A Promise of Ruin

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A Promise of Ruin Page 7

by Cuyler Overholt


  “Thanks, Billie, but I’ll be using them for purely medicinal purposes.”

  He grinned. “That’s what they all say.”

  I turned to go.

  “Genna, wait.” Simon emptied his beer glass and put it down. “I’m coming with you.” Pushing the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, he rose from the stool and followed me back upstairs.

  • • •

  Frankie was sitting up on the cot when we entered the meeting room.

  “Look who I found,” I said.

  “Hey there, Frankie.” Simon crossed to the cot and sat down beside him. “How are you feeling?”

  Frankie attempted but failed to say something intelligible.

  I saw Simon’s jaw clench, but his tone was teasing as he ruffled the boy’s hair and remarked, “Say now, I know I’ve asked you to pipe down on occasion, but don’t you think this is going a little too far?”

  A mirthful noise emerged from Frankie’s mouth.

  “All right, let’s get you fixed up,” I said, with a matter-of-factness I was far from feeling. Although I appreciated Simon’s concern for the boy, I would have preferred to attempt the procedure without his watchful eyes upon me. “Come sit here,” I instructed Frankie, pulling a chair into the center of the room.

  He walked over and settled himself on the chair.

  I held the two corks in front of him. “Do you know what a fulcrum is?”

  He shook his head.

  “When you put a board over a barrel to make a seesaw, the barrel is the fulcrum. It helps you lift the person sitting on the other end of the board. These corks are going to act like fulcrums, helping me to lever your jaw back into place. Understand?”

  He nodded gamely, his trusting eyes locked on mine.

  I inserted one cork between the upper and lower back teeth on each side of his mouth and then walked around to stand behind him. Simon leaned toward us with his elbows on his knees, watching intently.

  I laced my fingers under Frankie’s chin. “When I say ‘now’, I want you to take a deep breath, and then slowly let it out,” I told him. “Ready?”

  “’eady,” he replied.

  Dear Lord, I thought, don’t let me make things any worse for this boy than they already are. “All right, Frankie. Now.” As soon as I heard him exhale, I started pulling up on his chin, concentrating on applying pressure evenly to both sides. I could feel his neck tightening and his shoulders rising higher and higher in resistance. I forced myself to pull harder, and then harder still, picturing the condyles moving downward and backward over the articular eminences.

  A grunt of pain or protest escaped him. I winced in sympathy and was just about to let go when I heard the condyles slip back into their sockets with an audible pop.

  Frankie raised a tentative hand to his jaw. “You did it!” he marveled.

  “Don’t talk just yet,” I said, slumping behind him in relief. “You could dislocate it again. I’ll go get something to wrap it with.” I went into the kitchen for a clean dish towel and carried it back to the meeting room. “This will keep you from opening your mouth too far and dislocating the jaw again,” I told him, wrapping it under his chin and over his head.

  “Hey, I ain’t gonna wear that,” he protested, pulling back.

  “Don’t talk,” I reminded him, struggling to pull the ends into a knot.

  “I ain’t wearing it,” he repeated through gritted teeth, pushing it off.

  “Frankie…” Simon growled.

  “Why not?” I asked, dropping the towel into my lap.

  Frankie glared at me. “Because the boys’ll say I look like one of them mummies, that’s why.”

  Since mummies had been an abiding topic of conversation among the club members ever since our recent excursion to the Metropolitan Museum, I couldn’t honestly gainsay this concern. I thought for a moment. “How about like this then,” I said, wrapping the thick towel around his neck and tying it in front, so that it supported his jaw from below. I leaned back to check the final effect. “Goodness, you look just like a Tenth Avenue Cowboy,” I exclaimed, knowing full well that every warm-blooded boy in the city dreamed of being one of the horsemen who rode down the Tenth Avenue tracks, warning pedestrians of oncoming freight trains.

  He sat up straighter, fingering the towel. “Yeah!” he repeated, his eyes shining. “Just like a Tenth Avenue Cowboy!”

  I smiled, although it just about broke my heart to witness the wonder that had somehow managed to survive in this hard-used little boy.

  “I want to see,” he said and ran out to the hallway water closet to look in the mirror.

  Simon smiled and shook his head. “That was very impressive, Doctor.”

  “I’m just glad it worked. It’s been a while since I tried it.” I started dragging the chair back to the wall.

  “I’ll get that.” He jumped up and crossed to the chair, pausing with his hand on the back of it. His eyes swept over my face, full of such warm regard that, despite all my sensible intentions, I found myself holding my breath again.

  “The boys are lucky to have you,” he said. “They may not always show it, but you’ve come to mean a lot to them.”

  “They’ve come to mean a lot to me too.” I hesitated, then added, “You all have.” I held his gaze, waiting for him to respond to my implicit invitation and let me know that my doubts had all been for naught.

  He started to say something but stopped, looking away. “Well,” he mumbled finally, “I just want you to know how much I appreciate your helping them. I know there are other things you could be doing with your time.” He hoisted the chair and carried it back to the wall.

  Although the words were kind, they rang hollowly in my ears. It was gratitude he was feeling, on behalf of his boys. Nothing more, nothing less. It was time I finally believed it and moved on.

  • • •

  We walked Frankie down to the sidewalk, where Simon was hailed by a man in overalls just leaving the saloon. While the two conversed, I crouched in front of Frankie and checked that his wrap was secure as he squirmed under my ministrations.

  “Try not to chew on anything hard for a few days,” I told him, “or to yawn without supporting your jaw.” And stay out of your father’s way, I wanted to add but knew it would only embarrass him. I pushed the hair out of his eyes, wishing there was something I could do to put a smile on his somber young face. “Say, Frankie, do you like ice-cream sandwiches?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I dunno.”

  “You don’t know? You mean you don’t care for them?”

  “I mean I ain’t never had one,” he said with a scowl.

  I found this hard to comprehend. The ice-cream sandwich vendors had become a summertime fixture on practically every East Side block, selling their portable treats for only a penny a piece. It was a very frugal family indeed—or a rather hard-hearted one—that could never spare a penny for a child’s treat. “Then today’s your lucky day.” I took a penny from my purse and held it out. “You’re going to buy yourself an ice-cream sandwich on your way home, to celebrate our successful procedure.”

  “I don’t need no ice-cream sandwich,” he said, his proud refusal belied by the wistful gleam in his eye.

  “Of course you don’t need it. But you most certainly deserve it, for being such a brave patient.” I moved the penny closer.

  He hesitated a moment longer, then took it from my fingers—not realizing, I guessed, that he was licking his lips as he did so. I stood and watched him walk off down the street, a little piece of my heart going with him.

  I glanced toward Simon, who was still occupied with the man at the door. Normally, I would have waited to chat with him some more, and perhaps even strolled with him to his next appointment. But I was going to have to stop looking for opportunities to spend time together. It would only cause m
e pain to remain in frequent contact, when what I wanted was out of reach. And so I forced myself to go, giving him a wave as I started down the sidewalk.

  “Genna, wait!” He patted the man on the shoulder and crossed over to me. “You asked me to tell you if I learned anything more about the drowned girl. I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Frankie, but I ran into Detective Norton today after court, and he brought me up to date.”

  Images of the dead Italian girl came rushing back to me, temporarily pushing aside my personal woes. “Do they know who she is?”

  “They’ve got a name, yes.”

  “And do they know what happened to her?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. “Why don’t we go into my office, where we’ll have some privacy.” He pulled the saloon door open and ushered me inside.

  Chapter Six

  I followed him into the half-full dining room, past the silent piano, and through a door in the back wall of the saloon. I hadn’t been inside his office since the day I’d come to seek his help in absolving my patient from murder the previous winter. It was as sparsely furnished as before, containing nothing but a ceiling lamp, a large round table, and half a dozen chairs. He followed me in and closed the door.

  “Norton had the autopsy results,” he told me.

  I nodded, waiting for more.

  He studied my face. “You sure you want to hear this?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You’d better sit down, then.”

  I lowered myself into one of the chairs. He certainly had my full attention.

  Dropping onto the seat beside me, he began, “There was a letter in the dead girl’s coat pocket, postmarked in March. The ink was blurry, but they could still make out most of it.” He extracted a piece of paper from his pocket and began to read from penciled notes. “The letter was addressed to a Lucia Siavo in Durazzano, Italy, which, according to the interpreter, is a small hill town on the outskirts of Naples. Detective Norton confirmed with the Board of Immigration that a Lucia Siavo from the village of Durazzano was listed on the manifest of the steamship Citta Di Napoli, which arrived in New York three weeks ago. According to the manifest, Lucia traveled alone, in steerage. She was seventeen years of age, five feet two inches tall, and had black hair and brown eyes. The coroner has confirmed that the height and other features match the girl in the river.” He looked up. “While Norton can’t be positive yet, he’s assuming the dead girl is this Lucia Siavo.”

  “Lucia,” I repeated softly.

  Turning back to his notes, he continued, “The letter is signed by someone named Marco, who calls her ‘my sweet Lucia’ and talks about sharing his love and prosperity with her and raising a family in America. He also refers to an enclosed steamship ticket.”

  “So she came here to marry.”

  “So it seems,” he said, returning the paper to his pocket.

  “What did the autopsy reveal?”

  He hesitated, shifting on his seat. I braced myself for whatever he was finding so difficult to tell me.

  “They’re calling it a drowning,” he said.

  “So…not strangulation,” I said, my own conclusion confirmed.

  “No. But there were…signs that she’d had sexual relations recently.”

  I frowned at him. “Well, you did say she came here to marry.” Even as I said it, however, I remembered that she’d worn no wedding band.

  He shifted again on his seat. “The coroner told Norton that she was only wearing undergarments under her coat. And she…well, she appeared to have been manhandled pretty badly.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said slowly. “You mean that she was violated.”

  “There were also several burns on her body.”

  “Burns?” I repeated.

  “Cigarette burns.”

  I stared at him. “Someone raped her and then burned her with a cigarette?”

  “Actually, they think there must have been repeated assaults, since some of the injuries were older than others.”

  I swallowed. “You’re telling me that she was raped and burned repeatedly, over a period of time. And the bruises on her neck?”

  “Probably also incurred during the sexual act.”

  I sat back in my chair.

  Reluctantly, he added, “They also found a syphilis lesion.”

  I closed my eyes, not sure I wanted to hear more.

  “The detective thinks she may have been shanghaied directly from the boat and forced into prostitution.”

  “Dear God.” I pictured the sweet-faced girl I’d seen on the esplanade, arriving in New York full of hopes and dreams for her future, and walking instead into some unholy nightmare. For a moment, I put myself in her shoes and felt the weight of her terror. But only for a moment. Some things were too horrible even to imagine. I opened my eyes. “I thought they were taking precautions at Ellis Island to make sure that sort of thing couldn’t happen.”

  “According to the detective, it still happens more than you might think.”

  I remembered the scandal a few years back when it was discovered that representatives of the so-called Swedish Immigrant Home, purportedly there to welcome and help new arrivals, had actually been abducting single women from Ellis Island and selling them into prostitution. And that had only been the tip of the iceberg. Numerous investigations by vigilance committees across the country had since determined that New York was at the heart of a booming international “white slave” trade, supplying thousands of girls each year to brothels as far away as South Africa, Australia, and the Panama Canal. I had read about it, shaken my head over it, and thanked God it could never happen to me. But until now, it had never seemed entirely real.

  “His theory makes sense, timewise,” I said after a moment. “A syphilis chancre typically appears about three weeks after exposure and disappears a few weeks later. If she wasn’t already infected when she arrived in New York, then it must have happened shortly after she got here. Have the police been able to locate her fiancé, to confirm he didn’t meet her at the boat?”

  “Not yet. Unfortunately, he didn’t sign his last name, and there was no return address on the envelope. Norton’s checking to see if he filed a missing persons report with any of the precincts.”

  Three long weeks, the girl had gone unaccounted for. I stared at the scarred tabletop as imagined scenes of her captivity raced unbidden through my mind. “Assuming the detective’s theory is correct,” I asked, “how did she end up in the river?”

  “He thinks she must have managed to escape from wherever they were holding her, which would explain her attire. She wouldn’t have been allowed to keep any respectable street clothes, except for the coat, which would have been too expensive for her handlers to replace.”

  “And they caught her, and threw her into the river so she couldn’t tell anyone what they’d done,” I finished sickly.

  But Simon was shaking his head. “She would have been too valuable a commodity to kill. Besides, if they wanted to silence her, they would have made sure she was dead before they threw her in.”

  “Then…” I cocked my head in question. I thought again of the victim’s simple peasant coat, and the crucifix she’d worn until the very end. “Oh my God, of course,” I said, breathless with understanding. “She did escape, didn’t she? She just wanted it all to end.”

  We were both silent for a time.

  I bolted suddenly upright, remembering Rosa’s missing friend. “Oh, Simon, you don’t think the same thing could have happened to Teresa, do you? The missing girl I told you about?”

  “I’d say that’s highly unlikely,” he reassured me. “Thousands of immigrant women arrive here each week, and most of them get to where they’re going without any problem.”

  “But Rosa said she’s been missing for days…”

  “She thinks she’s missing
. You told me she hadn’t actually checked with the fiancé. She may be already married and settled in, for all you know.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said, sinking back in my chair, wanting to believe that what he was saying was true.

  “Besides, this is all just theory so far. Lucia Siavo could just as well have become a prostitute of her own volition.”

  “Why on earth would she do that, when she had a husband waiting for her?”

  “I knew a man who sent for his sweetheart in Ireland to come over, after he’d made a success of himself,” he said by way of answer. “She was four months pregnant when she arrived. He turned his back on her, refusing even to pay her ship fare back home. A year later, he found out she was walking the streets to support herself and her child.”

  “But there was nothing in the coroner’s report about a pregnancy, was there?”

  “All I’m saying is that it’s too early to jump to any conclusions.”

  Early or not, it was hard for me to believe that any woman would voluntarily choose a life of such degradation. “Does the detective have any idea who might have taken Lucia, assuming she was, in fact, abducted?”

  “He’s guessing it was someone working for one of the downtown Italian disorderly houses.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “He thinks she escaped from a downtown brothel, then came all the way up to Harlem to drown herself? Why wouldn’t she just jump off the nearest pier?”

  “The theory is that they were bringing her up to a customer, and she escaped in transit. Apparently, Italian prostitutes are hard to find in Italian Harlem. Of course, there are plenty of disorderly resorts further up, around 125th Street, but the girls there are mostly Polish and Slavic, with maybe a few Irish mixed in. Apparently, Italian men would rather spend their money on a girl who speaks their own language.”

  “Does the detective have any particular operator in mind?”

  “He’s not familiar with the downtown resorts, but he said he was going to check with some precinct detectives down there to see if they had any ideas.”

 

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