“Andy? It’s been a week or so. We had some business, and he came to my office.”
“Andrew Carnegie went to yer office. That’s a real testament to how big ya are, Russell.”
“It was business. I don’t think of it that way.” He obviously did. Humility wasn’t his strong suit.
“I saw Mr. Carnegie today on another matter. He was at the fund-raising event for Carnegie Hall when he was approached by a Miss Elizabeth Cloverfield.”
“Ah yes, Betty. Quite a little tigress.”
“Apparently, she more than fits that title. She made it clear to Mr. Carnegie that if she doesn’t hear from ya soon, she’s goin’ public with an affair she alleges she had with ya.”
“That certainly sounds like Betty. She loves drama.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Not necessary, though I am getting too old for this nonsense.”
“Don’t tell me yer finally laying down yer sword?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I already have a new interest. I just need to be more specific in where I concentrate my energy.”
“Ya keep givin’ me more reasons to admire ya, Russell.”
“Leave Betty alone. She can’t cause much harm. Olivia and I have an understanding.”
“Yet another reason I tip my hat ta ya.”
“Sorry you had to come over here for something like that.”
“It’s not just that. Some other information came to my attention.” Sage leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk, waiting for the news. “It’s William Laidlaw, Russell.”
“What is it now?”
“He told his nurse—and these’re his words, not mine—that he has evidence that’ll ‘turn that ol’ miser’s pockets upside down.’ ”
“And you naturally assumed ‘old miser’ meant me?”
Byrnes paused, concerned he might have inadvertently offended Sage. After a moment, Sage burst out laughing.
“Got you there, Tom. See? I can be quite the prankster.”
Byrnes was annoyed but hid it. “Yup, ya got me, all right.”
“So what is this ridiculous evidence?”
“I don’t know yet, but his nurse is an ally and you’ll know as soon as I do if it’s the morphine they’re giving him or it’s real.”
“Thank you, Tom. It pays to have resourceful friends.” Sage opened a desk drawer, took out an envelope full of cash, and tossed it across his desk. “I was going to give this to you next week but as long as you’re here, you saved me the price of a messenger.”
“I value yer friendship, too, Russell.” He disliked the old coot, but it was hard to dislike the envelope he was stuffing into his jacket pocket.
“Would you like something to eat or drink? I can have Beatrice bring it in.” Protocol required Sage to ask, but he wasn’t fond of socializing and besides business, he felt he and this policeman had little in common.
“No thanks. Gotta keep my lovely Irish nose to the grindstone.”
Sage was relieved, even more so when Byrnes left and he was able to get back to work.
The gathering in room 424 of the Oriental Hotel was still going on when Mary left. They were preparing Colleen for her testimony, and Mary had no reason to stay. As she exited the hotel and was passing an outside dining area where hotel guests could enjoy a meal or drinks with a view of the beach and ocean, she heard a familiar voice.
“There she is, Austin. That’s the woman who beat me senseless.” Dr. Lawrence was sitting with Austin Corbin, both of them sipping mint juleps. When Mary saw him approaching, she visibly sighed. Needless to say, Dr. Lawrence was oblivious.
“Miss Handley, I’d like to apologize for our earlier altercation and invite you to have a drink with me and my good friend Austin Corbin.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Lawrence, but I do have a pressing engagement.”
“We won’t take much of your time. Fifteen minutes at the most.”
Mary could see he was not going to give up. She decided it would take much less energy to acquiesce and spend a few minutes with them than to argue the point. More importantly, she didn’t want to call attention to herself. Someone might ask why she was there.
“Austin Corbin, Mary Handley.”
Corbin rose. “How nice to meet you, Miss Handley. Please join us. Chester has been talking nonstop about you.”
“Chester, is it?” said Mary as she sat. “I’d use ‘Dr. Lawrence’ whenever I could.”
Dr. Lawrence laughed. “See what I mean, Austin? She’s an absolute pistol.” Corbin also laughed. Their tone was condescending, as if they were saying, How cute it is that this woman dares to be so cheeky.
“Can I get you something to drink, Miss Handley?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, and Corbin summoned the waiter. Mary never responded well to condescension, so she looked at their leafy summer drinks and decided to make a direct assault upon their masculinity.
“I’ll have a whiskey. Neat, please.”
“Neat? That’s awfully strong,” cautioned Dr. Lawrence.
“It’s all I drink.” It wasn’t, but they had sounded the call to arms.
“Did you get some nice pictures of my hotel?” Corbin asked.
Mary had almost forgotten she was carrying the camera. “Yes, yes, beautiful property. I was on my way down to take some photographs of the amusement area, too.”
“Make sure you stay far away from the Gut. It’s no place for a decent woman.”
“Really?”
“There’s a seedy element. You know, Negroes and other types.”
“I was under the impression Negroes weren’t welcome there.”
“They’re not welcome, but they’re not forbidden,” said Dr. Lawrence. “There is a significant difference.”
“So you contend they go there not to have a good time but just to make white people uncomfortable?”
“I contend they have no sense of boundaries, like that Mr. Berk today.”
Mary’s drink arrived and she downed it in one large gulp. “I’ll have another and please leave the bottle next time.”
“There’s no sense in arguing with Chester about the Gut. He’s there all the time and knows all about it.”
“I’m surprised, Dr. Lawrence, that you, of all people, would want to mix with inferior types.”
“Being a doctor, I’m curious what makes these people tick.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“My specialty is endocrinology, but my main focus the last number of years has been a study, a scientific one devoid of the bleeding-heart claptrap found in Jacob Riis’s How the Other Half Lives.”
“In Riis’s book, there are actual pictures of the squalor in lower Manhattan. Is it your contention that he staged them?”
“I wouldn’t put it past that Jew,” said Corbin.
“Lutheran,” said Mary.
“What?”
“Riis. He’s a Lutheran from Denmark.”
Corbin turned to Dr. Lawrence. “We really need to limit who’s allowed to come into the country. Some sort of vetting would be nice.”
“Why don’t we limit immigration to only wealthy white men who are content with their homeland?” Mary quipped. “That ought to put a significant dent in the rolls.”
The waiter returned with another whiskey for Mary and left the bottle. She smiled. “Thank you.” She quickly downed the second whiskey, then poured herself a third.
“Be careful, Miss Handley,” warned Corbin. “You’re drinking potent stuff.”
“Nothing to be concerned about. You know what they say about us. ‘Irish’ is synonymous with ‘whiskey.’ Or is it ‘potatoes’? Oh, well.” She downed the third drink.
Anxious to discuss his work, Dr. Lawrence turned to Mary. “In my study, I’m more concerned with the why. For instance, I find it fascinating how Negroes compensate for their lack of brain power by immersing themselves in the pursuit of pleasure.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed how being d
ragged over here as slaves, then being denied a proper education and decent job opportunities have made them such a fun people.”
“It’s all for the best. Having smaller brains, they’re built for manual labor.”
“If you’re referring to the study by Dr. Samuel Morton, the only small brain present there was his.” She poured a fourth drink.
Corbin jumped in. “You can’t seriously believe those animals are our equals?”
She gestured toward their surroundings. “You obviously do.”
“Either the drink has impaired your thinking or you’re filled with mindless female jabber. I’m leaning toward the latter.”
Mary defiantly downed her fourth drink and poured a fifth. “This beautiful hotel, which you spent millions to build, is designed in a Moorish style. Moors are black and personae non gratae here. So that begs the question: are you hypocritical or just plain stupid? I’m leaning toward the latter.”
Corbin stiffened as Mary gulped her fifth drink and then stood. She was a bit wobbly but did her best to present a sober appearance. “Thank you for the whiskey and for tolerating my mindless female jabber. Good day, gentlemen.”
Mary walked off as steady and as straight as she could manage, then Dr. Lawrence turned to Corbin and commented, “Well, that wasn’t much fun, was it?”
“Fun? I say, Chester, I’m beginning to worry about you.”
“How so?”
“One moment you’re a serious scientist, and the next—well, I was in the office late last night when I saw you come in with blood on your shirt.”
Dr. Lawrence paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Austin, my good friend, it wasn’t blood you saw but rather cheap red wine a jockey spilled on me in the Gut.”
“A jockey? I would think it would be on your pants, not your shirt.”
“He was standing on a stool making a toast.”
This time Corbin joined Dr. Lawrence in his laughter. “Thank God! I was afraid you were becoming like that person. You know, the one in that Stevenson book.”
“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“Yes, exactly!”
The two of them laughed even harder as they picked up their drinks, clinked glasses, and sipped away. What Corbin completely missed was the look of relief on Dr. Lawrence’s face that he had avoided a problem.
When Mary got to the train station, she found Harper Lloyd also there, waiting for the train. “Well, well, if it isn’t the very secretive lady detective. Have you finished investigating whatever case you were on?”
She approached the smug reporter, intent on putting him in his place. Instead, she threw up all over him.
8
Mary felt terrible about the mess she had made. She got an old rag from the man who sold the train tickets and started wiping Harper’s shirt. Needless to say, he was not happy.
“My God, Miss Handley, you are a walking catastrophe.”
“Mary.”
“Huh?”
“You might as well call me by my first name. We’re a bit more familiar now.”
Harper shook his head as Mary finished working on his shirt.
“I’ve cleaned as much as I possibly can. May I suggest you give me your shirt? I’ll take it back to my apartment, wash it, then return it to you.”
“And I’m supposed to walk around Brooklyn bare chested?”
“Don’t tell me this is your only shirt?”
“The only one I’m wearing. I’m not in the habit of wearing two at a time, but maybe I should change that policy now that I’ve met you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m still a bit wobbly from the whiskey.”
“A drunkard, too. Makes for an interesting résumé.”
“Not my norm. I was trying to show up a couple of rich bigots. A fruitless effort, I might add. People with those beliefs have thick heads.”
“As opposed to people with your beliefs?”
“I admit to having a thick head, but I’m right.” There was a pause, then they both laughed, cutting the tension. “Let’s go to wherever you live, and I will wash your shirt there.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“I insist. I always correct my mistakes.”
“That must leave you very little time for anything else.”
The train arrived, and Mary decided to ignore his wisecrack. The smell emanating from Harper’s shirt was strong, so the passengers in their car sat as far away from the two of them as possible. Some decided to change cars. It was uncomfortable for Harper and amusing to Mary. For his sake, she tried to stifle her grin.
Harper’s apartment wasn’t far from Mary’s, about a half a mile, and it was about the same size as hers. That’s where the similarities ended. It was completely utilitarian and spotlessly clean. There was a bed and a small dresser in the bedroom, where the main living area contained only a sofa and a desk with a chair. There was no dining table, so Mary reasoned that if he ate there at all, he dined at his desk.
“This is the apartment of a man who is rarely here,” she said.
“To the contrary,” he replied. “I am here quite often.” He pointed to the typewriter on his desk. “This is where I write.”
“Well then, this is an apartment of a man who—” Having soiled his shirt, she saw no reason to hurl an insult at him, so she changed course. “Needs his shirt washed.”
Harper took off his shirt and put on a fresh one. To her surprise, he showed her to a wooden tub and washboard. He even had soap. She had pegged him for a man who took his clothes to a Chinese laundry and had fully expected to have to go to her apartment in order to properly wash it. She found that odd for a single man, then stopped herself. All her life, she had fought stereotypes about women and decided not to foist one upon a man. She filled the tub with water, added some soap, and started scrubbing.
“I should be done in no time,” she said. Harper didn’t respond. He was already engulfed in reading some typewritten pages. She was quiet for a while but found the silence to be uncomfortable. “Is that the article you’re writing about Colleen?”
“Oh, no. Tit for tat and you go first. Is Walter’s wife your client?”
“Absolutely not. She’s my best friend.”
“Then it’s obviously Colleen’s husband.”
“You get only one. Time for the tat.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” He indicated the pages. “This isn’t about Colleen. I can’t write about her or let anyone know about her until after the trial. And that goes for you, too.”
“By now you should know I don’t reveal secrets.” She picked up his shirt. “Where’s your clothesline?”
“Lay it on the sink. I’ll take care of it.”
As Mary did just that, she casually asked, “So, how did Walter find you?”
“He didn’t. Choate had asked my friend Jacob Riis to get involved. He was too busy and he recommended me.”
“Jacob Riis. I’m a great admirer of his.”
“I’ll tell Jacob. I’m sure he’ll be absolutely thrilled.”
“Are you aware that sarcasm often hides a little boy wanting to be hugged?”
“No little girls?”
“We’re stronger and more direct.”
“You couldn’t have gotten that from your friend Austin Corbin.”
Mary was embarrassed. “You saw me with that insufferable man.”
He told Mary that he was through soon after she left and that the rest was lawyer work. He saw her on the way out. Mary related her conversation with Corbin and Dr. Lawrence.
“I’m not surprised at Corbin’s lack of subtlety. I expect no less from the man who said—and I quote—‘If this is a free country, why can’t we be free of the Jews?’ ”
Mary couldn’t help smiling. “Yes, I remember reading it in the newspaper. A total non sequitur. It defies any sense of logic.”
“Did his friend Dr. Lawrence chew your ear off about his study?”
“You know him?”
“It’s m
y business to know every loon in Brooklyn and New York.”
“Why do wealthy white men feel the need to justify their privilege?”
“Pardon my French, but it’s as clear as what’s missing between their legs.”
“That’s an affront to women.”
“Never thought of it that way. Sorry.”
“Accepted. More accurately, it’s because their tiny dicks are larger than their brains.”
Harper reacted with mock affront. “Miss Handley, such raunchy language!” Then he began to laugh.
“Corbin thinks Lawrence is being brave by mixing with the riffraff in the Gut.”
“He isn’t all wrong. A Negro prostitute was killed there Thursday night.”
Suddenly, Mary became serious. “Really?”
“The papers didn’t carry it. I’m sure they thought she wasn’t important enough to be newsworthy— What?”
“Nothing. I just realized I have to be somewhere. It was nice meeting you. Sorry about the shirt.” She headed for the door.
“You can’t leave. I’ve filled you with information, and you’ve told me nothing.”
Mary turned, a twinkle in her eye. “And I thought it wouldn’t hit you until I was gone.”
He watched her as she left, impressed.
Edgar found out about Meg Parker’s murder late that afternoon. News like that spread rapidly among the workers on the midway. Taking a break from getting pelted with balls by angry white people, Edgar could hear snippets of conversation about a murder as he strolled along, enjoying the ocean air. At first, he paid no attention to it. Violence was an everyday occurrence in Brooklyn. Murders were committed so frequently that Edgar, like most people in the world, had steeled himself against them. It’s not that he was unsympathetic, but they were faceless people and taking time to mourn for them all would make it impossible to accomplish anything in life—and he wanted to accomplish a lot.
Then, through the gossip, through the fearful concerns for their own safety, the name Meg shot out from someone’s mouth. He stopped, at first thinking he had misheard it. Then he heard it again…and again. But there were many Megs, and there was no reason why this one was necessarily his. He would find out. He had to.
Last Stop in Brooklyn Page 7
