Last Stop in Brooklyn

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “I thought ya were cuttin’ back on yer business obligations.”

  “I am. Russell wants me for the Northern Pacific. I want him to help me fund some libraries. It’s a process that will take a while.”

  “So that’s why Andrew Carnegie goes to Russell Sage’s office instead of him going to yers.”

  “That is my sole concession to him. Russell just doesn’t know it yet.”

  The two of them exited the elevator and went out of the building, heading to Delmonico’s. Also exiting the elevator was a short, brown man from Algeria. People like Basem Ben Ali were nonentities to the Carnegies and Byrneses of the world, so little attention was paid to them unless a crime was committed. Basem knew that, and for that reason he also knew that following Byrnes would be easier than when he followed Mary Handley. He had decided that Mary’s method of playing by the book might not be enough to get his brother out of Matteawan. He needed to catch Byrnes in something illegal, or at the very least embarrassing, and trade that for Ameer’s freedom. That was all men like him understood.

  When Basem saw Carnegie, it took every ounce of his self-restraint to keep his anger in check. If there was one man in the world he hated more than Byrnes, it was Andrew Carnegie. In order to avoid a useless outburst that would only expose him, he channeled his anger toward devising a plan. As he lit one of his hand-rolled Turkish cigarettes, Basem wondered whether there was some way he could get both of them and still free Ameer. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  19

  “I have passed the halfway mark in my study,” said Dr. Lawrence, who was dressed in a fashionable cream-colored suit. He stood by his center chair at the dais in one of the banquet rooms of the Oriental Hotel. “So far, the results are very encouraging.”

  An occasional “ahh” coupled with more prevalent satisfied smirks rippled through the room. Mary was sitting next to Austin Corbin at a luncheon for the Immigration Restriction League where Dr. Lawrence was the keynote speaker. The league was an organization that had been formed by Charles Warren, Robert DeCourcy Ward, and Prescott Farnsworth Hall, three Harvard graduates who viewed immigrants from eastern and southern Europe as racially inferior and a threat to the American way of life. Their goal was to drastically reduce immigration from that part of the world. As opposed as Mary was to the organization’s credo, it did do her a service. She was self-educated and had silently harbored an inferiority complex because she hadn’t received a formal education. This league demonstrated that even Harvard graduates could be colossally stupid.

  “When I have finished collecting all my data,” continued Dr. Lawrence, “I feel confident that our goals can no longer be ignored. Politicians will not be able to turn a blind eye to the facts. After all, we didn’t invent a pecking order of the races on Earth. The Lord, our God, did.”

  Dr. Lawrence sat to an enthusiastic round of applause as waiters emerged from the kitchen and served dessert. Mary turned to Corbin, wanting to assure him that her conversion to his side of the fence was ongoing.

  “Dr. Lawrence is an excellent speaker.”

  “Once his study is revealed, our government will have no choice but to yield to our demands.”

  “The best of luck to you.”

  Corbin’s look clearly said he still doubted the sincerity of her sudden conversion, but he didn’t see the harm in her hearing Dr. Lawrence speak. His attitude was simple: the more people that heard their message, the better.

  Mary knew she sounded phony. She just hoped to keep Corbin at bay long enough to get to Dr. Lawrence. She looked around the room, which was filled with white males. The only other woman present besides herself was a fairly large redheaded lady seated a couple of tables away from her. She seemed a bit overdressed for the occasion, not the least of which was a necklace featuring a huge diamond and gold heart locket. Her flaming red hair reminded Mary of Patti, Sean’s deceased fiancée. The woman noticed Mary staring at her and gave her a nod of camaraderie. Maintaining her cover as a recent convert, Mary nodded back, not wanting to cause any ripples. She had to keep her focus on the prize: Dr. Lawrence and his thumbprint.

  People were surrounding the dais, congratulating Dr. Lawrence on his speech, and Mary saw an opportunity. She took her bag of meat with her as she slowly insinuated herself into the middle of the crowd at the dais. When she got close to Dr. Lawrence, she faked being tripped, stumbled toward him, and made sure the paper surrounding the meat unwrapped, spilling its contents into his lap.

  The blood from the meat covered the crotch and thigh area of his cream-colored pants, some of it splashing onto his jacket, with a dot or two on his cheeks. Dr. Lawrence immediately jumped out of his seat and started brushing his pants, his hands turning red with the blood.

  “Miss Handley, what in God’s name—”

  “I am so sorry, Dr. Lawrence. I tripped coming to congratulate you and—”

  “Why would you…?” Rendered speechless, he pointed to the bloody meat, which was now on the floor next to the wrapping paper.

  “It’s a piece of chopped meat I was bringing to my friend. Then I bumped into Mr. Corbin and he told me about this luncheon and your speech—”

  “Enough! Just get it out of here before it does any more damage.”

  “Of course. I am so sorry. Could you hand it to me, please?”

  Dr. Lawrence harrumphed, then reached down with his bloody hands and scooped up the meat with his left hand as he held the wrapping paper with his right. Mary didn’t want to touch it, so she opened her bag, he dumped it inside, and she took note of where his right thumb was placed on the paper. At that point, Dr. Lawrence was deluged with waiters armed with water and rags to get the stains out of his clothing, which in all likelihood was a hopeless cause. As he was surrounded by people patting him down, Mary took the opportunity to leave.

  “It was a brilliant speech, Dr. Lawrence. Keep up the good work.”

  Annoyed, he shook his head as Mary made her way through the disapproving crowd to the exit, all the time hoping the thumbprint on the key was from his right hand. She figured she had a 50-50 chance.

  Edgar was getting closer. He was looking for weird, probably perverse, and though no one person could corner the market on those qualities, especially in the Gut, his discussions with the midway workers and Coney Island regulars had narrowed down the field. The majority of them agreed that no ordinary lowlife could have fooled Meg even if he had a wad of cash.

  “Meg was a pro. There’s no chance in hell she would’ve been caught nappin’ by one of them regulars.”

  “I’ve seen her in action. If some ordinary Joe made a move, he’d be eatin’ dirt, not her.”

  “It had to be someone different, someone she wasn’t used to.”

  “Probably a rich guy, one of those highfalutin’ types who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”

  “Hadda be a dandy in order to fool Meg.”

  Edgar agreed. It seemed reasonable it was someone with whom she wasn’t used to interacting. Meg might have been impressed with a person from a richer, more refined class, mistakenly thinking the money, education, and expensive clothes made him better than her. He questioned every bartender, shopkeeper, and con man in the Gut and came up with a number of well-dressed, wealthy gentlemen who had recently been cruising the bar and beach area. He spent day and night in the Gut, found these men, and followed them. It didn’t take long for him to narrow it down to less than a handful.

  Being an actor, Edgar considered himself an expert on human behavior. Their cocky own-the-world attitude didn’t fool him. Crazy was crazy. The only question in his mind was whether the murderer had fled Coney Island, never to return after killing Meg. That would involve knowledge that he had done something wrong and fear that he might get caught. Every instinct he had told Edgar that a maniac like the one who killed Meg had no fear and no conscience. He would wait for the killer to strike again. If he returned, he was a sick fuck who couldn’t stop. Edgar would make sure that he did.

  20


  Mary kept pounding on Harper’s door, but he didn’t answer. She had heard voices inside, at least one of them a woman.

  “Harper, I don’t care if you have ten women in there and you’re all naked,” she shouted through the door. “I have to see you. It’s important.”

  Harper finally cracked open the door and spoke in a low voice. “It’s not a good time, Mary. Can you come back later?”

  “Take a short break from your orgy and listen for a minute. I have it.” She held up the bag and changed to a whisper. “The print. I need Ivan Nowak’s address.”

  “Ivan doesn’t know you. I have to be there, and I won’t be free for a while.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said, then shouted past Harper, “Ladies, put your clothes on and have a smoke. Casanova will be back soon.” She turned to Harper. “See? Simple as that.”

  “That was incredibly rude. You—”

  “Harper,” a female voice called from inside, “let her in. It’s okay.”

  Harper reluctantly opened the door wider, and Mary walked in. To her surprise, the only other person there was a conservatively dressed elderly lady who was sitting on Harper’s couch.

  “Mary Handley,” Harper said as he closed the door, “meet Mrs. James Norcross.”

  Mary immediately put it together. “You mean—”

  “Yes. She’s the mother of Henry L. Norcross. Mrs. Norcross is in town from Massachusetts this week and has been kind enough to give me an interview for my article. Of course, I’m not sure how she feels about it now that you’ve barged in.”

  “It’s perfectly all right, Harper,” said Mrs. Norcross. “I know all about jealous women.”

  “Jealous? Me, of Harper? Please, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “You heard a female voice and you didn’t think she might be a relative or part of his work, but rather jumped to the conclusion that Harper was having an affair, not only with her but with multiple partners.”

  “I was joking.”

  “That’s an excellent way of avoiding the truth.”

  Mary turned to Harper. “Who is the investigative reporter here, you or her?”

  “I’m leaving this investigation in Mrs. Norcross’s lap,” said Harper, enjoying every second of it. “She’s doing a fabulous job, and I can’t wait to see where it goes.”

  “Nowhere, Harper, absolutely nowhere.”

  “That’s it, my dear,” said Mrs. Norcross. “String him along until he’s completely helpless.”

  “That will not be difficult. When I met him, he was completely helpless.”

  Harper quickly jumped in. “Not exactly how I remember it.”

  Mary started to answer but Mrs. Norcross beat her to it. “You two can continue your lovers’ spat after Harper has finished our interview, unless, of course, you are finished.”

  “I’m not. Mary, could you please come back in a little while?”

  “She can stay. I’m not going to say anything the world won’t be able to read in your article.”

  Allowing a reasonable amount of space between them, Mary also sat on the couch as Harper picked up a pad and pen, then plopped down on a chair facing Mrs. Norcross. “Did Henry ever express a hate for Russell Sage?”

  “Not specifically against Mr. Sage. He did say he thought it was unfair that a few Americans made ungodly amounts of money while many were starving, but I’ve heard a lot of people say that and none of them did what Henry did.”

  “So he never gave you any indication of why?”

  Mrs. Norcross paused, reliving the pain of losing her son. “It’s been almost three years, and not a day goes by where it hasn’t plagued James and me. We’ve searched our memories for clues, behavior that would have indicated something. How could we have been so blind?”

  She buried her head in her hands and started to cry. Mary quickly took a handkerchief out of her pocketbook and gave it to her. “It’s not your fault, Mrs. Norcross. He probably didn’t want you to know. I hide things from my parents all the time.”

  She looked up at Mary in torment, as if she might have an answer. “Why?”

  “There are things I don’t want them to know. They’ll worry or try to stop me from doing something I’m going to do anyway.”

  Mrs. Norcross shook her head. “Children.”

  Harper gave her a moment to gather herself, then asked, “He didn’t leave anything behind, maybe a good-bye note?”

  Mrs. Norcross reached for her pocketbook, which was next to her on the couch. “I meant to show this to you. He dropped it in our mailbox the night he left.” She pulled out an envelope, removed a letter from it, and gave it to Harper. He stared at it, then handed it to Mary. The letter read, “I’m going to New York to get 1.2 million dollars. If I don’t return, I love you. Henry.”

  “And you have no idea why that amount or why he did it?”

  “If I had any idea beforehand, I would have lain down on the railroad tracks to prevent his train from leaving the station. At that point though, we didn’t know what he had planned, where he was going in New York, and rushing there to search for him seemed futile.” Her words were very earnest and heartfelt, her frustration even more so.

  Mary felt sympathy for this poor woman. Even though she had just met Mrs. Norcross, she put her arm around her. It seemed natural when this perfect stranger responded by resting her head on Mary’s shoulder, seeking whatever comfort she could offer.

  William Laidlaw’s nurse, Emily, had a decision to make. She had done her best, but it wasn’t good enough for Byrnes and he had a stranglehold on her. Her younger brother had been out of work since the Panic of 1893 had caused a serious depression throughout the country. Jobs were scarce and often nonexistent. Broke and desperate, he had picked out a rich gentleman on Fifth Avenue to rob. The problem was her brother was a lousy crook. The man gave him an awful thrashing and had him arrested. Byrnes said he would square things with the man and make sure her brother went free if she got him the name of William Laidlaw’s witness. Otherwise, her brother would spend years in jail and he’d see to it that she got fired.

  Byrnes had just upped the ante by giving her a deadline of two days. Laidlaw was not a trusting soul, and she was beside herself with worry. She had to do something drastic. Her dumb brother and her livelihood depended on it.

  The Home for the Incurables was overcrowded, so it took some clever maneuvering for Emily to find an empty room with a bed. She had it for about an hour and that was plenty of time for what she had planned. Laidlaw was usually in a sour mood and it was no different when she wheeled him into the room.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked.

  “I have a surprise in store for you, William.”

  He brightened. “A surprise, huh?”

  Emily knew he liked her. Truth was, even with her many other patients and duties, she was really the only human contact he had during the day. He didn’t like socializing with the other patients. They depressed him. His sisters rarely visited. He did have a fiancée before the explosion, but she left him soon after. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be tied down to a cripple for the rest of her life. But Emily? She was pleasant and nice, not much in the looks department but who was he to be picky? Her father worked in a bank like he had, and she shared a fondness for numbers with him. He enjoyed Emily.

  “I’ll help you onto the bed,” she said.

  “What for?”

  “You’re always complaining about the pain in your legs, and I thought a massage will do you some good.”

  “Oh, Emily, you’re a saving grace. You’re an angel. That’s what you are.”

  He propped himself up by pressing his left hand against the arm of his wheelchair. She locked her arm under his right armpit, and he was lifted onto the bed.

  “Lie on your back,” she instructed him as she closed the door. “I have some lotion that should be soothing.”

  She unbuttoned his pants and removed them, leaving his knee-length drawers. Emily then poured some lo
tion onto her hands, bent over his body, and started at his ankles. Laidlaw immediately began moaning. They were moans of relief.

  “That feels so good, Emily. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I like you, too, William, but sometimes I get the impression you don’t feel the same way about me.”

  “That’s not true. I do like you.”

  As she worked her way up his calves to his knees and he moaned louder, she said, “Like involves trust, and you hide things from me.”

  “No, I don’t. I trust you. I swear.”

  “Then how come when I ask how your case is progressing, you just say fine? There are particulars.”

  She worked her way above his knees, her fingers moving under his drawers and up his thighs. He hadn’t been touched by a woman in years and certainly not below the waist. His only experience with that was a prostitute on his eighteenth birthday. His fiancée, like most women of the day, had wanted to wait until marriage, a marriage that never happened.

  It was hard to hide how excited he was, his penis trying to climb out of his drawers. “Trust me, William. Why don’t you trust me?”

  He was breathing very hard, his moaning heading toward a crescendo. “I trust you, Emily. I do.”

  She suddenly removed her hands from his body. “I don’t see it. You don’t act that way.”

  “Emily, please, believe me. I trust you. I trust you with my life!”

  “You do? I’m touched, William. That makes me feel wonderful.” She then returned her hands to his drawers and started rubbing again. He emitted a huge sigh of pleasure. “I was thrilled to hear you have a witness.”

  “Yes, thrilling.” He wasn’t thinking about the witness.

  “That’s strange, after all this time, a witness suddenly stepping forward.”

  “No one stepped forward. My lawyer found her. Ooooh, Emily!”