These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “It was Kinch, wasn’t it?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  Before he could answer, the door burst open and Fay tumbled back inside, dragging Oscar Rubin behind her. He was carrying a black leather bag. A little girl with a face marred by scars followed them in and closed the door behind them. She saw the small fireplace and sat down by it to warm her hands.

  “I found him and Muttbait coming up Reade Street,” Fay said breathlessly.

  Oscar’s eyes fell on his friend. He let out a low whistle. “What, exactly, have you done to earn yourself such a thorough beating?” he asked, putting his bag on Eddie’s rickety table.

  Jo stood up so that Oscar could sit down on the bed.

  “I’d like to know that, too,” said Fay. She was looking at Eddie with a mixture of worry and anger.

  “Nothing,” Eddie replied, glancing at Jo. She knew he was trying not to say more than she might want him to.

  “Of course not,” Oscar said sarcastically. He was wearing a stethoscope around his neck. He leaned over now and pressed it to Eddie’s chest, holding a finger up for silence. Next he looked up Eddie’s nose and made him open his mouth wide. He examined Eddie’s swollen eye and the rest of his cuts and bruises, then sat back.

  “The good news is that your lungs are fine,” he said. “The blood you’re coughing is coming from a burst vessel in your nose. It’s dripping down your throat and triggering a reflex. Should stop soon. The damage to your eye’s only external, and you still have all your teeth. The bad news is that two of your ribs appear to be cracked, you may have a concussion, and the cut on your temple needs stitches.”

  He took a bottle of laudanum—a morphine solution—and a shot glass from his bag. He filled the glass half full and handed it to Eddie, who drank it down.

  “So what happened?” Oscar asked as Eddie handed the glass back.

  “I was heading up to the Met but decided to see you on the way,” Eddie explained. “To see if anyone interesting died a terrible and violent death.”

  “Slow news day?”

  “Very.” Eddie coughed. “A man came up behind me. He shoved me in the alley just south of the morgue and beat the tar out of me,” he said.

  “Just one man? Are you sure? He did a lot of damage.”

  “He was strong. And fast. I threw a punch; he deflected it. I threw another; he grabbed my hand and bent my fingers back. Whipped me around and got me in a choke hold.”

  Oscar paused at that; then he rummaged in his bag and pulled out a clean white linen towel and placed it on the table. “Any idea who he is?” he asked, neatly laying out bandages, iodine, a scissors, a wad of cotton, a needle, and black thread on the towel.

  Jo waited to hear Eddie say the name Kinch.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I don’t know his name, but I recognized his face. I’ve seen him before,” Eddie said. He turned to Jo. “It was the man with the scar on his cheek. The one who followed us in the Met. And who spooked Jackie Shaw at Walsh’s.”

  Fay, who’d been standing still, arms crossed, swore under her breath. Eddie looked at her. His eyes narrowed. He was about to ask her something, but Jo cut him off.

  “Eddie, are you sure?” she asked. She’d been so certain it was Kinch.

  “Positive. I got a good look at him. He leaned over me when he was done and said that this was only a warning. He told me that this time I’ll wish I was dead, but next time I would be if I didn’t mind my own business. He knew my name. He knows yours, too, Jo. He said it. That’s why I sent Tumbler to warn you. We may have been after the wrong man all this time. Scarface might be our killer, not Kinch.”

  “Your killer?” Oscar echoed, looking from Eddie to Jo.

  Eddie didn’t answer him. Neither did Jo. They were too intent on their conversation.

  “But how does he know our names?” Jo asked.

  “From Jackie Shaw?” Eddie offered. “Maybe Scarface caught up with Shaw outside of Walsh’s. Worked him over the same way he worked me.”

  “But I gave Shaw a false name, remember?”

  “Yeah, you did. I forgot,” Eddie said.

  “Wait … you’re not Josie Jones? A cub?” said Oscar.

  Jo shook her head. She regretted giving Oscar a false name. When she’d first met him at the morgue, she hadn’t known if she could trust him; she knew now. “My real name’s Josephine Montfort. I’m Charles Montfort’s daughter,” she said.

  Oscar let out a low whistle. “That explains a few things, but I still feel like I’m missing something.” He looked from Jo to Eddie to Fay. “Who’s Scarface? And how does he know you?”

  “That’s the big question, Osk,” Eddie said.

  “I wish we knew,” said Jo.

  Fay said nothing. However, she looked distinctly uncomfortable. Eddie picked up on it.

  “Fay, you know something, don’t you?” he said. His gaze was piercing, but Fay didn’t flinch from it.

  “It can’t get back to the Tailor. If he finds out I told you, I’m dead,” she said. Her voice was steady, but fear flickered in her eyes.

  “What is it?” Eddie asked.

  “I know how Scarface knows your name,” she said to Eddie. She nodded at Jo. “Hers, too. And her whole damn story.”

  “How?” Jo asked.

  Fay turned to her. With an expression that was part pity, part contempt, she said, “You told him.”

  Eddie sat up, a furious expression on his face. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, startling Jo.

  “Did you forget what the Tailor’s like, Newsie?” Fay asked harshly. “He played you like a fiddle. And you let him.”

  “Scarface was there, wasn’t he? Why the hell didn’t you tell me, Fay?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Shout it out?” Fay yelled. She ripped off her jacket and unbuttoned the top of her blouse. Bruises mottled her neck. “These are because I was short the other night. What do you think he would’ve done to me if I’d told you—and right in front of him, no less?”

  Eddie’s anger evaporated. Sadness took its place. Jo could see it in his eyes. The sight of Fay’s bruises seemed to hurt him more than his own wounds did.

  “You got out, Newsie. You. Not me,” Fay said, buttoning her shirt back up.

  “I’m sorry,” Eddie said softly.

  Jo was upset by the marks of violence on Fay, shocked by Eddie’s sudden outburst, and lost by their exchange. “Can one of you please tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

  “Tell me, too, while you’re at it,” Oscar said, scrubbing his hands in Eddie’s sink.

  Eddie explained. “The man with the scar on his face was at the Tailor’s when we were there, Jo. He heard every word you said.”

  “Where was he?” Jo asked, horrified to think she’d been in the same room with such a violent man. And that Fay and the Tailor’s other orphans had. It scared her to think that he’d contrived to find out Eddie’s name, and her own, and that he now knew the details of her father’s death as well.

  “There’s a curtained alcove at the back of that room,” Fay said. “It’s where the Tailor sleeps. Scarface was there the whole time. Sitting on his bed.”

  “Who is he? How is he involved in this?” Jo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Fay replied. “The Tailor didn’t say his name, and I didn’t hear much of what passed between them.” Her mouth hardened into a tight smile. “I saw what passed between them, though—a twenty-dollar note. Scarface told the Tailor what he wanted: to find out what the two of you were up to. And the Tailor took it from there. I’ve never seen the man before and I’ve been at the Tailor’s almost all my life, but I get the feeling they know each other well.”

  Oscar moved from the sink back to Eddie’s bedside. Fay and Jo stepped aside.

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” Oscar said as he sat on the bed and began to tend to Eddie�
�s wounds. “I’m only here to clean you up and make sure you don’t die of a septicemia or gangrene.” He turned to Jo. “Since no one seems to want to enlighten me, could you at least heat some water?”

  Jo felt bad. Oscar had given them information they would never have gained from anyone else, and now he was taking care of Eddie. It was only right to tell him why. She looked at Eddie, silently asking him if it was safe to.

  “I trust him with my life. Fay, too,” he said, as if reading her mind.

  “What about her?” Jo asked quietly, pointing at Muttbait, who was still sitting by the hearth.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Fay said. “She won’t say a thing to the Tailor. He’s not the one who holds her when she wakes up screaming from her nightmares. Same thing every time, isn’t it, girl? Dogs in an alley.”

  Muttbait nodded silently.

  Still, Jo hesitated. She wasn’t used to sharing secrets. At school, and even with most of her friends here at home, the less people knew about you, the better. Gossip was a deadly weapon, and the girls in her circle knew how to wield it.

  Fay gave Jo a withering look. “So that’s how it is?” she asked. “Eddie took a beating over this. If the Tailor finds out what I’ve done, I will, too. Oscar’s involved now. He doesn’t even know why. And you won’t tell him.”

  Jo realized that Fay was daring her—daring her to confide, to trust them. All of them. And she realized something else: she very much wanted to. She filled the kettle with water, as Oscar had asked, and set it on the hearth to warm. Then she sat down at Eddie’s table and told her story, start to finish. Oscar listened attentively. Fay did, too. Some of it was news to her, as there had been developments since Jo’s visit to the Tailor.

  “So there you have it,” Jo said when she was done. “I’m sorry to have made you a part of it, Oscar, and you, too, Fay, but I’m grateful to you both for the help you’ve given me.”

  Oscar said nothing in reply. His gaze had shifted from Jo to Eddie’s window. He was frowning.

  Jo looked at Eddie. “Is he angry with me?” she whispered anxiously.

  “No. That’s how he thinks,” Eddie said. “Give him a minute. He’ll be back.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for Scarface. Let you know if I see him,” Fay said. “The Tailor’s already got us looking for Kinch. Scarface wants him found, too. But it seems Kinch doesn’t want to be found. He’s lying low. Probably in some flea-ridden dump where no one asks too many questions. Problem is, the city’s full of those.”

  Oscar suddenly took a deep breath, as if he were surfacing from some watery depth. He looked at Eddie over the top of his spectacles. His eyes were sharp and focused now.

  “He’s a cop,” he said. “A cop or a hospital worker.”

  “Who is?” Eddie asked. “Kinch?”

  “Scarface.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because of that move he used on you. The one where he grabbed your hand and bent your fingers back. Cops use it to take down unruly prisoners. I’ve seen orderlies at Bellevue use it on violent patients, too. If you want to find him, sniff around precinct houses and hospitals.”

  “I will. Thank you, Osk,” Eddie said.

  Oscar frowned. He grabbed Eddie’s chin and turned his head. “This thing’s still dripping,” he said, pointing at the cut on Eddie’s temple. He threaded his needle, and rubbed it—and the thread—down with alcohol.

  “I’m sure it’ll stop,” Eddie said, eyeing the needle nervously.

  “No, it won’t. You won’t feel a thing. You’ve had laudanum.”

  “Not enough,” Eddie said.

  Jo turned away as Oscar started stitching.

  “Ow, Osk. Ow, ow, ow, ow!” Eddie yelled as the needle pierced his skin.

  “Pipe down, sissy-boy,” Oscar said.

  When he finished stitching, Oscar pulled Eddie’s bloodstained shirt off and cleaned his wounds using soap and the water Jo had heated. As he was placing his implements back into his bag, his stomach growled loudly.

  “Charming,” Eddie said.

  “It’s the perfectly natural result of muscle contractions moving chyme through the alimentary canal,” Oscar said cheerfully.

  “Chyme?” Eddie repeated. “What kind of disgusting substance is that?”

  “It’s the liquid mix of food and digestive juices. The rumbling noise itself is caused by pockets of gas getting squeezed through the tract along with the slurry on its way to the anus. It tends to be louder when the stomach is empty. Which mine is. I missed my lunch to come here. What’ve you got to eat?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Figures,” Oscar said. “I’m off, then. Got two autopsies this afternoon. Can’t do them on an empty stomach.”

  “How can you do them on a full one?” Eddie asked.

  “We have to go, too,” Fay said. “We have work to do, since we didn’t get the nice fat wallet we were after earlier,” she added, giving Oscar a pointed look.

  “Don’t you ever feel bad about robbing corpses?” Oscar asked her.

  “Don’t you ever feel bad about cutting them open?” Fay asked him.

  “No, because they’re dead,” Oscar replied.

  “Exactly,” Fay said.

  She called for Muttbait, then patted Eddie’s cheek on her way out. “You take care, Newsie.”

  Eddie caught her hand. “I will. Thanks, Fay. I’d still be in that alley if you hadn’t shown up. I owe you.”

  “Hardly,” Fay said, suddenly shy. She pulled her hand free and headed for the door. Then she stopped short, turned, and pointed at Jo. “Don’t get him killed, Jo Montfort. Or you’ll have me to worry about, as well as the Tailor and Scarface and Kinch and any other murderous lunatics who might be after you.”

  “Out of all of them, you scare me the most,” said Jo.

  Fay smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. And then she was gone.

  “I’ll come back tonight to check on you. Maybe bring you some dinner,” said Oscar, picking up his bag. “You like goulash?”

  “I’ll eat anything. Thanks, Osk.”

  Jo closed the door after Oscar left and leaned against it.

  “There’s an old shirt in the top drawer of my dresser, Jo,” Eddie said. “Would you mind?”

  Jo opened the drawer. A faded band-collar shirt, made of dungaree, was on top of a neatly folded pile. Under it were two pressed white shirts, the kind one wore to an office. Something about the meager collection of clothing made her heart clench. When she was little, her father used to let her pick his shirt for him while he was shaving. He had shelves upon shelves of shirts, far too many to count. Eddie had three. Only three.

  “Did you find it?”

  Jo quickly turned around. “Is this the one?” she asked, holding it up.

  Eddie nodded. She helped him lean forward, buttoned him into it, then eased him back against his pillow. He closed his eyes.

  “Fay likes you. I can tell,” he said.

  “Really? I’m scared to think how she’d treat me if she hated me,” Jo said. She sat on the corner of the bed, careful not to jostle him.

  “It’s just a front. She’s not that bad.” He opened his eyes again.

  Jo remembered the bruises on Fay’s neck. “The Tailor … he beats her?”

  “He beats them all if they don’t bring him enough swag,” Eddie said. “He used to beat the tar out of me.”

  Jo winced at that. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For you and Fay. For all those children.”

  “I’m fine. Fay’s the one to worry about. She’s the oldest. She bears the brunt of the Tailor’s temper.”

  Jo looked down at her hands. Something had occurred to her when Fay warned her not to get Eddie killed—something that made her feel quite jealous.

  “You know Fay well, it se
ems,” she said. “Back when you lived in the Bend, were you two … um … close?”

  “Are you asking me if we were sweethearts? We weren’t,” Eddie replied. “Fay’s like a sister to me. We both survived the Tailor. So far, at least. That forges a pretty deep bond.”

  Jo nodded, relieved, but upset about something else. Though she tried to hold them back, her tears came. They rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto her hands.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” Eddie asked. “I’m telling you the truth about Fay. I swear it.”

  “It’s not that.” Jo raised her head. “This is all my fault, Eddie. I’m to blame for what happened to you,” she said. “If I hadn’t gotten you involved in my affairs, you wouldn’t be here, all bloodied and bruised and—”

  “Hey, stop,” Eddie said, cutting her off. “If you hadn’t gotten me involved in your affairs, you wouldn’t be here. And that would hurt even more than Oscar’s bad sewing job.”

  Jo wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “It hurts to sit forward. Otherwise I would. So I could kiss you,” he said.

  “I suppose I shall have to kiss you, then,” Jo said. Her heart beating wildly at her own forwardness, she leaned close, meaning to kiss his mouth.

  But he shook his head. “Not there,” he said. “Too sore.”

  She tried for one cheek, but it was bruised.

  “Not there, either.”

  The other cheek had a trickle of blood on it from the cut Oscar had stitched. “This is impossible!” she said.

  “Yeah, it is,” Eddie said. His voice carried a note of sadness that made Jo realize he meant more than their kiss.

  She picked up his hand, turned it over, and kissed his palm. Then she held it against her cheek, eyes closed, wanting to show him how she felt, to show him that maybe there was a way after all. All they had to do was find it.