by John Jakes
“For a purpose. When Drew says the practice is important, he’s telling the truth. The people in the Bend need good doctors. Dr. Clem will retire soon. You could take his place. Together, you and Drew could make a go of it.”
“Misery loves company, eh?”
His attempt to relieve the tension failed. There was urgency in her voice as she leaned close to him in the dark. “What better way do you have of spending your life? Do you really care about that girl?”
“Jo—forgive me, but—why—”
He couldn’t bring himself to say it. She said it for him. “Why is it any of my business?” Amazed, he felt her fingers against his cheek, softly touching. “Because, Mr. Will Kent, at the risk of again being considered much too forthright”— she brushed her lips against his—“I lost my heart to you the first time Father brought me to Cambridge. I’d never try to take you away from someone you love. But you don’t speak of that girl with much conviction. If you don’t love her—well—”
Another light kiss. Her breath was sweet on his face as she whispered, “I’ll fight for you.”
All he could say was “My God.”
Now, at last, she was able to tease again. “Don’t chatter so much. You know what we’ve both wanted for the last ten or fifteen minutes.”
This time her mouth came against his with passionate force.
ii
The next few minutes passed at dizzying speed. They lost themselves in emotion, kissing and holding one another tightly. Against his chest he could feel Jo’s body, firm yet soft beneath her half-open blouse. Just as his hand moved to her breast, a door opened at the head of the stairs.
“Jo? Are you up here?”
She pulled back. His left hand caressed her cheek and came away damp. Tears?
“I know I’m too forward,” she whispered. “But who decreed that it must always be the man who speaks first?”
“Jo?” Drew’s voice faded slightly as he walked to the far side of the roof.
She swiftly kissed him again. “Now that I’ve confessed and made a complete fool of myself, there’s nothing left to say—” She clambered up, her skirts falling into place. Her hands flew to her blouse to straighten it. “Except this. I’ll be here if you ever decide what you really want. I don’t believe you know yet. When you’re with that rich girl, think of me a little, too. Think of the name my parents gave me.”
“Damn it, Jo, are you up here or not?”
“Coming! Will and I were just sitting over here, talking—”
Talking and throwing my whole life off the rails, he thought, overcome with emotion. She started past him. He caught her arm. “What do you mean about your name?”
She pressed her open mouth against his cheek for a second, giving him a last tender kiss before she said, “Didn’t I tell you that Jo is an old Scots word? It means sweetheart. I love you, Will. Don’t ever forget that.”
Hair streaming behind her, she ran around the corner and out of sight.
CHAPTER IX
THE RAID
i
WILL SLEPT POORLY AGAIN that night. Memories of Jo bedeviled him—memories of her warm, ardent kisses. In the morning he woke from a restless sleep and began an inevitable comparison between Jo and Laura.
Laura got the worst of it. Her passion had a furtive, guilty quality. Jo was far more honest and direct. He imagined that she’d be a stimulating wife—and not just in bed. She wouldn’t be the typical docile spouse who never permitted herself an original thought or opinion. If anything, she’d err in the other direction. He found that appealing— and a definite contrast to Laura’s studied ignorance of the world and its problems.
But what good were comparisons? Events in Newport had dictated that he marry Laura. A year ago—even a month ago—he’d have been overjoyed about that. He recalled an old maxim he’d heard somewhere. A warning to be careful when you chose the things you wanted from life, since you would undoubtedly get them.
On Wednesday morning it rained hard again. The hourlong downpour created muddy rivers in Bayard Court, and cooled the air only a little. In the surgery, Will and Jo went about their work with a self-conscious politeness that was almost a parody of good manners. Drew soon noticed, but he said nothing.
Around noon, he and Will left to get something to eat. Jo pleaded a lack of appetite. Dr. Clem’s midday meal was always the same—two pears bought fresh that morning from one of the Bend’s numerous fruit peddlers.
On the street, Drew said, “You and Jo are certainly tiptoeing around each other. Did you have an argument last night?”
“No,” Will said, too quickly. How could he admit the truth—especially to her brother?
Drew accepted his answer without comment. They crossed the Bowery, their destination a new restaurant in the neighborhood. The place was trying to attract customers by offering not only a complete meal for thirteen cents, but two schooners of beer instead of one, and a complimentary cigar.
“Haven’t changed your mind about going tonight?” Drew asked.
“No.”
“I grant you Banks will have a squad of men with him— maybe more. All the same, it could be dangerous. I didn’t peg you as the adventurous sort.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are we taking chances? You certainly don’t have a personal stake in seeing that dive cleaned out.”
Will thought of Thurman Pennel. And Marcus— charming, sociable Marcus. Always impeccably dressed. Always carefree. Will’s most important question for Marcus and his father was a simple one. How could they draw income from real estate and not know its location or its condition? The answer seemed clear. They couldn’t.
“You’re wrong, Drew. It is a personal matter.”
Drew looked dubious. “I can’t see how—unless Jake Riis has suddenly turned you into a reformer.”
Will managed to smile. “If that’s what I’m becoming, the person responsible is someone I’ve known a lot longer than I’ve known Riis.”
Drew sighed. “You mean if one of us gets shot or bashed in the head tonight, I’ve only myself to blame?”
“That’s right, Deacon.”
ii
Banks brought two full squads. The policemen wore dark blue trousers and frock coats with brass buttons and wide belts. Tall, conical gray hats completed their uniforms. They marched two abreast, swinging their long locust-wood billies.
Garbed in old clothes, Will and Drew brought up the rear. They speculated quietly about the wisdom of this formal parade from Elizabeth Street. Loungers along the route made derisive remarks. But nothing was thrown, and there was no trouble. The marching men finally halted in a dark courtyard Will thought he recognized.
A man in a tattered shirt and cap broke away from the wall near the cellar entrance. The man started to confer with Banks. Will moved closer to hear what the man was saying.
“—not much business for the last hour. I don’t believe they’ve been tipped. I’ve been right here the whole time.”
Banks clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work. You had risky duty tonight. It’ll be noted on your record. Now fall in. I brought an extra stick. Wouldn’t want you to miss the fun.”
Will was disturbed by the barely suppressed excitement in the sergeant’s voice. Banks handed the stick to the ragged man.
“Thanks kindly, sir.” The man touched his cap with the billy, then stepped into the ranks.
In a hoarse whisper, Banks issued orders. The first squad would invade the stale beer dive. The second was divided into teams responsible for guarding the various exits from the courtyard, in case any customers slipped past.
Will cast a nervous eye at the cellar steps. Lamps gleamed behind the slitted shutters, just as they had Monday night. A couple of voices made raw by drink were raised in a chorus of a minstrel tune. Will started when Banks loomed at his left, prodding him with his stick.
“You and your friend be careful. Most of the customers of a place like this are revolvers—in and out of
a cell regular as the seasons. But that doesn’t mean they’re harmless. The drugs in the beer can do queer things to a man’s brain. So watch your step. I don’t want to be writing reports to explain an accidental death.”
He waggled the locust stick and added, “If anyone dies by chance, it’ll be McCauley or one of his patrons.”
Will shivered. Cheerfully, Banks said to his men, “Heads up, lads. Here we go.”
iii
The sergeant led the way down the steps. He’d just reached the bottom one when the door was jerked open by a tipsy tramp. The tramp saw Banks and started to shout a warning. Before he could, Banks laid his stick against the man’s temple.
The blow didn’t seem particularly hard. But the tramp shrieked, and Will heard bone crack. The man fell. Banks jumped over him and plunged through the door with an enthusiastic yell.
The police who stormed after him didn’t bother to step over the fallen man. Hobnails came down on an exposed cheek, an outstretched hand. From the top of the stairs, Will gazed at the tramp, horrified. The man’s open mouth, glazed eyes, and sudden fetid smell said Banks had killed him.
There were shouts, oaths, sounds of wood splintering. Will ran down the stairs. Drew followed, breathing loudly. From the doorway, Will saw that the police had already pulled the tap from the beer keg, broken the keg open, and shattered most of the rickety benches on which eight or ten patrons had been relaxing.
The customers received no quarter. The patrolmen swung their locust sticks at the nearest dirty face, male or female. One middle-aged crone had all her front teeth knocked out. Then a pair of officers beat her to the ground.
The only resistance came from McCauley, the man with the bulging forehead and slitted eyes. He broke away from one policeman, gut-punched another, and bolted toward the doorway where Will and Drew were standing.
He battered a path for himself by means of his sheer size. He kept one arm crooked over his head, protection against the clubs hammering at him. His other hand groped for something inside his greasy vest.
To Will’s right, Banks finished clubbing another victim. He flung the man aside, hunted for McCauley, spotted him, and charged. But there were several struggling policemen and patrons between the sergeant and his quarry.
McCauley pulled a brightly plated derringer. The policeman nearest him saw the multiple barrels aimed at his face. He yelled in fright. McCauley fired. The policeman’s hat fell off and his forehead disintegrated. He tumbled back over a packing case, crushing it.
“You murdering son of a bitch,” Banks howled, struggling toward him. A policeman inadvertently stepped into his path. Banks yanked the policeman’s arm so hard, the man fell. Banks stepped on his leg and kept going.
McCauley’s misshapen mouth jerked in a grotesque smile. Again he took aim. From the side, another policeman grabbed McCauley’s trousers, fastening on a bulging pocket. McCauley wrenched sideways. The fabric tore. Out of the ripped pocket spilled copper pennies—the pitiful profits he’d tried to carry away.
The derringer exploded, its small sound made thunderous by the confines of the room. Banks dodged, losing his hat. His cheeks were red but not a hair of his mustache had been disturbed. McCauley’s bullet knocked a shower of insects off the wall behind the police sergeant.
McCauley turned. A couple of yards remained between him and the doorway, where Drew stood at Will’s right.
What happened next took place very quickly. McCauley pointed his gun to clear the door. Will ducked, and somehow his foot slipped. He stumbled against Drew, pushing him to the right. Drew grabbed the doorframe with his right hand. McCauley fired and missed.
Will straightened up and launched himself at McCauley’s legs, bringing him down with a flying tackle. He sprawled on top of the big man, who promptly flung him off and regained his feet.
The fall left Will winded and dizzy. But he grabbed McCauley again and hung on. Banks was only a few steps away, his path clear at last. McCauley cursed and shoved the derringer against the top of Will’s head.
On his knees, Will jerked backward. The derringer roared, the slug scorching past his left shoulder. McCauley jammed a knee in Will’s face, toppling him. Banks smashed his billy into the back of McCauley’s neck.
The big man staggered. But he didn’t go down. He lurched on toward the door, blinking rapidly. Banks darted around Will and flung his right arm back, readying another blow—
More pennies poured out of McCauley’s torn pocket. He slid past Drew and out the door, reaching the foot of the steps just as Banks swung the stick in a savage arc. Will called a warning but the words were covered by the sickening crunch of the stick.
Drew cried out. He’d been holding the doorframe with his right hand and hadn’t been able to let go in time. It was that right hand which Banks had accidentally hit.
“Goddamn it, stop him!” Banks shouted as McCauley looked back. The slitted eyes fixed on Will for an instant. Then, like a sprinter, he was up the stone stairs and into the dark.
Drew leaned in the doorway, gasping and massaging his hand. Banks didn’t seem to notice. He pulled Drew out of the way and plunged through the door, bellowing curses.
He was gone ten minutes. He came back without McCauley.
iv
Soon afterward, in the courtyard, the police lined up the four prisoners who could still walk. A black maria would be sent to collect the rest, one of the officers said as he lit a fat green cigar.
Three or four more matches were struck and passed from hand to hand. A thick cloud of smoke began to collect. Will said to one of the policemen, “Is that the way you celebrate a successful raid?”
“Hell no. The smoke masks the stink of the prisoners. I expect the boys back at the station house are smoking too—’specially the ones who tend the cells.”
“Where’s Banks?” Drew said in a harsh, high voice that signaled displeasure. His right arm hung motionless at his side.
A mustached face loomed out of the dark. “I warned you two to watch yourselves. Jake Riis has been on a dozen raids and never gotten hurt.” He whacked his stick against his right leg. “If you’d been quicker on your feet, I wouldn’t have lost McCauley.”
“Well, I’m damn sorry.”
“Believe me, so am I. Don Andreas is probably pouring wine for that son of a bitch right now. Congratulating him on getting away! He got a look at you, I noticed,” the sergeant added to Will. “If I were you, I’d shorten my stay in the Bend.”
He brushed a frayed serge cuff across his sweaty face, disturbing one of the points of his mustache. Only then did he indicate Drew’s dangling hand.
“Didn’t break it, did I?”
Calmer but still disgusted, Drew said, “Not quite. But I’ll need liniment and bandages for at least a week.”
“Better stay home next time.”
Banks spun and moved to the four prisoners. He recognized one white-haired, emaciated fellow, and prodded him with his billy.
“Look who’s here. Roscoe the Revolver. Back to Blackwell’s for another vacation, eh, Roscoe?”
The old man, stooped and benign-looking, unleashed some of the foulest profanity Will had ever heard. Drew. coughed from all the cigar smoke as the old man said, “You didn’t have to hit Mag Stephens that way, Banks. You could have kilt her, you dog fucker.”
With his left hand Banks seized the old man at the scruff of his neck. With his right he jammed the stick horizontally against the prisoner’s windpipe. The man’s tongue popped out. His eyes rounded and started to water.
Leaning down, Banks whispered, “I’ll do the same for you unless you swallow that tongue and keep it swallowed.”
He pushed on the stick again. The old man made gagging noises. Banks released him and began issuing orders for his squads to reassemble. He posted two men to guard the dive until the wagon showed up.
Mocking voices called down from the fire escapes. Will thought he heard Banks’ name shouted once or twice, and not in a complimentary way. A few
empty cans were thrown. But the police marched out without incident.
“Banks doesn’t exactly generate respect, does he?” Will said as he and Drew followed the marchers.
Drew had put his right hand into the pocket of his old jacket, letting it rest there. He shrugged wearily. “One way or another, the Bend gets to everybody. Eustace is no worse than most on the force, and he’s better than a lot of them. I’d take his advice about leaving. Along with Corso, now you’ve got McCauley against you. Maybe the padrone, too.”
“I haven’t heard from Corso and I probably won’t hear from the others. I’m staying till Sunday—just the way I planned.”
Drew laughed for the first time all evening. “You sound as tough as Banks.”
“You said the Bend gets to everybody.”
“But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything happening to—’
“It’s my decision, Drew. My father once told me that every sensible man in the First Virginia Cavalry was scared to death of Yankee shot and shell. All the same, they didn’t run away from it.”
Still trying to lighten the situation, Drew said, “That’s the way it is with Virginians and Kents, eh?”
Fearful as he was of again encountering Giuseppe Corso or Dave McCauley, Will found a measure of courage in the words he’d just spoken. He’d made a decision, and although the fear stayed with him, he slept better that night than he had for several weeks.
v
That same night, Eleanor paced her room in Boston. Outside, thunder boomed. Occasional storms had drenched the city all week, but had done nothing to relieve the stultifying heat. Hand pressed to her lips and head bowed in thought, she barely heard the rain begin, so thick were the muffling draperies which hid the locked windows.
A single shaded light burned above her writing desk. On the desk lay a second letter from Louisa Drew in Philadelphia. An urgent plea this time. It forced Eleanor to think.
Her father’s words that well-remembered afternoon in his office had shaken her almost as much as Leo’s death. Gideon had called her a fireside moralist, had charged that before Leo’s death she had convinced herself that hatred would never touch her if she pretended it didn’t exist. And that since his death she had only gone on hiding.