by Joanna Shupe
He reclined and folded his hands on his stomach. “I’ve known Chauncey’s father for over forty years. He and I served as officers in the Sixty-Sixth Infantry during the war. He was the best man at my wedding, and I at his. I trust him to get Chauncey in line in time for your wedding.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then Chauncey will be found in breach of the marriage contract and you will add to that stack of money I’ve set aside for you.”
“But why risk it? Perhaps we should—”
“Mamie, I will not remove that clause. Not for you, not for Chauncey and definitely not for Frank Tripp. Are we clear?”
“Mr. Tripp has nothing to do whatsoever with this conversation.”
“If you say so,” he said, though his tone was less than convincing.
She had bungled this entire meeting. Instead of throwing doubt on Chauncey, she’d thrown doubt on herself. Time to retreat and rethink her plan of attack.
She rose. “I’ll let you return to work.”
He stood as well, reaching down to straighten his vest. “One last point before you go. I believe you when you say Tripp has nothing to do with this. But Marion”—he paused for effect—“see that it stays that way.”
The afternoon light was fading as Frank crossed Mott Street. He stepped over a puddle that was most definitely not water and grimaced. Nice to see that Five Points hadn’t changed much since he’d lived here. Muck and filth were the building blocks of the Sixth Ward, an area that had been left to its own devices after the rich folk moved farther north.
Gin palaces, saloons and flophouses ruled these streets, with raucous laughter and arguments spilling out onto the walk at all hours. Life was hard below Twenty-Third Street, no more evidenced by the desperate hopelessness that permeated the air here.
You’re too smart to end up dead, Frankie. Go to school. Get out of this neighborhood before it kills you.
If Mr. Gordon hadn’t given Frank enough money for school, what would have become of him? A b’hoy, stealing and killing in the name of staying alive? Or a newsie, standing on the street in all kinds of weather to sell a few papers? After that, he’d have transitioned to a professional criminal or gone to work in a factory. He’d still be here, miserable and married, supporting kids any way he saw fit.
His chest squeezed, the relief so keen he could not breathe. He never wanted to remember what those days felt like, what they sounded like. The insecurity and the fear. His mother’s cries and the grunts of his father as he took what he wanted, come hell or high water.
She was at the mercy of that monster. He spent their funds on gin and women. Came home and treated her like trash.
Mamie’s words rang true in so many ways. He’d never tell her, of course, but he understood the desire to rescue a woman in that situation. He had tried with his own mother for fourteen years.
“Ho, Tripp!”
The voice caused him to look around. Then he spotted Otto Rosen, the young man Frank often used as an investigator. Otto was stocky, probably not more than six or seven inches over five feet tall, and smart as a whip. He’d asked to take the policeman’s examination several times but had been refused on the basis of his Jewish faith. Frank had offered to speak to the police commission on Otto’s behalf, but his investigator hadn’t wished to “pull strings.”
Frank couldn’t begin to understand this logic. Pulling strings was the New York City way. Fairness? That was for fools. Yet Otto preferred to proceed by the letter of the law. He’d be granted an examination on merit or not at all. Frank respected the other man for it, even if he didn’t agree.
In the end, Otto had gone to work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Which, unless a policeman lined his pockets with bribes, was the more lucrative career choice anyway.
“Hello, Otto,” he said when he drew close, extending his hand.
The young man grinned and pumped Frank’s hand. “You look like you stepped in horse droppings.” His accent barely hinted at his Russian heritage, his parents having immigrated to the Lower East Side some thirty years ago. “Fond of our little neighborhood, I see.”
“I have nothing against the neighborhood.” Merely the memories that haunted him here, which was why Frank made a point never to visit. “Just thinking about a case.”
“A case . . . or a woman?”
Both, as it turned out. Why was Otto so damn astute?
“Thank you for meeting me,” Frank said as the two of them moved toward the buildings. “You’ve seen the notes?”
“Read them this morning. I’ve already been to see the coroner.”
“Good. What did he say?”
“Exactly as she said. Two blows to the head from behind. Liver was an unholy mess. Dr. Dobbs said he’d never seen one like it. Estimated Porter had been a heavy drinker for more than a decade.”
“That holds up with what Mrs. Porter told the police. Excellent.” He jerked a thumb at the building behind him. “We need to speak to the neighbors, find out what they saw, what they heard. Anything Mrs. Porter may have told them about her situation. Past injuries, et cetera.”
“Sure, no problem. Want me to get started and report back in a few days?”
Frank grimaced. Normally, yes. He’d usually turn this all over to Otto and wait for the investigator to finish. However, Mamie was involved in this case. He could almost hear her telling him to hurry up, to get Mrs. Porter out of that miserable place. Assisting Otto meant this all moved a bit faster.
Which was what Frank cared about most. The sooner they wrapped up this case, the sooner he could return to his life of parties, women and the law. Mamie Greene would be in his past, just a young girl he’d once helped. And lusted after.
Damn it.
He focused on Otto, who was staring at him carefully. “No, I will help you. It’ll go quicker.”
“You . . . plan to help? Don’t take this the wrong way, but tenement residents are a bit different than your fancy juries.”
“I can hold my own, don’t worry. The woman who hired me for this case is anxious for the accused to be released.”
“I see. Is she anything like that woman headed toward us, the one who looks like a wealthy uptown lady?”
Frank spun toward the street. Dear God. There was Mamie, marching straight up the steps of Mrs. Porter’s building. She wore a simple dress but it was clean and new, not stained and patched like the garments one usually saw down here. Her shoes were not worn down but shiny. Her skin was like fine French porcelain, as only those who remained indoors could manage. She didn’t blend in down here, not even close. In fact, eyes all around them turned to track her progress.
For fuck’s sake, what was she doing here?
He bounded after her before he could even register what his feet were doing. Once she stepped into the vestibule, he caught up, took her elbow and dragged her off to the side. She began to struggle, crying out and kicking to get loose. He ground his back teeth together, too angry at her recklessness to announce himself. Was she trying to get herself killed?
When they reached the stairs, he released her—and she immediately turned to smack him across the face. “How dare you—” She exhaled sharply. “Frank. My God. You scared me half to death.” Realization dawned, and she shoved his shoulder. “What is wrong with you? Were you purposely trying to frighten me?”
“No. I was attempting to ask you to tea.” He rubbed his cheek, now stinging from the flat of her palm. “Nice right hook, Mamie.”
“You deserve worse.” She straightened the sleeves of her dress and pinned him with an accusatory stare. “Are you following me? Again?”
“Believe it or not, I am out working on your case. Remember, that thing you hired me to do? That means you stay home and I fill you in on developments as they happen. You absolutely do not come down to Five Points and wander about on your own.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I am able to do as I please. I’m here to check on the Porter children and to speak to some of t
he other neighbors. Hiring you does not preclude me from attempting to learn information on my own.”
“Yes, actually. It does.”
“Not when I am your employee.”
Christ, why had he ever said it? Even in jest it was a terrible idea. “You are my employee in name only, Mamie. You’re the employee who must remain uptown. Safe and sound.”
She moved closer, her skirts rustling against his trousers, and put out her hand. “I need one dollar, Frank.”
The air in the room suddenly burned his lungs, the walls too close. The smell of orange blossom and sweet spices stole into his lungs, a mysterious and complex aroma that was so like the woman herself. Why on earth was she standing so near? He tried to take a step back—and found the wall prevented it. Swallowing, he asked, “What for?”
“It’s considered rude to ask a lady about money. You are supposed to provide it, no questions asked.”
The front of her generous bosom was alarmingly close to his chest. He would do anything to end this conversation before he embarrassed himself by saying something ridiculous. Or falling at her feet and professing his annoying and inconvenient desire for her.
Shoving a hand into his jacket pocket, he withdrew his billfold and retrieved one bill. He nearly tossed it into her hand. “There. Happy?”
She tucked the money into the depths of her bodice . . . and Frank’s knees nearly buckled. The crisp bill that had just been in his palm was now nestled somewhere deep in her magnificent décolletage. Touching all that soft and supple flesh. Holy Jesus.
He might never recover.
She shifted away, putting a healthy distance between them. “Now I’m officially your employee. Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
“This is a terrible idea,” Frank grumbled under his breath.
“On the contrary, sir.” Otto grinned down from the first landing. “I think Miss Greene will put some of the wives at ease. She might help them to talk.”
“See, I told you,” Mamie said behind him. “Stop complaining, Tripp.”
Otto laughed. “I see how it is.”
“What you see,” Frank snapped, “is a woman who will get herself harmed one day because she doesn’t know when to quit.”
“Mr. Rosen, has Mr. Tripp told you where he and I first met?”
They started up the second set of stairs. “I doubt Otto wishes to hear—”
“Oh, I wish it all right. Please continue, Miss Greene.”
Mamie pushed by Frank to get closer to her audience. Frank thought about complaining, but the view vastly improved this way. He smothered a smile as he watched Mamie’s backside sway during the climb.
“I was in the Bronze House. Gambling,” she said. “Skills honed in Tenderloin dives for months with my sister, Florence. It may shock you to learn this, but I was able to take care of myself for years before Mr. Tripp arrived to criticize me.”
“I don’t doubt it. You seem a very competent woman.” Rosen’s mouth twisted, mirth dancing in his gaze, clearly attempting to stifle his laughter.
Frank glared at the investigator but said nothing. He could leave, of course, find a willing woman for the evening and spend the hours in bed. Let Otto and Mamie handle the inquiries and save himself the aggravation.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her. The neighborhood was a dangerous one for proper ladies and he wouldn’t cease worrying until she’d been returned to the bosom of uptown Manhattan.
“How should we split this up?” Otto asked as they gathered on the landing. “I take the top two floors while you and Miss Greene cover the bottom two?”
“I think we should all start with the neighbors on either side of the Porters’,” Mamie said. “They were the most likely to have heard something through the walls. I’ve met the neighbor on the right when I took Mrs. Porter’s children over. We should definitely speak with her.”
“It’ll go faster if we split up, Mamie,” Frank said. “Cover more ground.”
“The point is not for this to be over quickly,” she replied. “The point is for us to learn as much as we can to help Mrs. Porter. If you wish to waste your time on the fourth floor, so be it. However, I’m starting on the Porters’ floor.”
Frank sighed inwardly. There was no use arguing with Mamie. Not only was she incredibly stubborn, she also happened to be right. If speaking to the direct neighbors yielded nothing then they could move to other floors. “Fine. Let’s start on the third floor.”
The first neighbor was an elderly woman who spoke little English. Fortunately, she spoke Yiddish, one of the languages Otto knew well. The investigator quickly interrogated her and ascertained that her hearing loss had prevented her from listening in on the Porters. According to her, they were a quiet family who caused no trouble.
“I hope we have better luck with the other neighbors,” Mamie said quietly as they moved down the hall.
Otto knocked briskly. Noise could be heard on the other side of the door but no one answered. After another minute, Mamie reached out and rapped the wood. “Hello? Mrs. Barrett?”
A lock rattled and the door cracked open. A young woman stared out at them, her gaze wary. “Yes?”
Mamie stepped forward. “Do you remember me? My name is Marion Greene and I brought you the Porter children.”
“Ah, yes. I remember.” The woman’s accent contained the remnants of an Irish brogue. “Are you here for the children? They’re on the fourth floor with my sister.”
“No,” Mamie said. “We’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind. Would we be able to come inside?”
The woman’s expression did not change. A baby could be heard crying from deep within the apartment. “What’s this about? The children haven’t been mistreated—”
“Oh, goodness. Nothing like that. I’d like to see them before I go but that is not why we are here. We merely wished to speak with you. It’s about Mrs. Porter and her case.”
Mrs. Barrett’s brows shot up. “This is about Bridget?”
“Yes. May we come in?”
Mrs. Barrett stepped aside and the door opened. Frank removed his derby and followed Mamie inside, Otto doing the same. She brought them into a tiny kitchen where a small child wailed in a tall chair next to the table. After picking up and soothing the child, Mrs. Barrett motioned for them to take seats.
“Mrs. Barrett,” Mamie said, “this is Mr. Tripp, Bridget’s lawyer, and Mr. Rosen, a man gathering information in her case.”
She nodded, still distracted by the fussy child. “Do you have news about her case?”
“Not exactly,” Frank explained. “We’re hoping to gather information from her neighbors to help her.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Barrett bounced the child in her arms. “I apologize. He’s starving.”
Mamie held out her hands. “I’d be more than happy to hold him while you fix him something to eat.”
“Would you?” Mrs. Barrett appeared hopeful at gaining an extra set of hands.
“Of course.” Mamie reached over and took the small boy from Mrs. Barrett, cradling him in her arms. Now quiet, the child stared at her, momentarily stunned at the different view. Frank sympathized with the kid. He often felt dumbstruck in Mamie’s presence.
Mamie cooed softly to the child while Mrs. Barrett busied herself at the counter. Frank watched, mesmerized. He didn’t ever want children—in fact, he always took precautions to avoid creating any during his encounters—but he was unable to look away from this tender, caring side of Mamie. She was so independent, so strong . . . yet she handled this tiny human like she had a few babies of her own.
That reminded him of the wedding agreement—and his stomach clenched. He hadn’t been able to think of Chauncey Livingston without wanting to punch something since drafting that damn agreement. One grandchild every other year for the next eight years. Chauncey would be the one to caress and pleasure Mamie. Bring her orgasms and plant his seed in her. Watch as she grew round with society babies. The idea of it sicke
ned Frank. Chauncey did not deserve her—
“You might want to ease up on your hat,” Otto leaned in to whisper. “And stop staring.”
Frank loosened his grip on the derby, noting the brim was already beyond repair. Dash it all. At least Mamie’s focus remained on the child so she hadn’t witnessed his lack of control.
Mrs. Barrett returned with the food and Frank breathed a sigh of relief. Now, they could get to business. Unfortunately, Mamie pleaded to feed the boy, which Mrs. Barrett was only too happy to allow. Frank angled away, determined not to look.
Otto opened his notebook. “How well did you know the Porters, Mrs. Barrett?”
“In passing. Her better than him. He was a mean one. Yelling, more often than not.”
“At whom was he yelling? Mrs. Porter? The children?”
“Mostly her, it seemed. They fought something awful.”
“With words? Or did it ever get physical?”
Mrs. Porter pressed her lips together and seemed to withdraw, shrinking. Frank had seen it many times with witnesses uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Before he could open his mouth, however, Mamie beat him to it. “Mrs. Barrett,” she said, never taking her eyes off the small child. “We need to know. It could help Bridget’s case.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Barrett said. “Quite often it turned physical.”
“Did Mrs. Porter ever complain to you or show you any bruises?” Otto asked.
“No, absolutely not. Bridget wasn’t one to complain. A wife doesn’t . . . Well, besides, what can anyone do about it?”
“Did she ever seek help from the police?”
Mrs. Barrett made a dismissive noise. “The police came once. Someone in the building must’ve summoned them. But they just told Mr. Porter to sleep it off. Ordered Bridget to stop antagonizin’ him.”
Frank’s fists clenched. The police had said the same to his own mother all those years ago, that she was to blame. As if any woman had control over the situation when a man in her life decided to grow violent. “How often?” he croaked. “How often did it happen?”