The Devil of Downtown

by Joanna Shupe

  Damn straight. Being two steps ahead of everyone else was the only way he had survived this long.

  He tried for charm once more, offering his arm. “A lady as beautiful as yourself should never walk in this heat.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she ignored him and went the other way, heading south. Jack watched her, frozen, his arm suspended in the air. Was she refusing him? Disappointment sank into his bones as she kept going.

  A choking noise that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle caught his attention, and he glared at his second-in-command and frequent driver. “Fuck off, Rye.”

  Rye quickly sobered. “Sorry, Mulligan.” The two had known each other a long time and Jack liked Rye better than most. Not enough, however, to tolerate any disrespect.

  He watched Justine get farther away. There was no choice, really. He’d have to chase her.

  She hadn’t traveled far, just across Houston Street, by the time he caught up with her. Jack matched her stride and nodded politely at people along the way. Private conversation during the walk would prove near impossible. He was well-known here. These streets were in his blood, the blocks where he’d spent nearly his entire life.

  He’d brought order here. A measure of safety. Residents could breathe easier knowing Jack Mulligan watched out for them, that he kept other criminal elements and Tammany Hall at bay. No more riots, no more gang fights. He hired as many men as he could for his crew, the number now over fifteen hundred. They weren’t choirboys, but they brought money home to their families. Patronized local businesses. Elevated the entire area.

  It was why he insisted his men look clean and sharp at all times. They were better than the old gangs, who had worn rags and knifed each other in the streets. No, this was a different way of life and his men had to show as much for the rest of the city to believe it.

  “Does that ever grow annoying?”

  He tipped his derby at a woman calling out to him from her downstairs window. “The adulation, you mean?”

  “Ha. Hardly adulation. More like pandering.”

  “I cannot help if my people revere me.”

  “They don’t revere you. They fear you.”

  He frowned at her. “I would never hurt the people of these streets.” This was his territory. From Broadway to Bowery, East Fourth Street to Five Points, his crew oversaw it all. He even had a foothold in New Jersey, Long Island and Staten Island. Soon, he’d have a lot more than that.

  “As long as they do what you want,” she said under her breath.

  She didn’t understand the ways of Lower Manhattan. Really, as an uptown princess, how could she? He moved on to a different topic. “Are you planning on walking all the way down to the legal aid society?” On a hot day like today, the journey would be pure misery. Not to mention the walk would take her directly through Five Points. What was she trying to prove?

  “Yes. I need to think.”

  “About?”

  “Mulligan, I do not have time for this. Just tell me what you want and get gone.”

  That stung. He didn’t know why, exactly, but her easy dismissal rankled. “When was the last time you ate?”

  She stopped and glared up at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s past lunchtime and I am sensing you hardly slow down long enough to take care of yourself. Am I wrong?”

  “I hardly see how that concerns you.”

  “You are in my debt, Miss Greene. Until I collect on that debt, your well-being is my concern.” A completely inane argument, but he wouldn’t back down. Not if it got her to dine with him. “Come.”

  Without waiting on her response, he took her elbow and led her to a German saloon he liked. She didn’t fight him, just grumbled under her breath as she took the five steps down to the ground-floor entrance.

  The interior was dim, even during the day. A long bar occupied one half of the room and wooden tables took up the rest of the space. He held up a hand in greeting to the man behind the bar, the owner, Mr. Hoffman.

  An older woman approached them, an apron tied around her waist. She clapped her hands when she saw his face. “Willkommen, Herr Mulligan!”

  He shook her hand. “Hallo, Frau Hoffman. Wie geht es Ihnen?”

  “Es geht mir gut. Would you like to sit?”

  “Bitte.”

  Mrs. Hoffman led them to a table in the back, one that would allow Jack a view of the entire first floor. Just as he preferred. “Danke,” he told the older woman as he held out a chair for Justine. “Ich hätte gerne zwei pils, bitte.”

  “And lunch?”

  “Yes. The special will suffice.” Mrs. Hoffman made all the food herself and it was terrific. Best wiener schnitzel in the city.

  A delicate clearing of a throat caught his attention. “Mrs. Hoffman,” Justine said. “I would prefer water. And if you could tell me the special before I decide to order it, I’d be most grateful.”

  She asked nicely enough but Jack got the impression that Justine was annoyed. What had he done wrong?

  Mrs. Hoffman explained the dish, sauerbraten, which was roasted meat served with dumplings and cabbage. Justine proclaimed that would be fine and Mrs. Hoffman departed. Jack tapped his fingers on the table. “Don’t trust me?”

  “I do not care to have my choices taken away from me, no matter how small.”

  Brass ones. She was no wilting uptown flower. He liked that about her. “I was merely trying to help. Relax, everything here is delicious.”

  “I am only here because you gave me no choice in the matter.”

  “Life is short, Miss Greene. We must enjoy what pleasures we can before it’s too late.”

  Her gaze flicked to his mouth on the word pleasures and even the dark interior could not hide the color now staining her cheeks. Interesting. He hadn’t meant the comment as innuendo but it seemed the little do-gooder was not so innocent.

  Very interesting.

  Rye entered, tipped his chin at Jack, and headed to the long bar up front where he’d keep watch and chat with Mr. Hoffman. Mrs. Hoffman returned with water for Justine and a pilsner for him. The Hoffmans, along with many of the saloon owners downtown, bought their beer from Jack’s brewer, Patrick Murphy. Jack tasted the beer and confirmed the freshness. Patrick would be pleased to hear it.

  “Why were you at police headquarters?” he asked when they were alone again.

  Justine lifted a shoulder. “There’s a detective who often helps me, but he’s consumed with a murder case. He said he’ll be fired if he works on anything else.”

  “Big Tom’s son, I assume.” Tom Wagner’s boy had been murdered in a brothel on Mott Street. Wagner was a Tammany Hall man who’d worked his way up at city hall. The deceased son had left debts all over town, including some to Jack. He’d be collecting on those from the father in the very near future.

  “Yes, I suppose. I asked my detective friend for a favor but he refused. Now I’ll need to figure something else out.”

  The opening was there and no one had ever accused Jack of squandering an opportunity when it was presented. He took a long sip of his pilsner to hide his smile. “I am also in the habit of granting favors. Why not ask me instead?”

  Chapter Five

  The way he said it, low and rough, sent tingles through Justine’s belly. Somehow “granting favors” sounded lascivious coming out of Mulligan’s sinful mouth. Lord, why did he affect her this way? She should be immune to charm and handsomeness. Mulligan was Satan wrapped in a silk brocade vest. Yet knowing that did not prevent her body from warming, her pulse from quickening.

  The reaction to him made her angry with herself. Angry with him. He’d made it perfectly clear she wasn’t his type—not that she cared. The less they had to do with one another, the better.

  “I am already in your debt,” she said tartly. “It would be unwise of me to sink any lower.”

  “What’s one more favor to repay?”

  “I have no idea, seeing as how you refuse to tell me what the repayment entail
s.”

  “It bothers you, doesn’t it? Are you reassured to learn there are hundreds of men walking these streets who owe me favors, debts I might call in at any time?”

  “No, I am not.” First, she wasn’t a man. Second, she didn’t like the idea that Mulligan could demand something from her out of the blue. “I am not one of your lackeys.”

  The charm vanished and his gaze turned assessing, sharp. Keen intelligence blazed from his blue irises, a hint of the man who had forged an empire through cunning and violence. “Yes, I am aware,” he said. “Let’s make conversation, then. No favors or debts. Tell me about this problem you encountered.”

  Their food arrived then, the sauerbraten exactly as Mrs. Hoffman had described, and she dug in. It was delicious, hearty and filling, and Justine realized days had passed since she’d sat down to a proper meal. She now avoided dinners with her sisters, knowing Mamie would merely badger her about Mulligan, about her foolishness. Mamie and Florence often treated Justine as a child, as if she needed protecting.

  Ludicrous. Justine had probably seen more violence and horror in her twenty years on this earth than the two of her sisters combined.

  Relaxed by the warm food in her stomach, she began talking. She told Mulligan of the shirtwaist factory on Rivington, the women and children locked inside. How the workers were not allowed to take breaks from the sewing, even to tend to personal needs. The hopelessness and misery she’d found, and how the owner had thrown her out when she’d tried to complain.

  “Was that why you sought Ellison out? Hoping he could scare the owners into compassion?”

  “Yes. It has worked in the past.”

  “That’s astounding, considering most factory owners are the greediest bastards alive. They’d sell their own mothers for more profits.”

  “True, but Ellison’s badge and the threat of unionization have been effective thus far.”

  “I’d suspect it’s due to something more than that,” Mulligan said, a small mysterious smile on his face. She didn’t know what that smile meant but it caused her breath to catch.

  Calm down, Justine. Don’t fall under his spell.

  Silence descended as they both ate. He ordered another pilsner and when it arrived he leaned back and took a long drink. “The legal aid society is busy, no doubt in part to your successful efforts. You’re well regarded as a savior in Lower Manhattan.”

  “That is a gross exaggeration. I’ve hardly done enough to reduce the suffering and poverty.”

  “One person cannot solve the city’s problems.”

  “You did.”

  “Not exactly. I had help. And it was mostly convincing the other fellows that we’d do better together. Stronger in numbers, et cetera.”

  No doubt he underplayed his importance. He had built a kingdom for himself with men who were not known for compromise. “Why did you do it?”

  “Couldn’t stand the thought of working for anyone else—and that included the police and Tammany Hall. I knew I’d eventually come under someone’s thumb unless the organization was large enough, powerful enough, to eclipse everyone else.”

  Hard to argue with that. She suddenly had a desire to learn more about him. What had made a man like Mulligan? “Did you grow up downtown?”

  “I did. Right in the Bowery.”

  “And the languages? It’s said you speak three in addition to English.”

  “Four, actually. I learned Italian and German from people in the neighborhood when I was a boy. French and Spanish later from books. I also know a good deal of Yiddish and Russian, but I’m hardly fluent.”

  “That is impressive. I only learned French.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “It has come in handy over the years, especially when I need to speak without others understanding what I am saying. Did you study French in finishing school, as all good society girls do?”

  “No. Florence was kicked out of finishing school so my mother hired tutors for our education.” This had allowed Justine to pursue volunteer work with the city’s charities, rather than suffering in a stuffy classroom with girls who only cared about the latest fashions and using the proper fork.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Mulligan muttered. “You know, you are different than your sister. More self-possessed. Sure of yourself.”

  The compliment caught her off guard, so she immediately dismissed it. “Oh, you’re wrong. Florence is the bravest of us all. She never cares what anyone thinks.”

  “There’s a difference between knowing who you are and putting on a show to the rest of the world.”

  “You think Florence is putting on a show?”

  “I’m positive of it. I never understood why, though.” He took a long sip of his beer. “You, on the other hand, are exactly as one sees. There is no pretense or artifice with you.”

  He was right. She’d never seen the point in pretending to be someone other than herself. “I merely want to help people. Anything else is a waste of time.”

  “And Billy Ferris? Was he a waste of time?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. How on earth had Mulligan learned of Billy? She’d last seen her former beau eight months ago. Was Mulligan looking into her background? She put her fork and knife down on the plate with a snap. “That is none of your business—and stop having me investigated.”

  “There’s no need for concern. I mean you no harm.”

  “That’s hardly the point. You are invading my privacy. My debt to you does not give you the right to spy on me.”

  “I like information, Miss Greene. I like to know the people with whom I deal.”

  “We are not in business together. Our association will end the second I repay your favor.”

  “Yes, but there’s no telling how long before that happens.”

  Incensed, she ground her teeth together. The man talked in circles, justifying his actions through whatever means necessary. “I believe you are enjoying this.”

  “You would be right. I daresay I haven’t enjoyed anything as much in a long time.”

  “Bully for you. Wipe my debt clean, Mulligan. I won’t tolerate being followed and harangued.”

  “Buying you lunch is hardly haranguing you. And the streets are not safe for a lady. Perhaps I am merely ensuring your safety.”

  The arrogance was astounding. She’d been working in the city’s seedier neighborhoods for almost five years now, where she handled her own problems and had never suffered any serious harm. “I need no keeper. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Indeed, I do not doubt it. The boys at the club cannot stop retelling how you thwarted that robbery attempt when you first came to see me. The story has only added to your legend.”

  She remembered the boy who’d appeared out of the shadows on Great Jones Street. “Do you know him?”

  “We found him later that day. He won’t attack another woman, not in my neighborhood.”

  She frowned, contemplating the meaning behind those words. “What did you do to him? I swear, if you hurt him—”

  “Calm down, chérie. He’s new and needed to be taught the rules of my territory. But he lived to tell the tale to others.”

  To spread the word: no violence toward women. Mulligan wouldn’t tolerate it. She wanted to ask him why. She had this insane desire to ask him countless questions about his background and life. She wanted to know him.

  And that terrified her.

  She shouldn’t wish to spend time with him, to learn intimate details about his life. The more she discovered, the more she liked . . . and that was dangerous.

  She had clearly lost her mind. A bit of rest and sauerbraten had gone to her head. This had to end.

  Reaching inside the small purse clipped to her belt, she withdrew some bills and slapped them on the table. She met his curious blue gaze. “I’ll buy my own lunch, thank you. And you’ve learned enough about my life. Stop having me followed. If you don’t, I’ll make you regret it.”

  Without waiting for his respon
se, Justine stood and dashed from the restaurant. Lunchtime was over.

  Ignoring Rye’s shocked expression, Jack tossed money on the table and rushed out of the Hoffmans’ saloon, hurrying after Justine. “Wait!” he called to her back. She didn’t pause, merely continued walking downtown.

  Damn it. He hadn’t meant to run the do-gooder off, not until they were finished.

  I’ll make you regret it.

  Was she threatening him? Him? Christ, the idea of it had his balls twitching in excitement.

  The entire city believed this woman was filled with pure goodness, not an evil bone in her body. Yet, she vexed Jack at every turn. A sharp tongue and blistering reprimands lurked behind those boring dresses and high necklines.

  The do-gooder had a mean streak. And he loved it.

  Perhaps this was the real Justine, after all. He might have been the only man alive to get a glimpse of the steel beneath the fluff. He wanted more. He wanted to know how deep that steel ran. Did it go all the way to her core? Would she bite his lip if they kissed? In bed, would she dig her nails into his skin, scoring his back with evidence of her pleasure?

  He caught up and blocked her advance. “Please, stop. I need to speak to you.”

  She pressed her lips together and folded her hands. Waited. Those dark brown eyes stared at him as if he were an annoyance. A bother she merely tolerated.

  He got right to the point. “I wish to collect on my favor.”

  That gained her attention. Her face slackened, her mouth opening slightly. “Now you bring this up? Why did you not tell me this at police headquarters or over our interminable lunch?”

  Because she would’ve heard him out and disappeared. Instead, he’d wanted to drag out their encounter. Never mind the reasons why. “That is immaterial. Would you care to hear what I require of you?”

  “Yes, with the caveat that I may refuse.”

  Not a chance. No one reneged on Jack Mulligan.

  “Then get in.” He gestured to the brougham at the curb, with Rye in the driver’s seat.

  “No. Tell me here.”

  So stubborn. He almost admired her for it. “No. This is too public for my tastes. I prefer to have my conversations away from those who might be listening.”