Brooklyn on Fire

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “It was a bullet. You were shot.”

  “It feels like I’m being prodded with a hot poker.” She started to move some more, and George stopped her.

  “You need to rest, Mary. Luckily, it didn’t hit any vital organs, and they were able to extract it without doing any further damage. But you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you had to have a transfusion.”

  Mary looked alarmed, and George quickly continued. “Yes, I know it was risky, but it was the only way to save you, and it seems to have worked.” Blood transfusions were something science hadn’t perfected yet, and only about fifty percent of them were successful.

  “Did you choose an appropriate bull to be my donor?” Though Mary was joking about her bullheadedness, her question wasn’t that outrageous. Scientists had been experimenting for years with transfusing animal blood to humans.

  “They couldn’t find one stubborn enough. Instead, they took mine.” He showed Mary his arm, which had a bandage on it.

  “I’ve always wanted blue blood. Does this mean we’re related?”

  “I certainly hope not. I despise most of my relatives.”

  Mary started to laugh, but it soon turned into a cough. She was still very weak and this short conversation had sapped her energy. George called the doctor in to check her, and when he was assured she was fine, he left. Mary needed to rest.

  Later, George gave Mary the details of what had transpired. After Jeremy shot her, he went inside. He told his father that he was weak and not in his right mind, so Jeremy had to take action to protect him and his secret. Instead of getting the congratulations he was expecting, John Worsham had been irate.

  “In my sixty-nine years, I have bamboozled, cheated, even robbed, but never once,” he shouted, “not once did I physically harm anyone. And I never ever killed a soul!”

  “She couldn’t be trusted, Father. I did it for you.” Jeremy was at a complete loss. He thought he had finally done something to satisfy a father he could never seem to please.

  “Then do this for me. Help me put that girl’s body in the buggy.”

  Worsham quickly threw on some clothes, and when Mary’s body was in the buggy and he was at the reins, he turned to his son.

  “I’ve tried for forty-three years to turn you into a man and failed. You’re on your own now. Good luck.” He felt adrenaline flowing through his veins. It reminded him of old times, and he was oddly enthused as he galloped off in the buggy with Mary.

  Jeremy knew his father was going to tell the authorities what had happened. Since he had also taken the only transportation, Jeremy packed some supplies and headed off into the woods, where he figured he could get lost for a while until he could come up with a plan. Unfortunately for him, the next day he wandered too close to a black bear and her cubs, and she attacked, killing him in seconds.

  John Worsham got Mary to the hospital just in time. It was almost a relief that the people of Richmond would find out he was alive. He figured his heart would probably get him before any riverboat men would at this point. Besides, he was warming to the idea of spending his last days in the town where he had lived most of his life and raised more than his share of hell.

  While Mary’s adventure was unfolding, George was back at the hotel awaiting her return. His worry increased, and he eventually went outside and randomly searched the streets of Richmond, looking for her. Quickly realizing the low possibility of success, he went to the police station. They had no information about Mary. His next stop was the hospital, and he was inquiring about her at the front desk when two orderlies carried her in. Having been to hospitals many times because of his mother’s bouts with malaria, George was in very familiar territory, and he knew exactly what to do in order to assure Mary received the best care possible.

  Just a few days later, while Mary was still recuperating in the hospital, she got a surprise visit from Emily Worsham. Apparently, John Worsham had notified what family he had left in Richmond of his return and the circumstances.

  “My family and I want to thank you for bringing my uncle back to us. We are very grateful and have much catching up to do. And we’re all simply devastated that one of us caused your condition. Jeremy was always trouble. I remember when I was eight years old…”

  Mary didn’t feel well enough yet to endure listening to Emily Worsham’s wandering conversation. She very courteously thanked Emily for visiting her and for the information that led to discovering her uncle. Mary suggested they correspond after she returned to Brooklyn.

  A week later, when Mary was well enough to travel, George convinced her to go farther south with him to Asheville and see his dream being built. Mary still needed to recuperate further, but she could do it there, at his burgeoning estate, which he had decided to call Biltmore after his family’s ancestral home in Bildt, Holland. Then they would return to New York, and she could continue her detective work once she had fully healed. He knew that Mary still wanted to find out who hired Abigail Corday and, of course, who killed her. Judging from what they had just learned in Richmond, certainly Collis and Arabella Huntington were high on the list of suspects.

  LELAND STANFORD WAS in Manhattan for both pleasure and business, after having promised to help Republican senator William Evarts plot his reelection campaign. He was staying at the renowned Fifth Avenue Hotel and had just been informed of an unexpected visitor: Collis Huntington. An assistant showed him into the living room of Stanford’s suite, then left. Stanford stood by the window overlooking Fifth Avenue. He had no desire to sit or to invite Huntington to do so. That would suggest Huntington was welcome.

  “So, Collis, what brings you here?” bellowed Stanford, putting on his best jovial tone. “You’re not contemplating a run for the senate, are you?”

  “You know me better than that, Leland.”

  Hearing Huntington’s dark tone, Stanford rolled up the welcome mat and revealed his true, hostile feelings. “Yes, I do. Make it quick. What is it you want?”

  “Just the answer to one question, then you’ll be free to pursue your politics or university business or whatever it is you’re doing in New York.”

  “And that question is?”

  “Someone is prying into my private affairs, affairs that concern my family. If they have the slightest bit of intelligence, they may have contacted you, hoping that you might want to divulge information due to our differences over the years.”

  “I’m well aware of our sad little story, Collis. Will I be getting your question sometime in the near future?”

  “Have you been contacted about such matters?”

  Stanford succinctly answered, “Yes.” He strategically paused, then continued. “Now that I’ve answered your one question, I can get back to my own affairs. A pleasure as always, Collis.”

  Huntington saw how much enjoyment Stanford was getting from dangling the information in front of him. He refused to give Stanford the satisfaction of begging him for more, no matter how much he may have wanted to know the details. As Huntington headed for the door, Stanford softened. It was a family matter, and family meant a lot to him. Stanford had lost his only child to typhoid when the boy was just a teenager, and not a day passed where he didn’t think of him. He had named Leland Stanford Junior University after him and was put out that it was becoming better known as just Stanford University.

  “I don’t like gossip….I didn’t respond.”

  Huntington stopped and turned. “Thank you, Leland.”

  “The person who wrote to me was a detective. A woman. Her name was…” Stanford paused, trying to remember.

  “Not necessary. I know who she is.”

  As Huntington opened the door to leave, Stanford said, “God help her for committing the cardinal sin: incurring the wrath of Collis Huntington.”

  As Huntington entered the hallway and closed the door, he was already planning Mary Handley’s fate. Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to be quick. He wanted her to suffer.

  ROBERT DAVIES HEARD the words the lawyer was
telling him, but his mind was on Abigail. He smiled when he thought of her. There was no doubt that she had been crazy, but it was mostly a fun crazy, except, of course, for the fact that it had gotten her killed. Robert felt no guilt about it. He had warned her, but she was too far gone. Yet, she had left him something very significant, something of great value.

  Upon her death, on that very night, he felt a sadness, a depth of emotion of which he had never thought himself capable. He embraced it and cultivated it. No one doubted what he was feeling, not even the police or that lady detective. He had always secretly felt that Hamlet—the role he had always wanted to play—was beyond his abilities as an actor, and that he would never emotionally understand the scene where Hamlet grieves over Ophelia. Now he did, thanks to Abigail.

  “Did you hear me?” the lawyer asked, bringing Robert back to the conversation.

  “Yes, I did, sir, every word. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Davies. Few receive such a generous inheritance.”

  They shook hands and Robert had started to leave when something occurred to him. “I won’t be receiving it for a while, but could I take this information to the bank and get a loan?”

  “I don’t see why not. With this kind of money, a lot of people will want to do business with you. If you can wait, I’ll prepare the proper papers.”

  As Robert left the lawyer’s office, his head was soaring, feeling an energy he had never felt before. He could quit his job and start his own theater company: the Robert Davies Players. He liked that name. He liked it very much. And their first production would be Hamlet. Too bad Abigail wouldn’t be around to play Ophelia, but again, he reminded himself, he had warned her about getting too lost in her role.

  Still, he knew he would be brilliant. Abigail had done that for him. It was her parting gift.

  ANDREW HASWELL GREEN was in demand, and rightfully so. He was at a benefit for the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, given on the twentieth anniversary of its founding. Since Green was the driving force behind the establishment of the museum, everyone wanted to speak with him, and conversely, he needed to speak with them. His consolidation project for New York and Brooklyn had stalled with the Huntington fiasco, and the Brooklyn propaganda machines were working overtime. He needed help.

  The elite of New York were out in force: the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, the Vanderbilts, the Morgans, and many more. Thomas Edison had called in his regrets from New Jersey earlier that day. He said he would be working well into the night. His absence didn’t matter to Green. The turnout was large, and there were plenty of opportunities to garner support.

  Green had been pressured not to invite the Huntingtons because of the scandalous speculation around the missing body of Arabella’s former husband. The gossip consensus was that Arabella had John Worsham killed and had disposed of the body in case evidence might arise later that would require an autopsy. There were other less popular theories, one involving bigamy and an even more outrageous one about John Worsham being a foreign spy who was called back to his country. The possibility of Archer’s illegitimacy had been bandied about, but it was far down on the list. Still, Green was adamant about inviting the Huntingtons. Asking Collis Huntington to step back from the consolidation project because of rumor and innuendo was hard enough to do. He found that aspect of politics distasteful but unfortunately necessary. He had observed that the Huntingtons were getting a polite but chilly reception, and it couldn’t have been comfortable for them. Of course, his own conversation with them was a bit awkward, but as far as he could tell, there didn’t seem to be any antagonism.

  He had just completed a whirlwind of conversations, one right after another, and decided he was in dire need of a walk to clear his head. He excused himself from his current group and put his champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray. He walked the length of the room, smiling and waving to others as he went, then turned down a corridor that headed toward the bathrooms. The bathrooms weren’t his destination; rather, it was the deserted corridor with its dim lighting and shadows, which he hoped would provide the solitude he needed to gather his thoughts.

  Once safely away from the crowd, he stopped and leaned against a nearby wall. He felt some moisture dripping down his face. Was it sweat? My goodness, he thought, I can’t let these people see me sweat or I won’t be able to raise a nickel. He reached into the right outside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, where he always kept a handkerchief for such purposes. When he pulled it out, a small piece of paper floated to the floor. He didn’t remember having put the paper in his pocket, but maybe he had forgotten. He picked it up.

  The paper read, “I know what you are, and I’m going to divulge it unless…” Green quickly turned the paper over, then back again, but there were no more words. His head was swimming, his heart pounding.

  Questions shot through his mind. What does this person know, who is he going to tell, and what does he want me to do? Green knew a follow-up note with demands was surely forthcoming. This one was likely just a device to taunt him, and it was doing its job.

  Green patted his forehead with his handkerchief, then returned it to the same pocket. He walked back down the corridor to the brink of the room where the benefit was being held, stopped, and surveyed the crowd. Everyone had something in his or her life that they didn’t want exposed, no matter how cleanly they had conducted themselves. Green was no exception. He had infinitely fewer demons than any of the people in that room, but he still had them.

  He looked over the many faces, trying to figure out who could have had the opportunity to plant the slip of paper in his pocket. He quickly dismissed that as useless. He was so busy working the crowd there was no way he would have noticed a slight bump or rustling of his jacket.

  While he was perusing the room, his gaze fell on Collis Huntington, and their eyes locked. Perfunctory waves and smiles followed, but before Huntington had turned away, Green could have sworn he had detected a knowing, almost sadistic smile on his face. Of course, Green realized it could have been his imagination playing tricks on him after receiving such a note, but it was certainly possible that Huntington wasn’t genuinely feeling as gracious as he had behaved when he so magnanimously ceded his involvement in the consolidation project. Green had heard about some of Huntington’s business methods and had witnessed him in action with McLaughlin. The idea that he might want to exact revenge wasn’t at all farfetched.

  Nevertheless, Green was a lawyer, and he had spent his life dealing with hard facts. There were none yet. Nothing was certain except that he wasn’t going to sleep that night, or any other night, until he found out what the note was all about.

  ABIGAIL CORDAY WAS Shorty’s last job. It had been many weeks since, and he felt stale. This wasn’t a new occurrence. He had been through slow periods before and had learned how to stay sharp. The key had been in finding a way to keep his senses alive. It wasn’t easy. Picking random fights accomplished what he wanted for a while, but that had lost its luster. The problem was his work was the only thing that excited him, until one day he discovered something that was almost as stimulating.

  Prostitutes made him feel alive. He didn’t exactly know why. It could have been the despair that drove them, or their total indifference. All he knew was that they solved his problem. And they didn’t have to be pretty. His one physical requirement was weight. He liked them heavy.

  He found what he was looking for down by the Brooklyn docks in front of a pawnshop, ironically standing directly under the shop’s identifying sign, the one with three balls. She wasn’t as big as he liked them, but she was plump, heavily made up, and eager. They haggled over price briefly. The amount didn’t bother him. He just wanted to test her level of desperation. She passed.

  She took Shorty to a flophouse nearby where rooms could be rented by the hour and where the management never questioned her “guests,” allowing them to be anonymous. Shorty waited in the shadows as she got the key. The room had an old rickety
bed, a sink that had rusted, and a couple of thin towels, but it would do. The woman looked at Shorty.

  “What do you like, darlin’?”

  “Get undressed and lie down on your back.”

  “Ooo, I love a man who knows what he wants.”

  That excited Shorty, not because he was falling for her act, but rather because she was trying hard to please. As she undressed and plopped down on the bed, Shorty took off his shirt.

  “Big muscles,” she said. “Sexy.”

  Shorty was getting hard. He had been concerned about his choice because of her lack of girth, but she was more than making up for it.

  He was the type of man who liked working from the bottom up. He started at her thighs, caressing and kissing. She began moaning with pleasure on the first caress. It was so outrageously phony he got harder.

  “Oh, darlin’, I need you inside me. Take off those pants, I need you now.”

  But Shorty wasn’t going to change his routine. In fact, with his mouth in her nether regions and his hands on her large breasts, he was wondering about something that had always perplexed him. Would the size of her breasts shrink if she lost weight or would they stay the same? He let it go and worked his mouth up to her breasts. When he got to her face and they were looking at each other eye to eye, she instantly stopped her moans of ecstasy.

  “Kissing on the mouth is extra,” she said, businesslike.

  “Sure. Anything you want.”

  He slowly bent to kiss her, and just as she opened her mouth to receive him, he wrapped his hands around her neck and started to squeeze. Her surprised expression raised his desire to a new level. She began struggling, hitting at him and kicking her feet, which made him even more eager. He was a fan of Cuban habanera music, and he heard that repeated beat in his head as he pressed harder and she eventually succumbed to her inevitable death.

  He rose from her body and looked down at his crotch, where he could feel the moisture from his ejaculation. This was a good one, he thought. His senses were pulsating, and he felt razor sharp. I’m ready for what I have to do.