Brooklyn on Fire

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “Sean’s told me all of that already, and though it’s suspicious, it’s hardly damning.”

  “I agree with you, but I’m not finished. It doesn’t help that Sean announced to the world that he was going to kill her.”

  Mary was taken aback but still skeptical. “Sean really said that?”

  “Indeed.”

  “When? It wasn’t that night, was it?”

  “No, but that doesn’t make a difference.”

  “How could it not? Are you trying to tell me Sean, in the heat of an argument, screamed that he was going to commit murder, then, over the next month or two, proceeded to date his potential victim, even get engaged to her, while all the time he was plotting to kill her? That’s absurd! It sounds like a bizarre concoction devised by Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “That’s not how James Ridgeway feels.”

  “Ridgeway, the chief prosecutor? Why in God’s name would he—”

  “Mary, it’s Brooklyn and it’s murder. He jumps at the big ones, not at some kid who steals from a pushcart.”

  “Still, these types of murders happen in Brooklyn every day. Sean is a relative nobody.”

  “I take it you haven’t seen the newspapers yet. Here’s today’s. Yesterday’s was worse.”

  He handed Mary a copy of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle; on the front page was a huge headline that read, MARY HANDLEY’S BROTHER ARRESTED FOR MURDER.

  All of Mary’s cockiness was knocked out of her. She sat motionless as the realization sunk in that her notoriety could send her brother to the electric chair.

  19

  LAZLO’S BOOKS WAS swarming with newspaper reporters and curiosity seekers. Mary turned the corner, spotted a group milling about outside the bookstore, and immediately knew what was waiting for her. Running as far from them as possible seemed like a good idea at first. Nevertheless, she decided to press on. Her reasoning was that she would have to deal with them sooner or later, and she might as well do it at Lazlo’s, where possibly some good would come from the free publicity he would get.

  As Mary braced herself for the onslaught of reporters, she couldn’t help being reminded of her first day on the Goodrich case, when she was swarmed by the press. Except there was a noteworthy difference. Before, it was a fun event where they were probing to see who this lady detective might be, hoping to discover a new media darling. Now they were hoping for Mary to get testy, deny her brother or implicate him. She was determined to avoid all of that.

  Lazlo watched from the doorway as the reporters surrounded Mary and tossed questions at her rapid-fire.

  “Miss Handley, what is your reaction to your brother’s arrest?”

  “Clear and simple, it’s a miscarriage of justice that will soon be rectified. Sean is innocent.”

  “But he threatened to kill her, and she was murdered,” another reporter chimed in.

  “She was Patricia Cassidy. Please give her the dignity of remembering her name. Patti was a wonderful person and a good friend. Sean and Patti were very much in love.”

  “Then how do you explain what happened?”

  “We’ve all had experiences with someone close to us where we’ve gotten into arguments and said things we didn’t mean. The difference in Sean’s situation is that sadly Patti was murdered. But that doesn’t mean that he acted on those words any more than any of you have.”

  More questions were thrown at her, and she chose the first one she could ascertain. “How is your brother holding up under all this pressure?”

  “Sean’s a brilliant police officer and a Handley, which makes him sturdy and resilient.”

  “So he’s okay?”

  “About as okay as anyone could be who’s been accused of killing the one true love of his life. He’s feeling a whole range of emotions from sadness to anger to guilt. It’s only natural. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—”

  Mary began to make her way through the throng of reporters. Lazlo saw it, and he tried to burrow a path from him to her. She didn’t see him until they met in the middle, and the look in her eyes screamed, Get me out of here! Lazlo immediately turned around and helped her tunnel her way into the store as he shouted to the reporters.

  “Thank you, everyone. Miss Handley has much work to do.”

  He closed the door on the reporters. Lazlo shielded Mary from any curiosity seekers inside as he led her to her office, where she sat down with a deep sigh.

  “Thank you, Lazlo.” She took a moment to collect herself.

  “How is Sean really doing?”

  A serious concern crept into her voice. “He’s scared, Lazlo, really scared, and I don’t blame him.”

  Mary wasn’t even sure why she had shown up at her office. There was nothing there that she needed to do. But Lazlo knew why. She needed a safe haven in which to rest and a friendly shoulder on which to lean. Lazlo was more than happy to provide that shoulder for this young lady who was the epitome of what he would have wished for in a daughter if he had ever wanted children.

  WHEN GEORGE PICKED Mary up for dinner that night, he informed her that they would be having a surprise guest at their table: William Jay Gaynor.

  “The name sounds familiar,” she said, “but I can’t place it.”

  “He’s a lawyer. I’ve asked him to take a look at Sean’s case.”

  “Sean doesn’t need a lawyer yet. Hopefully, his case will never go to trial.”

  “Trust me, Mary. He should have had one two days ago when he was arrested.”

  “I do trust you, George, but honestly, none of us have the money for a lawyer, and especially not a good one.”

  “I’ve already taken care of it.”

  “No, I can’t allow you to pay for our problems.”

  “I’m only going to say this once, Mary. I love you….Well, I’m going to say it many times again and again over eternity.”

  “Good, because I love you, too, but—”

  “No buts. We’re going to be married and your family is going to be my family. And the Vanderbilts have not had a jailbird in the family yet…at least, I don’t think so.” He stopped and looked at her. “Ah, Mary, don’t make it so hard. I want to help.”

  “I wouldn’t take on my family so quickly. You’re bound to regret it.”

  “And along those lines…”

  George took a ring box out of his coat and opened it to reveal a magnificent diamond engagement ring. It had a simple platinum band with a five-carat round diamond resting on it. It was perfect. Suddenly, Mary couldn’t breathe.

  “Oh, George…I don’t know much about jewelry, but I do know that is…simply beautiful.”

  “You like it then?”

  “Like it? I…I…I can’t speak.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. We’ll have it sized to your finger as soon as you have time.”

  “Time? Are there any jewelers open tonight?”

  They both laughed as they began traveling over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan.

  William Jay Gaynor was not a typical lawyer. In fact, there was nothing typical about him. He was a devout Roman Catholic who had studied to be a priest but decided on the law instead. Unlike most lawyers, he believed in always speaking the truth. He repeatedly attacked politicians and journalists, labeling them a shady lot who didn’t hesitate to use lies to forward their causes and line their wallets. Surprisingly enough, he was also very successful and one of the top lawyers in Brooklyn. Mary and George were on their way to the Lower East Side of Manhattan to meet him at a place owned by the Iceland brothers on Ludlow Street. Following his unconventional style, Gaynor was an Irish Catholic who simply loved kosher deli food.

  The Iceland Brothers Deli was a small restaurant with limited table space. There was a long counter on the right side of the entrance with meats like corned beef, pastrami, and roast beef clearly in view but with glass shielding them from the customers’ touch. Large kosher salamis and bolognas hung on the walls, and there was a counterman making sandwiches in plain sight with doors to a k
itchen behind him. As Mary and George entered, they were greeted by the counterman, who smiled broadly.

  “Velcome to Iceland Brothers Deli,” he said, betraying his Russian Jewish origins.

  They smiled back and thanked him, then looked around for Gaynor. The dining room was about three-quarters full, and George spotted Gaynor sitting alone at a table for four, eating a large bowl of matzo ball soup. Gaynor was heavyset, and at only forty-one, he already had a gray beard and had lost a great deal of hair.

  “Good evening, Mr. Gaynor. May I present to you my fiancée, Mary Handley.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Handley,” said Gaynor, rising briefly and nodding to Mary.

  As they all sat, Gaynor indicated his soup. “I apologize for ordering before you, but I can’t resist the smells.” He took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the atmosphere.

  A waiter arrived to take their order.

  “I’ll have lean corned beef on rye bread with a glass of seltzer,” Mary said.

  “That was awfully fast, Mary,” George said. “Have you eaten in a kosher deli before?”

  “Not here, but my first boyfriend was Jewish.”

  “Really? Should I be jealous?”

  “We were fourteen, and I was attracted to him because he appeared to be deep and moody, one of those mysterious, tortured souls. Then I found out the source of his torture was that he was orthodox and loved pork. That ended the magic.”

  They all laughed then ordered three lean corned beef sandwiches.

  “So,” said Gaynor, “here we are, three Christians, soon to be eating kosher food. I wonder what Jesus would have to say about that.”

  “I don’t pretend to have had the seminary education that you’ve had, Mr. Gaynor,” Mary responded. “But I do remember that Jesus was Jewish. So, I don’t believe he would object.”

  Gaynor looked at George and pointed to Mary. “I like her, George. Excellent choice.”

  “I’m a very lucky man.” George looked at Mary, they exchanged loving glances, and then he turned back to Gaynor. “So, William, will you take Sean’s case?”

  “Before I do, you must tell me everything you know. I don’t believe what I read in the newspapers.”

  Mary divulged every detail she could remember, including her brief interaction with Billy and her visit to Superintendent Campbell. Every once in a while, George would add a comment, but mostly she spoke. She stressed that even though Sean and Patti had a history of loud, sometimes explosive arguments, not once did it ever get physical between them.

  “Even if the jury believes that,” Gaynor responded, “you realize what they might be thinking and what the prosecutor, especially one like Ridgeway, will no doubt verbalize.”

  Mary reluctantly responded, “There’s always a first time.”

  An agonizing silence filled the atmosphere around the table as Mary processed yet another piece of information that confirmed just how much trouble Sean was in.

  “I like you, Miss Handley,” Gaynor started.

  “Please, call me Mary.”

  “I believe you to be an honest person, Mary. I have no reason to think that anything you’ve told me is incorrect. More facts may surface later, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Does that mean you’ll defend Sean?”

  “Yes, but with one condition: you may not under any circumstance speak with the press.”

  Mary was taken aback by this request. She had always handled the press quite well during the Goodrich case, and she told Gaynor so.

  “That was the Goodrich case. This is the Handley case.” And Gaynor lifted a newspaper that he had kept folded on the floor next to his chair. It was the late edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. He opened it, revealing the headline: HANDLEY SAYS BROTHER IS GUILTY.

  “I never said that!”

  “In your conversation with the press earlier today, did you ever use the word ‘guilt’?”

  “Not in that context. I was referring to the wide range of emotions Sean was feeling—”

  “It doesn’t matter. From now on, all you say is ‘no comment.’ Are we agreed?”

  “Agreed.” But all Mary had in her mind was that she had just put a nail in Sean’s coffin.

  “Good. Since I left the seminary, I’ve latched on to Ben Franklin as a guiding light for my behavior,” he said, then pointed to the headline. “You need to keep in mind one of his sayings—‘A slip of the foot you may soon recover, but a slip of the tongue you may never get over.’ ”

  It wasn’t lost on Mary that possibly Gaynor and Lazlo had something in common and should meet. But she was in no mood to make introductions. All she could think of was how the reporters had twisted her words and used them against Sean. Gaynor was right. She was no longer the darling of the press. Rather, like Sean, she had a target on her back.

  20

  HUGH MCLAUGHLIN WALKED into a saloon near Clinton Hill in Brooklyn looking for Alfred Chapin. He found him sitting alone at a booth in the back as far away from any other human being as possible. His nerves evident, Chapin was nursing a drink with his hands wrapped firmly around the glass. He didn’t look at McLaughlin but stared straight ahead, almost as if someone were sitting across from him.

  “Sit down,” Chapin whispered.

  McLaughlin was amused. “Ya talking to me, Yer Honor?”

  “Shush. No names.”

  “I didn’t say yer name unless ya changed yers to—”

  “Will you please just sit?”

  McLaughlin finally gave way and sat. “Is it possible ya don’t know? Huntington’s out of the consolidation project. That oughta cheer ya up.” It clearly didn’t. “Okay, what has yer knickers in an uproar this fine evenin’?”

  “We need to talk about…the thing.”

  “What thing?” McLaughlin knew perfectly well what Chapin meant, but he couldn’t resist toying with him.

  “You know…it.”

  “It? Sorry, but I’m not catchin’ yer drift. What exactly—?”

  “The deal, damn it! The deal! Think water….”

  “Oh, right, the deal…What deal again?”

  McLaughlin saw that Chapin’s veins were about to pop out of his forehead, so he decided to stop fooling with him before the mayor had a stroke.

  “I was just havin’ some fun. I know what deal.”

  “I’m glad you’re so smug, but you wouldn’t be if you knew what’s happened.”

  “Tell me then. What happened?”

  “Someone upped the bid on the company. I don’t know who. I’ll have to pay three times what we discussed.”

  “Three times?” McLaughlin was genuinely surprised.

  “Ah, all of a sudden you’re not so smug.”

  McLaughlin’s face slowly spread to accommodate a wide grin. “Well, looks like I have an anonymous benefactor.”

  “You’re not Pip in Great Expectations. This is serious.”

  “Who? In what?”

  “It’s a Charles Dickens novel.”

  “Who the bloody hell is he?”

  “Forget it. What are we going to do?”

  “I dunno what yer gonna do, but I’m gonna celebrate.” He reached over, took Chapin’s drink, and downed it.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’m gonna make three times more than I thought I was gonna make. So are my friends. I could kiss ya. We all could kiss ya”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“my beautiful mayor.”

  “This is going to get out, and when it does—”

  “All that’s gonna get out is that our wonderful mayor got Brooklyn water, savin’ our dear city from those New York bastards.”

  “But the price.”

  “Do the deal. Nobody knows and nobody cares. Companies, contracts, kickbacks, they’re all the same. It’s been goin’ on for years and will continue long after we’re gone.”

  “Well, I’ve never done this,” Chapin pronounced emphatically, beginning to perspire.

  “What do ya know? The c
ollege lad is about to pop his cherry.” He turned toward the bar. “Bring me a bottle of yer finest Irish whiskey. My friend and I got some celebratin’ to do!”

  Chapin could stand it no longer. He rose and whisked out of there as fast as he could.

  Completely unfazed, McLaughlin shrugged and chuckled. Oh well, more for me then, he mused as he got ready to get rip-roaring drunk.

  GEORGE HAD TAKEN Mary home. He hadn’t wanted to risk her staying at his house in Manhattan on the off chance that someone might spot them, thus compromising her reputation. Mary didn’t care about flighty things like reputations, especially when she rejected the criteria on which they were based. George did care, and his reasoning wasn’t entirely misguided. He knew there would be enough speculation about a Vanderbilt marrying someone from a lower social class, and he didn’t want Mary to be subjected to further gossip about her being a loose woman who’d trapped him with her sexual wares. He realized the absurdity of altering their behavior to suit those of smaller minds, but he wanted Mary’s transition to marriage to be easy and painless.

  “I’ll have to take a short sabbatical from being your assistant the next few days. I have some business about Biltmore. It’s here in town, but I’ll still be busy.”

  “I can’t have my assistant run willy-nilly, attending to less important work. I just may have to hire a new one.”

  “I’d be devastated if you did, and even more so if he performed some of the same duties I have.”

  He leaned over and kissed her. When they broke, she said, “Since we won’t be seeing each other for the next few days, why don’t you spend the night at my apartment? I guarantee that no one there knows anyone from your neck of the woods.”

  He agreed as long as they didn’t make a habit of it. He truly was concerned about her reputation. After they had entered her apartment and she had turned on a couple of kerosene lamps, Mary curtsied mockingly.

  “Welcome to my humble abode, extremely humble—that is, bordering on pathetic.”

  He looked around the one-room apartment with its used furniture, rusty sink, and ancient Franklin stove, trying to be as positive as possible.