“Deal.” As I scanned over what I had written, the letters blurred into an inky smear. My chin grew heavy. I pinched my inner wrist as I sensed myself beginning to drift off, but it was as though lead ingots had been tied to my chin and eyelids.
A throbbing orange glow appeared in the corners of my vision, casting flickering shadows across the train car. My ears rang with faint noises I couldn’t place—crackling and hissing, the groan of wood, indistinct voices that sounded like screaming but were so far away they might as well have been whispers.
Raizel seized my wrist as I began to nod off. “Alter, what are you doing?”
I blinked, jolted wide-awake. “What?”
“Your arm!”
I looked down. My journal had fallen to the floor without me noticing it. I held my fountain pen in my left hand, the nib sunken into the tender flesh of my right forearm. Ink and blood dripped down my skin. I wiped it away frantically, exposing letters scratched into my skin:
КАТ
I traced my fingers over the shallow scratches the pen nib had made. Raizel had caught me before I even finished spelling Katz’s name, but if she hadn’t, what would I have done? Would I have kept writing until I had carved his name from wrist to shoulder, the same way that I had typed zolst im derhargenen into the Linotype machine?
“What were you thinking?” Raizel demanded.
“I don’t know.” I hastily rolled down my sleeve. “I must have drifted off. I have Katz on my brain.”
“You’ve been acting really strange lately. This isn’t normal, Alter.”
“I’m fine, Raizel.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. I threw my journal and fountain pen back into my satchel. “I’m just tired.”
Truly, I was tired. On the walk home, exhaustion pressed down on me. I barely had the motivation to climb to the third floor. I knew what I had to do. I just didn’t know if I was strong enough to finish Yakov’s last task for him.
A familiar figure was standing outside my door as I entered the third-floor corridor. He turned at the sound of my footsteps.
At the sight of Frankie’s sharp, handsome features, I couldn’t help but feel a ripple of trepidation. All I could think of was his face on the night I had left him, how slack his mouth had been. The blood flecked across his cheeks and lips. The distant look in his eyes, as though he was peering over his shoulder at something far behind him.
“Took you long enough,” he said. “I thought I’d be waiting here all evening.”
I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I approached him. “How did you figure out where I live?”
“Same way you figured out where I worked.” He ran a hand through his tousled curls, as though self-conscious of having his head uncovered in a place so Jewish that there were mezuzahs on every doorpost. “It wasn’t too hard to ask around at the shuls.”
I felt like I should say more after the way I’d brushed him off earlier. “Listen, about what I said this morning—”
“Forget about it.” He waved his hand as though clearing the air.
“Oh.” I couldn’t help but feel a sting of disappointment.
“Like I said before, what we did was just harmless fun.” Something about the way he said it made my stomach clench. He glanced around the hall, before lowering his voice. “Besides, that thing about Leviticus, it’s all shtuss. It’s not about them both being men, otherwise the verse would have used ‘ish’ rather than ‘zachar.’ Why say ‘male’ when you could just say ‘man’?”
“I don’t know,” I confessed. I understood Hebrew well enough to read it, but I had always struggled with actually interpreting the passages. I felt as if there was a whole other layer to the Meforshim that I couldn’t unlock, no matter how much I read.
“It’s about—” Frankie’s voice clicked, as though his mouth was dry. He swallowed, his brow creased by a hint of unease. “It’s about boys, Alter. About how an adult man shouldn’t lie with a boy. Just like the story of Sodom, it’s about consent.”
Though his analysis nudged my thoughts back to Mr. Katz and the unspeakable crimes he had likely committed, it came as an indescribable relief to hear Frankie say it. He still recalled enough of his former schooling to be able to recite entire blatts of the Talmud from memory alone, a parlor trick he’d shown off to the crew’s disbelief and amusement. Somehow, the words felt more legitimate shaped by the rise and fall of his yeshivish cadence.
He cleared his throat and held up the burlap sack he was carrying. “Anyway, enough about that. I brought your clothes and things.”
“Did you have to fight Meir to get them back?”
“No, but I had to listen to him kvetch for a solid twenty minutes before he surrendered them. If there’s one thing that man knows, it’s how to lecture people.”
“Thank you,” I said as Frankie handed the sack to me. I poked through its contents until I found my father’s pocket watch and traced my thumb over the case’s familiar dings and scratches. It felt good having the watch back where it belonged.
“How are you holding up?” Frankie asked as I rummaged for my keys. I didn’t want to talk about Mr. Katz out in the hall where Mrs. Brenner could be listening in.
“I’m... I don’t know. It’s just like what happened with my father.” I wiggled the key back and forth in the stubborn lock until I heard a click. “You expect everything to come to a standstill, and in some ways it does, but everything on the outside keeps moving on. I still need to send money over for my mom and sisters, so I still have to work, and I just have to sit there, pretending that nothing has changed.”
“That’s how life is,” Frankie said. “You’re breathing, so you have to keep going, even when it doesn’t feel like you’re still alive. Speaking of which, care to accompany me down to Washington Park?”
“Washington Park,” I repeated blankly.
“Remember? Mr. Whitby invited us to the races tonight.”
“How well do you even know that man?”
“Well enough to see the value in an invitation.” He drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat and glanced at the time. “If we leave now, we should still be able to make it for the last several runs.”
“Frankie, in case you’ve forgotten, I have a dybbuk inside me.”
“All the more reason to go,” he said, with a smile I would have found appealing if his flippancy wasn’t so aggravating. “Since he’s a member of the Whitechapel Club, Mr. Whitby might know about deaths that haven’t made it into the local papers.”
I sighed. He had a point. Besides, my skin crawled at the thought of spending the rest of the night staring at Yakov’s empty bed.
Frankie followed me into the room. I could sense that something had changed between us, but I was afraid to give voice to it. It was easier just to pretend that our kiss last night had never happened, or that it had been from exhaustion or the possession.
The only thing I needed to think about now was helping complete Yakov’s unfinished business here on earth. But before I could confront Katz, I needed more than just my suspicions. I needed proof.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” I said as Frankie sat on Haskel’s cot. “You remember that night I left?”
He pretended to be mesmerized by the scabs on his knuckles, but I caught the way he stiffened. His gaze flicked toward me, cold and wary. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
“We went to that house together and—”
“Alter, I’m not going to repeat myself.”
“I want to talk about it,” I protested.
“Well, I don’t. As the Americans say, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ It’s over and done with, and we can’t go back to it. Now just get dressed. We’re going to be late enough as it is.”
I sighed, changing out of my borrowed waistcoat and shirt. For someone who loved to keep a conversation go
ing, Frankie certainly had a talent for ending one. Prodding him more would be like poking an oyster. After enough aggravation, he’d retreat into his shell and harden over, and that would be the end of it.
“You might as well keep my clothes on. They suit you.” As I reached for my tzitzis, Frankie chuckled. “Ah, I see. Tuck the tassels in unless you want to get spat on. Oh, don’t give me that look. Did Ha’ARI not say that to wear your tzitzis tucked in is to remind yourself of your inner faith and spirituality?”
“I’m just wondering why you eagerly associate with people who spit on Jews.”
“Not all of us want to live in a ghetto.”
I smoothed out the cotton tunic and unbuttoned my trousers to tuck the tassels in. “Raizel and I went to the Stockyards today.”
“Mmm.”
“There was a worker found dead at one of the slaughterhouses. The police called it an accident, but—”
“Uh-huh.” He sounded distracted.
“Are you even listening?” As I turned, I was startled to find Frankie staring at me intently.
“If you don’t hurry, we’re going to be late,” he said nonchalantly, taking out his pocket watch to check the time.
“What is it?”
He snapped his watch shut. “What?”
“Why were you looking at me like that?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“It’s just that you look like you could use a good meal. A nice round of beef or roast goose. I was thinking, once this business is over, I should take you to one of those places down by the lakeside.” His gaze flicked down my front. “But I doubt you’ll make it past the front doors dressed like that.”
I scoffed, buttoning my shirt. “So, my clothes aren’t good enough for you now?”
“I’m talking about your tzitzis,” he said dryly as I slid on my waistcoat and evening coat. “Most of those places don’t serve Jews. You enter the room, and they look at you like you’re a mangy mutt. Like, ‘oh, dearie me, who let that dreadful thing in?’” He gave a languid wave of his hand. “‘Get it out now. It might have fleas.’”
“It sounds like you know from experience,” I said, again stealing Haskel’s bowler cap from atop his bedpost. I stuffed my necktie into my pocket to knot on the way.
“My manager—that dried-out old Brit who was taking money back at the Masthead—he took me for dinner once to his country club down in Lake Forest. You should have seen the way he calculated the timing perfectly.” A bitter smile spread across Frankie’s lips. “When the waiter came to take our orders, he said it so smoothly—‘oh, but you do realize that tenderloin is pork, don’t you, Portnoy? I thought your tribe doesn’t eat pork?’ Like he knew exactly how the waiter’s face would change. Like he wanted to put me back in my place. I’ll bet all the cooks took turns spitting in my food that night.”
I stopped walking, staring at him in disbelief. “Why do you work for someone like that?”
Frankie ushered me forward again. “I’m not working for him. I have an arrangement with him. He’s not my boss. He’s my manager and sponsor. It’s different. I’m no one’s grunt. You know that.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “Why not make an arrangement with a manager who actually respects you?”
“You think any of them are any better?” He scoffed. “No. They’re all the same, Alter. We’ll never be equals in their eyes. They can grit their teeth and tolerate us, but they’ll never welcome us into their white cities, because ambition becomes something ugly when it has a Jewish face.” He bared his bruised knuckles at me, a startling contrast to the elegant finery of his silver rings. “And no amount of blood, sweat, or fine tailoring will ever change that.”
29
The Washington Park racetrack sat on a verdant strip of land along the city’s southwestern edge, within walking distance of both the Fair’s Midway Plaisance and the University of Chicago. As Frankie and I walked up the cobblestone-lined path leading into the track, I tried to savor the moment. I didn’t belong here, but if only for tonight, I would be allowed to enter.
The first thing that struck me about the facility was its cleanliness. The air smelled of pine wax, fresh paint, and cigar smoke, and only when we passed the paddock did I catch the faintest whiff of horseflesh.
Though there were less than two hours of light remaining, the grandstands were filled with spectators. Even more visitors crowded on the lush lawns to watch the horses. Following in the theme of the World’s Fair, the racetrack’s decorators had ladled on the patriotism with a heavy hand, adorning the balconies and red roofs with American flags and pleated fans in the Stars and Stripes.
Carriages lined the path leading to the mansion that overlooked the tracks. Guests loitered in the two-story veranda that encircled the building, leaning over the railings or lounging against the balconies’ pillars. With the building’s pitched roof and many windows, I thought it must be a manor of some sort, and told Frankie as much.
Frankie laughed. “And who do you suppose lives there?”
I frowned, rather offended. “Whoever owns the tracks.”
“That’s the clubhouse for the bigwigs.”
“Bigwigs,” I repeated. “What’s a bigwig?”
“You know. A makher. A boss. The Americans call them the upper crust.”
“That sounds like something that would grow on a bowl of porridge left out for too long.”
“Won’t argue about that. Anyway, forget the names. Point is they don’t let just anyone in there. It costs $150 just to become a member.”
“Are you a member?”
His laughter caught in his throat, and for a moment, a trace of anger flared in his gaze. He turned away. “You think they have any members named Portnoy in there, Alter? Or Rosen?”
The venom in his voice took me aback. “I just thought...you knew how much it cost, so...”
“You know how I am. I like to collect useless information and parrot it back at people. Besides, I don’t have $150 to throw away. Luckily for us, we’re guests tonight.”
As we approached the doorman, he leveled his chin and regarded us through narrowed eyes.
“You should’ve worn my clothes,” Frankie muttered under his breath, drawing a small manila card from his evening coat’s breast pocket. Turning to the man, he switched over to crisp English. “My name is Frankie Porter. I’m a guest of John Whitby.”
“Is that so?” The doorman took the card from Frankie and examined it closely. “And who’s this?”
“My family’s servant,” Frankie said. “Don’t mind him.”
I choked on my words, only managing by sheer willpower to keep from wringing Frankie’s neck.
With a grunt of approval, the man stepped aside to allow us to enter.
“Your servant, Sir Porter?” I hissed once we were past the doors. “Is that so?”
“We aren’t exactly dressed like brothers. You ought to get a top hat, you know that? Although I suppose a bowler cap is better than that ratty newsie.”
“You’re not even wearing a hat!”
“I don’t wear hats.”
“Too afraid they’ll cut off the circulation to your brain?”
“Yes. Which I imagine you don’t have to worry about, being that you don’t have one.”
I shot him a sour look, though I knew from the warmth in his voice that he was only teasing. It had been so long since we talked like this. I’d missed it.
The entry hall stretched from one side of the building to the other, an expanse of glittering crystal, plush Turkish rugs, and carved wood. The bronze chandeliers’ gas jets produced a softly palpitating glow, casting pools of light across the polished oak floor.
“Billiard room, billiard room,” Frankie muttered, glancing into the rooms that branched out from the main hall. The café was deserted at this hour, with
the chairs on the tables. In the adjoining room we found Mr. Whitby leaning over a pool table.
He aimed carefully, then thrust the cue forward. The white ball bounced across the sides of the table before coming to a stop without pocketing any points. Sighing, he stepped back to allow his opponent to take a turn.
As we neared, Mr. Whitby brightened at the sight of us. Wearing a dark evening suit and a top hat, he looked all the part of a gentleman.
“Ah, Frankie, I am so glad you could join us. And your friend as well.” Whitby turned to me. “Alex, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Yes,” I said, taking the hand he extended. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Whitby’s handshake was firm but not forceful, his grip softened by his kidskin gloves. With his periwinkle-blue eyes and broad smile, he presented an air of genuine warmth. His teeth were small and white, like a child’s.
The soft clunk of pool balls diverted my attention. One by one, several balls vanished into the table’s deep pockets. Resting his cue on the table, Whitby’s opponent turned to us.
He had a lean, intelligent face with a neatly trimmed brown mustache and eyes as gray as smoke. Though his sleeves were rolled down and fastened by cloisonné cuff links, I recognized him as the tattooed man from the Whitechapel Club.
The man smiled stiffly as Mr. Whitby slapped his shoulder in the friendly American way.
“This, my friends, is my business associate, Gregory,” Whitby said. “Unfortunately, he is a far better pool player than myself. Would you two care to join us for a round?”
“Perhaps in a bit,” Frankie said, sparing me from having to explain that I had never played pool and would sooner strike my own eye out than hit the ball. “I’m more interested in what’s going on in the basement.”
Mr. Whitby chuckled. “Ah, you mean the bookmaking. I thought that might interest you. Come, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Frankie looked at me. “Are you coming?”
“I’ll wait here.” I didn’t want to venture into that part of Frankie’s world any more than I wanted to rejoin his crew. Besides, the less I had to speak English, the better.
The City Beautiful Page 20
