The Brutal Honesty of a Bloodsport Baron
Back when the Bowery Boys and Dead Rabbits ruled Manhattan, dog-fighting, rat-killing and bare-knuckle brawling were the sports of choice—and Kit Burns was king of them all.
They took Kit Burns to Calvary Cemetery three days before Christmas, in a hearse drawn by six white horses. A crowd had gathered for his wake at his daughters’ house in Brooklyn, and after a viewing, the mourners moved outside, into the cold, to escort the body on foot some 10 miles to Queens. The procession was sufficiently numerous—and festive—to form a parade. In a rosewood coffin inlaid with a delicate silver cross, Burns lay dressed in garb more sedate than the bright shirts, golden chains and pantaloons striped with gang colors he had favored in life. His ruddy complexion ornamented a robust prizefighter’s frame, while narrow eyes and a red corsair’s beard lent him some semblance to Van Gogh’s Postman.
Beyond his clothing, death had not much changed his appearance. It was said that those assembled gazed at Burns as if he were a spiritual medium, a religious leader, prophet or saint. In his 39 years, he had survived four bullet wounds, and a knife to…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial