Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01]

by Grace's Pictures

  Owen didn’t move. “What is going on, Blevins? I’ve just come off my beat and had no sleep. Shall we get right to it? My father thinks you are spending him out of business.”

  The man’s smile disappeared. “He thinks that?”

  “He does.”

  “Please, my boy, come in. We have much to discuss.”

  They sat in a well-appointed receiving room, not as plush as Owen’s parents’ but much more comfortable than the dwellings in Owen’s neighborhood. Alvin Blevins leaned back in a fat leather chair and folded his hands over his chest.

  “Mr. Blevins, I have to say you don’t look ill to me.”

  The man laughed. “I did not tell the secretary I was ill, just that I wasn’t feeling well and that is true enough. This mess we are in is quite disturbing.”

  “We?”

  “Well, my boy, you are making it your business now, aren’t you? And that’s the point.”

  “Please, cut through the bacon fat and get to the meat of the matter, would you?”

  “Hmm.” Blevins leaned toward a small round table on his left and poured himself a shot of whiskey.

  Drinking so early in the morning. This must indeed be a mess. “You thought you could clear things up by returning some stock and cutting some positions, right?”

  The man rubbed his mustache. “That’s what I said, yes. And I will do that. But the trouble goes beyond finances. Let me explain.”

  “Please.”

  “Would you like a drink? Some coffee perhaps? My wife is in the kitchen. She could make you some biscuits.”

  “I’d rather not take the time, if you don’t mind.”

  Blevins glanced at the mantel clock and kept his focus there while he spoke. “When I first came to work for your father, I was mesmerized by his business sense and his sheer intelligence.” He smiled, still gazing into space. “He built his business from the dust to become one of the most successful in town.”

  “I understand. Please, Blevins, what is the trouble?”

  “Oh, it’s true that I overpurchased at times. Hard to turn away some of the folks I heard hard-luck stories from, I tell you. But that is not the mess, not really.” Blevins took another drink. “I am not sure how to say this. Your father does not . . . Well, he’s not himself lately, I daresay. His judgment is . . . well . . . skewed a bit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, long before the problems with his heart, he . . . well, he’s not making sound choices, son.”

  “What? My father’s not that old. His mind is fine.”

  “I’m just answering your question, son. If you choose not to believe it . . .” He shrugged.

  Owen didn’t believe one word of it. “Tell me about your association with the Committee of Fifteen.”

  Blevins straightened his vest. “An entirely different subject. I am a reformer in my off hours. Running into you at the meeting was quite the coincidence.”

  “Was it?”

  “Indeed. My status is well lauded in New York, Owen. I was invited to join. Those other men and I banded together because we don’t like the vice and crime in our neighborhoods.” He lifted his glass. “And you will see. We’ll make a difference. We’re not trying to supersede law enforcement, just aid you men.”

  “So this committee business has nothing to do with my father?”

  “It does not. I will say, though, that if your father continues in this vein, on this foolish venture of pride, the company’s lost, son, and the debtors will come after us all unless . . .”

  “What?”

  “If only he had listened to me years ago and incorporated.” He pounded a fist on the arm of his chair.

  “Blevins, unless what?”

  “Unless you take control or give me authority. Your father is not fit.” He stared at his hands in his lap. “There. I’ve said it.”

  Owen stood and paced between his chair and the front window. “That can’t be.”

  “If you think there is any discrepancy in what I’ve said, you better go talk to your father.”

  “I will.”

  “But be aware. Things might not be as he presents them.”

  He left Blevins’s house and walked west on Seventeenth Street. He could get to his father’s house if he went to Union Square and caught a Broadway trolley, but he always avoided the area of Deadman’s Curve whenever he could. And he was bushed. He turned and caught the Second Avenue el heading south instead. He had to get some rest. Nothing Blevins said made any sense at all.

  When he got to his apartment building, he met Mrs. Varga on the stairs. She was carrying down laundry for another tenant.

  “Let me help you.” He took a basket from her and toted it down to the bottom step.

  “Thank you, thank you.” She joined him at the door and reached up. She could not touch his face because she was so short, so she waved her hand until he lowered his head. She patted his cheek. “You catch bad men, Officer. You catch them!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He wearily climbed back up the steps.

  After he’d slept, he borrowed his neighbor’s telephone. “You said he was stable, right?”

  “I know, but, Owen, he’s distraught. Did you talk to Blevins?”

  “Put Father on the telephone.”

  “I . . . uh . . . I better not. He’s not exactly making himself clear, Owen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, he’s just upset. You better get over here.”

  “I have to go to work.”

  “Pshaw. You have a partner now, don’t you?”

  “He was injured and is not working a full shift yet.”

  “Owen, you need time off.”

  He blew out a breath. He could never make her understand. “I’ll telephone the doctor and get a report. I’ll come up after my shift is over in the morning. Good-bye, Mother.”

  He didn’t let her protest and hung up the phone. Then he telephoned Bellevue and asked for the doctor in charge of his father’s diagnosis.

  “His heart is recovering fine, although he works himself into a frantic state. I’ve suggested that your mother take him on a holiday—Florida or somewhere warm.”

  “I see. And, Doctor, what about his mental state?”

  “Do you have concerns?”

  “No, no. It’s just that sometimes . . . when folks age . . . they lose their . . .” He could barely say it. His father was only fifty years old. “Their good sense, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ah, well, if you have concerns about that, bring him in for an evaluation.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  When he hung up the receiver, he almost picked it up again. He stood over it, rubbing his fingers.

  “You eat?” Mrs. Karila said.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you very much.” He went back to his apartment, still not knowing if he should have telephoned Nicholson and told him he could not go in to work.

  35

  GRACE WAS MORE THAN RELIEVED to receive two full days off. Yesterday had been spent mending her clothes and helping Mrs. Hawkins with meals. But now that Sunday had come and she was sitting in church staring toward Owen McNulty several rows in front of her, she realized she had not done what he asked. Neither had he come asking her for the drawing. Maybe he had changed his mind.

  After services concluded, the Hawk turned to her. “My Harold was strong for me when I could not bolster myself, Grace. There is a young man God has in mind for you, I’m sure.”

  Had her staring been obvious? “What do you mean?”

  “You might be thinking of courting, and you should, a young attractive girl like you.”

  “Mrs. Hawkins, I’m much too busy to even think of—”

  “Just don’t miss what the good Lord has planned for you, love.” She glanced past Grace. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  Grace turned around to find Owen McNulty standing there. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to—”

  He held up a finger, and she remembered
that she’d pledged secrecy about the drawing.

  He touched the tip of his finger to her elbow as he guided her down the aisle toward the door. “I’ve been otherwise occupied myself.” He paused and greeted a few parishioners and then leaned down to speak quietly to her. “I still need you to try. Today, perhaps?”

  “I will. Right after supper.”

  “Fine. I’ll stop by on my night rounds.”

  Grace gnawed at her pencil. Was the man’s nose full or thin? She wasn’t sure. But he did have full cheeks, she remembered that, and deep-set eyes.

  Mrs. Hawkins joined her in the parlor. “What have you got there, love?”

  “Just trying to remember what someone looked like.”

  “You have a camera, love.”

  “I do, but I did not take a photograph—” She realized she had probably said too much. But how was she going to explain the reason for Owen’s visit later?

  “Well, try drawing me, love. Maybe the practice will help.”

  “Truly?”

  “Certainly. I’m just sitting here with my tea. Nothing else to occupy me right now.”

  Grace stood. “Wait a moment. I’m going to take your photograph so later I can study them both.”

  “I’d hate for you to waste your film on me, love.”

  “Oh no. Don’t say that. I want to take your photograph, if you don’t mind.” Grace retrieved her camera and instructed the Hawk to sit in front of the window. “Outside would be better, but it’s frightfully cold out.”

  “I agree. Perhaps if I light the lamp.”

  Grace nodded, although she doubted that would help. Pulling back the draperies did allow more light in, and a coating of snow outside helped brighten things up.

  She held the camera waist high and found Mrs. Hawkins’s image in the viewfinder. She held her breath and clicked.

  The woman clapped her hands. “Well, what do you know. I’ve had my picture taken in my very own parlor. Harold would never have imagined such a thing when he sat for his portrait.”

  Grace returned to her seat on the sofa. “Mrs. Hawkins, this morning, what you said to me at church . . .”

  “Ah, yes. I was wondering if we’d get back to that.”

  “What I really want to know is, do you think God chose Harold for you?”

  “Absolutely. And he’s chosen someone for you, too.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I believe it with my whole heart.”

  Grace picked up her pencil. She wanted to believe something that much.

  Much later, after sunset, a knock came at the door, followed by the tinkling sound of the doorbell. Annie answered it, and Grace put down her notebook. She had achieved a fairly good likeness of the Hawk, she thought, but the other sketch she worked on had not turned out as well.

  Owen entered the parlor. “Greetings, ladies.” He turned to Grace. “What is this you’ve been working on?”

  She handed him the pad of paper.

  “Of course. It’s Mrs. Hawkins.”

  The woman beamed.

  “It’s a perfect likeness, Grace.” He turned the page to where she’d been trying to work on the Goo Goo fellow. She shook her head and frowned when he looked at her.

  He handed the paper back. “Well, fine work. Even though you have a camera now, I hope you’ll continue on with your hobby. You’re quite talented.”

  Grace let the compliment flow over her like a welcome winter sunbeam.

  “She certainly is talented,” Mrs. Hawkins agreed. “Officer, won’t you sit a while and have some biscuits and tea?”

  Grace took every opportunity in the evenings to practice. Mr. Parker was true to his word, and during the weeks that followed, he did spend more time with the children. He dismissed her immediately after the evening meals so she had time to draw, and even take more snapshots, when she returned to Hawkins House.

  One Wednesday evening Grace entered the parlor to find Mrs. Hawkins sitting with the Times in her lap, weeping considerably.

  “What’s happened?”

  “The Queen! Oh, the Queen has died.”

  “Queen Victoria?”

  “Oh, love. That’s so sad.”

  “Did you know her when you lived in England?”

  The woman wiped her face with a lace handkerchief. “Oh, my, no, of course not. But she was a benevolent leader and such a gracious woman. She enjoyed the longest reign in English history. She’s been on the throne since 1837. Have you seen her photographs, love?”

  “I have not.”

  The woman reached to a basket of reading material she kept under the side table by her chair. “Look at some of the copies I have of the Illustrated London News, love. You’ll find some of her.”

  Grace was amazed. This publication had numerous drawings of people. “May I study these for a while?”

  “Certainly.” The woman blew her nose loudly.

  So many faces and expressions. The ones she saw of the Queen seemed to show her thoughtful and reflective. And there were many, many photographs in those pages. The images of men might be helpful, she thought, to determine which features were like Goo Goo’s and which were not.

  She leaned back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling to collect her thoughts. As wonderful as this was, it was limiting. She had seen that man in the colors of life, not shades of black and gray like photographs and ink sketches. She would have to think harder.

  36

  OWEN KNEW GRACE could come up with a fair representation of Goo Goo. Her sketch of Mrs. Hawkins had proven that. She had the ability, but he wondered if too much time had passed for her to remember. It’s probably much easier to sketch someone you know well. Even so, police had been making suspect sketches for decades, and they’d proved helpful. With any luck, Grace would come up with something close. And of course he still needed to follow up on the pawnbroker tip.

  The decision he still had to make loomed large. If he continued with his police work and made sure innocent immigrants like Grace were protected, his parents would disown him, and his father’s business might fail. But if he left his beat and took over his father’s business, the Dusters would flourish and the immigrants would be left without the aid they needed when they arrived from Ellis Island. And, he realized, Grace McCaffery might continue to get herself into trouble with no one to rescue her but Walter Feeny, and he was no savior of vulnerable women in Lower Manhattan.

  The more he considered it, the more he thought the scales leaned toward staying at his job. He was absolutely certain God had led him to this post and was not telling him to abandon it. All that he knew about God, however, did not point to having Owen abandon his family in their time of need either. If God was good, how could he let McNulty Dry Goods go bankrupt and put his mother and father out on the street?

  Owen struggled with his dilemma as he sat at his window and watched the elevated train go by. He remembered the night he’d equated a stalled train with his life, and noted the ease with which this train now traveled. The difference between a moving train and a still one was the presence of an engineer. Owen had a driver for the train he called his life. He’d been struggling against God, a modern-day Jacob wrestling with an angel. That was why he was feeling so exhausted. He could not do that anymore. The most important decisions in life were difficult, and this was certainly that.

  He picked up his Bible. He’d been reading the Psalms lately. With a job like his, he needed the calm assurance that God was active in the world, and he often found that in the Psalms. He turned to Psalm 106 and began to read a summary of the story of the Israelites in Egypt. It seemed to Owen that those people could have escaped their desert exile much sooner if they had just listened to Moses, who in turn was getting direction from God. Running his finger down the page as he read, he stopped when he got to the words, “They waited not for his counsel.” That was how the Israelites went wrong. They did not wait. Waiting was not easy. But Owen realized that even if he couldn’t see the answer to his dilemm
a now, it was there.

  While Jake healed from what turned out to be severe bruising but no permanent damage, he’d been on desk duty. Owen walked his normal beat alone and talked to the folks he’d befriended, asking them all if they knew where Michael Taggart was. No luck until he talked to an old gent in a cigar shop.

  “I like ye or I’d not be telling ye this, son.”

  “I appreciate that.” Owen bought the man’s nickel cigar even though he wouldn’t smoke it.

  “No one calls the man Taggart. Ask for Dasher. More likely to find him that way, although I haven’t seen him myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  Owen hurried out to the newsboys, his most reliable informants thus far.

  Stevie, a freckle-faced kid who sometimes slept on the precinct steps, grinned when Owen asked him. “Why didn’t you say so before, Officer? I just saw Dasher walk into the Old House at Home.”

  “McSorley’s pub?”

  “Yes, sir. East Seventh Street.”

  Owen hailed a cab. He could not let this opportunity pass. On the way he shrugged off his coat and placed his badge, hat, and gun firmly inside and wrapped up the bundle. “Hey, driver. Might you have some rope?”

  The man reached into a box on the seat next to him and handed Owen a short length. “Planning on tying up your suspect, Officer?”

  “Tying my things, is all.”

  McSorley’s place was fairly filled to the brim, so he took a stool close to the door, keeping the bundle under his arm. All the seats close to the old stove were taken, but since that was where the regulars resided, Owen figured he’d probably find Dasher there. Owen studied the men’s faces in that spot.

  Before long he recognized him. Owen took his bundle over and stood behind the man. “Dasher?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Someone who wants to help you get back at a fella called Goo Goo.”

  The man spun around on his stool, nearly spilling his dark ale. That was Taggart’s pockmarked face, all right.

  “Let’s talk outside.”

  As Dasher spoke, Owen wrote down the highlights on a small notepad.

  “I got no use for him, ye know?”