by Brenda Joyce
She had no choice, she reminded herself. She slipped inside and went up two flights of stairs that smelled suspiciously of urine.
On the second-floor landing she thought she could hear the whirring of machinery and the occasional sound of a human voice. There were only two doors on the hall, at opposite ends, and Francesca moved toward the one farthest from her, which would face Seventh Avenue. She pushed it open.
The room was extremely large, which explained why there were only two apartments on the floor. Wooden tables piled with fabrics were everywhere. Tailors and seamstresses sewed and stitched steadily at the tables. Three walls were covered with windows, and natural sunlight spilled into the room. But it was amplified by the glare of the electric light coming from the hanging lights that were suspended from the ceiling. After the darkness of the hall and stairwell, the bright glare of the lights made her blink repeatedly.
A few heads, male and female, were turning her way. As Francesca’s eyes finally adjusted to the bright light, she scanned the room, wondering who Maggie Kennedy was— and if she was present that day. A man was approaching her.
He was a heavyset man, but he was wearing a suit and tie, even if his garments were askew. “Miss? May I help you?” His accent was heavy. Francesca thought him to be either a German, a Russian, or a Jew.
“I am looking for Maggie Kennedy. I understand she works here.” Francesca smiled. “It is extremely urgent that I speak to her.”
“She works here, yah, but she is very busy,” he said, studying her.
“I am desperate,” Francesca said.
“Why do you not come back at six? She will be leaving to home then,” he said.
“I have come all the way downtown to find her. This really cannot wait,” Francesca said, beginning to despair.
He shook his head grimly. “No, no.”
Suddenly something Bragg had said registered in her mind. Flushing, Francesca reached into her black satin purse and handed the man a silver dollar. He smiled at her. “She is the red one in the back,” he said, pointing. And he walked away.
Francesca stared after him. She had just bribed someone for the first time in her life. She did not know whether to be thrilled or dismayed. Then she gave it up. Sunlight was glinting on bright red hair at the far end of the room. Francesca made her way through the tables and workers until she was facing Maggie over the pile of fabrics on her table.
Maggie had stopped sewing. She sat on her stool, blue eyes wide, staring at Francesca.
Francesca could not help but stare back. Maggie was probably Connie’s age. She was still pretty, but she had that odd look of someone young who is also so very old. Her fair skin was lined, her lips chapped, but maybe it was the light in her eyes that aged her so. It was a light that was dull and flat, a light that cherished no dreams, a light without any hope.
She had four children, Francesca thought grimly. And Joel was ten or eleven. She must have had Joel when she was no more than thirteen or fourteen. Francesca had never before faced a woman in such circumstances—or at least, she was not aware of ever having been face-to-face with someone who had lived this kind of life before. “Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Maggie will do,” the redhead said, ducking and beginning to stitch again. Her movements seemed labored, unlike those of the rest of the seamstresses around her. Her concentration seemed forced. There were a few freckles splattered on her small nose.
“May we speak?”
Maggie did not look up. “Why?”
“I am desperate,” Francesca said simply. “Because a six-year-old boy is missing, and Joel might be the key to finding him.”
Maggie’s sewing stopped. For one moment she did not look up, and Francesca saw her hands tremble. Then her tired blue eyes lifted. “I am sorry about that little boy. The policeman told me all about it. But it happens all the time in the city. Children disappear. And worse. I am sorry. But I cannot help. I do not know where Joel is.”
Tears seemed to fill her eyes and then she was sewing again, with hard, fast movements.
Francesca reached out instinctively and covered her palm with her own; Maggie’s sewing ceased. “I know you are scared for Joel. Don’t be. He can be of help, Maggie. Please, I beg you, as a woman to another woman. I don’t have children. But I have two nieces. I cannot imagine what I would do if one of them had been abducted. Eliza Burton—the boy’s mother—is sick to death with grief and fear. Please. I must find Joel. He can help, I think. Please.”
Maggie regarded her. “I don’t know where he is,” she said, eyes wide and intense. “I never know. He comes and goes as he pleases, always in trouble, he is, been in and out of boarding school so many times I lost count. He’s like his father, he is, ‘cept Daniel was a bloke buzzer and Joel he’s on the molls. But they’re one of a kind, them two, and I’ve had enough, I have, trying to keep a roof over the other three, trying to feed the little ones, and I just can’t take it anymore!” Tears suddenly spilled from her eyes. Her hands were shaking terribly.
Francesca was quite certain boarding school did not mean boarding school, and she had no idea what bloke and moll buzzers were, but she had got the gist. “He’s not a bad boy,” she whispered. “He saved me from a terrible situation.”
Maggie swiped at her eyes and stared up at Francesca. “I just can’t take it,” she said, and she wiped her eyes again. “I can’t, a body can only do so much.”
Francesca gripped her hand. “You must be very strong,” she said, meaning it. She could not even imagine the kind of life this woman had.
“I ain’t strong. I’m weak and tired, and I yell at the little ones all the time,” she said. Then she looked up, her eyes moist. “He saved you from a terrible situation?”
Francesca nodded, her smile slight. “I was in a place I had no right to be, and a terrible thug accosted me.” She shivered. “Joel attacked him and we ran away together. I owe him, Maggie.”
She smiled a little, sniffled, and said, “He’s not always bad.”
“Have you seen him since Sunday?”
Maggie looked away, shaking her head no.
She was lying. Francesca had seen the lie in her eyes just before she turned away. “Please, Maggie. Joel will not get into trouble. I am not the police. I am a young woman, just like you.” The moment her last words were out, she regretted them.
“You are hardly like me,” Maggie said, eyeing her defiantly. “You are rich, miss, and I bet you never went hungry a day in your life.” She laid down her needle and opened her hands, palms up. “See them calluses?”
“Yes,” Francesca said, and she was beginning to realize that either Maggie did not know where Joel was or she would never help because they were from different worlds, a gulf between them that could never be crossed. “You’re right. We are nothing alike, except that we are both women. But I will not stop, Maggie, not until I find that little boy who is missing. I only pray that he is still alive, and every moment that passes makes that more unlikely. He is in the hands of a madman.”
Maggie stared.
Francesca stared back. Tears of desperation had risen to her own eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Maggie said, “He will not get bagged?”
“Bagged?”
“Bagged,” she repeated. Then apparently seeing Francesca’s confusion, she said, “Pinched. He won’t get pinched by the spots?”
It was like speaking a foreign language, Francesca thought. “You mean, caught by the police?”
Maggie nodded. “An‘ bagged.”
“No, he will not,” Francesca said firmly. “I am not a policewoman. There are no women on the police force, Maggie. I am, in fact, a college student, that is all.”
Maggie wet her lips. “He’s staying with me neighbor. We’re at number 201 Avenue A, at Tenth Street. He’s in the fourth apartment. Letter C.”
“Thank you,” Francesca cried, clasping both of her hands. And impulsively, she kissed her on the cheek.
Francesca had take
n a hansom across town to 201 Avenue A. The only difference between this neighborhood, she thought, and the one she had just come from was that this one was primarily residential. The tenements were sandwiched between shops selling groceries and grog, and there were two or three bars and saloons on every block.
The day had grown warmer, enough so that the dirty snow underfoot was turning to slush. The sun was high, the sky almost cloudless, and pedestrians were numerous, mostly women going about their daily errands and shopping for their families. A few street vendors had put out their wares and carts. Francesca bought a bag of hot roasted chestnuts with the intention of eating them on her way home. She passed the Greenwood Memorial People’s Bath. There was a line of men and boys on the street, waiting to enter the premises. A few of the boys were playing stickball in their sweaters, careless of the dirty snow and slush, their coats piled up on the bathhouse stoop.
Her spirits were high. She was smiling—she was going to find Joel!
She paused before number 201, glancing up at the front door. The stone stoop was empty, but she could hear voices coming from the basement apartments. She glanced down. The windows were open. A woman was humming a ditty and she could smell a roasting chicken.
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had forsaken breakfast that morning. Francesca felt a twinge of trepidation as she went up the stoop and inside. What if Joel was not home? What if he saw her and ran away? She crossed her fingers—he had to be home, and he had to talk to her.
This time, she was not surprised by the lack of lighting and the odors of urine in the hall. But she cried out when a mouse leapt out in front of her, scurrying across the hall floor. She hurried up the four flights of stairs.
Outside apartment C, she banged on the door. A moment later it was cracked slightly and Francesca glimpsed a heavy woman with iron-gray hair, clad in a dark day dress and a faded apron that had once been white and was now gray. Behind her she could make out some shabby furnishings in a dark, ill-lit apartment.
“Maggie told me I could find Joel here,” Francesca said.
“He ain’t here,” the woman said, eyeing her with outright suspicion.
Francesca handed her a silver dollar. “May I wait?”
The woman pocketed it and unlatched the chain on the inside of the door and let her enter. She turned. “Joel! Someone to see you.” Then she looked at Francesca again.
She made a sound, perhaps a harrumph, its meaning indecipherable. And she walked over to the kitchen counter—the apartment’s living area included the kitchen— as Joel came out of the bedroom, three children trailing behind him. His eyes widened with apprehension when he saw Francesca.
She told herself not to even think about the stolen silverware now. “Hello, Joel. Your mother told me I could find you here. How are you?”
His eyes widened even more. “She told you?”
“She did. Your mother is a fine lady.” Francesca looked at the three children, two little boys, one with pitch-black hair like Joel’s, the other a flaming redhead like his mother, and a girl perhaps Charlotte’s age, also with jet-black hair. The three children were wearing faded, worn clothes with many patches, the boys’ pants were inches too short, revealing skinned knees, but the clothes were spotlessly clean otherwise—as were the children. The three little faces peering at her with open curiosity were all freshly scrubbed and glowing.
“My mother ain’t no lady,” Joel said flatly. “She works.” He had a spot of soot on his nose. He also had a patch of dirt on his left elbow.
“She has the character of a fine lady,” Francesca said.
He looked at her. “She does?” He seemed pleased, but tried to hide it.
“Absolutely. Will you introduce me to your brothers and sisters?”
He hesitated. “Why?”
“Why not?”
He sighed and turned. “This here is Lizzie, an‘ Paddy an’ Mat.” He turned his back to Francesca, facing his siblings. The boys, Francesca thought, were probably five and seven. “Scoot! Go into the bedroom and wait for me until I say otherwise,” he said sternly.
“Who’s the lady and what does she want?” asked the red-haired boy, Paddy, who was five.
“Not your business,” Joel warned.
With many protestations, the three finally trooped off, disappearing into the other room. Within seconds, Lizzie was shrieking and the boys were laughing. Francesca could not help but be concerned.
“They’re just playin‘,” Joel said, digging his hands into his pockets.
“Joel, I need your help.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know if I can.”
“We must find Gordino. Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
Francesca was about to reach into her purse—bribery, perhaps, was becoming a bad habit—but then she thought about the silver. “Joel, how could you?” she heard herself say.
He looked wary. “How could I what?”
“How could you take my mother’s silver!” Francesca cried.
He stared. “I didn’t take no silver, lady.”
“Please. You ran away after stealing our silver—after I gave you a hot meal, a warm bed, and a job.”
“I didn’t take no silver,” Joel said harshly.
Francesca started, because he seemed angry, and she was bewildered. “Joel, you were the new employee. You are the one with a police record. My mother will kill me when I tell her what has happened.”
He stared belligerently. “I thought you wanted to know about Gordino.”
Her heart skipped. “I most certainly do,” she cried, but she was also filing away the fact that by pressing him on a matter that made him uncomfortable, she had actually gotten him to address the subject she wished him to.
“He’s been hiding since Sunday. That’s the word on the street,” Joel said.
“But where? We must find him!”
“No one knows where, lady.”
Francesca pursed her mouth, then, “Joel, you do know why we want to locate him?”
He made a face. It seemed to say, Do I look like an idiot? “ ‘Course I do. That Burton boy. It’s about him.”
“You wouldn’t know where he is, would you?” Francesca cried suddenly. “I mean, is there ‘word’ on the ‘street’ about the abduction?”
“There’s some talk, not much.” Joel shrugged.
“What kind of talk?” Francesca sat down on the room’s single small sofa. Joel was standing beside it and she took his hands in hers.
“I don’t know.” He pulled his hands away, flushing. “Just that it’s a strange business, it is, an‘ everyone thinks so.”
“How so? Please?” Francesca pressed.
He hesitated. “Ain’t no ordinary crook, Miss Cahill, who done this. It was an inside job, an‘ the street knows it. Word is, someone out there aims to do as bad as he can to Burton. That’s the word. Burton’s the mark.”
So it was an enemy of Robert Burton’s, Francesca thought. “How can we find Gordino? And will you help me?”
He hesitated another time. “I guess so. Because you gave me a job an‘ all, even if I decided not to keep it.”
She suddenly wondered if he had been telling her the truth—if he had not stolen the silver after all. “Didn’t you run away because you had stolen the silver, Joel? In order to sell it so you could help feed your brothers and sister?”
His eyes flashed. “I didn’t steal nuthin‘ from you, lady! Someone works for you is a real rook, an’ he went an‘ used me, seein’ the opportunity to steal for himself. See what I mean? You been swindled, good.”
Francesca stood up, uneasy now. If he was right, then one of the Cahill employees was a thief. “I would understand if you had stolen the silver, Joel.”
“I didn’t. I can cut ten purses a day,” he said heatedly. “1 don’t need your silver!”
She believed him. She laid her hand in his thick, wavy hair, wincing because it was dirty. “I apologize,” she said softly. “I do.�
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He jerked away, eyes wide. “You apologize to me?” he gasped.
She smiled then. “Yes. Is it such a surprise?”
He flushed and looked away. And mumbled, “I might know where to find him.”
“What?” Francesca cried, turning him back around to face her.
“I might know where to find Gordino.” He looked up at her.
“Where?” she gasped.
“Tonight. Meet me here around eleven. I’ll take you to this place. He might be there.”
Francesca stared, filled with anxiety now. “Tonight? At eleven? You want me to meet you here, tonight, at eleven P.M.?”
He nodded.
She folded her arms across her chest. “I have to know, Joel. Where will you be taking me?”
He stared, eyes narrowed. “You workin‘ for that fox?”
Fox. Policeman. “No.”
“You be here at eleven an‘ maybe we can find Gordino,” he said.
Francesca stared. And finally, her heart sinking like a rock, she nodded.
She did not have a good feeling about this.
Chapter 10
Tuesday, January 21, 1902—4 P.M.
The Channings daringly lived on the West Side. Their residence, just a block south of the Dakota, so nicknamed for its remote location from the rest of the civilized world, was brand-new. Francesca eyed the mansion, which was horrendously Gothic, as she alighted from her carriage. She could not imagine what the architect had been thinking by designing so many turrets and towers, not to mention the numerous gargoyles clinging to the building’s facade.
Sarah Channing’s father, as it turned out, was deceased. Her mother had inherited his millions and had promptly built the West Side house. Sarah, Francesca had learned, was the only child. One day she would inherit the entire Channing fortune.
It was very hard for Francesca to focus on the task at hand—which was befriending her brother’s soon-to-be fiancée. The rendezvous later that night with Joel Kennedy was haunting her. Every time she thought about it she got butterflies; how could she even be thinking of sneaking out alone at such an hour to one of the worst neighborhoods in the city?