The Midnight Band of Mercy

by Michael Blaine

  “Ah, hello, Gretta,” Max said, at a loss. Was he imagining it, or did she look like murder? “Want to join us?”

  Her jaw set, she examined him with a long, cold stare, then turned on her heel.

  “What was that all about?” Swarms asked, his tirade now at an end.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Well, I hope she wasn’t holding any Equitable paper. Penny on the dollar if you’re lucky.” Danny riffled his newspaper. “The Reverend Weems is at it again! Just because there are half a dozen brothels across the street from his church, he takes offense.”

  “You think you’ll have to close your office?”

  “I’ve got to scramble.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Did you see Faye’s show yet?”

  “No, I’ve been running around like a chicken without a head.”

  “You’ll bust a gut, I promise. She’s wondering whether you’ll show up.”

  First she steals him, and now she’s turning him into her mouthpiece. There was a time when he had felt more like himself with Danny than anybody else. Now Faye had them negotiating with each other. She was an evil genius, his sister.

  “In my own sweet time. Come on.” He snapped his fingers. “Chop-chop. Are we doing the Rialto crawl, or what?”

  “Can’t. I’ve got a rehearsal later.”

  Defeated, Max wandered up to his room and lay down. His triumphs at the Herald, his budding romance with Gretta. How many other tall tales had he been telling himself? He hustled like crazy, sure. He knew the score as well as the next guy, but finding out the score about himself was another game entirely. If he never got hired full-time, he wasn’t a real reporter. If he never won the woman he craved, he wasn’t a real man. He wasn’t about to puff himself up about his paid conquests at the House of All Nations.

  Now he’d attached himself to this wretched cat story, and it wouldn’t go away. Perhaps when his latest article came off the press—if it did—things would change. He’d done his best to make one thing clear: this Mrs. Edwards, the reformer, spent her days in tenement courtyards and basements murdering poor people’s pets. If he knew anything, he knew the Heralds readers: they would want to knock her down and press a big chloroformed rag over her face.

  Dinner was excruciating.

  Mrs. DeVogt questioned Swarms closely about the Equitable collapse—evidently he’d been moaning to everybody about it earlier. Now he affected the long view. “Business runs in streaks, Mrs. DeVogt. It’ll bounce back.”

  “I am not an infant, Mr. Swarms. I lived through the 1873 Panic. They were building railroads to nowhere, and nothing bounced back for a dozen years.”

  Swarms offered a tight smile. “Yeah, maybe; but from what I’ve been reading, when England starts scooping up our wheat again, the stock market will turn around.”

  Max could barely keep a straight face. When a soft-shoe artist started sounding like the financial pages, the country was in real trouble. What did Swarms know about the markets? What did anybody know? One day Wall Street was all fair skies and summer breezes; then out of nowhere came the typhoon.

  Dismissing Danny’s soothing words, Mrs. DeVogt addressed the table at large. “Railroads were going to solve everything. If they said the Northern Pacific was going to transport the moon to San Francisco, the public bought even more.”

  Mrs. DeVogt s mouth pinched in at the end of this brief speech, and Max wondered whether she hadn’t lost more than a few dollars back in 1873.

  “Danny, what’s the bit you’re doing at Tony Pastor’s?” Max asked, deftly shifting the subject. He had enough doom and gloom on his own watch.

  “Ahh, I’ve got a pretty funny song we just published, it’s about a family with twenty kids….”

  Soon they were chattering away again. Only Gretta maintained her rigid silence. When she was the first to leave the table, Max waited a few minutes and then followed her upstairs. He was about to knock on her door, but then he started wondering. What made him think she was angry with him? She had plenty of reasons to be moody: her mother’s health; her job; Martin’s murder, of course. Why assume she was cross with him? Better to see how she was doing, be sympathetic and ignore her earlier icy slight.

  He tapped on her door. She greeted him with an emotionless expression. “Don’t come here and try to talk to me.”

  Sticking his foot over the threshold, he kept her from slamming the door in his face. “What? The last time we saw each other—”

  “Why did you tell me that tall story? Why did you lie to me?”

  “What? I didn’t—”

  “Then how do you suppose they can have a funeral?” She kept her voice low, but her anger was palpable. She looked at him with fresh eyes. Why had he made up such a wild tale, she was thinking. Was he out of his mind? Considering his jittery mannerisms, who could tell?

  Now he knew what she was talking about, but he wanted to hear her say it. “What funeral?”

  “For Martin, of course. I suppose you’re one of those warped people who get pleasure out of nasty practical jokes.” She had to take it out on someone. Why not a little man who wouldn’t hit back?

  He was floored. How had they found Mourtone so fast? Police Superintendent Byrnes could dig up a stolen brooch in a day or two by tapping his underground telegraph of dips and second-story men, but was it as easy to find a body? Perhaps, if the corpse came from the right family. “Wait, wait, let me absorb this. They’re having a funeral for him? When? How did you find out?”

  “The announcement is in your wretched newspaper. Don’t you read anything except your own articles?” She knew she wasn’t being fair, but so what?

  Her barb stung, but somehow he had to convince her that he’d been telling the truth. Thoughtlessly, he tried to take her hand, but she quickly brushed him off. Her mouth twisted up in disgust.

  Doggedly, he went on. “I swear I’d never lie to you. Especially about something like that! Why would I?” As he spoke, he gave her a searching, naked look, hoping his expression, stripped of any artifice, would convince her where words failed. “I’d have to be some sort of crank. What would I gain? Look how easily you found out about the funeral.”

  Mute, she stared back at him, her face masklike. Captured in her indifferent gaze, he felt like a specimen on a slide. Her eyes said he was insignificant, not worth hating. A countercurrent of anger flashed through him. What gave her the right to punish him? Who else was doing a damned thing to help her?

  He bit his lower lip. “When are the services? We might learn something.”

  In a barren whisper, she said, “I haven’t been invited. They didn’t bother to contact me.” She recoiled at her own admission, but there it was, her little hurt out in the open. How disgusting she was. Worse, she hadn’t stopped hoping against hope that she would get something out of the family. She daydreamed about it. An allowance. A small house in honor of her devotion.

  She thought of Martin’s sunburned forearm on her lap. Why that? A dry, papery sensation closed her throat. Now she had nothing to look forward to but twelve-hour days slaving away for Gertrude and silent dinners with her prune-faced mother. How was she ever going to escape?

  Now Max understood. Her rage had other roots as well. Still, he didn’t much care for the way she’d lashed out at him. So bitter and thwarted. “Where are they holding the ceremony?”

  “Holy Trinity,” she said wearily.

  “Do you know what time?”

  “Why? What’s the point?”

  “Well, if it would make you feel better, I’ll go with you. They don’t post armed guards at funerals.”

  “I don’t know. What good would it do?” Perhaps she should show up this one time. Asking for nothing. How they would blanch if she sailed into that showplace of a church with Max Greengrass on her arm.

  His anger dissipating, he fell back on his professional manner. “These things are unpredictable. We could listen, keep our eyes peeled.”

  “I suppose.”

  His n
erves quieted down. All he had to do was treat her like any other interview. Then he looked at her pained mouth, her lips sucked in, almost invisible, and the heebie-jeebies seized him again. Steeling himself, he concentrated on the practical matters. Gretta would provide a perfect cover for his own appearance at the services. What would the Reverend Weems say about the cause of Martin’s death? Why had such a young, healthy, and privileged young man suddenly withered away?

  “It’s entirely up to you. All I can say is I’m as shocked as you are. If you think I’m some sort of madman, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  She sensed his temper flaring. Her face felt as if it were on fire. “Of course not.”

  “Then ask yourself, truthfully, did you think of me that way two days ago?

  “No,” she conceded. She had thought he was earnest, rather nice, but decidedly rough around the edges. His directness chilled her. She didn’t know whether to admire his candor, or attribute it to a lack of diplomacy.

  “Then give me some time to find out what happened. Obviously, the family’s keeping things quiet. Why shouldn’t they? What good can come out of broadcasting that their son was shot through the head in a dive?” When he saw her flinch, he rushed to add: “I’m sorry. It’s in their interest to put on a respectable show, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” Still wary, she ran her cool eye over him.

  He cursed himself for telling her the truth. “We can’t mention it to anyone, either. How he died. Especially now, when it will be even harder to prove.”

  “Who would I tell? I don’t know anybody.”

  “Until we can get some evidence. We have to be very discreet … I can’t conceive of the shock, to lose someone so close to you.”

  His sympathy felt palpable, like rough silk. “There’s one thing I want to tell you, Mr. Greengrass.” She used his last name pointedly. “Martin and I were very close, but his family … I met his mother once, but there was no compelling reason for his family to invite me.” A wounded expression flickered on her face. Then it was gone.

  “I see. I’m sorry you’re so disturbed.”

  “I’m more disturbed than you can possibly imagine.” She pronounced these words slowly, imparting weight to every syllable. She had loved Mourtone. There was no doubt.

  For a moment he saw the world through the lens of her loss. He had hoped her grief wasn’t so deep-rooted, and that eventually his attentions wouldn’t appear in bad taste. Now he had to act with complete restraint. He could sense how easily the wrong gesture, the wrong expression might offend her.

  “Will you go to the services with me?” he offered again.

  “Come into my room for a minute,” she responded.

  Over her bed, Gretta had hung one of her street photographs. Several grinning barefoot boys were building a bonfire, and one guttersnipe, naked from the waist up, was virtually winking as he sucked on a bottle of blue ruin. The sharp focus, the sentiment-stripped quality of the shot startled him. Instead of insisting—as pictures like Riis’s did—that the viewer pity the wild street arabs, Gretta’s photograph showed the boys having a grand time.

  Max didn’t really know what to make of it. The photograph wasn’t making a case for any particular social policy. It seemed almost perverse in its neutrality. “Very realistic. They’re in their glory, aren’t they?”

  That was it, he realized. She had captured a wild, forbidden joy. The street arabs were supposed to be suffering, but they defied pity. Gretta had a brilliant and daring eye.

  She shrugged. “Well, that’s what I saw. I hate pictures with points.”

  “He—I mean Martin, he really admired your work. He told me all about it one night. He was head over heels—”

  “He did, didn’t he?” Martin had showered her with praise, he had taken her pictures to galleries; and when the dealers, mystified, shook their heads, he had raged against the money-grubbing philistines. She felt like weeping, but held herself in check. Wouldn’t her tears be for herself alone? It was kind of Max to tell her this, generous in a way. Why was she tormenting him? She knew he was blameless. “Would you do something for me?”

  “Anything.”

  “I want you to swear to me that you’ve told me everything you know about the way Martin died. Put your hand on your heart and swear.”

  “I swear to you that I didn’t lie.”

  “And you’ve told me everything.”

  The matter of the five hundred dollars didn’t pertain, he was certain. He would keep that secret forever. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “All right. I’ll tell Gertrude I have to go to a funeral. She’ll have to let me off for an hour or two. Reverend Weems is speaking at one o’clock. We should get there by twelve-thirty to get a seat. You know, I can understand why they’d want to avoid a scandal, but can’t they keep looking for the creature who did this?”

  “We don’t know what the police are doing. So you do believe me?”

  “Yes. Go, go now.”

  He almost asked her another question, but he checked himself. What should he wear to an upper-crust Protestant funeral? A business suit? Evening dress? He didn’t have a cutaway, but he could always rent.

  chapter sixteen

  On Saturday night, Simon’s Avenue B Theatre—Temple of Amusement! Around the Clock Frolics!—was offering The French Twins, Zapinsky and Newton, Professor Von Nigglehagen, Dutch Swanberg and Irish Annie Conlon. Flaking gold-leaf pillars framed the box office. In the lobby a sign proclaimed “AFTER BREAKFAST, SIMON’S! AFTER SIMON’S, BACK TO BED!” Max grabbed a beer and a shot at the crescent-shaped bar in the lobby, and then wove through the half-filled orchestra.

  He was already well-oiled. Schooners and whiskey at a saloon on Fourth Avenue. The booze ran warm and sweet through his veins.

  He took a spicy sausage sandwich wrapped in butcher paper to his seat. Underfoot, the floor was soft and sticky with melted candy, half-eaten apples, corn cobs, scraps of newspaper, and circulars. Men wandered in and out puffing cigars, pointing at the stage, poking their buddies, When they fell into their seats, they undid the top buttons of their pants. Max settled into the buzzing darkness.

  If Martin Mourtone wanted to resurrect himself and climb into a coffin, fine. If Stan Parnell, that weaselly sonofabitch, wanted to tie him to the space-raters’ bench, screw him and his monkey-faced mother. There was such a thing as having a good time.

  Onstage, Zapinsky and Newton were settling their differences. Zapinsky wore a screaming yellow jacket down to his knees and a top hat an extra story high. Newton was decked out in a purple frock coat and a floppy red tie. Donning boxing gloves made of inflated pig bladders, the pair fought a battle of ferocious poses. Finally Zapinsky wound up and threw a haymaker, missing his partner by a foot. Newton fell flat on his back, examined himself in an elaborate pantomime, and, finding himself whole, bounced up and bopped Newton on the head. Then the pig bladders really started flying. The partners yowled, grunted, bellowed, and screeched with every jab and hook, they staggered like drunks, clung to the curtains and knocked heads.

  A patron reeled down to the stage’s apron, pounded it with his fist and shouted, “Kill the sonofabitch!”

  “Nah, kiss him!” another man in his cups shouted.

  Scattered laughter echoed through the hall.

  “Zis is one tough customer,” Zapinsky confided to the audience, jabbing his thumb in the direction of his critic.

  Confused, the bloodthirsty commentator plopped down in the first row.

  Newton stopped in his tracks, his greasepaint eyebrows bobbing. “You selling something?”

  Zapinsky winked and pulled a rubber chicken from the depths of his checked pants. “Chickens, cheap.”

  Newton shrugged. “Just a second. I buy.” He opened his jacket with a boxing glove, but handicapped by his huge mitts, couldn’t get inside his own pocket.

  Zapinsky hid his right hand behind his back. “Lemme help you.” He cast a friendly paw over Newton’s s
houlder, mugging to the crowd. Newton dropped his arms to his side, stuck his chin out and froze. Stretching time to the edge of pain, the duo waited and waited.

  The audience, unable to stand it, peppered Newton with advice.

  “The right hand, you dope!”

  “Behind his back! Sucker punch!”

  Finally, almost as an afterthought, Zapinsky socked his pal right in the kisser, and they were at it again, flailing away, fighting and soft-shoeing it simultaneously as they glided to the wings.

  When they trooped out for a curtain call, they were rewarded with tepid applause. Max took a healthy bite of his sandwich, the grease dribbling onto his chin.

  Before the audience could catch its breath, a mob of chorines dressed as schoolgirls minced onto the stage. Each one held a slate to her chest. On second glance, their costumes didn’t seem quite right for young scholars. Their flashy blouses were shades too loud, and their skirts crossed the line between outerwear and giant bloomers.

  Faye was the last one to trip into the light. She stumbled, skidded, almost fell, but righted herself into a knock-kneed, pigeon-toed stance. Her curly black hair shooting out in all directions, she bit her lip and peered cross-eyed into the darkness.

  The Professor jerked a thumb her way and shook his head in sadness. His hands behind his back, he circled Faye, looking her up and down, winking. Polite people called Faye’s type full-figured, which meant she hadn’t lost the twenty pounds she’d put on before Leon was born.

  Filing her nails, Faye feigned nonchalance. Pearl buttons flashed on her red satin shirtwaist.

  “Oooohhh, it’s Grasshopper!” another student cried, and the girls clustered around her in adulation.

  Then Professor Von Nigglehaggen took control. The act was simple. The Professor asked the girls their ABC’s. One reached F. Another made it all the way to J before losing the thread. Busy gossiping, Grasshopper couldn’t recall the letter A. Despite his misgivings, the Professor was forced to roll out his Giant Spanking Machine, a device consisting of a chair on an axle, ridiculously large wooden gears, and a monstrous crank. He strapped Faye into the contraption, yanked the handle, and turned her upside down, her skirt flying over her head. Cascading, lacy drawers followed suit.