by Joanna Shupe
Chauncey awaited her answer, so she said, “Why shouldn’t we marry someone we love, instead of someone to whom we’ve been promised out of obligation?”
“Love?” He practically spit the word. “I thought you were more practical than that. You know our people don’t marry for love. We carry on with our traditions and values. We’re going to merge two great families. Love is for . . . well, the lower classes.”
God, that snobbery revolted her. Had she ever been that closed-minded? “Perhaps we deserve more than a lifetime of responsibility and merging. Wouldn’t you like to be happy with your . . .”
“I cannot marry her.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand this. You have always accepted our situation. Now you sound like some . . . trouser-wearing suffragette. Next thing I know you’ll be out riding a bicycle!”
Mamie thought bicycles appeared like great fun, but she didn’t bother pointing that out now. “Why can’t you marry her? Who would stop you?”
“My father, for one. He’ll disown me if I don’t marry you. How will I live without any money?”
Find a job, she wanted to say. But that would only confuse Chauncey further. He had no idea what hard work was or how to live on his own. Not like Frank, who clearly enjoyed working. “Plenty of people get by without trust funds. I volunteer with a few charities downtown and you should see how hard some of these families work—”
“Wait, you aren’t actually going downtown, are you? Mamie, that’s too dangerous for a woman like you.”
A woman like her. Well, if she’d held out any hopes that Chauncey would support her Sixth Ward charity endeavors, those were gone now. “I’m not in any jeopardy, I promise.”
“So you are going downtown? Good God, think of the scandal if that were discovered.”
“Perhaps you’d rather marry someone else, then.”
“It cannot be anyone but you. I must marry you or else I’m ruined.”
“So you wish to marry me merely to gain your inheritance?”
Chauncey dragged his hands through his hair, looking as undone as she’d ever seen him. “This is maddening. I feel as though you’ve been replaced by a stranger, someone completely unfamiliar with the way things have always been done.”
Because I am different. Last night changed me. I know what I’ll be missing if I give up passion.
“I’m trying to ensure we both do not make a huge mistake.”
“It would not be a mistake.” He drew himself up and held out his palms. “I would prefer to strike the adultery clause, but if I must put off my relationship for a few years while we grow our family, I’m willing to do that. I think we should finalize things before you become any more confused.”
Confused? Quite the opposite. She was finally seeing things clearly. “Is this all worth it?” She swung her hand toward the huge stone house behind them. “The parties, the houses? The yacht? Are those things worth trading your happiness for?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out at the gardens now shrouded in darkness. He waited so long she wasn’t certain he would answer. Just when she’d about given up, he said softly, “If I don’t have those things then who am I?”
“You are you.” She placed her hand on his arm. “You are still the same person, Chauncey. With or without these trappings.”
“No, I’m not. Without all this I’m no one. I’m absolutely nothing.” He spun on his heel and returned to the ballroom, into the world of glittering jewels and costly dresses. The world of privilege and exclusion.
Mamie remained on the terrace, not sure where she fit in any longer.
Chapter Twelve
There was a man in New York City, a powerful and dangerous man, one who frightened even the most hardened criminals. This man oversaw much of the city’s underworld from a throne in the Lower East Side, not far from where the Porters lived. Many knew his name, thanks to legendary tales of his cunning and brutality retold as folklore. Parents invoked the name to keep small children from acting out, a bogeyman that would come and steal the bad ones away.
Jack Mulligan.
Frank had met him. Jack had once asked for Frank’s help in representing his brother on a smuggling charge. The younger Mulligan had been caught unloading over one million dollars’ worth of stolen French silk and lace at the docks. Every lawyer Mulligan had consulted said the brother should plead guilty and serve his time, which Jack refused to allow. Frank took the case—even though losing meant putting himself in danger.
But nothing risked meant nothing gained in Frank’s opinion. He’d been young and eager to prove himself. To make his mark. Taking an unbeatable case and beating it . . . the opportunity had been too great to resist.
In the end, he’d convinced the jury the brother was a somnambulist and therefore couldn’t be held accountable for his actions while asleep, all corroborated by a physician. The brother had been acquitted. Perhaps that was the moment where Frank had sold his soul for wealth and glory, yet he’d never regretted it. His reputation as the solver of unsolvable problems had been solidified. Plus, a grateful Mulligan had promised Frank a favor in return.
Now he meant to call in that favor.
“Are you certain about this?” Otto asked. The investigator had insisted on tagging along when he’d learned of the errand. “If you need something, I can help—”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do this.” Frank dodged the line clustered around an oyster cart. “Not when you hope to gain a spot on the force someday.”
“You really think Byrnes is having your house watched?”
“I know he is.”
“I take it he noticed a guest of the female variety, one he recognized.”
Frank kept quiet and continued on. Hard to say if Byrnes knew for certain Mamie had visited Frank’s home . . . but he couldn’t take the chance. Duncan Greene would tear Frank’s balls off if he learned of what happened on that billiards table—after he turned all of New York against Frank.
God, but when he closed his eyes he could picture her, head thrown back and mouth open in absolute bliss. Body trembling and her moisture flooding his tongue. As long as he lived, he’d never forget how beautiful, how bold she’d been.
He must forget, however. She belonged to someone else. Even if the marriage agreement hadn’t yet been signed it soon would be.
They turned onto Great Jones Street where the New Belfast Athletic Club, Mulligan’s headquarters, came into view. It was a large building, unassuming, with a boxing club and saloon in the front and a dance hall in the back. One could easily find the city’s most dangerous men here at any time of day.
Jack Mulligan commanded the city’s criminal class with ease. Ten years ago, he’d accomplished something no one thought possible: uniting the remnants of the most powerful gangs into one organization. Even enemies like the Dead Rabbits and Whyos had made peace and joined Mulligan. It was nothing short of miraculous . . . and Mulligan oversaw the entire operation.
At the club’s door, two young men who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old stood guard. “You don’t look like members,” one of them said as he raked Otto and Frank with cold, dispassionate eyes. “You best move along.”
“Mulligan’s expecting me. I’m Frank Tripp.”
“Wait here.” He disappeared inside, leaving the three of them on the stoop. The other guard hardly blinked, his face serious. A gun peeked out from the waistband of his trousers. Frank suspected it wasn’t the only weapon on the young man’s person.
Long minutes later the man returned. “Tommy’ll take you up to the third floor.”
Tommy opened the door and ushered Frank and Otto inside. A bare-knuckled boxing match was taking place in a large ring, where men stood around and shouted at the two combatants. Various bets were scrawled across a chalkboard on the wall. In the back was a narrow wooden bar, hundreds of liquor bottles and a few empty wooden tables.
They followed Tommy to the stairs. Two floors later, the guard crossed to an ornate
oak door with a brass knob. He knocked twice. “Enter,” a voice called from within and Tommy pushed open the door.
Jack Mulligan rose from behind a huge walnut desk and started toward them. “Hello, Tripp. I was surprised to get your note.”
He held out a hand, which Frank promptly shook. “Thank you for seeing me. This is my investigator—”
“Otto Rosen.” The two men pumped hands. “I’ve heard of you.”
Otto frowned, which made sense. Not many men would rejoice at gaining Mulligan’s notice. “Mr. Mulligan, sir.”
“Just Jack will do. Have a seat, gents.” He nodded at Tommy, who stepped out and shut the door behind him. Mulligan was known as a smart dresser and today was no exception, with an elegant blue suit that would look right at home in the Union or Metropolitan clubs. A gold pocket watch chain sparkled in the light from the gasolier. “Would either of you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Frank said, and Otto declined as well.
Frank had been here a few times before, always summoned by Mulligan. On each visit, Mulligan’s desk had been littered with paperwork, as it was now. Running a criminal empire must require a huge amount of time and organizational skills. “You should hire a secretary.” He pointed at the mess.
Mulligan’s mouth hitched. “Haven’t been able to find one I trust. If you think of someone, let me know.”
A job where one was privy to Mulligan’s secrets? That was a sure-fire way to be killed or get kidnapped. Plenty of men would love to know what went on inside these four walls. “I will. Thank you for seeing us. I know you’re busy.”
“Never too busy for you. Your note intrigued me. Something about Byrnes.”
Mulligan had a memory like none other. No doubt he remembered every word Frank had written.
“Byrnes and I are a bit at odds over a case. In hopes of intimidating me, he’s taken to monitoring my home as well as any guests who visit.”
“Fucking bastard.” Mulligan’s lip curled. “Thinks he’s above the law, that he can bully and beat anyone into a confession just because he wears that badge. The bad news is that he’s untouchable at present.”
Frank held up a hand. “This is more about another detective. I’m representing a woman who has been accused of killing her husband—”
“Mrs. Porter,” Mulligan supplied. “I heard you’d taken the case. Knew her husband, a lowlife scum. And?”
“Are you aware that Porter’s cousin is a police detective?”
“No.” Mulligan’s brows lifted. “Where was this paragon of virtue while his cousin was running up debts and taking a fist to his wife?”
“Good question. Nevertheless, Byrnes plans to have the cousin testify at the trial, to paint my client as a shrew and murderess. I need a way to discredit him. I need information on Detective Porter.”
Otto nodded to himself, now understanding why this wasn’t a job Frank had asked him to undertake. This was defaming a police detective—and Byrnes by association. Involvement would not endear one to the police department.
“I see.” Mulligan stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “You know I love to poke at the coppers whenever I can, Byrnes especially. Also, I hate men who beat women. Cowards, all of them. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Frank breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone could unearth the type of secrets to discredit a policeman in court, it was Mulligan. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He rose and held out his hand. “Consider us even then.”
Mulligan came to his feet and gripped Frank’s palm. “Not necessary. This one’s on me. As I said, I’m gonna enjoy every minute of it. Come on. There’s something I want to show you downstairs.”
The group descended the stairs and entered the New Belfast Athletic Club. The din ceased immediately as Mulligan walked in, every eye swinging his way. It was as if the men stood at the ready, should Mulligan require anything. Knights ready to serve their liege.
Mulligan waved a hand and told them to resume the match. The two boxers went back to pummeling one another and Mulligan clapped Frank’s shoulder. “Shall we have a drink?”
It was less a request than an order. Though he itched to leave, Frank nodded. “Sure.”
Otto openly studied the men in the room as they crossed to the bar. Likely Otto knew most of them, either from the streets or his investigations, which might explain why the investigator’s fingers hovered near the pistol tucked in his pocket.
At the glossy oak bar Mulligan asked the bartender for three glasses of a German pilsner. “You’ll like this,” Mulligan promised Frank over the noise of the boxing match. “They brew it just a few blocks over.”
And gave Mulligan a cut of the profits, no doubt.
“Surprised you don’t drink something stronger,” Frank said. “Like whiskey or gin.”
Mulligan shook his head. “I like to keep my wits about me. Easier to stick with beer.”
That made sense. Mulligan must sleep with one eye open, considering his vast number of enemies.
Tall glasses of straw-colored beer arrived, the head dense and foamy. The three men toasted and drank. The pilsner was delicious. Hoppy with a little zing of citrus. “I can see why you like it,” Frank said.
“I’ll send you a barrel.”
“That’s not—”
Too late. Mulligan had already turned and was having a word with the bartender. Frank glanced at Otto, who just shrugged.
“One of the boys’ll deliver it to your house,” Mulligan said when he faced them. “Either of you care to place a wager?” He tipped his chin toward the ring.
Frank watched the clearly exhausted boxers. One was superior physically, but the other was smaller and quicker. “I wouldn’t know who to pick. They’re opposites but seem evenly matched.”
Mulligan’s mouth curved as he took in the fight. “It’s been going on the better part of four hours. Sometimes it’s not about strength but about outlasting the others.”
Were they talking about boxing . . . or how Mulligan had taken over the gangs in Five Points?
“Ah, here’s my brewer now.”
At Mulligan’s words, Frank turned—and sucked in a breath. A man was walking toward them, a slight limp to his gait, and it was a man Frank recognized. He hadn’t seen him in more than fifteen years, but he’d know Patrick Murphy anywhere.
His brother.
Jesus. Patrick looked exactly like their father, the resemblance so striking and disconcerting that Frank actually took a step backward. The hard shell he’d built up around his past cracked and memories of his childhood came flooding back. The small shack on Worth Street had been home to too much violence and strife. Hunger and fear. There wasn’t much he cared to remember from those years, yet Frank couldn’t seem to forget them.
Two years older than Frank, Patrick had gone to work in a factory as soon as he turned nine. That had left Frank alone in the house with their parents most of the time, until he’d learned to escape to the saloon down the street.
Stone’s Saloon had been his refuge. The owner, Mr. Stone, paid him to run errands, clean and eventually do the books. When Frank proved adept at the accounting, Mr. Stone had arranged for him to go to a boarding school. That start had enabled him to get out of Five Points. Frank Tripp was born.
Patrick approached to have a word with Mulligan and sweat rolled between Frank’s shoulder blades. So his brother worked here, now? A few years ago Patrick had been arrested on a burglary charge. Frank had paid the bail and convinced the prosecutor’s office to drop the charges. He’d insisted it be done anonymously, that Patrick never find out his involvement. Part of him had hoped the arrest would scare his brother into going straight.
Apparently not.
“Tripp, I’d like you to meet Patrick Murphy, the genius behind the German pilsner you are drinking.”
Frank blinked. His brother, a genius? Behind the pilsner?
He glanced at Patrick’s outstretched hand before meeting his brother’s eyes. Recognition slowly dawned on h
is brother’s face and his mouth slackened. Patrick immediately withdrew his hand and his expression darkened. “Well, if it ain’t Frankie, all grown up. Down here to slum it with us hooligans?”
“Hello, Patrick. You’re looking well.”
His brother snorted. “As if you cared.” He turned to Mulligan. “I’ll speak to you later, Jack. Right now I need some fresh air.”
Patrick limped away, the impairment reminding Frank of the factory accident that almost took his brother’s life at the age of eleven. The loss of income had caused their father to go into a drunken rage for two days, beating on their mother until she couldn’t stand. Instead of worrying about his injured son, Colin Murphy had cared only that his gin money would disappear.
Frank exhaled and cast a quick glance at Mulligan. The leader’s gaze showed no surprise over the exchange, merely a quiet curiosity. Had he known of Patrick and Frank’s history? It seemed unlikely, as Frank had gone to great pains to distance himself from his past. He’d buried those secrets deep.
But Mulligan had ways of learning information that other men couldn’t. After all, wasn’t that why Frank was here?
“Still want the pilsner?” Mulligan asked. “I’ll give you an old barrel, one you can be certain Patrick hasn’t spit in.”
Now it was all Frank could think about, that he’d be drinking his brother’s spit. “Thank you but I’ll pass.” He set his glass down on the bar top. “I need to be going. Appreciate your help, Jack.”
“Don’t mention it,” Mulligan said with a smirk. “After all, you’re practically family.”
With those words ringing in his ears, Frank hurried from the club, Otto at his side. So Mulligan knew. How? Frank had been so careful in burying his past and distancing himself from the Murphy clan. He’d never told a soul the real story of his upbringing, not since leaving Five Points.
Mulligan had orchestrated that meeting tonight between Frank and Patrick. Why? For his amusement? Or, rather some darker purpose?