Brooklyn on Fire (4 page)

A
LFRED
C
HAPIN WAS
feeling a great deal of stress, which was not a familiar sensation for him. If anyone could be said to have lived a charmed life, he certainly qualified. His family was well-to-do with a lineage in the United States that dated back two hundred and fifty years. Chapins had witnessed the colonial period, the revolution, the Civil War, and everything in between. Alfred had attended private schools, Williams College, and Harvard Law School. He had married Grace Stebbins, whose family had been similarly blessed, and had started a successful law practice. When he decided to enter politics, he won every election he ever entered and at forty-two was presently mayor of Brooklyn. Chapin exuded class and breeding. There was talk of his running for governor of New York or possibly senator, and for that he needed Hugh McLaughlin.

Hugh McLaughlin’s life experience was almost the polar opposite. The son of Irish immigrants, he had come to the United States as a boy, and he had grown up in a Brooklyn slum where school took a backseat to survival. Using his fists, he worked his way to the leadership of a Brooklyn street gang, and the respect he earned on the streets translated to the flow of Irish immigrants when he got a job at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Once he had the trust and respect of the people, it was a natural step to politics, and though he wasn’t very good at winning elections for himself, he found he was excellent at getting others elected. Now the head of the Brooklyn Ring, he had become the local kingmaker. McLaughlin ruled Brooklyn like Boss Tweed had once ruled New York City with his Tammany Hall machine. He doled out city contracts and supported candidates, receiving very handsome remuneration in return. The difference between McLaughlin and Tweed was that Tweed had been caught and prosecuted. McLaughlin had so far eluded the “do-gooders.”

McLaughlin had backed Alfred Chapin for mayor. It didn’t matter that he was sixty-three and weathered; McLaughlin was at the height of his power. Unlike Chapin, he had lived with stress his whole life. It was a constant for him, and he thrived on it.

Both men were in Chapin’s office, along with Liam Riley, a seemingly innocuous yes-man in his midthirties who obsequiously followed McLaughlin around and whose main purpose was to support and verify every point McLaughlin made. For this reason, he had earned the nickname of “the Echo,” but no one dared call him that when McLaughlin was in earshot.

“It shouldn’t surprise ya, Yer Honor, that New York was gonna call out the big boys,” said McLaughlin. “That’s what those Tammany fellas do when they see they’re in for a fight. Eh, Liam?”

“Every time, Mr. McLaughlin. Never fails,” Liam answered, performing his job with the amount of enthusiasm that McLaughlin required.

“It’s not Tammany, Hugh. It’s Andrew Green. Millionaires flock to him like—like—”

“Like flies to shit. I can say it, but ya never will. Yer too elegant. And that’s why the public likes ya so much.” This time McLaughlin solicited his sidekick’s response with a glance instead of words.

“They love you, Your Honor. Always have,” Liam chimed in.

McLaughlin pointed to Liam. “That comes from a man who doesn’t lie. It’s bred in his family. He has a framed letter from Abraham Lincoln on his wall, the president who never lied.”

Chapin knew that the legend of never lying was about George Washington and not Lincoln, but he saw no advantage in correcting McLaughlin. It would only anger him, and it was easier to endure the smoke he was blowing his way.

“The point is, they have big money and big names on their side, all pushing for a consolidation between Brooklyn and New York. Who and what do we have?”

“We have right on our side.”

“Hugh—”

“You’ve paved more streets, opened more schoolhouses, and set up more parks than any other mayor in Brooklyn’s history. Ya did all that and balanced the budget, too. The people of Brooklyn are not gonna let those damn New Yorkers in here to ruin the wholesome family lifestyle ya established for ’em with ya hard work.”

“I’m not debating my credentials. I’m questioning our
power
. They’re lining up with Gatling guns and all we’ve got are peashooters.”

“Now ya insulted me.” McLaughlin puffed up his chest. The nice talk was over. “Do ya think I would ever let any of my people go into battle unprotected? I’ve bested more blowhards, tumbled more bullies, and beaten more wealthy shites than ya can imagine! Let those downtown assholes try to come in here! They’ll crawl back bloodied if they can crawl at all!”

In the moment of silence that followed McLaughlin’s tirade, Liam knew not to say a word. He just nodded his approval.

“I’m sorry, Hugh. I didn’t mean to doubt you. I’m just concerned. Collis Huntington is getting very vocal, which means he’s writing a lot of checks.”

“No worries,” McLaughlin said, calming down as quickly as he had risen to anger. He stood to go, and of course, Liam followed suit. “Don’t fret about those New York fellas. I’ll handle ’em. You just do yer job like ya have always done, helping the good people of Brooklyn.” McLaughlin stuck out his hand and Chapin shook it.

“By the way,” Chapin said, “that other thing is almost done. There was a delay for a while, but it seems to have been rectified. It looks like clear sailing from here on.”

McLaughlin chuckled. “Clear sailing. I like the way you talk, as if we’re all on a yacht, sippin’ cocktails.”

“Seriously, Hugh, are you sure this is the right move?”

“Well, ya gotta ask yerself another question, really, in order to answer that one: is this good for Brooklyn?” Before Chapin could speak, McLaughlin continued: “And the answer is: yes, of course, in the long run, in the short run, in any run. Are ya hearin’ me, Yer Honor?” His stern stare served a double purpose. It assured Chapin that he meant business and that there would be repercussions if he failed to follow through.

Chapin felt foolish. He’d mistakenly hoped that somehow a miracle had occurred and McLaughlin had changed his mind.

“Loud and clear, Hugh, as always.”

“Good.” McLaughlin smiled his approval and left with Liam.

When they were alone in McLaughlin’s carriage outside, McLaughlin turned to Liam.

“Did ya do what we discussed?”

“Yes, sir. It’s already in place.”

“Excellent. We have to come in punchin’, fast and hard. I’m not sure how much longer I can prop up our pissant of a mayor before he starts blubberin’ like a little girl.”

McLaughlin rapped the wall of the carriage twice with his fist, signaling the driver, and they drove off.

M
ARY HAD BEEN
to City Hall Park and checked the death certificate for John Worsham. It stated that he had died of heart failure. No doctor’s name was on the certificate, but that was not unusual. Most death certificates were filed just to verify a death for inheritance purposes. She had expected little from her trip to City Hall Park, and that’s exactly what she had gotten.

How to proceed? She was on her own now, unlike in the Goodrich murder case, during which she had acted on behalf of the Brooklyn Police Department. Though even then her access to the privileged was limited. And Arabella Huntington certainly qualified as privileged. Mary knew she had to tread lightly. She couldn’t just knock on Arabella Huntington’s door and start asking questions about her first husband and how he came to be deceased. Instead, Mary had opted to watch the house on Park Avenue for a while in the hope that Arabella would eventually emerge, at which point Mary might be able to find a way to strike up an inconspicuous conversation in a public setting. She was aware that her plan was far from being foolproof or even clever, but it was all she had. Luckily, she had finished her business at City Hall Park early enough to arrive at the Huntington mansion late morning, avoiding having to make two separate trips from her home in Brooklyn to accomplish these tasks.

She spent an hour or so trying to be as unnoticeable as a woman of her lower social class could be amid the homes of the elite. She had brought a notebook and a pencil and pretended to be sketching the roofs of the mansions in the area as if she were an architectural student. This allowed her to hold the pad high up as often as she could to conceal her face. Her knowledge of architecture was practically nil and her artistic ability severely wanting, but she hoped no one would ever see her drawings.

Finally, a carriage stopped in front of the Huntington mansion and a woman emerged from her house with a young man at her side. As the driver opened the carriage door for them, he greeted her as Mrs. Huntington. From the way Emily Worsham had described Arabella Huntington, Mary had expected a svelte, sexual vixen. But, at forty, she was considerably overweight and dressed very conservatively, more like a wealthy schoolmarm than a seductress. Mary reasoned that the young man with her was probably her son, the one she’d had with John Worsham. He seemed the right age—about twenty—had dark hair and a mustache, and wore wire-rimmed glasses.

After they entered the carriage, Mary stuffed the notebook in her pocketbook and hurried over just in time to hear Arabella Huntington’s command to the driver, “The Metropolitan Museum of Art and make it smooth for a change. I’m tired of being knocked about like a ball in a game of table tennis.”

Mary shook her head. Arabella Huntington had presented the driver with an impossible task. Most streets in Manhattan were still cobblestone, and their journey would inevitably be “rocky.” Mary detested how the working poor would often lose their jobs over their inability to cater to the unrealistic demands of the pampered rich. In any case, she had to get to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and couldn’t afford to hire a carriage. She rushed one block over to Lexington Avenue and took the trolley to Eighty-First Street. Then she walked the three long blocks to Fifth Avenue, where the museum was located. She knew the Huntingtons would arrive before her, but she hoped she could scour the museum and find them, which she eventually did. As she pretended to be fascinated by an Édouard Manet painting, she was actually trying to decide how she could “innocently” strike up a conversation with them.

“I find it awful, positively tragic, that a man can spend his whole life creating such magnificent pieces of art and not be recognized as the genius that he is until after his death.”

Mary turned to see that the man addressing her was fashionably thin and in his late twenties with pleasant, delicate features. He was dressed in expensive, bespoke clothing. The slight twirls at the ends of his mustache, almost imperceptible, were the only hint that, beneath his very conservative appearance, he might possess a bit of a rakish quality. Yet, in spite of her quick observation, she had been taken by surprise and couldn’t manage much of an immediate reply.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“
A Matador,
the piece of art you’re admiring, was painted by Édouard Manet. His work is only just now becoming recognized, years after his death.”

“Yes, poor man,” Mary said, her wits returning, “he spent the last of his inheritance exhibiting his work to no avail, shared the same mistress with his father, and died of syphilis. None of those accomplishments are fitting to write on anyone’s epitaph.”

It was now his turn to be taken by surprise. “And I thought you had no interest in Manet.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You appear to be much more interested in Arabella Huntington. Or is it her son, Archer?”

Mary had thought she was being discreet, but she obviously wasn’t and needed to cover. “Arabella who? What in the world ever gave you that idea?”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“I’m impressed. That line from
Hamlet
is often misquoted. Most people make the mistake of placing ‘methinks’ at the beginning of the sentence. Bravo, Mr….” Mary strategically paused, hoping this man would identify himself. He bowed as all gentlemen did when greeting a lady.

“Vanderbilt. George Vanderbilt. Pleased to meet you, Miss Handley.”

“A Vanderbilt recognizes me and yet I am oblivious to his identity. Has the world gone completely insane or have I?”