She worked from noon until ten, and as soon as she left work, she usually went to her room and began drinking. Men of the lowest sort in the district constantly stalked her, but she managed to elude them. The uncouth owner of the cafe, Clyde Posten, tried to force himself on her, but gave up with a curse when she fought him off. He didn’t fire her, because she was cheap reliable help, but he made things as difficult as he could.
She saw a few people from Barone’s place, but never Tony. One of the bar girls named Nellie had advised her to return. “It’s better than working your arms off here,” she had said. But Katie had resisted.
One September night, Katie came out of the cafe, exhausted and discouraged. She stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of gin, then went home and began to drink. She was halfway through the bottle when a knock at her door aroused her. “Who is it?” she asked, not getting off the bed. It was not uncommon for one of the men who lived in the neighborhood to come and try to get her to go out with him, and she assumed it was one of these.
But it was a woman’s voice. “My name is Winslow. May I talk to you, Miss Sullivan?”
Katie stood to her feet and brushed her hair from her face. She was groggy and her hand was unsteady as she slipped the bolt on her door. “What’s that you say?” she asked, her tongue thick from the liquor. She peered out into the dark hallway, unable to see the features of the woman who stood there. “Who are you?”
“We met once, Miss Sullivan. I’m Barney Winslow’s mother.”
“Barney?” Katie tried to think, and a memory came back to her. “Yes, I remember Barney.” She hesitated, then shrugged. “You can come in if you want to.” She turned up the low burning light in the lamp on the table, then said, “You want to sit down?”
Lola took the only chair in the room, saying, “Thank you.” She showed no sign of the disgust that filled her at the foul-smelling room, for she was actually more shocked at the change in Katie Sullivan.
She had thought of her often, and now to see the girl’s dirty face and unkempt, filthy hair shocked her. Katie had changed so greatly that Lola would never have known her.
“I know you’re wondering why I’ve come to see you,” she began.
“How’d you find me?”
“I went to Mr. Barone’s place. A young woman named Nellie told me where you lived.” Lola hesitated, then plunged in. “I need your help, Miss Sullivan. I don’t think Barney shot that man, and I’m going to prove it.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Katie said thickly. She picked up the bottle, took a drink from it, then shook her head. “It was a long time ago.”
“My younger son, Andy, came to see you after it happened. Do you remember that?”
“I guess so. But I told him I didn’t know anything.”
Lola said gently, “So he said. But he told me he felt that you did know something. He sensed you were afraid to talk.”
“Well, it’s not a good idea to squeal on people in this part of town,” Katie nodded. She took another drink, then stared at Lola. “People have been shot and thrown in the river for talking too much.”
Lola sat there quietly, trying to think of how to approach the girl. Katie Sullivan was at the bottom—that was clear. But all other leads had run out. She breathed a quick prayer, then said, “My dear, I wouldn’t have you come to any harm.”
The simple words struck against Katie’s drink-dulled senses. She stared at the elegant form before her, seeing the kindness in the woman’s eyes, and it brought tears to her eyes. “I guess not many people are trying to keep me from harm,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what little I know.”
“I’d be very grateful,” Lola said. She reached out and touched Katie’s hand. “It would mean a great deal to me.”
Katie paused, then said, “Well, I heard Tony talking with Studs Ketchel the day after the shooting. I was in the next room, and I guess Tony forgot I was there. They were talking about the robbery, and Studs was afraid of something. Then Tony said, ‘Don’t worry, Studs. Nobody knows you hired Barney for the job. It’s your word against his.’ And then Studs said, ‘You’re wrong about that. Manti knows.’ And then Tony says, ‘Legs won’t talk, Studs. Young Winslow’s takin’ the fall for him.’ Then somebody came in, so they stopped talking.”
“Do you know a man called Legs Manti?” Lola asked.
“He used to come into Tony’s place all the time. He’d been in prison, and everybody said he was a dangerous man.”
Lola sat there thinking, compassion for the distraught girl welling up. “You’ve changed since I saw you last.” Katie’s head dropped, and the older woman added, “I’d like to help you, Katie. You don’t have to live like this.”
Katie looked up, startled, as a roll of bills was pressed into her hands.
“This is not just for telling me what you know about this case,” Lola said. “I’d like to see you get out of the life you’re living here. God will help you.”
Katie shook her head. “No, God doesn’t care about me.”
“You’re wrong about that, my dear,” Lola said, and for some time she tried to convince the unhappy young woman about her condition, but it seemed useless. Realizing she’d done what she could, Lola wrote something on a card and handed it to Katie. “Katie, call me if you ever change your mind. Now, let me ask you one thing. I think the day is coming when the truth is going to come out about the crime Barney’s in prison for. Will you tell the truth as you’ve told it to me—to the authorities, I mean?”
Katie looked down at the roll of bills in her hand. They represented the first kindness anyone had shown her in a long time. “Yes,” she replied. “But I don’t care what they do to me. I’d be better off in the river, anyway!”
CHAPTER SIX
Mr. Carmody’s Visitor
No man rose to the top of the political structure of New York City in the year of 1896 without being tough, but Daniel Patrick Carmody was more than just hard. He had climbed out of the slums of the Bowery, fighting and defeating every opponent with a thoroughness that shocked observers. He entered the business world and applied the same ruthless technique with such efficiency that in ten years he controlled a huge share of the city’s revenues. When he entered politics at the age of thirty, onlookers predicted he would not so easily run roughshod over hardened ward bosses, but they were mistaken. By the time he was thirty-five years of age, he was the boss of New York’s political machine.
In the process, Carmody had made quite a few enemies, as any man would be forced to do who climbed so rapidly and so high. But many of them were either dead or ruined, so he gave them little thought. But Carmody’s success whetted his appetite for more. Being the boss was a beginning—why not something with more class? Mayor of New York, for example? That could propel him even further—say, senator?
Dan Carmody sat in his office musing over his future. He was not a poetic man, yet he did have a bold and sweeping imagination where his personal goals were concerned. His eyes flicked to a picture on the wall of two men shaking hands—one, William McKinley, who would in all probability be the next President of the United States; the other, Dan Carmody.
“Mr. Carmody, there’s a lady here to see you.”
His secretary’s abrupt announcement tore Carmody’s eyes from the picture. “What lady?” he grunted, irritated.
“A Mrs. Winslow.”
“Is she anybody?”
“I don’t know, sir,” he replied, hesitating. A major part of his job was to decide who should be allowed to see his boss. Finally he shrugged. “I think you better see her. She’s top drawer.” He glanced at the picture of McKinley and Carmody and winked. “She’s a swell, Dan. Might be a heavy contributor to your campaign fund next year.”
Carmody’s eyes sparked with interest. “Show her in, Patterson.”
The woman was top drawer, all right, Carmody noted. Dressed in simple but expensive clothing and wearing little jewelry, except for the diamond that glittered at her thro
at, she spoke of money. He got up at once and advanced to meet her.
“Mrs. Winslow? Dan Carmody. Won’t you have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carmody.” Lola sat down gracefully, then said, “I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Carmody. My son is in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. One of your lieutenants is responsible for it, and I intend to see that he is brought to account. And when that happens, you will, of course, be embarrassed.”
Carmody prided himself on his iron will, and was not a man to show emotion. But when the beautiful woman with the enormous black eyes spoke out, he was stunned. He saw that she was aware of his confusion, and it angered him.
“Mrs. Winslow, you’re making a mistake,” he said. Carmody’s first impulse was to strike back. Hit hard and they won’t return, he often said. His eyes narrowed and he said in a threatening voice, “You’d better leave.”
“Very well,” Lola said calmly, rising to her feet. “I thought we might settle this matter quietly, but I can see you’re not ready for that. You can expect a call from my husband later in the day.”
“And who might he be?”
“Mark Winslow. He’s vice-president of the Union Pacific Railroad.” She saw his eyes open wide, so plunged the barb a little deeper. “And he’s also chairman of the Democratic National Committee.”
Carmody cleared his throat, and saw with alarm that the woman was already heading for the door, her back straight as a soldier’s!
“Now—just a moment, Mrs. Winslow—!” He jumped up to intercept her at the door. “You’ve got the best of me.” Carmody was a big, fine-looking man who could charm anyone when he chose to do so.
Smiling and shaking his head gently, he said, “You must forgive me, Mrs. Winslow, but you just don’t know how many people come into this office with strange ideas. Here, please sit down and let me hear more of this. Believe me, I know nothing about it.”
Lola took her seat, saying, “I think that’s probably true, Mr. Carmody. A man with your busy schedule has to delegate responsibility. My husband tells me that’s the most difficult part of business.”
“He’s a wise man, Mrs. Winslow!”
“Yes, he is.” Lola paused, then said slowly and with great emphasis, “My husband also says that a man who is interested in public office is even more vulnerable. For he may be betrayed by the inefficiency—or the corruption—of his people.”
Carmody was fully alarmed now. His mind had been working rapidly, and he recalled that Mark Winslow was indeed a power within the party—the party whose support he had to have if he expected to climb to the top. He nodded. “Very true, Mrs. Winslow. It’s inevitable that a man will make some mistakes in choosing his lieutenants. Suppose you tell me about your son.”
Lola had carefully planned her meeting with Carmody, not even informing Mark of her intent. She was wise enough to know that the evidence she had was pitifully thin, that it was not enough to cause the courts to reconsider their verdict.
But she was also aware of Dan Carmody’s keen political ambitions. With that in mind, she had put together the few facts she held in a way that would affect those ambitions. In blunt terms, Mrs. Winslow recounted the story of the robbery. She stressed the fact that Adams, the man who had been shot, could not identify her son as the assailant, but that she had evidence a man named Studs Ketchel had hired Legs Manti to commit the holdup.
“What evidence do you have against Studs Ketchel?”
“That will come out in the trial—if it comes to that, Mr. Carmody,” Lola said evenly.
“I’ll have to speak to Ketchel—but I don’t think he’s guilty. Come and see me tomorrow.”
“Ketchel is in his office down the hall,” Lola said. “Call him in right now. The three of us will have this out.” She saw the anger rise in Carmody’s face, and added, “When I leave this office, your opportunity to handle this quietly is gone. I will go straight to the newspapers and then to my husband. I don’t know if it will get my son out of prison or not, but it will be very hard on you, Mr. Carmody. Fatal, I think, to your political aims.”
Carmody had never been so helpless. Anger raced through him, but he knew he had no choice. “Patterson!” he called, and when the secretary appeared, said, “Get Studs in here!”
“Yes, sir.”
As the door closed, Carmody went to his chair and sat down. The woman didn’t speak, and in the silence, his eyes fell on the picture of himself shaking hands with William McKinley. He shifted his glance toward Lola Winslow, thinking that if things were different, he could have her “taken care of.” But he knew that was impossible, so he began sifting through ways to get clear of the problem.
When Ketchel came through the door, Carmody said, “This is Mrs. Winslow. Her husband is vice-president of the Union Pacific Railroad—and chairman of the Democratic National Committee.”
Ketchel was a shrewd man. He understood the message at once: This woman is important! “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Winslow.”
“Mrs. Winslow, tell Studs what you just told me.”
Studs turned to listen, at a loss as to what the woman could want to tell him; but with her first sentence, his highly developed sense of self-preservation began to function. He had always felt uneasy about the Adams robbery, and now it was rising from its grave.
Lola said briefly, “You hired a man named Legs Manti to hold up the Adams jewelry store, and you hired my son to help him. It was Manti who shot that jeweler, not my son. I intend to see that Manti goes to jail and my son is set free.”
Ketchel froze, his jaw slack. “Mrs. Winslow—I—I had nothing to do with it,” he stammered.
“You’ll have your chance to prove that in court, Ketchel,” she said, then rose to her feet, addressing Carmody, “I’m going to step out of the office. I’ll give you men five minutes. If you can come up with a plan to get my son out of jail and save yourselves, I’ll listen. If not, we will have to go to court.”
When the door closed, Ketchel stared at Carmody, saying in a strained voice, “Dan! What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on!” Carmody snapped. “I’m going to lose the race for mayor—and you’re going to Sing Sing!”
“Dan! She can’t prove a thing!”
“You guarantee that, Studs?” Carmody demanded sarcastically. “You personally guarantee that the wife of the chairman of the National Democratic Committee can’t put the skids under me?”
“Wait a minute!”
“Wait, nothing!” Carmody barked, slamming his hand on the desk. “You made this mess, Studs! I told you to quit fooling with penny-ante stuff! Now you’ve got five minutes to think of something! That woman means business!”
Suddenly Ketchel exclaimed, “Wait a minute!” He stood there, his crafty face working. Then he smiled, “I got it!”
“It better be good!”
“It is!” Ketchel cried. “I guess you forgot about Legs.”
Carmody paused, his mind working rapidly; then he said slowly, “Yeah, I did forget.” A smile touched his lips. “He’s up for life.”
“Sure! No parole for Legs, the judge said.”
“So we make sure he confesses to the Adams’ job, right?”
“Right!” Ketchel nodded. “I mean, they can’t give him more than life, can they? Anyway, he done the job. The Winslow kid never even had a hand in it. He was drunk on the street; never done a thing.”
“What makes Legs confess?”
“Why, he’s had a change of heart, old Legs has! Can’t stand the thought of poor old Barney suffering in the Castle for something he never done!”
“But how do we make him do it?”
Ketchel shrugged. “Won’t be hard, Dan. Guys in Sing Sing need things. Legs don’t have no dough. We slip him a few bills—he sings like a canary.” Then a brutal gleam flashed in his eyes. “ ’Course if Legs balks on us, we can get someone to persuade him. Not a good idea to get on the bad side of the guards in stir. I found that out. I’ll just tell Legs he
can look for a few cold showers and a session or two with Captain Dollar and his little toy. But Legs will do it. He ain’t got nothin’ to lose, and he needs the dough.”
“All right, that’s it.” Carmody walked to the door, opened it, and said, “Mrs. Winslow, will you come in, please?”
When Lola stepped inside, Carmody said, “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible miscarriage of justice, Mrs. Winslow. But thank God we can do something about it!”
“I was sure you could, Mr. Carmody,” Lola said evenly.
“Studs here was involved, but not as you think,” Carmody went on. “He’s been angry and upset over the way the case was handled, but we’ve found a way to get your son out.”
“You work very quickly, Mr. Carmody,” Lola said mockingly, then added, “I will expect to hear from you.” She turned on her heels and walked out of the room without another word.
Carmody stared after her with reluctant admiration. “Now there’s a dame for you, Studs! Wish the men that work for me had that kind of nerve.”
“She’s something,” Ketchel admitted. “I’ll see Legs today. Better get this thing done.”
“Right!”
Ketchel turned to leave, but asked one more question. “You think she’d have gone through with it, Dan?”
Carmody smiled thinly. “I think she’d have skinned the two of us with a dull knife to free that boy. Now, get with it, Studs. And no slip-ups!”
****
“Come on, Winslow!”
Startled, he raised his eyes from the loom in front of him. Manners, one of the more decent guards, was standing in front of him. “Come along,” Manners said when Barney hesitated.
Winslow rose without a word. He had become a changed man since the torturous beating. And after Awful Gardner left, Barney never communicated with any of the men in adjoining cells, nor had he gone back to chapel. All his guards noticed his silence. “Reckon you took the fight out of him, Captain,” one of the guards reported to Dollar, and that was accepted as the standard explanation for Winslow’s silence.
The Final Adversary Page 7
