Edgar went to Jess Carver, the man who ran the carousel. Jess knew everything that happened on the midway and all of Coney Island. He was a good listener and people liked to confide in him. While Jess was taking tickets and the band organ blasted out John Philip Sousa’s march “Sound Off,” Edgar tapped him on the shoulder.
“Who was killed here the other night?” Edgar asked.
The music had drowned out some of Edgar’s words. “Hi, Edgar. Sorry, couldn’t hear you.”
He spoke louder. “I said, who was killed here the other night?”
“Oh, that.” As Jess turned to tell Edgar what he knew, a young boy tried to sneak past him onto the carousel. Jess grabbed him. “A ticket or no ride. Get outta here before I call the cops.” The boy scampered off as fast as he could and he proudly turned to Edgar. “Scared the daylights out of that one.”
“Jess—”
“Right, the woman who was killed here.”
“It was a woman?”
“Yeah, Meg. You probably know who she was. Everyone does. God knows she’s been around for years.”
“Meg who?”
“Huh?” asked Jess as he put his hand to his ear.
Edgar was almost shouting now. “Meg who?”
Jess shrugged. “Can’t remember. You know, Meg, that old Negro prostitute. Guess the life finally got to her.”
“Meg Parker?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Meg Parker.” At that point, the band organ had stopped while changing songs, and since Jess was practically shouting, “Meg Parker” rang out through the crowd as loud and clear as a siren. No one seemed to be affected by it except for Edgar and the few people who snickered at Jess’s being caught yelling when it wasn’t necessary.
Edgar stood there, motionless. It was only for a few seconds, but he no longer had any sense of time. It could have been minutes or hours. He was numb.
“Edgar. Edgar, are you all right?”
Edgar didn’t answer. He slowly turned and started walking. He didn’t know where he was going, but he needed to get away from the crowds. Soon he found himself on the sidewalk near the beach. His knees gave way and he sunk to the ground. As the band organ started playing Sousa’s “O, My Country,” the emotion swept over him—the sorrow, the regret, and the pain. By then Edgar was wailing.
The predominantly white people out for a stroll gave this crazy man a wide berth. They were afraid he might hurt them, and his color only increased their fear.
All his emotions gradually merged into one: a profound anger that soon became rage. Edgar now had a mission. He would find the man who killed Meg and get revenge.
9
On Sunday, Mary met Sean at Lilly’s, a restaurant not far from Second Street Station, where he was on duty. There was plenty of overtime available for policemen, and since the death of his fiancée, Sean had taken as much as he could.
“You know,” Sean mused after they ordered, “it wasn’t too long ago that you’d come begging to me for lunch money.”
“If it hurts your male pride, feel free to buy lunch.”
“No, I kinda like being treated.”
“So what did you find out?”
“Only her name, Meg Parker.”
“Did you get the file?”
“That’s the problem. It’s sealed.”
“Sealed? That doesn’t make sense. Why would they seal a file on a murdered prostitute in Coney Island?”
“It’s hard to understand everything they do. They must have their reasons.”
“It also helps that their own men don’t question it.”
“I can see where this is going. Does it mean you’re not buying lunch? Because if it does, I want to change my order.”
Mary ignored Sean’s humor. Too many thoughts were racing through her head. “I need you to do something else for me.”
“I’m not stealing any records, Mary. My brother obligations stop there.”
“I’d never ask you to steal. How could you say such a thing?”
“But. I know there’s a but.” There was a short pause. “Go ahead. You might as well have out with it.”
“I need you to check the files of all the prostitutes who have been killed since Carrie Brown.”
“Are you insane? That’s over three years of cases.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I only want the files that have been sealed.”
“So, you only want me to check the cases that I can’t check?”
“Exactly. It would be wonderful if you could get me the names and the dates. Places would also be helpful.”
“Just when I think I’m beginning to understand you—”
“Always keep them guessing.”
“I’m not ‘them.’ I’m your brother.”
“And that’s why I’m sure you’ll catch up. Until then, I’m treating you to Lilly’s, your favorite restaurant.”
The waiter arrived with steak and potatoes for Sean and a chicken salad for Mary. Sean’s eyes lit up when he saw the steak, and he immediately started to carve away.
“I’m going to savor every morsel because in the long run I’m sure you’re going to make me pay for every ounce and more.”
Mary looked at him playfully. “Why, Sean, what a terrible thing to say about your favorite sister.”
“You’re my only sister,” Sean replied with his mouth full. “That’s why I have no choice.”
Mary smiled. “I knew you’d catch on.” Then she took her first bite of her chicken salad.
There were six Leo’s Meats shops. Five were in Manhattan. The one in which Basem worked was the first in Brooklyn and the newest. It was a typical butcher shop with beef suspended from the walls on hooks, and a counter with smaller meats displayed covered by a glass shield.
Mary entered shortly after opening on Monday. She intended to catch a train to Matteawan that morning to speak with Ameer Ben Ali and she needed to see Basem first. The man behind the counter was wearing a butcher’s apron. In his late thirties, he had a pleasant but nondescript face and was completely bald, the top of his head having the sheen of a cue ball. Some men grew facial hair to offset this look, but not this man. He seemed proud of it.
“Welcome to Leo’s Meats. I’m Leo. How may I help you?”
“Funny. I had envisioned Leo would be in an office somewhere, managing the finances of his many holdings.”
“I believe in the hands-on approach to business. I work in all my stores, and this being a new one, I will be here for a while.”
“That’s a very sound business philosophy. No wonder you’ve done so well.”
Mary soon regretted those words. Thrilled with his success, Leo had the annoying habit of launching into his life story at the slightest provocation, sometimes with no provocation at all. He told Mary that he was penniless and orphaned at fourteen. Soon after he joined the Barnum and Bailey Circus as an acrobat and toured the world. Eventually, Leo saved up enough money to buy his first butcher shop. “I am a living example of the opportunities America gives a man if he is able and willing.”
“Very impressive, and I know a little bit about the meat business. My father has worked in a butcher shop for thirty-two years.”
“Which one?”
“Flanagan’s, over on Fulton.”
He nodded his head in recognition. “I’ve been looking at that shop. Flanagan is selling.”
“Well, if you decide to add Flanagan’s to your meat empire, rest assured that you won’t find a better or harder worker than my father.”
“If I do, I would love to have your father stay on. It’s good business. I’m sure he knows all the customers.”
“You’re a smart man, Leo.” She extended her hand. “I’m Mary Handley.”
Leo wiped his hand on his apron, then shook Mary’s. “Leo Cosgrove. Ah, Mary Handley. You’re the female Sherlock Holmes who’s helping Basem.”
“I hope I can live up to that title. Have you read Arthur Conan Doyle?”
“I love everything li
terary, especially plays. I adore the theater.”
“A butcher with a penchant for the arts. I’m even more pleased to meet you, Leo.”
“Well then, before I disappoint”—Leo turned toward the back—“Basem, your detective is here.”
Basem entered, his apron almost completely covered in red. There were some spots on his shirt, too. It made him look like he had been immersed in blood, so the smile on his face seemed incongruous. “It’s good to see you, Mary. I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid I’d get blood on you.”
“It’s not blood, Basem,” Leo said. “It’s a liquid that comes out of the animal’s muscles. I don’t know what it is but it doesn’t have the same consistency or the same texture as blood.” He turned to Mary. “I’m teaching Basem the business. I’m sure your father knows this.”
Mary nodded her agreement, but she really didn’t know. She’d always thought it was blood and was never curious enough to ask if it was anything different.
“So,” Basem said, “what news do you bring?”
Before Mary could answer, a woman entered the store. Leo waved his hand. “Talk to Mary, Basem. I’ll take care of this customer.” Then Leo greeted the woman like he had Mary.
“You have a great boss,” Mary whispered.
“Yes, I know. Like I said, he is very understanding.” But Basem’s mind wasn’t on his boss. It was on his brother. He anxiously looked at Mary, hoping for a miracle.
“There’s not much yet. I’m looking at the prostitutes who have been killed since Carrie Brown to see if there is a connection. It’s nothing solid, just a hunch.”
“You’re the professional. Sometimes hunches work, right?”
“Sometimes they do and more often they don’t. Basem, I am going up to Matteawan today to see your brother. It would be extremely helpful if you gave me a letter of introduction. I don’t want to travel all the way up there just to be turned away by the institution or by your brother because neither one has heard of me.”
“Like I told you, he doesn’t know English very well.”
“Then write it in Algerian Arabic. I’m sure he’ll understand that.” Mary had come prepared with paper and pen, and she handed both to Basem.
While he was writing the letter, she looked at Leo, who smiled back as he was helping his customer. She sincerely hoped he would buy Flanagan’s. Then her father would keep his job, her mother would calm down about money, and they all could go back to their normal family insanity.
10
Matteawan, New York, and Fishkill Landing were two small towns close to one another about sixty miles from Manhattan. They were best known not for any industry but rather for nearby Mount Beacon, where, during the Revolutionary War, the patriots would set fires to warn George Washington if the British were coming. There was a movement afoot to merge the two towns into one city, but at the moment they remained separate.
The trip up on the Hudson River Railroad was pleasant enough and not too long. The Hudson River Railroad was owned by the Vanderbilt family, and it spurred Mary to reflect on the luxurious train trips she had taken with George Vanderbilt four years earlier. She had long since gotten over the disappointment of their broken engagement, but it did take a while. Even though she was the one who’d initiated it, she’d had to wait for her emotions to catch up with her intellectual reasoning.
The train station was in Fishkill Landing, and Mary took a trolley to Matteawan, which was only about a mile and a half away. Since Ameer Ben Ali had been transferred to a hospital for the criminally insane, his condition weighed heavily on Mary’s mind. She didn’t tell Basem, but she viewed his letter more as a device. If he was presently living in some fantasy world, maybe the letter would momentarily shake him into a reality where he could answer some questions. Maybe. It was possible he had shut down all communications and nothing could be done.
The letter gained her entrance, and Mary was ushered into an activity room where everything seemed quite peaceful. Patients were at various tables, some reading, others playing checkers or cards. One heavyset woman sat in a chair knitting while she gazed out at the grounds. Matteawan was a model institution that engaged patients in farmwork, cooking, and other normal activities as part of their therapy.
In no time, Ameer was escorted in by a muscular male nurse and sat down at her table. He looked different than the sketches Mary had seen of him during his trial. He now had a full, straggly beard and longish hair, which gave him the appearance of a crazy man. The male nurse stood behind Ameer. Mary looked up at him.
“Can we have some privacy please?”
“I don’t think that’s wise, madam.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“Do you know what this man did?”
“I know what they say he did, and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He raised his hands as if surrendering. “I warned you.” He pointed. “I’ll be in the corner, just a scream away.” He went to the spot he had indicated, folded his arms, and waited.
Mary turned back to Ameer, who uttered his first words: “Who are you?”
“Your brother Basem sent me.” She gave him the letter and as he read it, she studied his face. His unkempt appearance betrayed a deeper problem. As she looked into his eyes, she saw a man who had given up hope, or rather had had it beaten out of him. Neither necessarily meant that he was innocent. It could have meant that he felt great sorrow and despair over the consequences of his actions. She needed to find out.
Ameer looked up from the letter. His English was marginal, and he had learned to speak slowly and deliberately. “How is Basem?”
“He’s very concerned about you or he wouldn’t have hired me.”
Ameer shook his head. “But how is he?”
“What do you mean?”
Frustrated, he mumbled in Algerian Arabic before slamming his fist on the table. The loud sound prompted the male nurse to head in their direction. Mary saw him coming and waved him away. Ameer cooled off as quickly as he had gotten mad.
“Sorry. My English no good.”
She spoke slowly. “It’s much better than my Arabic or my French. Try. I will help.”
“Basem not happy with America when he leave. Now he is back.”
“He came back to help you, and he is fine. Basem has a good job.” Ameer seemed to absorb this information and accept it. Mary decided to move forward. She needed to find out his version of what happened the night Carrie Brown was killed, without the pressure of a trial. She hoped she would hear something that would be helpful. She doubted it, but she had to try.
As Alexander “Clubber” Williams entered Second Street Station, hushed whispers shot through the halls announcing his arrival. Everyone wondered who he was there to see and why, each one hoping it wasn’t them. He had openly taken bribes and mercilessly beaten people, including a fellow policeman, yet every time he was brought up on charges his guardian angels on the Board of Police Commissioners saw that he was set free. Even though the Lexow Committee was currently investigating him for police corruption, the prevailing feeling was that he’d once again avoid any punishment. Williams strutted up to the desk sergeant, Billy O’Brian, a pleasant Irishman who was pushing sixty and loved his work; he vowed that they’d have to carry him out on a stretcher. Billy was afraid of no one.
“Where can I find Sean Handley?”
Billy had known Sean and Mary Handley since they were children, and if he wasn’t a second father to them, he definitely had uncle status.
“Why are you lookin’ for Sean?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s not very sociable of ya, Alex.”
“I’m not the social type. You should know that by now, old man.”
“Yer not exactly a young whippersnapper yerself.”
“Button it.”
“Oooh, sent the shivers right through me.” He mimed shaking from the cold, then continued. “Now, why do ya want Sean?”
Willi
ams was frustrated. “Ahh, I’ll find him myself.” He then turned around and started shouting. “Handley. Sean Handley, get out here. I’m lookin’ for you.”
“Might be a good thing to add who ya are. Just so he knows.”
“Everyone knows who I am.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to hear through all that wind and bluster.”
Williams had had enough of Billy. He frowned, turned openly toward the rest of the police station, and shouted, “Sean Handley, get your arse out here. Alexander Williams is lookin’ for you.”
Hushed whispers of Sean’s name whipped through the halls of the station like the hissing of a snake. Pretty soon Sean stepped out of one of the back offices and faced Williams.
“Are you looking for me, Captain Williams?”
Billy turned to Williams and shrugged. “All ya had to do.”
Sean welcomed Williams into his office, a tiny box with just enough room for a small desk and chair.
Williams looked around the room, then said mockingly, “They must think an awful lot of you here, Handley.”
“How can I be of service to you, sir?”
“You can answer me one question. What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”
“Excuse me. Doing what, sir?”
“Don’t play coy with me, boy. I’ve been ’round the block and then some.”
“If you could just tell me—”
“You’ve been requesting files of murder cases that aren’t yours and not even under your jurisdiction.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that,” Williams said, then jiggled the infamous club at his side, an obvious intimidation tactic. “Speak up. Let’s hear it.”
Sean had already rehearsed what he was going to say if someone asked him a question like this, so he had prepared an answer. Still, Williams made him nervous. He made most people nervous. “Well, you see, Captain, I heard about the Margaret Parker murder—”
“Meg Parker.”
“Meg Parker. Of course. I wanted to see if there was any evidence in other prostitute murders that might connect the murders and help us find the killer.”
Last Stop in Brooklyn Page 8
