It was clear to Callie that the man truly hoped she wasn’t. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said importantly, “Owen Gallagher, Miss. I was awaiting the arrival of my cousin from Dublin, Colleen O’Brien.”
She searched for her voice, knowing how disappointed he would be when she told him. “I’m Callie James, your cousin Peg’s oldest girl. Colleen couldn’t come because she’s getting married. She gave me the ticket you sent, instead.” There, it was out. Let him make of it what he would. If he didn’t want her, couldn’t help her, then let him send her back, and pray God he did.
Owen Gallagher tipped his cap back, revealing a high forehead and thin, tight blond curls. Hands on hips, he looked up and down the length of her, his features tightening, with disapproval. Callie spoke up. “I’m young and I’m strong, and I can give a good day’s work!” She realized that if Peggy and the family were to survive, she must make her way here in America.
Owen Gallagher continued to look her up and down. He was thinking he had bought himself a pig in a poke. What good was this child to him? Thirteen, if she was a day, and her hair was an abomination. Men like to run their fingers through a woman’s hair. True, her hair was thick and glossy and tumbled around her head in wicked little curls, but she’d been shorn like a sheep in springtime. For sure, this little lamb wouldn’t get him a return on his investment of a ticket from Ireland. She looked as though a good wind would blow her over, and he didn’t like the sound of the cough she tried to hide. On the other hand, she was the picture of an Irish lass: fair skin, pink cheeks, clear blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, and a pert little nose that pointed straight up to heaven. There were men who had appetites for the very young—the younger and smaller the more they paid. No, all wasn’t lost, Gallagher told himself, suddenly pleased. Especially considering that this little one had no one to depend upon but himself. She’d be putty in his hands. The older, more independent Colleen might have taken it into her head that she didn’t need nor want cousin Owen’s protection.
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked around Callie, appraising her carefully. She squirmed beneath his inspection. She didn’t like cousin Owen; he was as slick as a greased pig at the fair.
“How old are ya? How much do you weigh?”
“What’s it to you, sir?” The title of respect was said with sarcasm. “You paid for my ticket and here I am.” No, she didn’t like cousin Owen, and though there were no snakes in Ireland, she’d seen pictures of them in the Bible, their black reptilian eyes staring out from the page, the soul behind them hidden from view. Owen Gallagher had such eyes.
“A sharp tongue won’t serve you here, girlie. Be nice and polite,” he admonished, a hard edge in his voice raising the hackles on the back of Callie’s neck.
Something in Callie shrank from this man who was supposed to be her protector. As she had since she was a wee child, to save herself the shame and embarrassment of showing weakness, Callie stared at him levelly, pursing her full lips and tilting her chin upwards, steeling herself, holding back her fear.
“Feisty little thing, ain’t cha?” Gallagher sneered. “Don’t be getting hoity-toity with me, Miss. The way I sees it, you owe me the price of a ticket from Ireland to New York. You cheated me by showin’ up instead of Colleen, and the law won’t look too kindly on that, I can tell you.” He leaned so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath. “And don’t be thinkin’ I won’t go to the law just because you’re family. A deal’s a deal, and the honest business man is treated fairly here in America.” His words had the impact he intended. She shrank back against the wall; he could hear her breathing, sharp and erratic, but damn it all, she still had that look of defiance about her. Instinct told him this piece of fluff was going to make trouble. He should just forget the loss of her fare from Ireland and let her go her own way. After all, what was a few pounds to a man who always had the jingle of a coin in his pocket and still more hidden under the floorboards in his basement flat? But studying her more closely, he recognized a good deal of potential in this girl. She was young and small, and if he was any judge, her hips would be slim as a boy’s and her chest not much more developed. She would be a good one to add to his stable, allowing him to cater to some men’s specialized preferences.
Owen backed off a step or two, giving Callie breathing room. “Since you’re here, you can come along with me. But don’t forget, I won’t put up with any shenanigans.” It was a threat; it was a promise.
“I’m a hard worker; I’ll give a good day’s work for a day’s pay. I can read and write and do numbers—”
“Oh! A real educated Miss, I see. Well, you won’t get nowhere unless you know when to keep your mouth shut. What I have in mind for you don’t require no readin’ nor writin’. You might say I won’t mind you layin’ down on the job!” This struck Owen as hilariously funny, and he broke into raucous laughter. “All right, Miss James, is it? Get your things and come along. Is this all you have in the way of baggage?” He smiled at her. The attempt at friendliness was almost an obscenity, and Callie bristled.
“My trunks and hat boxes, not to mention the royal jewels, will be arriving on the Cunard line!” she drawled insolently. “Of course this is all I have. If I had more, do you think I’d be dependent on your good will?”
Quicker than a striking snake, cousin Owen had her by the arm, squeezing it unmercifully. “I told you to watch that sharp tongue of yours,” he warned, his soft, lilting tone in direct contrast to the threat in his eyes and the force on her arm. “Men . . . people don’t like to hear a young girl being fresh. I take back what I said about you being educated. You’re smart, all right, alley smart. Now pick up your things and come along.”
His release on her arm was as sudden as his grip, leaving her shaken and afraid, aware of his potential for violence and making her feel more alone than ever. She might be young and inexperienced, but she was no fool. Cousin Owen was not going to use her fairly. Callie raised her eyes heavenward. “Good Lord, what have You gotten me into? It’s clear my interests aren’t at the top of Your list.”
“Did you say somethin’?” Owen asked over his shoulder.
“I talk to myself sometimes,” Callie answered.
Owen rolled his eyes. A cuckoo in the bargain. He led the way out of the terminal into the harsh November wind. Callie, burdened by her blanket pokes, followed close behind. As he walked, Owen swung his brass-handled walking stick, moving along at a jaunty pace. The trousers of his suit were tight-fitting and strapped beneath the boots—hugging his bowed legs which probably were the reason for his unusual toe-out gait—as though he were squashing bugs under his heels.
They walked several blocks along the cobbled streets. Buildings and tenement houses rose up from the sidewalks to an astonishing four or five stories, their red brick facades decorated by slate lintels over the windows and doorways. Every house, it seemed, was fronted by a porch, or stoop as they called it in Dublin, and all were attached to one another just like the row houses back home. Home, Callie thought. This was home now.
Shops and eating houses and taverns spilled their sounds and smells onto the street; delivery carts and beer wagons clattered over the cobbles, their horses slat-ribbed and plodding. She heard the sounds of her own Ireland in the brogue and lilt of voices, and there were other sounds too: the harsh, guttural tones of Germans, the melodious language of black men and women, and even, to her surprise, a small yellow man dressed in black with a round hat perched on his head and a long black pigtail hanging down his back. He turned to look at her, his flat features breaking into a smile, his slanted eyes dancing with amusement.
“What kind of man is that?” Callie asked, tugging at Owen’s sleeve.
“Him? He’s a Chinee. You’ll see people from all over the world here. Eyetalians, Germans, Portugee, but thank yer stars it’s mostly the fine folk of Ireland you’ll find yourself with. Course, there’s them what calls themselves Americans. They was born here an
d think they don’t stink because of it!” Owen spit down on the sidewalk. “Those are the kind to stay away from, take my advice. They don’t think much of the Irish, and I’m pleased to say the Irish don’t think much of them. Think they’re better than the rest of us.” Owen loved it when he could display his worldliness and thought of himself as a man about town.
“Where are we going?” Callie ventured to ask, lugging her pokes and shifting them from one arm to the other. She could feel her stomach rumble. She’d not even had a cup of tea this morning and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a piece of bread.
“It’s not far. Just uptowns a ways. We’ll take the trolley at the next corner.”
He saw her struggling with her. belongings but didn’t offer to help. She’d lugged them all the way from Dublin, she could lug them a ways farther. “See them tracks set in the street?” he pointed. “Those is trolley tracks. Makes for a nice, easy ride over the cobbles. Hurry up now, don’t fall behind. I’ve got business to take care of.”
Callie quickened her pace, almost falling into step beside him but not quite. “There are no streets paved with gold . . . are there?”
“Now don’t you be tellin’ me you believed that fairy tale. Tis a land of opportunity, but only for those who work at it. And me, cousin deary, I work at it.”
“What kind of work? What’ll I be doing here? I need money to send my mum back in Dublin. You know what’s going on there, don’t you? Sometimes there’s hardly enough for the little one’s supper.”
“Now ain’t that a shame!” Owen sneered. “Listen, girlie, I don’t care what’s happening in Ireland or anywhere else for that matter. Owen Gallagher only concerns himself with himself and his own pockets. If you want to take everything you’ve got and throw it away, that’s your business, not mine. I said you were smart; it won’t take long before you think of yourself first and leave the rest to the devil.”
“Why did you bring me over here?” Callie demanded, her voice a hiss. “We all thought you were trying to help out some. I came to work, to send money to the family—”
“Listen,” Owen said nastily, “I didn’t bring you over here. T’was Colleen I sent for. I could tell from her letters that she’s an enterprising young lady and wanted more than anythin’ to get herself away from Ireland. She seemed to know what life was all about. You said she’s gettin’ married. No doubt she’s already got a cake in the oven, right?”
Callie looked at him quizzically. Then it dawned on her. “Yes, Colleen’s going to have a baby. . .”
“That’s what I said, right? She knows what life’s all about. Trouble is, she didn’t know enough. Now, my girls know how to take care of themselves, they do. Or out they go! I don’t keep no charity cases, and when a girl can’t work, she’s got no place with me. Just you remember that.” This was all wrong. She should be grateful. Instead he found himself with a hellcat. There would be no fooling this one for long. He thought of the handsome prices she could earn for him, and he had recently lost Trisha because of a botched-up abortion. An empty bed in his house brought no revenue, and he was eager to fill it.
A horse-drawn conveyance pulled up the street at a clip. The car was open-sided with benches all in a row, some of them facing outward to the street. Cousin Owen instructed Callie to get aboard while he dug in his pocket for two coins, which he dropped into a little change box held out by the conductor. Callie sank down on the hard, painted seat, tucking her pokes alongside her.
“Don’t get too comfortable, it’s not that far.”
“Then why didn’t we walk?”
“Owen Gallagher never walks when he can ride.”
Callie hung out over the side, looking up at buildings and down at the people passing by. A group of children tossed a ball back and forth, and she heard their shouts and calls at play. The sound was somehow comforting.
“We get off here,” Owen told her. “Come along and don’t leave anything behind.”
“Hardly, when this is all I own in the world,” Callie muttered. She was liking her situation and Cousin Owen less and less by the moment. She didn’t like the way he tugged at her arm and practically pushed her off the high step of the trolley. When her feet touched the street, she dropped her pokes and stood facing him, hands on hips. “I’m not moving another step unless you tell me where you’re taking me and what I’ll be doing when I get there!”
“Just shut that mouth of yours and quit attracting attention. I’m known in this town and I have a reputation to consider, and I don’t want you spoiling it for me. Now keep quiet and talk when I tell you.” He picked up her pokes and was pushing them into her arms.
“Why?” Callie demanded bluntly, dropping her pokes for the second time. “I want to know now!”
A brat! A big mouth! He certainly didn’t need this skinny piece of baggage. “You’ll be livin’ in that fine house across the street there. You’ll be with other girls, and they’ll tell you what t’do. They like it!” he said defensively.
“And exactly what do you get out of all this? You said you were a business man and only concerned with your own pockets. You tell me now, or I don’t go one step further.”
Owen glanced around in desperation. His quick eye caught a glimpse of a blue uniform down on the next corner. He didn’t need the police poking into his business; he paid enough in graft as it was. And what if one of his rivals saw one of his girls giving him trouble? “You’ll just do what the girls tell you, and I get a piece of your wages. Er . . . for room and board and, of course, my protection.”
Callie didn’t miss the desperate look in Owen’s eyes as he looked up and down the street, and she was becoming more suspicious by the minute. “What kind of house do you have? Is it anything like that whorehouse at the end of Bayard Street back in Dublin?” She purposely made her voice loud.
Owen was sweating under his collar, keeping a quick eye on the policeman strolling up the street, swinging his billy club. “Now where would a little thing like you ever learn about whorehouses? For shame!” Then an idea hit him, one that had worked before with reluctant employees. “Turn around, cousin, look to the end of the street to that blue uniform swaggering up the block. D’ya know who that is? Well, I’ll tell ya. T’is the law, a copper, a blue jacket, a policeman. Understand? I don’t plan on standing out here freezing. Either you come with me now or I’ll turn you over to him. Remember how fine things were over to Tompkinsville? He knows a right fine place for girls the likes of you who don’t want to work. A place that’ll make Tompkinsville seem like paradise. Then how’ll you send money to your mum?”
Owen saw doubt creep into Callie’s eyes. He’d scared her just the way he had scared all the rest when they’d given him trouble. But there was something behind her rebellious blue stare that made him think she’d cut his heart out if given the chance. This one was going to give him headaches, he knew it.
Without a word, Callie picked up her pokes and followed Owen across the thoroughfare to 16 Cortlandt Street, a four-story tenement. She climbed the nine steps of the front stoop and waited while he jingled the assortment of keys on his ring and unlocked the front door. Perhaps she was wrong. Owen Gallagher must be a well-to-do businessman if he possessed the keys to the front door! To the entire house! In Dublin, six or seven families might live in a house much smaller than this. Inside the house, Callie was assailed by the stench of cooked cabbage and dirt. The hallway was dark and narrow, the stairs leading to the floors above worn and rickety and much in need of repair. The floor needed a good sweeping and scrubbing, and there was a lingering odor of old cigar smoke and something that reminded her of urine.
She was ushered into a room at the front, which Owen called a parlor. It was meagerly furnished with a dilapidated sofa, a chair, and several small tables. Callie sniffed and sneezed from its close atmosphere and the balls of dust that hid in the corners.
“You wait here and I’ll be right back,” Owen grumbled. “Now sit!”
Owen returned
to the front hall and ran up the flight of dark, narrow stairs to the next floor. He rapped smartly on one of the six panel doors that led off the center hall. “Go ’way!” came a muffled complaint.
“Madge, get your tail out of that bed and come to the door. We’ve got a problem.”
A frowzy woman of questionable age with ponderous breasts struggled up from her sagging mattress. She loved her bed and spent every spare minute in it. It was a joke that once Madge got a man in the bellied-out hollow of that mattress he’d yell for mercy. She pushed back long kinky hair from her face to which the ravages of last night’s lip rouge and powder still clung. She opened the door, leaning against the jamb, looking out at Owen. “Why is it ‘we’ have a problem when you get yourself into a mess and ‘I’ have a problem when the money doesn’t come in fast enough?”
“Never mind, never mind.” Owen pushed his way into the heavily curtained room that did not allow even a glimmer of light from the window. “Fer God’s sake, why do ya keep this room so dark?”
“‘Cause I like it that way! Now what’s your problem? O’Shaughnessy refuse to deliver the liquor till you’ve paid your bill?”
“Nah! I’ve got a cousin downstairs—”
“A cousin now, is it? Well, don’t ever count me as one of your family, you snake.” Madge scratched her rump; the narrow gray straps of her chemise fell off her fleshy shoulder. “You said yesterday you’d be bringing in a girl to replace Trisha, rest her soul. I said it before and I say it again, that business with Trisha was your fault, Gallagher. If you’d been a little more careful and a bit more generous, she could’ve had the job done at the usual place instead of with the butcher you set her to.”
“That’s water under the bridge.” Owen scowled, pulling open one of the drapes, wishing he hadn’t when he turned to face Madge again. All traces of prettiness were lost to the aging harlot, lost to sin and liquor. But she ran a decent house and kept the girls in line and paid off the law and anyone else who nosed around more than was good for them. Madge was all right. “Fer Jesus sake, put some clothes on!”
Cinders to Satin Page 9
