The City Beautiful

by Aden Polydoros

  She turned to me. “Remember, we’re writing an article. About the grand things Mr. Katz is doing here.”

  “I’m not the one you should be worried about,” I said. “I’ll give you ten minutes before you douse him with the nearest beverage.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him I was aiming for you.”

  My smile slipped away the moment she turned ahead. I touched my shirt collar, wincing. The bruise had ached all morning, its color deepening to shades of indigo.

  We had rehearsed our questions on the ride over. Raizel thought the important thing was establishing a groundwork, anything that could inadvertently connect Katz to the disappearances and Yakov’s murder. I just wanted to get a good look at his face. If he was truly the man behind this, then perhaps the sight of him would awaken the dybbuk inside of me.

  Dangerous or not, it was our only lead, and time was running out.

  As we walked, Raizel carefully readjusted her sunhat. Billowy lace netting was secured to the brim by two long pins topped with brass spheres. “How do I look?”

  “Uh...” She was an attractive girl, I supposed. I liked the absinthe-green shade of her blouse, even though it was toxic. But I knew she wasn’t talking about her outfit, and I felt uncomfortable telling her she looked pretty, in case it might be interpreted as something more.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Just ‘uh’?”

  “You look very nice.” I cleared my throat. “Very professional.”

  “No wonder Mrs. Brenner chose you.” She turned back ahead, her lips twitching with a smile she fought to conceal. “You’re hopeless. We both are.”

  A guardsman waited at the heavy oak doors of Katz’s meatpacking plant. Seeing us approach, he placed his hands on his waist and jutted his chin forward. “What do you want?”

  “We’re reporters,” Raizel said in careful, impeccable English. “We’re here for the interview.”

  “You?” He lifted his eyebrows, bemused.

  Her eyebrow twitched. “Yes. Me.”

  “You’re a girl.”

  “Have you not heard of Nellie Bly or Annie Laurie?” she said incredulously. “Or even Nora Marks down at the Tribune? Do you not read?”

  He had no answer to that. Hearing the passion in Raizel’s voice, I realized that to her, journalism was more than just a job that paid better than working the presses. It was sacred.

  “Mr. Katz is expecting us.” She took a meaningful glance at her pocket watch. “He arranged for this interview two weeks ago. If you keep us waiting, he will be most displeased.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “He said nothing about any reporters.”

  “Then you may call down his secretary.” She snapped her pocket watch shut. “Unless you would rather we interview the bosses over at Armour’s.”

  With a grunt, he stepped aside and allowed us to pass through the open door. He came in after us, a troll-like presence in the dirty light that entered through the glazed windows.

  “Follow me,” he said gruffly, jangling his key ring.

  I exchanged a look with Raizel, before following him down the hall. Abrasive noises echoed from other rooms. The whine of steam. Rumbling machinery. Fleshy, abrupt squelches that turned my stomach and filled my mouth with the taste of char.

  The air inside the packing plant was several degrees cooler than outside, on account of the brick walls, but it reeked of the same slaughter. The faint tang of chemicals laced my every breath.

  As we ascended the stairs, the air in the passage grew thicker, chillier, so cold that I found myself shivering. Fear coiled in my stomach.

  I could feel the air all around me, pressing in like dirt cast into an open grave. Smothering. No windows in the stairwell. Darkness. This overwhelming musk of animal waste and chemicals—almost like the odor of salt water and unwashed bodies.

  “P-pardon me.” I lurched past them and took the stairs down two at a time. “The air... I have to go outside.”

  If Raizel answered me, her voice was drowned out by the roar of waves. My feet hit solid ground. As I fled toward the double doors, the floor seemed to roll beneath me.

  Not again. Not again.

  I threw open the doors and tumbled into the dark—

  —silence of the steamship’s sick bay, the quiet thrum of the engine rooms vibrating through the floorboards beneath my feet. The room was windowless like the slaughterhouse ramp and tinged with the amniotic scent of the sea. Yet where twin cots should have been, there was now just a long oak desk and tufted leather chairs.

  The light had become the putrid green of necrosis, reflected in the bottles of amber tinctures cluttering the shelves. A man stood contemplating the selection. Not the French doctor who had refused to treat my father. A stranger.

  “I found them.” The man turned to me ever so slightly. The gaslight shone upon the heavy, leonine lines of his features—a mane of sandy-brown hair, eyes the piercing blue of gas flames, a firm mouth shaped around the stem of a briar pipe. “The tickets. Do you intend to hunt him, Yasha?”

  “That bastard took everything from me,” I heard Yakov say, his baritone turned rough with anger. He felt close enough to touch, as though at any moment I might feel his fingertips trail down my spine or alight upon my hips.

  I strained to look behind me, but my body was frozen. I couldn’t move a centimeter.

  Sunflowers floated in the apothecary bottles, their petals pale and bloated like drowned fingers. Overhead, a chandelier sprouted from the rough plaster, its brass branches leafed with shards of cut crystal. There was only one explanation for this. Yakov’s memories and mine were beginning to seep together like blood in water.

  Sighing, the man took another draw from his pipe. “True triumph would be to move on and heal.”

  “You can’t heal from something like that, Uncle. You just can’t. Never.”

  Moisture bulged from between the floorboards at my feet. The walls began to drip.

  “So, you will have him take your future, too.”

  “No. I will take his. I found the records. I’ve traced his footsteps. I know where to find him now.”

  Like a popped bubble, the walls spilled inward, no longer plaster and wood, but a downpour of salt water. The wave washed over me, pushing me back into—

  —glassy midday light, shocking in its intensity, stinging my eyes. I froze in the doorway of the slaughterhouse, gasping for breath. Shudders racked my body. I spat and coughed, desperate to expel the scent of sea brine clogging my lungs.

  Moisture dripped down my cheeks. Just sweat, I thought, until a choked sob came from deep inside of me. I bit my knuckle to hone the fear into something real and took deep breaths, steadying myself.

  I couldn’t allow it to overtake me. Not now. Not here.

  Inhale. Exhale. Grind your teeth in.

  After another minute or so, I began to feel well enough to go back inside. I found Raizel waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, her expression torn between concern and annoyance.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, coming up beside her. I clasped my hands to hide the bite marks dimpling my knuckle. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me, Alter?”

  “No. I felt light-headed.” I didn’t care much for how my voice sounded, and I took another deep breath before continuing. “It’s the air in here. The stench of blood. The decay. I’m better now.”

  “You volunteer at a burial society. I’d think that this wouldn’t bother you.”

  “It’s not my fault that I have a working nose,” I snapped back. “Besides, this is different.”

  “In any case, Mr. Katz is waiting for us,” she said. “Please try to avoid vomiting on his suit.”

  I followed her back up the stairs. The chill in my veins didn’t return, but halfway up the first fligh
t, I stopped and looked back the way we’d come. A hazy patch of sunlight shone through the open door.

  I had the strangest feeling that if I stepped to one side or turned my head just right, that patch of soil outside would suddenly become waxed wood, while the midday sunlight would deepen into the palpitating glow of gaslights.

  “Coming?” Raizel asked, looking down at me.

  I nodded and kept going.

  Mr. Katz’s office was located on the third floor. Behind his desk, a bay window overlooked the cattle carcasses swinging down the conveyer system linked to the killing floor above. He stood facing those panes, silhouetted against the sallow electrical lights.

  Slowly, he turned to us. My stomach plummeted. Those flat brown eyes. That broad, sharklike face. He had grown a generous mustache in the year since I had last seen him, and there were threads of gray at his temples, but I recognized him in an instant. I would never forget him.

  You look like a good boy, he had said, imploring me with his gaze. You don’t want to do this.

  And I had taken the silver from his cupboard. The gold watch chain from his waistcoat. The wedding ring off his finger.

  The nose that Frankie had broken had healed crooked, one nostril crushed into a slit. It gave him a strange, off-kilter appearance, like a Parian bust that had slumped during kilning due to some internal imbalance.

  Mr. Katz eased into his chair as fluidly as a coiling viper. He steepled his hands on the desk, scanning over us without much interest. “Tom here tells me that you two scheduled an interview.”

  Raizel looked at me, her smile stiff. There were expectations here that hadn’t been in place down below. Now was my turn to speak up, my part to play.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, my English coming out stiff and monotonous. “We work for the Advocate.”

  “I see,” Katz said. “If you would prefer, we may continue this conversation in Yiddish, although it’s been years since I’ve had to use it.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Raizel said, once we were seated.

  “To be entirely honest, I consider it a rather unsophisticated and rural tongue. I wouldn’t even call it a dialect. More like a bastardization.” A vague smile touched his lips. “Now, English... English is the language of the future. The language of industry. Wouldn’t you two agree?”

  “I suppose,” Raizel conceded, looking as though she was itching to say more. Considering her contributions to the Arbeiter-Zeitung and the Freiheit, she probably considered German to be the language of revolution.

  “I suppose,” I echoed, then felt foolish for simply repeating her words. Retrieving my fountain pen and journal from my satchel, I pretended to take notes.

  Katz’s gaze returned to me, and this time stayed. His face remained fixed in an expression of polite indifference, but the finger that had been absently stroking his cheek now edged to his crooked nose. He touched the crumpled nostril, traced the scar that gouged across his cheek.

  I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving behind a prickly chill. I tried to smile, but my lips faltered.

  “I do hope my scar does not bother you, young man,” Mr. Katz said, as though he had only just become aware of my stare. “Or you, miss. I received it nearly a year ago, in some rather nasty business.”

  “What sort of business?” Raizel asked, giving me a loaded look. She thought this was relevant, didn’t she? As though this was the clue that would crack this case wide-open, when I already knew what Mr. Katz was going to say before the words even left his mouth.

  “Two street urchins broke into my home and robbed me at gunpoint.” His finger trailed lower, following the pale, knotty line to where it hooked under his chin. “My jaw, my nose, my eye socket, broken. They had to wire my jaw shut. The one who did it, I would pay dearly to be put alone in a room with him for just five minutes.”

  My face felt stiff and numb, as though it had become scar tissue itself. I flinched as Raizel nudged me discreetly. My hand swerved off course, gouging the fountain pen’s nib across the paper.

  There was only one reason for him to admit something like this. He recognized me. I was certain of it.

  Mr. Katz smiled. “I do apologize, but we have strayed off topic. Where are my manners? I believe that introductions are in order. I don’t recall hearing your names.”

  “My name is Rokhl,” Raizel said. “This is—”

  “Asher,” I said.

  “Rokhl and Asher,” Mr. Katz echoed thoughtfully, his gaze on me as he said it. “Good names. Now, what questions do you have for me?”

  “Many here in Chicago consider you a self-made man, the kind of immigrant they strive to become.” Raizel scanned over her notes. “Why don’t you start by telling us a little about your past?”

  “I was born in Congress Poland, but I—”

  “Where?” I interrupted.

  His eyes narrowed. “Varshe, but I moved here over twenty years ago.”

  “Do you still have family back there?”

  “Yes. My parents still live there. I visit them every few years.” His smile was dull and flinty. “I am a good son.”

  My face prickled coldly. Before coming to America, Yakov had lived with his uncle, who had taught at the Imperial University in Varshe. He and Katz could have met there. Something could have happened between them.

  After writing something in her notebook, Raizel cleared her throat.

  “From what we hear, you’re quite the philanthropist. You have donated to a number of admirable causes.” Raizel flipped through her notes. “But your career hasn’t been without controversy. There have been allegations of abuse toward workers.”

  “I treat my workers with the respect they deserve,” Mr. Katz said, aloof. “A factory cannot run without a firm hand. You cannot show weakness. For a business to operate at its fullest potential, everything must be in top order.”

  “Overworking them, forcing them to stand for hours without breaks. Restricting access to lavatories.” She flipped the page. “In February, a warden poured scalding water on a man’s arm—”

  “An accident.” His voice chilled.

  “And what about the incident two weeks ago? The boy they found in the waste pit.”

  The fingers that had been so lightly caressing the scar tissue now flexed and tightened, his nails digging in. His expression never changed.

  “That,” he said slowly, like a warning, “was also an accident.”

  “Of course,” Raizel said sagely, before shifting to a more mundane line of questioning. “The World’s Fair is, of course, of great interest to our readers. Have you seen an increase in meat sales since the Fair began?”

  “Yes. We work closely with the restaurants and various food stands at the Fair and surrounding areas. Daily, we supply the Fair with nearly five thousand pounds of steaks, ground meat, and sausages. Our customers know that when they are buying our meat, it is produced to the highest standards of quality and cleanliness.”

  He enjoyed talking about himself. About his successes. He had a wife. She was with child.

  As they spoke, I jotted down his responses and allowed my gaze to wander restlessly across the room. Cattle carcasses, flayed and butterflied, flitted past the wide observation window. In the corner of my eye, they could almost be mistaken for human corpses.

  My throat ached. I paused to massage it, wondering if the pain was a sign of Katz’s guilt. The alternative was even worse—that it was proof Yakov was growing more and more powerful, laying down his roots.

  “How do you spend your holidays?” I asked a few questions later.

  “What do you mean?” Katz asked.

  “Fourth of July, for instance. What did you do then?”

  His eyes narrowed, and for a long moment he merely regarded me. My skin itched under the onslaught of his gaze, as though if he stared at me long enough, he
’d be able to peel back my skin and peer inside me, into all that I was and ever would be—thief, dishonorable son, liar, disgrace.

  “I attended a dinner,” he said at last. “A rather dull affair, if I must admit. But the company was delectable.”

  The rest of the interview yielded nothing of value, and at the end of it, he escorted us to the entrance himself. On the walk down, his fingertips stroked the small of my back ever so lightly, as though he meant to brush off a fleck of lint. His touch made my skin crawl.

  Then Raizel and I stepped outside into the flinty sunlight, the first fireflies emerging to sip from the Stockyards’ puddles. As the doors eased shut behind us, she turned to me.

  “He was looking at you,” she said quietly, her features grim. “All throughout the interview. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “I know.”

  28

  On the train back to Maxwell Street, I wrote down what we had learned, compiling the facts into even columns. There were loose connections tying Mr. Katz to Yakov and potentially to the other boys—not to mention Frankie and myself—but it still didn’t feel good enough. I needed solid proof, the sort of bloody evidence that would convince a judge to deal out a death sentence. But even then, I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to take justice into my own hands.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” I said. “Raizel, why don’t you write the article?”

  “Me?” She laughed abruptly.

  “I mean it. You said you’ve gotten your writing published in the Arbeiter-Zeitung and the Freiheit.”

  “Well, yes, but neither of those papers would be interested in something like this.” She gave it some thought. “If the story were just about Mr. Katz, the Arbeiter-Zeitung might publish it, but we’d need more than what we have. We can’t just publish an article based on speculation.”

  “You’re right.”

  “How about this? Let’s write it together.” She smiled. “It’ll be a collaboration.”