by R. J. Koreto
“What was your subject?” asked Mr. Zhao, and he said it politely enough, but Alice was taken aback. It looked like she was going to snap at him but kept herself under control—just.
“Very well. I will be open with you. Someone with money—someone we don’t know—is concerned with my interest in Emma Goldman, a figure in the anarchist movement. I don’t know who cares or why, but Miss Goldman was a strong supporter of Leon Czolgosz, who killed McKinley. The anarchists think this may have to do with immigrants. I was wondering if you, a leader in the immigrant community, knew of any recent interest in your neighborhood, an interest from someone unusual.”
“So you want a favor?” asked Mr. Zhao.
“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” said Alice.
“Is there something you could do for me?”
“Like get my father to change government policy? You overestimate my influence, sir.”
“Perhaps I overestimate your father,” Mr. Zhao said.
“No one has ever overestimated my father,” Alice spat out as the color rose in her face.
But Mr. Zhao decided to be genial about it. “Forgive me. No offense was intended. The father occupies an esteemed position in our culture, and it speaks well of you that you hold your father in such high regard. No, I was thinking of something smaller. I remember when your father held the position of police commissioner. Perhaps you, your family, still have friends in the department. A waiter in my employ was arrested for something . . . small. A misunderstanding. If I write his name down and give it to you, perhaps you can explain.”
“Oh, very well. But I hope you have something interesting to tell me in return.”
“Perhaps. You wanted something unusual. In April of last year, I had a visit from a lawyer. He had a request for me.”
“What kind of lawyer?” I asked. I had been in this town long enough to know about lawyers. “One of the shysters who hangs around the Tombs or an uptown lawyer in a good suit?”
“A nice distinction, Mr. St. Clair. It was the second kind, a man from a noble firm. He said he had a client who needed workers, many workers, for jobs in Buffalo on the port. He wanted help with finding such workers in my community. And I did help him. I have never seen anything like that before—so many workers needed upstate. But I was happy to help out my countrymen, many of whom needed the work. What that has to do with Miss Goldman or Mr. Czolgosz, I have no idea. But that was the only unusual incident I can recall.”
“And the company he worked for—the Great Erie & Albany Boat Company?” asked Alice, hoping to build a connection.
Mr. Zhao was confused at that. “No. That name is new to me. The lawyer didn’t mention that. He said he represented a family-owned company. The family was named Van Schuyler.”
That surprised Alice, and she leaned back and pursed her lips. And then she shot me a look: Don’t you dare tease me about this later.
“Did he tell you why he suddenly needed so many workers?” asked Alice.
Mr. Zhao paused and smiled. “Would you be offended if I gave you some advice? I don’t ask questions I don’t need the answer to. It has made my life much simpler.”
I thought that would upset Alice, but she just nodded, and I could see her filing the advice away for later.
“I want to thank you for the information, Mr. Zhao,” said Alice. “One more question. Does the name ‘Archangel’ mean anything to you?”
“As in the heavenly being? No, that name is also unfamiliar to me.”
“Thank you. You have been most helpful, and I promise to speak with the right people about your waiter.”
Mr. Zhao nodded in acknowledgment. “So tell me, Miss Roosevelt, will the information I gave you help reveal who is tracking you? Is it someone from this Van Schuyler family?”
Alice smiled brilliantly at that. “But Mr. Zhao, didn’t you just tell me there’s nothing to be gained by asking questions you don’t need the answer to?”
I admired him for laughing at that. Heck, I admired them both. And with good wishes and thanks on both sides, we made our way back to the street.
Alice was in a funny mood after the meeting. She was proud she had uncovered a useful link to some powerful people, those who had the money to pay for a private detective to follow us. She just stood on the street for a few minutes looking regal, and the cold wind put some color in her cheeks.
“Disappointed to find your sweetheart was having us followed?” I finally asked.
“How witty of you, Mr. St. Clair,” she said. “I knew I could count on you for a childish comment. Preston was a friend, a congenial companion who made a few trips to Sagamore Hill during a hot summer. That’s all. Is that understood?”
I bowed. “Message received, Miss Alice. But to the matter at hand, what do you make of that—the Van Schuylers recruiting large numbers of immigrant workers for their upstate facilities? The anarchists at the Freethinker Club told us to look toward the immigrants. They may have even meant the Van Schuylers in particular—word spreads.”
“Yes, I can see that too,” she said. “I suppose that’s something, although I can’t immediately see what. Anyway, we have no idea if Preston van Schuyler was behind this. If it is the family, it’s more likely his father or someone else, not someone junior like Preston. It’s just a coincidence—I asked Preston to help us because his family has interests in Buffalo, so of course they’re hiring people to work on the Great Lakes. There were probably half a dozen other people at that party with investments upstate who were hiring.”
“If you say so,” I said.
“And why should they want to follow me anyway? Also, there’s nothing to connect the Van Schuylers with the Great Erie. Or to Leon Czolgosz, for that matter. And since the Van Schuylers have extensive shipping interests in the Great Lakes, why shouldn’t they seek employees in Chinatown? So can you make something out of that?” We just stood there, watching the frost from our breath.
I grinned. “The Secret Service doesn’t believe in coincidences. But speaking as a man, I know Preston would really appreciate your spirited defense.”
“God, you’re an idiot. But you are right that there may be something there, more than a coincidence. Anarchists are always trying to stir up the workers, so they’d follow them upstate. That doesn’t mean the Van Schuylers are involved, but it does mean we need to think more about that connection. The sudden appearance of all those workers may have led to anarchist activity and thus to the assassination. There’s a lot we don’t know about that, but we do have another appointment.”
So we got into the car and drove to the second name Captain O’Hara had given us.
CHAPTER 8
“Don Abruzzo,” Alice read from the paper. “He’s Italian, but I never heard the name ‘Don.’”
“It’s not a name. It’s a title, like some people get to be ‘sir’ in England.”
“You’re joking. Some Little Italy immigrant was knighted by King Victor Emmanuel?”
“Not exactly. It’s sort of a mark of respect the leaders insist on—we got a little update on the various groups when I joined the New York office. Anyway, ‘Don’ is a big deal there. In fact, you should know these guys are a little touchy. You might want to watch how you talk to them.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can come off a little strong,” I said.
“I should hope so. My father would be proud to see how strong I am.”
“I’m sure, but these folks are a little proud, too, all right?”
I knew the Italians. The city was full of them, a lot of them in poor neighborhoods, and they usually had big families. Some were good, some were bad, and most of them were just trying to earn a living and go to Mass on Sundays. I hadn’t really thought about it, but as we walked along the streets of Little Italy, I realized it wasn’t that different from Chinatown, or half a dozen other neighborhoods where all the immigrants lived. Here, women in shawls looked over chickens and argued loudly in Italian.
The address Captain O’Hara had given us was for a restaurant called Mezzaluna. There were apartments upstairs, and the shades were lowered on most of them, although I could see at least one face looking down at us.
Alice and I walked in together. The place had been done up nice—a lot of pillars like I hear they have in those old buildings in Rome and paintings of Italy on the wall that made me hope I could visit someday. It wasn’t crowded that time of day. A few men were drinking, and all of them turned around to have a look at us.
“We should come here for dinner sometime,” said Alice.
“All right. We’ll bring your Aunt Anna down here, too. If they have a table for eight, we can get your father and the rest of your family here as well.”
“And they’d thank me for it,” she said.
A waiter scurried up to us and asked if we wanted a table.
“We’d like to see a Mr. Abruzzo. I’m sorry, Don Abruzzo,” said Alice, and I thought, What a place and time to show off how clever she was.
“Oh,” he said, seeming at a loss. “May I ask your names?”
“Miss Roosevelt. And Mr. St. Clair,” she said. “We are here at the recommendation of Captain O’Hara.”
That seemed to worry him. He paused and then left, disappearing into a back room.
“If we keep on like this, you’re going to become famous,” I said. Alice gave me a smug smile.
“More famous,” she said.
The waiter came back, still looking a little unsure of himself. “Follow me, please,” he said. We followed him past the bar into a little room in the back. There was a comfortable round table and another bar. Three men sat at the table with their backs to the wall, and another man stood by the bar.
The waiter made quick introductions, nodding to the man in the middle, before leaving with equal speed. “Don Abruzzo, this is Miss Roosevelt and Mr. St. Clair.”
“Please, take a seat,” said Don Abruzzo, who waved a hand but didn’t bother standing. I took in everyone. Abruzzo himself was a well-groomed man in his forties, wearing as good a suit as any Fifth Avenue banker might own, and a barber who knew his business had shaved him that morning. The two men flanking him were also well dressed.
It was the guy by the bar I didn’t like so much. Guns are heavy, and it’s hard to hide it when you’re carrying one. This man’s suit was probably even cheaper than mine, making him a worker, not a manager. I didn’t care that Captain O’Hara had said these guys were all right; I don’t like to have someone I don’t know carrying a gun near me or Miss Alice, especially when he’s out of my direct sight.
“It’s getting a little crowded here,” I said, and I pointed back with my thumb at the bar guy.
“You are nervous, Mr. St. Clair?” Don Abruzzo asked in a light accent.
“Mr. St. Clair is never nervous. He is cautious,” said Alice. “He’s a Secret Service agent and is here to protect me. He’s been a cowboy and war hero and is the best of men. So can we make this a private party?”
Don Abruzzo raised an eyebrow at that. “So just you and me?” he asked.
“No, Mr. St. Clair remains. That’s part of the deal, Don Abruzzo. You, me, and Mr. St. Clair. You must know that I wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t important. And private.”
“My associates stay,” he said.
“Oh, for God’s sake, aren’t you listening? Are you a coward or just stupid?”
I sighed, and for a minute, Don Abruzzo looked angry, while the bar guy suddenly shifted. I didn’t want to start anything by reaching for my Colt, but I knew I could outdraw him.
“I wonder, when you marry, if your husband will be able to properly control you?” he asked.
“I’d hate to think so,” I said before Alice could get a word in. Don Abruzzo didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he laughed. He said something quickly in Italian to the other men. The bar guy reached for a bottle of red wine and put it down on the table with three glasses. Then he left and the other two men did, too, closing the door behind them.
Don Abruzzo poured the wine. “I don’t know if you’ve had this wine. It’s one of the oldest wines in Italy, perhaps in the world. It comes from Naples. In English, it’s called ‘The Tears of Christ,’ and it’s grown on the slopes of Mt. Vesuvius. Cento di questi giorni. That means, ‘I wish you one hundred of these days.’” And we drank. It was better than the bottle I had bought for Mariah the other night, so I was fine.
“So tell me, Miss Roosevelt, what kind of service I may provide to President Roosevelt, who has sent his daughter and trusted friend to me as emissaries?”
I thought she’d start the same way she had with Mr. Zhao, but she got right to the point, probably because I had teased her about Preston earlier, and she was all worked up about the Van Schuylers possibly being involved.
“I have found that a family named Van Schuyler has been hiring a lot of workers for a project upstate, on the Great Lakes. We want to know why. Perhaps the Van Schuyler family has sought out your help in finding workers and you have some information.”
“I would think that you would have official ways of finding that out,” he said, looking closely at Alice.
“Maybe I want an unofficial way.”
“Ah. So this is not about the president investigating a problem. It’s about Roosevelts and Van Schuylers. I see.” Don Abruzzo drank some more wine. “My sister’s son has a position in the Street Department. He would like to be a supervisor, but they don’t give jobs like that to Italians. Perhaps you could speak with someone? You come from a well-known family.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. More horse trading. So you want me to see your nephew gets the job? Oh, very well. Write out his name, and I’ll call the commissioner tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much. But you were asking about the Van Schuylers? Yes, an associate of theirs, a lawyer, came to me looking for workers. I was able to help him. It seemed they needed a lot of men to work on the Great Lake ports.”
“Did he mention the name of the company? The Great Erie & Albany Boat Company?”
Abruzzo shook his head. “He just said it was for the family company. He didn’t mention that name. And it’s not familiar to me from anywhere else.”
“What about Archangel? Is that name familiar to you?”
He gave himself a few moments on that. “There are three with that title in the Bible—Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael.”
“But here—do you know anyone with that name here? Yes, I see it in your face. I think you do.”
He topped off our glasses, which pleased me, because I liked this wine, and Mr. Zhao hadn’t offered any beer. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a couple of cigars.
“Do you smoke, Mr. St. Clair?”
“Cigarettes mostly. But I won’t say no to a good cigar.” He snipped them, gave me one, and lit both of them for us. Alice looked on, a little stupefied, while I puffed. I hadn’t had such a good smoke in years, and between this cigar and the wine, I was feeling very good about our host.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” she asked.
“I think Don Abruzzo is giving us—well, giving you—a lesson in patience. Some things have to be considered deeply. Do I have that right, Don Abruzzo?”
“Well spoken, Mr. St. Clair.”
“Well, you could at least have the decency to offer me a cigar, too,” said Alice.
“I did not mean to give any offense,” he said, and he produced a third cigar, which Alice began puffing away at with great pleasure.
“So about this Archangel,” she said after a few moments of companionable silence.
“If I tell you, I need to know that you will think about it carefully and not do anything to make problems for me.”
“I know how to behave,” she said. Sure, I thought. Drinking wine and smoking cigars with strange men in Little Italy.
“You’re doing me a favor, Miss Roosevelt, so I will do you one. There is a man I know. He doesn’t w
ork for me. He is not a member of my family. But we know each other. His name is Cesare. Men with serious problems hire Cesare to fix them.”
“Fix them?” asked Alice.
“Kill people. This Cesare is an assassin. Do I have that right?” I asked.
“Your words, Mr. St. Clair, not mine. But some weeks ago, this Cesare, who talks too much, spoke about someone who had offered him money, a lot of money, to work for him. I didn’t want to know any names. But he said it anyway. He told me the Archangel was going to pay him. I thought he was drunk, but now you say you know of a man named Archangel.”
Alice’s eyes lit up, and she leaned over the table. “Did he say anything else? Anything that would let us know who this Archangel is or where he comes from?”
“Are you wondering if the Van Schuylers hired Cesare?”
“I’ve known the Van Schuylers all my life. I hardly think they’d hire assassins.”
Don Abruzzo pointed his cigar at Alice. “There were great men in Naples. And they hired men as they needed. I don’t see great men in New York doing anything different. But I think I’ve told you all I know. If you seek out this Archangel, I wish you success. If you want to see this Cesare, I will tell you where he lives.”
He stood. The meeting was over. He stepped over to the bar and wrote out the name of his nephew and the address for Cesare, which he handed to Alice.
“I thank you for your help and time, Don Abruzzo,” she said with a great solemnity that seemed to impress him. Then she grinned. “And your wine and your cigar.”
“My pleasure. And if your father visits, I will make him as welcome.” We shook hands and then saw our way out through the restaurant and back onto the street, with everyone watching us again.
“We have something,” said Alice with a hint of triumph in her voice. “We know the Archangel is a real person, not a product of Dunilsky’s ravings. He connects us to the immigrants, who connect us to the anarchists.”
“And don’t forget that the Van Schuylers were hiring immigrants for the Great Lakes. If they wanted to stay secret, why not create a fake name to hide themselves? And who better than Preston to know we were looking into Emma Goldman?”