Brooklyn on Fire

by Lawrence H. Levy

  Patti was dead, her good friend Sarah was pregnant again and no doubt in bed at that hour after chasing her three children all day, and…that was it. Her mother was certainly the last person Mary wanted to see. She was in no mood to be showered with “I told you so’s.”

  Then she thought of Lazlo. He was terribly verbose, and he would probably bombard her with platitudes from Benjamin Franklin, but maybe that would lull her to sleep. Besides, she knew he cared about her as she did about him. Add to that the fact that he always stayed up late and his shoulder seemed to fill the bill as the perfect one on which she should cry.

  Mary put on dry clothes. Considering the rainstorm outside, they were the clothes she cared the least about. She slipped on her coat, grabbed her umbrella, and ventured out into the elements.

  Lazlo’s Books was a short five blocks from Mary’s apartment, but the inclement weather and empty streets made it seem like a longer journey than usual. Thankfully, it didn’t take much to raise Lazlo from his reading chair. A few quick knocks and a minute later he was peering through the glass portion of the door to see who was disturbing his intellectual tranquility. He was always happy to see Mary, and he promptly opened the door to welcome her. She was delighted that he was wearing his kimono and carrying a small kerosene lantern. It gave her an immediate chuckle and also solidified that she had come to the right place for the diversion she sought.

  “Thank you, Lazlo. I’ve always wondered what the Japanese version of Diogenes would look like, and now I know.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but you’d never catch me searching for an honest man. I’d have more luck finding Ebenezer Scrooge’s Christmas ghosts.” He indicated his lantern. “This is purely for purposes of illumination. But come inside. I doubt whether you came visiting at this hour to discuss Greek philosophers, ghosts, or literature.”

  Lazlo’s welcoming and warm voice was just what Mary needed. She stepped inside the store to close her umbrella, and she was just about done when she saw a glimmer of fear flash in Lazlo’s eyes. Before she could turn around, she was hit from behind and hit hard. As she fell to the floor, she instinctively knew it was Shorty, cursing herself for being so careless just before passing out.

  Mary had been out for less than a minute when she woke up. Lazlo was lying next to her, unconscious. Noticing that he was breathing, she was relieved that he was still alive, but she doubted whether Shorty intended either of them to remain in that state much longer. As she slowly rose, she saw Shorty in the main part of the bookstore. He had knocked over one of the large bookcases, dumping a pile of books onto the floor. She had started to pull Lazlo out the door to safety when Shorty spotted her.

  “Well, well, awake so soon?” he said as he walked toward her, Lazlo’s kerosene lantern in his hand. “Your friend Lazlo’s a real generous sort.” He pointed to the pile of books. “He left plenty of kindling and a beautiful flame.” He held up the lantern before he threw it into the pile, where it shattered and the books started to burn. Then he went for Mary.

  She had to drop Lazlo and figure out some way to combat this monster of a man. She was still a little groggy from the blow she had suffered, but fortunately Shorty was talkative. Apparently, he needed to vent for a much different reason than she did.

  “The flatfoots are out in force lookin’ for me, and I got you to thank for it.”

  “You’re forgetting your buddy Liam Riley. He couldn’t stop talking about you.”

  Shorty’s harrumph was full of disdain. “That poof.”

  “Right, he mentioned that, too. I forgot. Was it your ass or his that did the receiving?”

  Her experience had told her it was easy to anger Shorty, and she had accomplished that. He roared as he charged at her, but Mary was ready. Besides being proficient in jujitsu, she was also well practiced in the French art of kickboxing called savate. When Shorty got close, she let loose with a fouetté, a roundhouse kick, aimed at his one good knee. It landed, and Shorty went down.

  Mary went to finish him with a kick to his head, but at the last second he threw up his right arm, blocked the kick, and grabbed her foot with his left hand, yanking her to the floor. Once Shorty got hold of anyone with those massive arms of his, it was almost impossible to get free.

  He started pulling her toward him. She thrashed wildly and screamed, but it was in vain. He had her. Then, almost out of nowhere, Shorty got kicked in the back of the head. It was Lazlo, who had just regained consciousness. The kick wasn’t devastating, but it was enough to shock Shorty into loosening his grip, and Mary slid free. Shorty punished Lazlo with a powerful punch to his face that broke his cheekbone and knocked him out again.

  By the time Shorty turned his attention back to Mary, she had gotten Lazlo’s old musket, his Brown Bess, out of the hall closet and was pointing it at him.

  Shorty slowly got to his feet and scoffed at her. “You’re going to shoot me?” He laughed.

  “I’ve done it before, and it will be my pleasure to do it again.”

  She aimed it at his chest and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She pulled it again and again. Still nothing. Lazlo probably hadn’t kept it up over the years and odds were it was rusted. What a hell of a time to find this out, she thought.

  Shorty slowly made his way to her. The cocky look on his face said it all. He could smell victory. Using the musket like a baseball bat, she swung it at him. It landed the first time on his arm, but with all that muscle he hardly felt it. The second time around he was ready and caught it, then pulled her to him. When she was close, she started kicking again, but when it came to fighting and nothing else, Shorty was a fast learner.

  With both of them holding on to the musket, he swung her around, then released his right hand and punched her in the stomach. The pain was instantaneous, causing her to let go of the musket. In control, Shorty threw the musket aside, then disdainfully shoved her, and she tumbled outside into the rain. He methodically followed her like an animal stalking his wounded prey as the fire inside grew. There was plenty of paper to burn.

  By the time Mary started to get up, Shorty was there and had her in his clutches.

  “This is the part I’ve been waitin’ for,” he said. He put his right arm around her neck and dragged her to the alley on the side of the bookstore, so he could do his special work in private. It occurred to him that he liked the rain pouring down on them. It added a certain excitement. I’ll have to remember that, he thought.

  Mary flailed her arms and legs, but to no avail. When he got to the alley, he turned her to face him and put both hands around her neck. Mary was scared.

  “You’re not such a snotty bitch now, are ya?” Then he started squeezing.

  Swinging away at him was doing no good, and trying to pry off his powerful hands was useless. Mary knew it would only be a matter of seconds until she lost consciousness, and panic set in. Then she remembered what her jujitsu teacher, Wei Chung, had taught her in one of her first lessons when she was a young girl.

  When fighting a larger and more powerful adversary, you can’t wrestle with him or you will lose. You must always use the element of surprise.

  Wei’s words resonated with her. She took her two thumbs and thrust them into his eyes, digging deeply. Grunting from the shock, he reflexively released his grip on her in order to assess the damage.

  Now free, Mary tried to run away, but she was gasping for air and too weak to go anywhere. She stumbled to the ground and wound up sitting with her back against the side wall of the bookstore. She was trying to catch her breath and mount some plan, but there was little she could do. She didn’t even have the strength to outrun Shorty, and he had a leg brace. Mary watched as he quickly recovered, turned around, and stood in the puddle next to her, fuming. She looked skyward as if asking for divine intervention…and it came!

  Lightning struck Lazlo’s lightning rod. The grounding wire was in reach. Mary yanked it out and threw the now exposed wire into Shorty’s puddle as she rolled out of the way. Shorty had n
o idea what she was doing until the water and his metal leg brace proved to be excellent conductors, and then it was too late.

  Mary watched as the electricity passed through Shorty’s body and he started shaking violently. The absolute horror of not knowing what was happening to him was firmly planted on his face as he emitted a terrifying scream that lasted a full thirty seconds before he fell into the alley face-first. His head bounced back up, and his face landed on its side, his eyes blankly staring at Mary. Whatever light had once been in them was out, and she was sure he was dead.

  Mary smelled the fire and realized she had to get to Lazlo. She forced herself to rise and carefully walked around Shorty, making sure to avoid any electricity from the lightning that might still be there.

  By now the fire was raging inside the bookstore. Luckily, Lazlo was near the entrance, and though there was plenty of smoke, the fire hadn’t gotten to him yet. Mary summoned whatever strength she had left and dragged him by his feet out into the storm. As she sat on the ground, cradling his head in her lap, the rain splashing on his face, he eventually started to come to.

  “Lazlo, thank God you’re okay! I’d never be able to forgive myself if something happened to you because of me!”

  He was weak and had to speak carefully because of his broken cheekbone, but Lazlo was never one to stay silent for long.

  “I see. And this isn’t something?” He indicated his beaten-up face and burning store. Mary chortled at his ability to toss out a quip in even the direst circumstances.

  “You’ll be pleased to know that your old friend Ben Franklin saved us.”

  “Really? Did he ride up on his trusty steed with a lance in his hand like Don Quixote?”

  “I’m serious, Lazlo. It was your lightning rod. I obliterated the bastard with it.”

  He smiled. “Well, what do you know?”

  The fire was growing and Mary pulled Lazlo farther away from the building.

  “I feel awful about your home and store. It’s all my fault.”

  “Don’t fret, Mary. Ben will save it for me.”

  “Look at it. I’m sorry, Lazlo, but there’s no saving this building.”

  “Ben will get me another one.” About this time, Mary was thinking he might have some brain damage and maybe she needed to get him to the hospital sooner rather than later. She was looking around for some sort of transportation when he explained further.

  “You see, Mary, Ben was one of the first people to suggest fire insurance, and I always follow Ben’s suggestions.” The wily look in his eyes surfaced through his broken face.

  As the firemen arrived, they were surprised to see two very battered and very wet people lying on the sidewalk laughing hysterically.

  40

  MARY AWOKE THE next morning feeling the residual effects of her struggle with Shorty. Her ribs were sore, and she could still see the imprint of some of his fingers on her neck. The events of the previous day raced through her mind as if they were a bad dream, but they were real. She thought of George and tried to push him out of her head to concentrate on something positive. Sean was being released that afternoon, and she had a couple of loose ends to tie up before that. She was thankful that she was busy. Maybe that would keep her from thinking of George. If that failed, it was still raining. Maybe being annoyed about the weather would work.

  On her way out of her apartment, she stopped to check her mail, which she hadn’t had time to do the day before, and she found a letter from Emily Worsham. She thanked Mary profusely once again for flushing her uncle John out of hiding so the family could spend some time with him before he passed away. And he had just passed away. They had buried him in Richmond in the same grave that had contained an empty coffin for the past twelve years. Emily wrote, “Uncle John went as he had always wished: in the arms of a lady of the evening after an all-night poker game.” Mary could just picture it, too, and the vision of that old rascal made her chuckle.

  Her first stop of the day was William Gaynor’s office. He welcomed her with open arms.

  “Mary, my dear. My God, you’ve been a busy one, haven’t you? I must get George to recommend more clients. I so enjoy winning cases without having to do anything.”

  His mention of George hurt, but Mary decided to ignore it and move on or she might turn into the type of person she detested: the kind who pours her guts out to everyone she sees.

  “The important thing is that Sean is free. I’m glad I could help. The way it all started out I was more of a detriment than anything else.”

  “About that, by the way. You deliberately ignored my instructions.”

  “What instructions?”

  “I specifically warned you about staying out of the newspapers.” The impish grin on his face gave away his delight as he held up a copy of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The headline read, HANDLEY CAPTURES ONE MURDERER, KILLS THE OTHER. “You must tell me all the details,” he said. “Newspapers never get it right.”

  “I promise I will someday when I have more time. Presently, I believe that I have some information to impart to you that you will find far more interesting.”

  Mary informed him about the Long Island Water Supply Company and, as the second-largest shareholder, the ungodly profit Hugh McLaughlin was going to make on Mayor Chapin’s purchase of the company for Brooklyn. As she had expected, Gaynor was outraged and went off into one of his rants about dishonest politicians and how they make life harder for common, decent people.

  By the time Mary had left, she was convinced that she had made the right decision in leaving this matter in Gaynor’s hands. Pretty soon all of Brooklyn and New York would know of it, and at the very least, it would be a boon to the consolidation project and mean much trouble for Hugh McLaughlin.

  Mary’s next stop was in Manhattan. She owed Collis Huntington a visit and also an apology. She had inadvertently exposed his family to scandal, and she was truly sorry for it.

  Once again, Huntington’s nephew Henry was visiting, and he, Arabella, Huntington, and Archer were chatting in the drawing room. The butler showed Mary to Huntington’s office, where she sat on a comfortable and cushy leather club chair. He joined her shortly thereafter, and she rose only to be signaled by him to sit back down. He went to a small bar and started to pour himself a drink as the butler left, closing the door and leaving them all alone.

  “Would you like a drink, Miss Handley?”

  “No, thank you, but please go right ahead.”

  “Oh, I fully intend to.”

  As he finished pouring his drink and took a sip, Mary made a mental note that it was early in the day to be drinking, but she was not there to monitor his habits.

  “So, Miss Handley, I see you’ve solved your brother’s problem,” he said as he sat on the couch opposite her.

  “Indeed I have, Mr. Huntington, but not without costs. I want to apologize for what this mess has done to your family and the slights they have suffered. Certainly if I had any inkling I was being used as a pawn, I never would have taken the Worsham case in the first place.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Of course, that doesn’t change our circumstances any.”

  Lively laughter could be heard from the other room. He took another sip of his drink. She somehow got the feeling that Huntington was referring to more than just the Worsham case. Whatever it was, it was indeed private and not something she felt comfortable pursuing. There were other matters to discuss. She told him about her experiences down in Virginia with John Worsham and how she had gotten a letter saying that he had just passed away.

  Huntington laughed. “That John was such a rogue, but hiding out in the woods for twelve years? That really tops everything.”

  “He also told me who Archer’s real father is. It must be very difficult to live with your son and not be able to tell him you’re his true father. I’m sorry you have to suffer that pain.”

  Huntington paused for a moment as if he was not certain he wanted to discuss this matter. Then he shrugged as if saying
, Why not?

  “We all have our burdens to bear, Miss Handley. Even though Archer is my son, he’d still be labeled a bastard and that would destroy Arabella.”

  “And what about Archer? Doesn’t he have a right to know?”

  “Well, as far as Archer’s concerned, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—Arabella’s tree, that is. I highly doubt he would be able to deal with it and could very possibly be scarred for life.”

  “Where does that leave you, Mr. Huntington?”

  He sighed, trying to hide his emotion. “It leaves me where I am and have always been: as the man willing to do the dirty work to get the job done. Surely you’ve heard that about me.”

  Mary saw a vulnerability in Huntington she had never seen before and had never thought she would ever see. She actually felt sorry for him. “Well, you can rest assured I will never divulge that information to anyone.”

  “I’m not a person who takes people at their word, but I’m going to trust you. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare now that I’ve seen you in action. But I do have questions, the answers to which might tie up some loose ends that are puzzling me.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Have you heard of the Long Island Water Supply Company?”

  He stared at her, then without a trace of acknowledgment asked, “What have you heard?”

  Mary explained what she knew about the mayor’s buyout and McLaughlin’s ownership of shares. Huntington nodded and didn’t say a word even when she was done. She decided to ask him a question that was nagging at her.