Grace's Pictures (29 page)

When no one else bothered him, he crept toward the sound of Jake’s wheezing. He found him sitting in a garbage heap, clutching his throat.

“Easy, Jake. I got you.” He put his hands to Jake’s throat. No blood.

Jake relaxed a bit. The rope must have caught him full against his voice box. Owen was taller than his partner. The rope had struck him in the chest. “Idiots!” Owen cried out. “Come on.”

He pulled Jake to his feet and helped him lean against him. They ducked under the rope. Owen used one hand to extend his nightstick. There didn’t seem to be any more barriers. “We let our guard down, Jakey. We should have been ready for this as many times as we’ve encountered it on dark streets like this one.”

Jake continued to sound like a pipe full of holes.

“Just a little farther to the corner where the wagon is. Hang on.”

But the corner at Morris Street was vacant. “Blasted Feeny!”

When they got to the nearest substation, the lantern-free wagon was parked outside. Feeny stood at the desk when they entered. “You two smell something awful.”

They’d stepped into a few of those sewer holes on their way off Greenwich and tussled with street rubbish during the attack.

“Where were you, Feeny? We needed you.” Owen gave his partner over to a police matron who had come to help.

“I was where I was supposed to be, unlike the two of you, apparently.”

Owen glanced at a closed office door, wondering what authority might be on duty in that place.

“No captain there,” Feeny said.

He grabbed Feeny’s collar. “I’ve been trailing Davis for some time. Why are you protecting him?”

“Lay off, like I told you.”

Owen pushed him away like the repulsive lug he was. Feeny motioned to the back door.

“What?”

“Let’s talk.”

Owen followed him out. The back alley air was warmed by steam coming from a factory building, but the change of space did nothing to placate Owen.

“Look, McNulty. I’ve been trying to help you. You know as well as I do there’s fewer good men here than crickets at the North Pole.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So give up on Davis. He’s small potatoes anyway. I know you’re trying to do your job. I’m trying to help you, man.”

Owen opened the door to go back.

“You know I kid ya, right? Just a wee bit of fun?”

“Right. I gotta check on my partner.”

Owen found Jake with a bandage on his neck. “He’s hoarse,” the matron said. “Needs to rest his voice. He should see a doctor in the morning.” She waddled back toward the women’s ward.

Owen told Jake what Feeny said. Jake began wildly shaking his head.

“You think we should go back to Battery Park tomorrow and look Davis up despite it all?”

Jake slammed his fists together. Then he reached for a pad of paper and scrolled the words:
For Grace’s sake
.

“You’re right.”

After the kind of night Owen had had, he could have slept for hours. Instead, he pored over the account books his father had told him to pick up. As far as he could tell, there were no discrepancies. However, there was way too much inventory. Blevins was probably right after all. If they could liquidate much of it, they might save the business. He could take a look at the expense reports, but it was obvious the business operated with little overhead. His father had few employees besides the clerks in the stores, and the office itself was quite modest. Owen’s father had always said his meager outlay was the key to his profits. No gold-leafed fancy facade buildings for McNulty Dry Goods. Unless Blevins was embezzling, and Owen could not fathom that, the overpurchasing had to be the problem. And it could be fixed.

Owen shut the last leather-bound journal and turned out the light, for little good it did. Morning sun, even on a cloudy winter day, lit up his bedroom. He pulled down the shade and collapsed on his bed, not bothering to take off his shoes.

Owen slept so late that he would have to wear his uniform when he went to visit his father. He shoved his pocket watch away just as someone pounded on his apartment door.

“Missus Varga! Laundry!”

A quick glance around his tiny dwelling told him he needed her services badly. “Come in.” He opened the door. “I’m afraid I haven’t gathered up the laundry yet, Mrs. Varga.”

“No matter. I get it. And straighten up for you.”

“Here.” He pressed two dollars into her hand. “I’m sorry I’m so late paying.”

She smiled. “You busy man. You catch the bad boys in the Battery, no?”

He set the account books down on his table and gave her his full attention. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, everybody know. You the good cop out there. You and your partner.”

“Everybody?”

“Oh yeees. You keep the aid workers from leaving. That’s what people say.”

“Me?”

She nodded her sky-blue-scarfed head.

“But the Battery is blocks from here. How could you know anything about what’s happening down there?”

She laughed. “Officer, you so amuse me. You think I live in your nice neighborhood?” She waved the air as she scurried from corner to corner picking up his clothes. “I come here on the el.”

“I see. Well, we are just doing our jobs. Trying to, you understand.”

“Ah, yes. And we know.”

He bowed as he backed out the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Varga. Thank you.”

When he got to the house, he realized he was going to have a difficult time leaving. His father stared past him as he spoke, a man whose mind seemed so burdened he could not pull his focus back into the room. “I made mistakes, Son. I don’t want your mother to have to pay for them.”

“It can be fixed, Father. I’m sure of it.”

“You don’t have the time, and I certainly don’t if you believe the doctors.”

“Don’t say that. We’ll hire someone. Some fresh-faced graduate of City College.”

“I’m afraid it’s all hopeless. I should never have trusted so much to Blevins.”

“Why? He’s your friend.”

Owen’s father’s chuckle turned into a dry cough. Owen found a pillow on the chair nearby and put it behind his head. “Why, Father? Do you think Blevins cheated you?”

“Heavens, no.” The weary man wiggled his bony fingers in the air. “He’s just incompetent. In over his head, so to speak. And I did not realize it until it was too late.”

“But you’ve been in business together for years.”

“Yes, uh-huh.”

Owen checked his watch. “I have to be going.”

“Go on, then.”

“I’ll be back.”

“Did you bring the accounts?”

“Yes.” Owen pointed to the bedside table where he’d left them. “But I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just too many orders. More than your chain of stores could hope to sell if they stayed open twenty-four hours a day.”

“That’s what I feared. Blevins tried to help too many merchants.” He clenched his fists. “I had hoped to retire and leave you the business and instead I trusted a man with a dough-soft heart instead of a mind for business.”

“We’ll fix it.” Owen thought about the informant from the Committee of Fifteen. Jake would not be back on duty, so Owen had to get to Mulberry in time to meet the man. If he said anything to Feeny first . . .

“Try not to worry, Father. It’s not good for your health.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him.” Owen’s mother, looking
only slightly better than his father, stood at the foot of Father’s bed. Owen hadn’t heard her approach.

“He will be fine, Mother.” He kissed his mother’s cheek.

She rolled her eyes.

Owen had to go.

27

GRACE LEFT EARLY FOR WORK
the next morning, just as the sun was rising. Her knees wobbled as she took a seat on the train. No, she could not survive in the city without help. Mrs. Hawkins, Mr. Crawley, the reverend . . . they were all nice enough folks. But what did they know about Dusters and the likes of officers like Feeny? She sucked her bottom lip and watched the city flitter past the train window.
God, if you are out there, why don’t you help me? You know how little I can do. You can help me. You are divine. Why won’t you? Do you hate me too?

The train jerked to a sudden stop and the passengers moaned.

“Lousy train! Stuck again?”

A porter began hollering for folks to get off. Grace followed the crowd of people. When her feet reached the icy sidewalk, she skidded about but found her footing again and rushed past surprised street vendors and rag pickers who were just beginning their long workdays. She stopped a newsboy. “Where are we?”

“Chatham Square, miss.”

She glanced around. “Do you know of a building around here owned by a Mr. George Parker?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

People huddled around fires built in metal cans. Infant wails
pierced the sooty air from upper windows that were wide open despite the cold. A nearby alley saluted with lines of dingy white laundry, but other than that the buildings appeared to be shuttered shops or were otherwise unidentifiable. There certainly were no welcome mats to indicate where people might live. How alarming that she had ended up in the very place she supposed Mr. Parker owned property. She took out her camera. True, she’d vowed not to take random photographs, but how was she to know she’d end up here? Did Mr. Parker truly know what it was like in Chatham Square?

The newsboy posed for her with a toothless grin. She gave him a penny and made her way northward to the next el stop. On impulse she stopped and turned. Aiming her camera carefully, she snapped a few tenement scenes.

As she sat on the next el train, she recalled something Mrs. Hawkins had said to her.
“My Harold always said if you find yourself off course, look around. God may be directing you to something.”
And hadn’t she just asked God to help her? She didn’t know why she’d landed in Chatham Square that morning, but perhaps the reason would become clear later.