The Devil of Downtown

by Joanna Shupe

  “I will look after you if I deem it necessary, Justine. Stop being so stubborn. Now, come along before we’re missed.”

  Justine didn’t move. Her head was throbbing with thoughts of manipulative kingpins and meddling older sisters. She just wished to be alone. To rebuild her walls and shore up her defenses. Mamie meant well, but Justine was capable of managing her own life. “I am not feeling well. I think I’ll go lie down.”

  “You’re trying to avoid me because you know I am right.” Mamie lifted her skirts and headed toward the hall. “Fine. Go rest. Just prepare yourself for when I say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Justine didn’t bother correcting her sister. She’d find a way to gain the upper hand over Mulligan. Somehow.

  Chapter Four

  Jack sat alone at the club’s bar and stared into his glass of beer. Noise surrounded him, from the shouts of the boxing match in the front to the music coming from the saloon, but he didn’t really hear it. Not tonight. His mind was on something else.

  Specifically, someone else.

  He’d just received his daily report on Miss Justine Greene. For nearly a week, one of Jack’s crew had tailed her then reported the intrepid little do-gooder’s activities to Jack. It seemed she always stayed busy, hardly stopping to eat. Out early in the mornings, home by dark. Serving meals at a church. Giving out blankets in the tenements. Taking women to see surgeons and midwives. She didn’t pay social calls or attend society events.

  Hell, if not for her address and last name, one would never know she was from a wealthy, prominent family.

  She hadn’t returned to the athletic club and had avoided the blocks near Great Jones Street. Almost as if she were avoiding him.

  All this while he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  “My, you are distracted tonight.”

  Jack glanced up and found Maeve, one of his dancers, at his elbow. Maeve was the unelected leader of the girls, the dancer who’d been here the longest. She was sharp and intelligent, and she looked out for the others. He patted the stool next to him. “I am never distracted. Are you here for a drink?”

  She shook her head, the blue curls of her wig bouncing as she sat down. “No, I’m looking for you.”

  “Is there a problem?” Jack didn’t normally handle problems personally. In the saloon, several strong men were tasked with keeping the dancers safe from the rowdy drunken idiots.

  “There might be.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Katie isn’t certain but she thinks the same man’s been following her home the past few nights.”

  Jack’s muscles tightened. The neighborhood knew Jack’s dancers, knew they were off-limits. Knew the retribution that would rain down if any of the girls were harmed.

  So, who would dare?

  There had only been two rivals in recent years: Clayton Madden and Trevor O’Shaughnessy. Madden had given up his empire for love, which was laughable, and O’Shaughnessy was a newcomer, off the boat from Dublin not even five years ago. Was O’Shaughnessy stupid enough to make a move?

  Young and full of piss, O’Shaughnessy hadn’t witnessed the bloodshed and violence on the streets before Jack consolidated the Five Points and Bowery gangs into one organization. Trevor thought there was enough money and muscle these days to go around. Why should Jack have it all? To that end, he’d slowly been assembling a crew over at Broome Street Hall, where he started as a bouncer. He wasn’t a threat to Jack’s empire, but he was someone to watch. So Jack kept an eye on those who sided with O’Shaughnessy and the businesses in Trevor’s pocket.

  Working in O’Shaughnessy’s favor was Jack’s refusal to operate brothels. After being raised in one and seeing what that life did to women like his mother, Jack would rather die a pauper than condone such a business. Trevor had no such convictions. He peddled both young women and men in his houses outside of Jack’s territory.

  This meant Jack would never join forces with O’Shaughnessy. There would be no compromise, only annihilation when the time came.

  Qui n’avance pas, recule. Who does not move forward, recedes. It was how Jack lived his life.

  Suppressing a sigh, he asked, “She recognize him?”

  “She couldn’t see his face in the dark and said he pulls the brim of his hat low.”

  “He didn’t approach her?”

  “No, but it’s got her spooked.”

  Not a surprise. Jack had seen firsthand the sort of violence men could inflict on women, and any woman in her right mind would wish to avoid it. “I’ll have the boys start walking each of you home.”

  Maeve frowned, her face registering her annoyance. “That’s not necessary—”

  “Do not argue. We must remain vigilant, lest the city come to believe I’ve gone soft.”

  “No one with two eyes and a brain would ever think that. Up and down Broadway, they are still telling the story of how you mailed that thief’s fingers to his wife, one by one.”

  Jack grunted. Not exactly a true story—but criminals gossiped worse than old ladies at a sewing circle. “Nevertheless, I won’t risk it. The five of you are my responsibility. I promised to keep you safe, and I will. No matter what. The other option is for you all to stay here.”

  “No one wants that. We all have families and lives outside of this club. Not to mention people would make assumptions about our role here if we lived on the premises.” That the club was part brothel.

  “Then accept the escorts.”

  She studied his face, her gaze thoughtful. “I can see it is one of those nights.”

  He took a long swallow of the pilsner and tried to hide from her scrutiny. “And what does that mean?”

  “It means you have something weighing on your mind and your patience is thin. Anything you want to discuss?”

  He considered it. Maeve was wise beyond her years, the oldest of eight children. The money she made dancing in the saloon went to help feed the siblings still at home. If Jack needed advice on women—which he didn’t—Maeve would be the logical choice. But Jack never talked about his personal life with anyone. He fucked plenty of women on the sly, but he kept it private. It was a matter of both safety and practicality.

  Besides, Justine Greene was not important. He found her fascinating, yes, but she was from another world. There was no use for a woman like that in his bed.

  “No, I don’t,” he said.

  “Fine.” She slid off her stool. “Let’s agree to escorts for a few days. The girls won’t like it but they’ll tolerate an escort until we are certain there is no threat.”

  The girls would tolerate escorts for as long as Jack deemed necessary, but he didn’t bother mentioning that. He would assess the situation this evening, see if the man could be identified. Then he would take care of it personally. “How’s business in there?”

  “You haven’t been in?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Packed house. Busier than we’ve been in a few weeks.”

  “That’s good. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  She rapped her knuckles on the bar. “I will. Enjoy the rest of your night, Mulligan.”

  Jack watched her go, his mouth turning into a fierce frown. He didn’t wish to alarm her or the other girls, but someone bold enough to disrespect a Mulligan employee was disturbing. If O’Shaughnessy was behind it, this could be the opening salvo to a takeover attempt.

  Of course, it might not be Trevor’s doing. Business had been good the last two years. When Madden bowed out, Jack’s share had steadily increased across the city. More saloons, more policy shops, more poolrooms . . . All of it added up to more money. More power. More influence. But that also made him a bigger target.

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Some days he wondered if all the aggravation was worth it.

  Then he’d count his money and decide, fuck yes. It was more than worth it.

  Justine carried her notes up the steps of 300 Mulberry Street, otherwise known as New York City Police Headquarters. Patrolmen st
rode about, busy and serious, each looking smart in his navy-blue uniform. Though the department was rumored to be rife with corruption, she envied the officers. They held power, real power, to enact change. Having a badge meant the ability to gain compliance.

  Unfortunately, many officers could be bought or blackmailed. Nobility was in short supply amongst the city’s police, at least according to the lawyers at the legal aid society.

  Inside, she went to the raised counter that served as the entry point. Justine had made enough trips here that she wasn’t an unfamiliar face. At first, officer upon officer had stopped her to give directions, assuming she was lost. Now they knew better and ignored her.

  After checking in with the desk sergeant, she walked deeper into the building. Men in drab suits stood in small clusters, laughing and talking, enjoying their male-only club. The holding pen for the inebriated was full, the tiny space packed with bodies. She kept her head down and focused on her destination.

  Detective Ellison had been Justine’s contact at the police department for the past eighteen months. Ellison hadn’t wished to help her at first, but she had persisted, trying to convince him that husbands must provide for their families, until he finally relented. When she found that initial wife deserter—and the next—Ellison must have decided to tolerate her because he kept assisting her. While the police couldn’t officially allocate resources to finding these deserters, Ellison had said she was welcome to try, if she was so inclined.

  Today was not about a deserter, however. This had to do with the other problem she often asked Ellison to help with: child labor.

  The door to the office was ajar. She knocked on the doorjamb, not caring to catch any of them unaware by barging in. Once she’d seen an officer urinating into a spittoon in the corner. “Hello?” she called.

  Several groans erupted at the sound of her voice. “Come in,” someone barked.

  Four detectives sat at desks crammed into the small room. All heads turned her way. Three pairs of eyes were openly hostile while one set held a curious patience. The latter belonged to Ellison.

  “Look who’s here with another one of her cases,” a detective said. “Shall we ring for tea, Ellison?”

  She ignored them. “Good morning, Detective. Might I have a moment of your time?”

  “Someone lose another husband?” another detective said, mockingly. “We better mobilize the entire force.”

  Ellison sent the others a withering stare as they all chuckled. “Fellows, give us the room, will you?” Still laughing, the other men went out the door, leaving Justine alone with Ellison. Standing, he pointed to the empty chair opposite the desk. “Don’t let them bother you. They may be rude but they’re good detectives.”

  “I’m not bothered. They are welcome to laugh at me. What I am doing is unusual but it is also important.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He retook his seat and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking underneath him. “What may I do for you, Miss Greene?”

  She sat and placed her notes in her lap. “I learned of a shirtwaist factory on Rivington Street and went to see it for myself yesterday. There were women and children there, young boys and girls not more than seven or eight, all working past dark on the fifth floor. The owners had locked the doors from the outside to prevent the workers from leaving.”

  He shook his head, his lips turned down in disapproval. She’d seen the look many times in their interactions. He was married with small children, and he hated the abuse and violence that many of the city’s children faced. “Absolutely abhorrent. Anything to make a quick buck. Unfortunately, I can’t help right now. I’m working a big murder case. Son of a politician, which means I have Tammany breathing down my neck.”

  “You cannot spare an hour to come and talk to them?” Ellison had done it in the past. He’d taken corrupt business owners aside and intimidated them with his badge and rank. He’d even threatened to go to the unions and help workers mobilize if the owners did not treat workers more fairly. All in all, it proved a more effective method than Justine acting on her own.

  “I can’t. Captain will fire me for certain if I do. Sorry, miss. You know I always like to help but until this case is solved I’m in a pickle.”

  “But . . .” She didn’t know what to say. He had never refused her before. “Is there someone else who can help, perhaps a detective not on this case?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “The entire precinct is on this case. And even if they weren’t, the factory owners aren’t doing anything illegal. I doubt I could convince another officer to help you.”

  In other words, her only choice was Ellison and he was too busy at the moment. Even as she understood this, she struggled to accept it. Something had to be done. “I must try and help them. Do you have any suggestions at all?”

  “You could try the new Department of Buildings. Thomas Brady is the superintendent. He might have an issue with the locked doors and whether there’s enough egress in case of a fire.”

  “But the ages of the children and the hours they are forced to work?”

  “As reprehensible as we find those practices, Miss Greene, I’m afraid not all agree. They’re more fixated on profits than quality of life. Come back in a few weeks and I’ll see what I can do, all right?”

  Irritation swept across her skin, but she nodded and rose. “Fine. Good luck on your case.”

  “I really am sorry.” He followed her to the door. “Some days I wish they’d just admit women into the department and give you a badge. Then you wouldn’t need me to intimidate these factory owners. You could intimidate them all on your own.”

  She snorted. “As if they would listen to a woman, police officer or not.”

  “Sadly, you’re probably right. Have a care, Miss Greene. It’s a rough city out there.”

  It was what he said to her each time she saw him, Ellison’s special brand of goodbye. “You too, Detective. Thank you.”

  In the corridor, she ignored the group of men gathered in the corner, whispering as they watched her depart. Ellison once mentioned the detectives teased him about his association with her. It made her so angry, their childishness. The atmosphere here was no better than upper Fifth Avenue, where one had to cater to the “right” people. Outsiders were looked down upon, no matter their net worth. Here, she was viewed as silly and frivolous because of her gender.

  Sigh.

  Humid air, sticky and heavy, greeted her outside. The responsibility she felt toward these families, these children, working in unsafe, cruel conditions weighted down her shoulders. God help them if there was ever an accident or a fire. Hundreds of lives could be lost.

  It was then she heard a familiar deep voice, a cultured tone wholly out of place in this spot. Glancing over, she found him.

  He was here. Jack Mulligan. At police headquarters.

  She stared, unable to believe the sight. Mulligan was leaning against a sleek black brougham, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. Blue uniforms surrounded him, everyone smiling as they listened intently to whatever Mulligan was saying. He spoke animatedly, his hands gesturing, the life of the party. A perfectly tailored light brown suit hugged his frame, the hue complementing his dark hair and blue eyes. He could have been any industrialist or banker going about his daily business instead of a legendary kingpin.

  The entire group broke out into loud laughter, some of the officers wiping tears of mirth from their eyes. She must have made some sound, a disbelieving squeak, because Mulligan’s eyes met hers. His mouth twisted into a half smile before he addressed his audience. “Boys, it has been nice catching up but I see a pretty lady that needs my attention.” He shook hands and slapped backs, but Justine didn’t wait around. Spinning on her heel, she started up the walk and headed north.

  He wasn’t here for her, was he? Dread pooled in her stomach. If he was here to collect on that stupid agreement, then she’d have to think quickly. By reputation, Mulligan wasn’t the type to negotiate or be put off. However, there wa
s a limit to what Justine would agree to as repayment.

  If Mulligan thought to bully or intimidate her, he was in for the shock of a lifetime.

  “Whoa, wait up.” He came alongside, easily matching her stride with his long legs. “What’s the hurry, Miss Greene?”

  “I have things to do, Mulligan.” She dodged a fruit cart and the line of children surrounding it. “Was there something you needed?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Why all the questions?”

  “Because I am curious about you. How does one small woman accomplish so much in one day? Serving meals in the Bowery, delivering clothing in the Lower East Side. It seems you never stop.”

  How . . . ? She halted in her tracks to blink up at him. “Are you having me followed?”

  “That makes it sound nefarious. It’s pure curiosity, I promise.”

  “Curiosity about what?” She couldn’t fathom how she had sparked such interest in their short meeting. “My charity work?”

  “That, among other things. Come. Allow me to drive you wherever you need to go.”

  The street was bare of conveyances, save a police wagon. “With what? The police wagon?”

  Mulligan’s eyes twinkled in the sunlight, the edge of his mouth kicking up. Lord, he was a handsome man. She ignored the fluttering in her stomach as he put two fingers in his mouth. A whistle pierced the air and she instinctively covered her ears. Seconds later, the sleek black brougham she’d seen outside headquarters rolled to a stop at their side.

  Mulligan bowed. “Your chariot, my lady.”

  The silence stretched and Jack began to feel like an idiot, bent over like an uptown swell, all in a ridiculous attempt to impress a girl. Something he hadn’t bothered with in a long time—at least out of bed, anyway. He straightened and waited, the sun beating down on his back.

  Justine looked anything but impressed. She stared at the brougham suspiciously, as if a snake waited inside, ready to strike. “I should have known.”

  “Known what?”

  “You have a reputation for being resourceful.”