by BJ Hoff
So Walsh’s suspicions about the two runners had been sound. More than likely they were plying their trade with both Walsh and Porter, reasoning that they could easily cut a few families from Walsh’s list without him ever being the wiser. All prearranged with Porter, of course.
An anxious father must have inquired about expenses, for Bailey was quick to reassure him. “Oh, you’ll be treated more than fairly, don’t you worry a’tall, a’tall! Doesn’t Mister Porter allow special rates for immigrants, himself having come across? He’s an honest man, as you’ll find. Everything honest and above board at Porter’s!”
Tierney nearly gagged at the scoundrel’s lies! Porter’s place was even worse than some of the dumps owned by Patrick Walsh. As many as five or six families were squeezed into a tiny cell of a room, practically imprisoned as their money and their belongings were taken from them. They lived in filth and abject fear, held hostage to a heartless innkeeper or landlord, too intimidated even to explore a means of escape.
The group turned on Water Street, then veered almost immediately into a narrow, unnamed alley. Except for an occasional drunk or solitary prostitute, it was deserted.
Tierney edged close to the decaying brick walls that lined the right side of the alley, staying completely in the shadows as he followed on. He had already heard enough to give Walsh his report, but he decided to wait until he actually saw them enter the inn, just ahead.
He stopped when they did, pressing himself against the cold brick wall that joined the darkened Akrom’s Shoemakers with Porter’s place. Both runners were counting the heads of their victims before starting down the steps to Porter’s below-ground entrance.
Intent on the scene just ahead, he heard the step behind him an instant too late. There was a sudden rush of air at the back of his neck. An iron pipe of an arm crushed his windpipe!
Tierney’s breath exploded in a gasp. He tried to break free, but the muscular arm turned him and shoved him against the wall, cracking the back of his head against the bricks.
In the darkness, his attacker’s hard eyes—Oriental eyes—bored into Tierney’s. The man’s face was round, the lips drawn back in an ugly sneer.
Panicked, Tierney now saw that there were two of them! The silent one hovering behind the Oriental was big and heavy-shouldered. “You got business with the shoemaker, boy?” the Oriental growled. “You can’t see the shop is closed?”
One arm pinned Tierney in place by the throat, while the other hand jerked his chin up with a snap. “Only business for a boy on his own down here is bad business!”
The man slammed Tierney’s head against the wall a second time, hard enough to rattle his teeth. Pain blazed from his ears down his throat.
“Why you following the foreigners, boy? Maybe you one of them, huh? You lost, is that it?”
Tierney tried to shake his head, but couldn’t move.
“Captain Rynders got no use for snoops like you, boy! Only thing he got for troublemakers is trouble!”
Rynders! Gasping, Tierney tried to twist free. He couldn’t budge. His mind spun. He should have known the two runners were from Rynders’ bunch. Otherwise, they would never have had the nerve to double-cross Patrick Walsh. Only Rynders generated more fear than Walsh among the gangs.
“Who you working for, boy?” Again the Oriental snapped Tierney’s head against the wall. “Walsh, maybe? You tracking his men, huh? Checking up on his runners?”
Tierney managed to twist his head sideways. “No! I was…I was just looking for a woman, don’t you see…I got lost…”
The Oriental grinned. “Irish boy, huh? What a dumb Irish boy like you want with a woman?” His arms tightened against Tierney’s windpipe. “You lying, Irish boy! We been behind you all the way from the docks! You lying!”
Suddenly his arm left Tierney’s throat. Wheezing, Tierney fought for a breath. The Oriental yanked him up by the collar of his jacket, pressing his face close enough that Tierney could smell his putrid breath. He stank of rotten teeth and something sickly sweet.
“You looking for information for your boss, boy? Okay, we give you a message to take back!”
The other figure stepped out of the shadows. Tierney spied the glint of the knife in his hand only an instant before the Oriental knocked him to his knees and began to kick him.
The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the tip of the knife snaking down toward his face.
Blaize cleaned his knife with care, then slid it back down into the side of his boot. “What now, then?”
He watched with no real interest as the Oriental prodded the boy with the toe of his shoe, finally kicking him over onto his stomach.
Again the Oriental kicked the boy. “Now we see to it he gets delivered to his boss. Captain Rynders says, anytime we catch Walsh’s boys where they don’t belong, we fix them good and make sure Walsh knows who’s responsible.”
Blaize nodded, then wiped the back of his hand over his nose. “Then let’s have done with it. I’m froze clear through.”
“Tack a message to his coat,” said the Oriental, “and we’ll stick him on the ferry. Rue can deliver him to Walsh first thing in the morning.”
Blaize wiped his nose again, then felt in the boy’s pockets until he located a pencil and a small pad of paper. He held the pad up to the dim light and began to laugh. “Hah!—what d’ya make of that!” he said, indicating the paper with the name of Patrick Walsh’s hotel printed across the top. “We’ll send Walsh a message from himself!”
Still laughing, Blaize watched the Oriental again prod the unconscious boy as if he were a dead dog. At last he shook his head and began to write.
6
Dark Thoughts and Bright Dreams
Oh Gather the thoughts of your early years,
Gather them as they flow,
For all unmarked in those thoughts appears
The path where you soon must go.
Full many a dream will wither away,
And Springtide hues are brief,
But the lines are there of the autumn day,
Like the skeleton in the leaf.
WILLIAM EDWARD HARTPOLE LECKY (1838–1903)
For the first time in weeks, Patrick Walsh had spent the night in his wife’s bedroom.
When the hammering began early the next morning, he first thought the noise was coming from downstairs. Only when he heard the shrill voice of Nancy, the maid, did he realize she was right outside the bedroom door, pounding with a vengeance.
“MRS. WALSH! MR. WALSH? PLEASE, COULD YOU COME? ’TIS A TERRIBLE THING!”
Walsh sat up, now fully alert. Beside him, Alice clutched his arm. “Patrick?” Her eyes were still glazed with sleep. “What is it?”
Tossing the bed covers aside, Walsh fumbled for his dressing gown. “You’d best stay here,” he said, getting up. “I’ll go and see.”
By the time he opened the bedroom door, the maid was gone. He found her downstairs in the entryway, staring with horror-filled eyes at the front door, which stood ajar.
“Out there, sir!” she shrilled. “On the porch!”
The damp cold of early morning flooded the hall from the partly opened door. Disgruntled by his abrupt awakening and annoyed by the maid’s threatened hysteria, Walsh let go an oath as he flung the door the rest of the way open.
It took him a moment to identify the motionless heap on the porch as Tierney Burke. Even when recognition dawned, he stood unmoving, staring down at the body.
Finally, belting his dressing gown more tightly around him, he knelt down beside the limp body. The side of Tierney’s face was bruised and stained with dried blood. Walsh turned him over on his back. His eyes narrowed when he saw the note buttoned onto the boy’s blood-stained jacket. Removing it with trembling hands, he let out yet another curse as he read.
“COMPLIMENTS OF CAPTAIN RYNDERS.”
Walsh crumpled the note in his hand. Anger and disbelief mixed inside him as he surveyed the still form.
Suddenly, the e
yelids fluttered, and a soft moan escaped the swollen lips. Walsh’s first response was relief. A corpse on his front porch would be hard to explain—especially the corpse of a policeman’s son. Still, there was no mistaking the fact that the boy was critically injured, perhaps even dying. What was he to do with him?
Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the maid still standing in the doorway. “Send Sparky for the doctor!” he snapped. “Right away! And bring a blanket!”
Getting to his feet, Walsh turned to find his wife stepping onto the porch, her childish blue eyes round with astonishment. Her fair hair, unpinned, fell in disarray, and her pink satin dressing gown was pulled carelessly around her plump figure. The sight of her squat, buxom form in the light set Patrick’s teeth on edge with annoyance.
Controlling his distaste, he went to the door and led her back inside. “I’ll handle this, Alice. You go and get dressed before you catch cold.”
“But—it’s Tierney, isn’t it, Patrick? Tierney Burke? Whatever has happened to him?”
Ignoring her questions, Walsh moved her toward the staircase. “I’ve sent for the doctor. We’ll take care of things. Just go along now and get dressed.”
“I’ll get Lemuel to bring him inside,” she said, resisting his attempt to send her back upstairs.
“Inside?” Walsh stared at her.
“Of course, inside, Patrick!” she said, pushing by him and starting for the kitchen. “We can’t just leave the boy lying out there in the cold! I’ll have Nancy open one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall for him.”
Halfway to the kitchen, she called back, “We’ll have to notify his father right away! The poor man may be searching for the boy this very minute!”
“Alice, I hardly think—”
She waved off his attempt to protest and hurried on. Walsh stood staring after her, clenching his fists in controlled fury. He wanted to shake her! Alice the Earth-Mother. She’d take in anything that strayed near the house, anything hungry or hurt. He should have curbed her do-gooder instincts long ago.
She was right about notifying Michael Burke, of course. There was no way to avoid it, with the boy on his doorstep, unconscious. And if he delayed too long, he’d arouse Alice’s suspicions. But what possible explanation could he give for the boy ending up here?
The beginning throb of a headache knocked at the back of his skull. He frowned, trying to think, and the pain sharpened. Swearing under his breath, he started upstairs to get dressed.
Even as he took the stairs two at a time, he began concocting a tale for the boy’s police-captain father.
Michael Burke woke up just after dawn. The morning light was dim, the bedroom cold, but he didn’t mind. Nor did he care that it was his day off, and he’d awakened long before he needed to get up.
The truth was, he savored such a rare moment of leisure. He lay there, with the soft silence of daybreak wrapped around him and a heart brimming with pleasant thoughts to consider. Yawning, he gave one huge stretch before the cold drove him back under the bed covers. He would give himself another few minutes, he decided, a few stolen moments in which to be an idle man.
Burying his face in his pillow, he smiled, remembering the night before—and Sara. She had amazed him entirely by declaring that she thought they should set the date for their wedding. Curiously, she seemed uncertain, almost shy, as if she’d half expected him to announce that he had changed his mind and didn’t wish to marry her after all.
That unexpected lack of confidence was Sara’s way, he knew, and just one of the things that endeared her to him. In the beginning, the slight unhinging of her composure in his presence had confused him, even tested his own assurance. He’d thought perhaps he made her uncomfortable by who he was, that he somehow offended her sensibilities. A lady of her quality wasn’t likely to be keen on having an Irish cop hanging around, after all.
But later, as he came to know her…and to love her…it secretly delighted him that he could fluster the unflappable Sara Farmington. Sure, the woman had no lack of backbone. She could be a terror about her causes and her principles. There was no arguing with Sara when her mind was set, and that was the truth.
Yet, with him, her self-assurance seemed to tilt in the most delightful manner. She would turn crimson, even stammer, without the slightest provocation, and in his arms…ah, in his arms, she was all shy, glistening eyes and sweet, sweet loveliness.
At those times, he felt himself to be a man blessed. He thought he could survive for the rest of his life on the look in Sara’s eyes when he held her close.
He would marry her tomorrow if she’d but say the word!
His smile broke even wider as he recalled how she’d scolded him just last night about his impatience. His immediate suggestion, when she agreed to set the date, had been a Christmas wedding.
“It wouldn’t be decent, Michael! Why, we’ve only been engaged two months!”
“And who decides what is decent?” he countered.
“Well…custom. Tradition.”
“So, then, we’ll establish a new tradition—a more sensible one!” he’d replied, attempting to kiss her into submission.
“Not before April,” she’d insisted between kisses.
“April? I’ll be mad by April, Sara!”
“Michael, really!”
“I’m in love with you, woman! I want to be with you. I need to be with you! You’d make me wait until April?”
“March, then,” she’d said with a bit less starch.
“March is cold and ugly, Sara. You’d not want such a dismal wedding, sure.”
“February?”
“Christmas Eve.”
Hadn’t she smiled at him then, a baffling smile that set him to wondering if she hadn’t wanted Christmas all along, but simply meant to be quite sure he was sincere.
Turning onto his back, Michael mulled over the rest of their conversation. He was still troubled about her insistence on a small, private ceremony. He’d been so sure she’d want a large wedding at the Fifth Avenue Church, as befitting her family’s position in New York. For his part, he found the idea of an elaborate ceremony repugnant, but he had convinced himself to endure it, for Sara’s sake.
But Sara had other ideas. “Actually, that’s not what I want at all. I’d much rather be married at home, in the chapel, if that suits you.”
He had made an effort to reassure her that he’d suffer the whole show if she would prefer a big wedding. But she was adamant in her refusal to even consider it.
“I don’t want a large wedding, Michael! Truly, I don’t. Besides,” she added quietly, “I think with Tierney feeling…as he does about our marriage, it’s best that we keep things simple.”
Again, Michael shifted restlessly on the bed, jamming his fist into the pillow to plump it. He should be relieved. Hadn’t he dreaded the thought of an extravagant society affair all along?
If only he could feel more confident about her reasons.
So far as Tierney was concerned, there was no pleasing him anyway. Keeping things simple wouldn’t change the boy’s attitude about the marriage. The fact was, he disliked Sara, resented her for her wealth, her family, her social position—thought her a “society spinster” who had taken advantage of his father simply to “get a man.”
It made Michael furious every time he thought of the terrible accusations his son had leveled. No, catering to Tierney would do nothing to soften the boy’s opposition to the marriage.
Besides, the discomforting truth was that he couldn’t help but wonder if Sara was being altogether honest about her reasons for wanting a small ceremony. Mightn’t it be that, as time went on, she was beginning to question her decision? Surely by now she realized how altogether peculiar her choice of a husband was going to seem to her society friends and acquaintances.
And could he blame her? Admittedly, it would be no easy thing for Sara Farmington to present to her peers an Irish immigrant cop as her bridegroom.
Even if that weren’t the c
ase, even if—please, God—he were wrong about Sara having second thoughts, how was her father going to take to the idea? Lewis Farmington might be an extraordinary man, even a bit of a maverick in the eyes of his contemporaries—but he was still one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the state of New York—and Sara was his only daughter. Surely he would want to give her away in style.
“Father will want what I want,” Sara had replied without the slightest hesitation when Michael had posed the question to her.
Perhaps. Michael wasn’t so sure. Yawning, he rubbed a hand over the heavy stubble of his beard, still reluctant to get out of bed. This morning he would face Tierney with the fact that he and Sara planned to wed on Christmas Eve. He dreaded the encounter, certain to be an unpleasant one.
Tierney never missed an opportunity to throw out one of his snide remarks. There was no explaining his antagonism for Sara; Michael had given up trying. The announcement of their engagement had sent the boy into a sulk for days. Finding out the wedding date had finally been set was sure to set him off once again.
With a sigh, he pushed himself up. He might just as well get it over with, he decided, refusing to let the thought of yet another confrontation spoil his mood.
In the bedroom he shared with Tierney, Daniel stood staring out the window. It was well past daylight, and Tierney still hadn’t come home.
It wasn’t the first time, of course. Tierney seemed to get away with his escapades with incredible ease. Uncle Mike slept like the dead, and more than once Tierney had sneaked up onto the roof and through the window just past dawn, with his da never knowing the difference.
But not this late, and never on Uncle Mike’s day off, when he was sure to be hanging about the flat all morning. This time he was going to get into trouble for sure.
A sudden pounding made Daniel jump.
Who would be knocking at the kitchen door so early? Certainly not Tierney! He’d not come to the front door for anything, sneaking in past dawn!
He heard Uncle Mike’s voice, then another, this one unfamiliar.