by Jeff Dawson
‘And you, what’s your name?’
He was talking to the girl. The snarling revolutionary was gone. She looked young, scared.
‘Lydia.’
‘Lydia, can you put your first two fingers on his neck, like so…?’
He demonstrated.
‘You let me know if the pulse drops.’
She nodded.
Finch sat back and sighed. He caught Sheldrake’s eye.
‘What’s the matter, boss…? Surprised to see me?’
* * *
At the Gramercy Park town house, Claude was carried upstairs and lain on the master bed. Finch noted Sheldrake’s selfish objection, as if surrendering his bedchamber was a threat to his supremacy. The patient was pale and sweating and with brother Clarence – confirmed by Sammy as a twin – almost feeling his sibling’s pain by osmosis.
‘Lydia… Sammy… Please. I need you to see whatever medicines, chemicals you can find… dressings too… I need kitchen cutlery… a sharp knife… a bowl… hot water… towels…’
There were others stirring in the house. They followed Finch’s instructions to locate tweezers, tongs, a needle, thread… and the means to sterilize the equipment.
‘I’m going to see what I can do. I can’t promise anything,’ said Finch. ‘If this is beyond me, then there is no choice but to take Claude to a hospital.’
‘He’s been identified. The police will trace this back to us,’ Sheldrake protested.
‘I’m not going to argue, Sheldrake. His life comes first. If you’re worried about him giving up your little organization and its part in tonight’s fiasco, then so be it. You can move out of here right away and find somewhere else to hole up…’
Sheldrake snorted in derision.
‘You’ve already got blood on your hands,’ Finch reminded him. ‘Tommy – unless you’d forgotten?’
Sheldrake stormed off. Regardless as to what was about to happen with Claude, Sheldrake still held Finch’s passport. He could not only be sold out, but now further implicated as an anarchist; as well as – in that phrase that Edmund Burke had coined – a ‘terrorist’.
Hold your nerve.
The ad hoc surgery was arranged and Claude’s abdomen cleaned up. There was no morphine but plenty of something else they could use, another opiate that seemed in abundance throughout the house… heroin. He instructed Lydia to prepare and introduce, intravenously, a generous dose of it.
Soon Claude was out.
And he was lucky. From his substantial experience on the killing fields of the South African veld, Finch knew a gunshot wound to the guts was not only the most painful, but almost always fatal. But Claude’s left side, just above the hip, showed an entry and an exit wound. The policeman’s bullet had passed right through him, grazing the wall of muscle that protected the abdomen but just missing the vital organs.
There was plenty of blood, and Finch had had a good root around to ensure that there was no debris lodged within the deep, dark hole. But, once he had sewed it up and applied plenty of iodine, it seemed that a second tragedy of the night had been averted.
Clarence looked over at him, clutching his comatose brother’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Our job now is to ensure that no infection sets in,’ Finch informed him. ‘When he comes to, he’s going to start feeling the pain again. You have to keep him calm. Make sure he drinks plenty of water and keeps still. We don’t want that wound reopening. He needs constant monitoring – his temperature, his pulse. Understood?’
Finch retired to the other room and collapsed on the couch. Sammy followed him.
‘Sammy. You’ve got to tell me something. Knowing what I know, heroin’s not cheap. This house is awash with the stuff. Where do you get it all?’
Sammy looked nervous. He glanced over his shoulder. Finch motioned for him to close the door.
‘Please, I need to know. You tell me and I’ll get you out of all this. You’re no anarchist. Just someone who’s lost. There’s only one way this is all heading and it’s going to end up badly. You saw what happened out there.’
He reached for a cigarette.
‘You get caught, you’re talking prison for the rest of your lives. Or the gallows. The others here, they can all disappear, melt into the shadows. But you, this house, you’re tied… The police will identify you soon enough. Sheldrake… his cronies… they’re abusing you. You don’t deserve it. Help me and I’ll help you. I’ll get you away from all this… or get them away from you. I promise.’
Finch stretched over. There was a drinks cabinet, a bottle of Scotch on the side, actual Scotch – a Glenlivet – Sammy’s parents, evidently, were people of taste as well as wealth. He poured them both a drink and thought for a moment of young Private Miles, the soldier he’d been marooned with, supping from a flask in the no man’s land of Magersfontein.
‘Please, Sammy. You’re safe with me.’
Sammy was sitting on the floor. He was reluctant at first, but then the words came, the stammer pronounced at first but lifting with the weight of the confession.
‘The heroin… It’s how they p-p-paid us,’ he began.
‘Who paid you?’
‘I-I-I-I’m not sure. It came through an intermediary. But I think it had something to do with the German Mob…’
‘Go on.’
‘Because this man, Kimmel was his name, he came to the house asking questions.’
He got up and went to a drawer and came back with something which he pressed into Finch’s hand.
‘This was his…’
It was a small silver snuff box. Underneath was an engraving.
‘To Eloysius – Love Frances’.
‘…and we knew Kimmel was an associate of M-M-Manny Muller. You’ve heard of him, right? Everybody’s heard of him.’
‘Paying you in drugs is easier than cash, I’m guessing, especially if they’re sitting on a ton of it.’
He nodded.
‘We then sell it on the street. Not just the bums down on the Bowery – addicts on Skid Row – but Greenwich Village, wealthy users. It’s easy money.’
‘You mean now your parents’ trust fund’s been used up?’
Sammy said nothing. He didn’t have to. Finch lit them both a Lucky Strike.
‘And what was the payment for… this heroin?’
‘A job we did.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘I mean us… Sheldrake… Black Flag.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Can’t say or won’t say?’
He looked up. In the candlelight, Finch could see his eyes were wet.
‘Please… I’ve seen some bad things,’ sobbed Sammy. ‘Terrible things. I know what can happen if you go against certain people…’
He thought about it for a moment, chewing over Finch’s words.
‘You can help me? You p-p-promise me that?’
Finch nodded this time. He exhaled smoke and gambled that he could trust Sammy with what he was about to say. He had to demonstrate his faith.
‘I can’t tell you exactly, but I’m not quite who I say I am,’ said Finch. ‘But in my official capacity, I have the power to help you – indirectly at least.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m not saying either.’
‘Does Sheldrake know?’
Finch sighed.
‘He knows enough. He stole my documentation… my passport.’
‘Your passport?’
‘Yes. Cut it out of my jacket…’
He flashed the lining and the slash in it.
‘My official identification, to do with as he pleases. He had absolutely no intention of me surviving or escaping this evening. You see, he has the ability to blame everything on me as much as he does on you. We’re both his convenient victims… his “patsies”… his “fall guys”. Is that what you call it?’
Sammy nodded.
‘Look, the heroin,’
he said. ‘If I can’t tell you… What if I take you – show you.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Sammy. It’s three in the morning.’
‘N-now. It has to be n-now.’
Chapter 23
In the dark, Finch found himself being led by Sammy past the pungent, empty halls of the Fulton Fish Market. Sluiced run-off from the wash-down glistened on the cobbles and carried the stink with it.
Sammy seemed to know every passageway, every cut round the warehouses and stores that lined the South Street Seaport. Finch watched the way the young man moved. He had the grace of a cat, slinking between the chandlers’ stores, the sailmakers, the tackle suppliers; round the parked-up wagons, the barrels, the lengths of chain and the endless coils of rope.
Though only a mile away across Manhattan Island, the docks on the East River – with their battered sailing barques and rickety wooden buildings – seemed from a bygone era; certainly an age apart from what he’d experienced on the Hudson with its huge mooring piers and oceangoing liners. The reek of effluence, discharged straight into the water from the slums of the Lower East Side, accentuated the divide.
Finch was struggling to keep up.
‘What are we doing here, Sammy?’
The reply was thrown back over a shoulder.
‘You wanted to see the heroin… where it comes from, right?’
There were two ironclad windjammers before them, their masts and riggings silhouetted in the moonlight, the huge Brooklyn Bridge looming behind them. One, the Cambuskenneth, a former Scots vessel, was hung with the blue cross on red of Norway; the other, the Antilia, a steam hybrid, bore the blue ensign on the Bahamas. Their bowsprits and jib booms overhung the quayside and they edged beneath them, stepping over the ropes and cleats. After the fish market, between the bursts of sewage, the sea air was cleansing. The East River was a river in name only, knew Finch – it was really just an inlet of the Atlantic.
‘And how do you know it’s here?’ asked Finch.
‘Kimmel… Remember, I told you about him? Even though he was one of Muller’s men, Sheldrake wasn’t sure about him, didn’t trust him. Thought he might be spying for a rival gang, maybe even with the police. You know, undercover… He asked me to keep an eye on him. One night I followed him… followed him down here.’
‘Do you do that a lot, Sammy? Follow people? Sneak around? I noticed how you were pretty handy scaling your own building.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I guess… some.’
He beckoned to Finch. They squeezed in past the offices of the Munson Freight Company on Pier 17, whose signage proclaimed that it shipped to and from Puerto Rico. Beyond it was an anonymous warehouse. There seemed to be no one around.
‘Here…’
Sammy indicated a door. It was the roll-up metal kind activated by a chain. It didn’t fully reach the ground. There was a gap of maybe a foot. He got on his back and wriggled under. It was tough for Finch – with his accursed knee, plus the scrapes and bruises of recent days – and he made no attempt to hide it as he got down and rolled under.
Once inside, it was another aroma entirely that whacked them foursquare in the senses – the overpowering scent of roasted coffee beans. Finch switched on the Ever Ready flashlight that Sammy had found for them. There were hundreds of sacks.
Clever. Hide the drugs where no trained police dog can sniff them out.
From the labelling, the stock had been imported from the Pacific… On closer inspection from Samoa… German Samoa.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Sammy.
Finch was already over at the clerk’s desk, the torch wedged under his chin, rifling through papers… documents… bills of sale.
‘This…’
He waved Sammy over.
‘See here…’
The invoice attributed the import of a large amount, if not all, of the Samoan batch – 300 x 224lb sacks, each the weight of a man – to a company called ‘Herulian Holdings’.
‘You know this name? Who these people are?’
Sammy shook his head.
Finch folded the invoice and stuffed it in his jacket and went back to pulling out files, flipping through orders.
But then, a hissing noise…
‘Sammy, what the hell?!’
He swung the light over. The sound was that of coffee beans pouring out onto the sawdust and planks of the flooring. Sammy had produced a flip-open stiletto knife and was casually ambling down the walkway, slitting the sacks open.
‘For Christ’s sake!’
Sammy turned back.
‘You wanted me to show you the heroin.’
‘Not like this. We’ve got to be discreet… do this by stealth…’
As Sammy turned back to him, he could see that he was weeping openly, sobbing away.
‘Sammy, please.’
Finch hurried over and embraced him, careful that the knife was pointed down. The boy’s shoulders were heaving.
‘Come on, put that blade away. Let’s get out of here.’
He was slumping now, down to the ground. Finch couldn’t hold him. His upset came in great convulsive waves as he curled up, hugging his knees, coffee beans cascading all around them.
‘Tommy,’ he was wailing. ‘He was my friend, the only one who was nice to me.’
Opposite the coffee sacks was a stack of tea chests. Finch dragged Sammy away and propped him up against one. They were from China, bearing the name ‘Ty-Phin’, imports from German Kiautschou. Finch crouched down.
‘I’m sorry,’ he soothed. ‘It must be a shock. But don’t you see? That’s why we’ve got to get you away. Not just for your sake, but so that there are no more Tommies. We can’t let it happen again.’
‘And not just Tommy.’
‘Then who?’
He was beside himself, the stammer back.
‘I-I-I-I’ve seen some bad things. Terrible things.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Shooting Club.’
‘The Shooting Club?’
‘A b-b-build… a building… in Germantown.’
‘Sammy, you’re making no sense. I want to understand. Explain.’
He was clutching at Finch now, hugging himself into him, like an upset infant seeking comfort from a parent.
‘Kimmel,’ he said. ‘I carried on following him. After here… Back and forth to Brooklyn… his home… to Muller’s house in Greenwich Village… And then, an evening, a couple of days later, near Tompkins Square, some men, they grabbed him…’
‘They took him away?’
‘They dragged him to the Shooting Club. Down in the basement… Then, that night…’
His words trailed off.
‘That night, Sammy. What happened that night?’
‘I broke in… I watched… There were men in robes, hoods… And Kimmel…? They did terrible things to him…’
Finch embraced him. He stroked his hair.
‘You poor kid. You saw all that?’
The sobbing came unbound, as if a great tide of emotion had been released. But then, with a burst of energy, Sammy had shrugged him off again. He was back on his feet, hacking away dementedly at the sacks.
The coffee beans showered hard and loud.
Suddenly, there were lights flashing around the other end of the building.
‘Sammy, we need to get out of here.’
There was the rattle of a padlock, the scrape of a door opening.
‘Now!’
But Sammy was facing him, standing still, a smile on his face.
‘See…!’
From the last sack, tumbling out amid the coffee beans, were several brown waxed parcels, each about the size of a small bag of sugar.
Finch grabbed one, then yanked Sammy away by the collar, back towards the metal door and the gap underneath it. He turned his torch off as he did so. But now there was another beam of light swinging towards them. It caught them as they scut
tled under the door.
‘Stop right there!’
They slid out and ran for dear life across the cobbles of the wharf.
Finch glanced back. There was another man behind them, a fellow security guard. He already had a gun in his hand and he loosed off a shot, as much in warning as with intent, it seemed.
The man ran a few yards then gave up the chase as they wound their way back through the warren of passageways and up round the side of the fish market. They ducked back down behind a pile of crates.
There was a pink tint to the east. Dawn was breaking.
‘Thanks, Sammy,’ said Finch. ‘What you showed me in there. It’s important.’
Sammy said nothing, just reached into a pocket, fumbled around and pressed something into Finch’s hands. It was his passport. He’d already stolen it back for him. Finch smiled.
But… the blood… on it… on Sammy’s hands…
‘Sammy. Are you hurt?’
There was a gurgle in his throat. He was coughing it up. Finch lay him down and ripped at his shirt buttons. He shone the light. The material was soaked a dark crimson. His chest…
‘Sammy… please…’
Finch cradled him. He looked up, the blood pooling in his mouth tricking down his chin.
‘Not afraid,’ he spluttered. ‘…comeuppance… for what we did.’
‘What you did? Sammy, stay with me…’
‘Incendiary… device…’
‘Sammy…’
And, with that, he was gone.
Chapter 24
The wind had picked up. The shadows of the clouds moved across the distant whitecaps of the Narrows. The Statue of Liberty moved in and out of the light, the sun glinting periodically on her torch, Finch still convinced she was blue. He sat on the grass on the high mound of the Green-Wood Cemetery just watching and waiting, staring out past the grand Civil War memorial with its soldier statues cast in bronze.
There was a small plaque nearby indicating that this spot had also been the key strategic point of the Battle of Brooklyn Heights, the first major engagement of the Revolutionary War. Throw in the War of 1812, the Mexican War, and the United States was a nation forged in blood, he mused; four major conflicts on its independent soil in less than a century – more if you cast back to the French and Indian War, the assorted colonial dust-ups, or the catalogue of exterminations it inflicted upon the Indians, continuing to this very day. The Civil War, with its million dead, made the Boer War look like a tea party.
