Callie laughed. “The one and the same. He’s expecting his reward for valor, and I suspect he won’t be cheated of it.”
“Reward?” Jimmy’s face narrowed into lines of inquiry.
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know Byrch caught the men behind the beatings of the Clarion’s newsboys.”
“Worse than beatings.” Jimmy frowned. “One of the kids died yesterday.”
Callie was stricken. Patrick had done this.
Jimmy quickly went to her side. “Are you all right, Miss Callie? Maybe you should have a seat in Mr. Kenyon’s office?”
Callie gulped, nodding her head. She felt her knees buckle under her. Patrick was a murderer, and his victim was a little boy. A little boy like Rory would have been. She allowed herself to be led into Byrch’s office and sat in the deep chair behind his desk. Jimmy rushed out and brought her a glass of water.
When she’d regained her composure, she began to tell Jimmy about the events of the other night and then stopped in mid-sentence. “Jimmy, Mr. Kenyon wasn’t the only reporter on the scene that night. I was there too. And since he didn’t bother to write it, it wouldn’t be as though I was stealing his thunder, now would it?”
“Reporter? You, Miss Callie?”
“Yes, me. Or at least I hope to be.” Callie’s eyes were already scanning the desktop for pen, ink, and paper. “Jimmy, you give me an hour, and I’ll have that story ready for publication.”
“I . . . I don’t know . . .”
“That’s right, you don’t know anything. No one will have to know I wrote it. . .I’ll use a pen name. C. James. That’s what the byline will read, C. James,” she repeated, liking the sound of it.
Jimmy’s doubts were revealed in the grim line of his mouth and the creases over his eyes. “Listen, Jimmy, if it’s not any good when I’m finished, then it won’t be printed. But it’s going to be good!” She was reaching for paper and pen, dipping the nib into the inkwell.
It took her longer than she thought, but two-and-a-half hours later, the story was ready. She sailed out of Byrch’s office and dropped the pages on Jimmy’s desk, watching him carefully as he read it. She studied his face: sympathy for the newsboys, disgust for the criminals, admiration for Byrch, and laughter for her vivid description of Kenneth O’Toole, the littlest hero. When he finally looked up, there was a new light in Jimmy’s eyes—respect and admiration.
“I’ll say one thing for you, C. James, you sure can write!”
Callie was so happy she wanted to crow. “That’s just your opinion, Jimmy, and I’m sure you’re too kind. Why don’t you just sneak that into editorial, and then we’ll go have lunch. My treat.”
Jimmy Riley took Callie to a little coffeehouse on the next corner. He ordered two ham sandwiches, coffee, and pie. Theirs was a celebratory mood as they ate and talked, speculating on whether or not her story would pass the stringent requirements of the editorial department.
“If I know anything, Miss Callie, it’s that you did a real fine piece of work and the news is hot! It’s going to be in the next edition, you mark my words!”
Callie hoped Jimmy wasn’t overestimating her talents just because he was a bit smitten with her.
“You know, you shouldn’t stop there. There’s a whole follow-up line,” Jimmy said. “Mr. Kenyon always says no story is ever told until it’s told to the finish.”
“You mean follow up on little Kennth O’Toole, tell about his family and what he wants to be when he grows up and what he’s going to do with his reward? And then there’s the other boys, how they’re getting along, and the story about the murdered newsboy.” Callie’s voice was bubbling with excitement. “And don’t forget about that Newsboys’ Association Patrick Thatcher talked about. As a reader, I’d want to know how it affected other boys, the ones who paid out for that so-called protection.”
“You’ve got it, Miss Callie. A real nose for news!”
Callie laughed. “Now you sound like Byrch Kenyon.”
Still, the idea excited her. And with Byrch away in Ohio, it was the perfect opportunity. “Jimmy, what’s on your agenda today? Can you come with me? I’d like to interview those boys, meet their families. You know most of them, don’t you? It would be a great help. I don’t know how willing they’d be to talk to a woman who claims to be a reporter. And since I don’t officially work for the Clarion, but you do, it wouldn’t be a lie to say we’re from the paper.”
Jimmy groaned. “Miss Callie, you’ve got a lot to learn. Reporters will do anything for a good story, and lying is the least of it.” But Callie’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Jimmy willingly agreed. “I have a few things to do at the paper, and I’ll have to let the copy desk know I’ll be gone. Why don’t you wait here and finish your coffee, and I’ll be back in no time.”
When Jimmy returned, he brought her a list of the newsboys who had been beaten or threatened, and their addresses. Hailing a cab, Jimmy and Callie were on their way to the home of Petey Smith, the little boy who lay in serious condition at the city hospital.
Callie swallowed hard when the front door of the dark, second-floor tenement opened. She felt for a moment as though she were looking at her own mother. Petey’s mother had the same weary eyes, the same drawn look. The front of her apron was clutched in both hands as she stared at the couple on her doorstep. The weary, frightened eyes told Callie the woman was expecting to see someone from the hospital telling her that Petey was gone. The lump in Callie’s throat made it impossible for her to speak. She reached out a hand and touched the woman’s shoulder. It was Jimmy who blurted out the reason for their visit. The relief on the woman’s face was instantaneous.
Ellen Smith invited them into a clean, shabby parlor. Callie accepted the offer of tea, knowing that Mrs. Smith needed to do something. She was back in minutes with what Callie knew were her best dishes. “Tell us what happened to Petey. Was he able to talk to you?”
“There’s not much to be telling you, ma’am. I didn’t want Petey out there selling papers, but his oldest brother convinced me it was all right. I have eight mouths to feed, ma’am, and it takes a bit of money in these hard times.” Callie knew how hard Mrs. Smith worked, and that the reason she wasn’t at the hospital this minute was probably the piece work she did, turning and stitching the shirt collars that were stacked near the treadle sewing machine. “Petey liked it,” she continued, “and was so pleased that every once in a while some of the fine gents tipped him a few pennies for his perky smile and easy wit. He’s only seven, ma’am, still a baby. My man died three years ago, and we’ve been living hand to mouth ever since.” She dabbed at her eyes, her face full of guilt for sending her son out on the streets to help provide for the family. Callie moved off the chair and dropped to her knees. She gathered the woman close, pretending it was Peggy she was comforting. Jimmy looked away to hide his feelings.
“Did Petey know the man who beat him up? Did he say anything about a Newsboys’ Association?” Callie asked.
“Ma’am, Petey never said a word. He’s hurt bad. Those bastards—excuse my language, but that’s what they are—beat him up and left him to die. They stole his money and destroyed his papers. He’s just a baby,” the woman sobbed. Callie held her close, stroking her back. Jimmy blew his nose lustily.
“Someone from the paper will be by to speak with you and to . . . to leave you some money. We’ll do right by Petey, won’t we, Jimmy? This will help for now.” Callie took a bill from her reticule.
Rash promises like this one could mean trouble, Jimmy thought. He wasn’t sure of the paper’s policy on something like this. He knew if he was the managing editor, he would take care of Petey and his family. Byrch Kenyon was something else. What the hell, he had already thrown caution to the winds, so why was he quibbling about the paper’s money now? “Absolutely,” he agreed. He could only be fired once. Callie would put in a good word for him with Mr. Kenyon.
Ellen Smith clung to Callie for a moment. “I know what you must be feeling,” Callie whi
spered. “I promise you, I’ll do everything I can for Petey and the others. Thank you for the tea.”
“We didn’t learn anything,” Jimmy said in dismay as they left the shabby building.
“That’s true. But I wanted to see Petey’s mother. I wanted to see what she looked like and to find out how she felt so I can write about her and Petey. I can’t write something if I don’t know about it, now can I?”
“Where to now?” Jimmy asked.
Callie swallowed hard. “We’re going to Timmy Jacobs’s house, the newsboy who died. I’d give anything if we didn’t have to go, but we do. You are going to have to say something to the parents in behalf of the paper. Say and offer whatever you think is right. I’ll talk to Byrch when he gets back. Be fair, Jimmy. From there we’re going to the hospital to see Petey.”
A stoop-shouldered man, bent from years of hard work, stood by the open door of the Jacobs’s flat. He was dressed in a stiff blue suit and an even stiffer white shirt. Callie knew the suit and tie would be what he’d be buried in when his time came. Jimmy shook hands with the man, and Callie nodded. She didn’t want to be here. It was too soon. Too soon to have to go through this emotional turmoil. But she knew the devil and the hounds of hell on her heels couldn’t have stopped her from walking into the Jacobs’s front parlor. The small coffin and lighted candles almost made her turn and run. A small woman dressed in a heavy black dress sat on a wooden kitchen chair. Her hands were knotted in her lap as she twisted and untwisted a pleat of her skirt. She reminded Callie of a blackbird who has lost its courage to fly. Callie forced herself to stare at the small boy in the coffin. Blood roared in her veins, and her heart threatened to leap from her chest as she stared down at the small form. How still. Never to breathe again. Never to speak to his parents, never to laugh, to cry, to play again. He hadn’t even lived, this child. His life was over even before he had a chance to find out what life was all about, and Patrick Thatcher had done this. Callie whispered to Jimmy, “You speak with Mr. Jacobs, and I’ll talk to his wife.”
It took Callie five minutes to realize the woman sitting on the chair wasn’t hearing a word she said. She was in a world of her own, locked in tight with her grief. There was nothing she could do right now, but later, after the funeral, she would come back and talk to Mrs. Jacobs. She was startled when the woman turned and stared at her with vague eyes. “Doesn’t Timmy look nice in his suit? He wore it for his First Holy Communion. His father was so proud of him. He’s just sleeping, you know.” Callie stared down at the woman and wanted to cry for her, to shed tears she knew the woman couldn’t shed. She touched her lightly and fled the room. Outside, she took great lungfuls of air. Jimmy watched her, his eyes full of concern. He remembered the tiny body of her son that he’d brought to Byrch Kenyon’s house. Why had she tortured herself by coming here?
“Are you all right, Callie?”
“I’m fine, Jimmy. Let’s go to the hospital while I still have my courage.”
Until she sat back in the carriage and closed her eyes, Callie hadn’t realized how draining the experience of the past day had been. She had handled it all with only a few bad moments. Now if she could just get through the next half hour or so, she knew she would be all right.
Jimmy drew a deep sigh. It had been a long day. Now that it was drawing to a close, his worries started flooding back. He should stop by the paper before he went home and see what news there was. Here he was, out all day cavorting with Miss Callie as though he owned the paper. He was going to hear about it, he was sure of it. And all those promises he had made on behalf of the paper and Byrch Kenyon. A groan of dismay escaped him. Callie ignored her companion as she struggled with her own deep, dark thoughts.
The hospital ward was crowded with every bed filled. A cheerful nurse said that Petey Smith was at the end of the first row. “He’s improved today, thank the good Lord. Please don’t excite or upset him. There’s a nurse with him now. One of Petey’s brothers just left to take the family the good news that Petey will be fine.”
Jimmy was so elated at the news, one would have thought little Petey Smith was his own brother.
Petey Smith lay propped up in a nest of pillows. His small face was black and blue, and one bright blue eye was almost closed. Hair the color of ripe cornsilk drooped over his bandages. “You look like a pirate, young man,” Callie teased. “Here, I brought you a present from Mr. Byrch Kenyon.” Callie held out a picture book to the little boy and watched his good eye widen in stunned pleasure. “I’m Callie James, and this is Jimmy Riley. We’re from the Clarion-Observer. We just visited with your mum this afternoon. She’s been very worried about you. We were all worried.”
“I tried to save the papers, but the men were too big. I kicked one of them. Will you tell Mr. Byrch I did that?”
“Of course we will,” Callie said gently. “He’s going to be very proud of you.”
“They took all my money and even my three pennies tip that Mr. Snyder always gives me on a Friday.” Petey seemed eager to talk. “I’m saving those pennies for Mum’s birthday. I still have a lot to go, and her birthday is in two weeks. Mum won’t mind, but I mind,” the child said fiercely.
“Can you remember anything else, Petey?” Callie asked. “Did you ever see those men before? Did they ever ask you to join their association?”
Petey blinked. “Yeah! One of those men came around about a month ago, and he said there was some kinda club I had to join. Only he wanted money, and I told him I didn’t want no club and didn’t want to pay no money. Then he said somethin’ about not bein’ so snotty and that he was gonna see to it that I didn’t have any papers even if I could sell them. I don’t know what he was talkin’ about. Do you?”
Callie reached out to brush Petey’s sandy hair off his brow. “Yes, Petey, I think I do. You’re a real hero. We’re going to write about you in the newspaper. Won’t that make your mum proud?”
Petey shook his head. “Not as proud as if I gave her a shawl for her birthday. Mum says birthdays are for children, but I heard her tell my sister Josephine that she never in her whole life got a present for her birthday. That’s why I wanted to get her a special present.”
“In two weeks, is it?” Callie asked. Petey nodded. Jimmy winced. Another rash promise from the Clarion-Observer. He was going to have to start writing down all the obligations the paper had acquired in one short day. He knew in his gut that Petey’s mother was going to have a shawl for her birthday, compliments of Callie and the Clarion-Observer. He wondered why he felt so good spending other people’s money.
On the fifth day Jimmy made his usual late-night call to pick up Callie’s column for the next day. His eyes were merry and full of life. He had something to say and was having a hard time keeping it to himself.
“Tell me. Tell me before your burst,” Callie cried.
“Our sales have almost doubled since you started writing your column. People have stopped in as they’re walking by to tell us how much they like what you wrote. Parents, grandparents, you name it, they’ve been in to see us. And here’s your mail. People have been writing to thank you for bringing all this out in the open. Mr. Kenyon’s cousin, Kevin Darcy, is having an unholy fit, but there isn’t a thing he can do. What’s important is the profit-and-loss sheet. That’s the only thing he understands. Needless to say, no one but me and Edward knows that C. James is you. By the way, there are two letters here that came hand-delivered to the papers. I didn’t open them, but,” he grinned, “I know who they’re from, and I think I know what they say.”
“What? Tell me what?” Callie demanded. Never in her life had she gotten mail from anyone but her mother. Now she had a whole sack, plus two very important letters.
“Open them and read for yourself. You wouldn’t want me to be spoiling the surprise now, would you?”
Callie ripped at the envelopes one after the other. She quickly read both letters. Tossing them in the air, she squealed in delight and danced around the kitchen. “They’re job o
ffers. Real job offers. One of them is offering to pay me twice what the Clarion-Observer is paying me. The other one said I could name my own price. Edward! Did you hear that! How much am I making?”
Edward looked at her with surprise. “You did it for nothing!”
“That’s right, I did. Well, that’s going to stop right now. What am I worth, Jimmy? The truth now. What would twice my salary be? I can’t believe this! This has got to be the second-most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.” Edward smirked, and Callie laughed outright. Jimmy looked gleeful and as happy as Callie.
“You wouldn’t leave the paper, would you?” Jimmy asked anxiously.
“It depends on how much you’re paying her,” Edward said craftily.
“But we aren’t paying her anything.”
“My point exactly, young man. Tomorrow you will return here in the early morning hours with your best offer. Miss Callie and I will confer, but I feel you should know that twice whatever it is sounds most attractive.”
“Edward, Mr. Kenyon is the only one who can make that kind of decision.”
“You’re wrong. Mr. Kenyon’s cousin, Kevin Darcy, is now actively running the paper, is that not correct?” At Jimmy’s nervous nod, Edward continued. “Then I think it would behoove the Clarion-Observer to make a substantial offer before Mr. Kenyon returns. That way we could possibly avoid a lot of problems that might tend to surface upon his return.”
“You mean like him not liking it that Callie is working on the paper, her being a woman and all?”
“That is correct,” Edward said haughtily. “He would also have to think twice and long and hard before he dismissed her. I think you should take those two letters with you when you return to the paper. I want them returned to Miss Callie tomorrow morning. Do we understand one another, young man?”
“Perfectly.” Jimmy grimaced. “Mr. Darcy isn’t going to like this.”
“We really don’t care much about his state of mind. What we’re concerned with here at the moment is that Miss Callie take the best offer.”
Cinders to Satin Page 50
