers are and sit on the right committees, it’s the unimpressive-sounding positions that have the real power. Especially back then.
If you have seen Gangs of New York, Tweed wasn’t the weakling you might remember. He was a fireman when he was younger, and that was a time when fire departments were basically street gangs fighting for turf and protection money. Tweed himself apparently earned a reputation for being a nasty customer with an axe.
Since he died, Boss Tweed has become New York City’s personal spirit of corruption. At this point, no one is even sure if the thing that wears his name was ever the human man William Magear Tweed, who did some good things as almost all bad guys do, or if it’s just something that clotted together out of collective memory and all the greed and corruption that came after. But that’s a question for the spirit-zoologists, I have bigger problems right now.
One: I know this has something to do with Boss Tweed, but what? Is he attacking me? Summoning me to an audience? Does he want to do some kind of business? Did somebody else bring me across for something to do with Boss Tweed? That brings us to problem number two: someone brought me across into the soul of the city without me even realizing at first. That’s not easy. Dimensionally speaking, I’m not as fixed in place as ordinary people – it’s like piercing your ears, after a while the channel just stays open – but I’m also a lot more aware and a lot stronger.
And of course, doing it without asking me is hardly friendly, now is it? Of course, I’ve been here nearly an hour – to the extent that time exists here – and nothing has attacked me yet. Of course, that could be because I’m standing right next to a ley line, which would be like attacking Thor from the Marvel movies when he’s got both his hammer and his axe in his hands.
Arrrgh. This is why I hate oracles. They always create more questions than they answer. Give me a stock ticker and I’d know everything in five minutes.
Still. Oracles tell you all you need to know, if you’re smart about it. So this is about Boss Tweed, huh? Fine. Let’s go talk to Boss Tweed.
I catch a bus and head downtown. Way downtown, where the old Five Points is just below the surface of all those respectable government buildings. City Hall was always Tweed’s territory, and the Tweed Courthouse still has his name on it. For a spirit, that matters.
The bus driver is Ralph Kramden. Who did you think would be driving a bus through the soul of New York?
