Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

Father Michael lifted his eyes to heaven. “With what? We don’t have any money.”

  “We’ll have to raise it. If we succeed, we’ll turn one dollar into twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred. But we’ll have to work quickly.”

  “Fast money,” Dylan said with a grin. He kept hold of her hand. “That’s my specialty.”

  “We’ve all got to do our part,” Kathleen said.

  “And so we shall.” Dylan spoke with the confidence of a seasoned cardsharper. “There are four of us. If we work together, we should be able to raise the money in short order.”

  * * *

  “Pardon me, sir,” Dylan said to the passing gentleman, “but I believe there is something in your hat.”

  “What’s that?” The prosperous-looking gentleman and his female companion stopped walking.

  Easing into a familiar role, Dylan helped himself to the gleaming beaver hat and extracted from the crown a fresh rose. He bowed, then handed it to the blushing lady with a flourish. She laughed aloud and held the blossom to her nose.

  The man replaced his hat and gave his befuddled thanks.

  “No thanks necessary,” Dylan said smoothly. “This ten-dollar tip will do.” He tossed the coin high in the air and snatched it on its way down.

  The mark immediately patted his pocket, then said, “Hey! You nicked that from me.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Dylan winked at the lady, who clearly represented the man’s vulnerable spot. “Here you go.” He flipped the coin back to the mark, then started to stroll away, counting on her to call him back.

  “Oh, give it to him,” the lady said. “It’s the first laugh I’ve had since the fire, for heaven’s sake.”

  Nothing like a woman to make a man do her bidding, Dylan thought. As expected, the gentleman tossed him the coin. With a grin and a wink, Dylan moved off in search of his next mark.

  * * *

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Mrs. Ernestine Gaines said from behind the makeshift confessional screen. Though St. Brendan’s steeple had crashed to earth, services had begun again, and Father Michael was hearing Friday confessions in a place that smelled of charred timber and damp stone.

  Mrs. Gaines’s gaudy jewelry clanked as she pressed her hands together in prayer. Her sharp, expensive perfume fogged the dimness.

  “Father,” she said, “I am consumed with guilt. I lost nothing in the fire. Not a blessed thing. I cannot decipher what it could mean.”

  “The meaning is clear, my child. The Heavenly Father meant for you to share your fortune, that you may sup at the table of eternity with him.”

  Silence, then the clank of a bracelet. She said, “Share.”

  “Yes, my child.”

  “How much sharing do you suppose the Lord is looking for?”

  “My child, the faithful do not measure God’s grace in terms of dollars and cents—”

  “How much?” she interrupted.

  “Five hundred dollars,” he shot at her without hesitation.

  “Five hun—”

  “And those sapphire earbobs. A small price to pay for peace of mind, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Kathleen stood beneath a placard carefully lettered with the words Temperance Society, thumping her sign for attention. “Bring those bottles forward,” she urged people passing in front of Henckel’s Brewery. “The mayor has made a decree to outlaw the sale of liquor in our beleaguered city,” she called. “Bring your barrels out,” she ordered the brewmaster.

  “I was up an entire night trying to keep the barrels from burning,” he complained. “I’m not giving them up to you!”

  Kathleen sent him a censorious glare. “Very well, keep them and pay a fine for harboring contraband. I believe the amount is fifteen dollars a barrel.”

  “Fifteen? That’s more than I could sell them for!”

  But not as much as I can sell them for, Kathleen thought, her heart thumping anxiously.

  “It’s up to you, sir.” She gestured at Bull, who waited behind her. “You can take advantage of the manpower I’ve offered, or risk breaking the law.” She frowned. “Now, where was it we passed the civil militia?” she asked Bull. “A block over? Two?”

  The brewmaster blanched. “Take it away, then, and good riddance. It’s probably ruined from the heat, anyway.”

  Working swiftly and silently, Bull loaded the untapped beer kegs onto a river barge. Pushing off with a long pole, he bore the cargo away.

  Four hundred yards down the river, they sold the entire haul to a saloon owner who had absolutely no knowledge of the mayor’s decree.

  * * *

  “Here,” said a man in the crowd gathered at Lake Front Park, tossing an apple to Dylan. “Change that into a pear.”

  The transformation occurred almost before the mark finished his sentence. It was an old sleight of hand, but the refugees encamped by the lake made appropriate noises of admiration. A crisp new bank note borrowed from the apple man disappeared, then reappeared in the pear. Dylan produced it with a flourish.

  The man made a face. “Keep it for a tip,” he said. “It’s soggy, anyway.”

  * * *

  Chicago Tribune, October 17, 1871. Beware the Bunco Man. As our embattled city rebuilds after the most famous calamity of its history, tales of selfless acts of heroism mingle with less pleasant stories of knaves and swindlers out to take advantage of the misfortune of others. Sharpers, confidence men and schemers abound in our ruined streets, putting forth false offers to the homeless and helpless. Should a man approach you offering help, make certain his motives are pure before coming to any agreement with him.

  In other news, Mr. Cornelius King reports that his private Pullman car, last seen in the Michigan and Illinois yards, has gone missing….

  * * *

  “Do you trust me?” Dylan asked.

  “No.” Kathleen glared at him. “Why are you constantly asking me that?”

  “I keep thinking you’ll change your mind.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “In a moment, it will matter,” he assured her.

  “But—”

  “Hush. Time to start the performance.”

  The crowd, drawn from thirty thousand refugees encamped at Lincoln Park, rustled and settled as Father Michael made the announcement from a stage cobbled together from broken planks and railroad ties.

  “And here, in a death-defying act, Horatio Quick will hurl knives at his lovely assistant—”

  “Knives?” she hissed. “You said I just have to stand here!”

  “It’s true. And look pleased. Remember, you feel life most keenly when you are courting death.” He pressed close so that she could feel the length of his body. Heat and desire emanated from him even here, now, in front of an inquisitive crowd. “Stand still. That is all you have to do.”

  “You said nothing about knives.”

  “Because I knew you’d be a scare-baby and ruin everything, and these people have paid good money for the show. Now hush and tie the blindfold on me, will you?”

  “Blindfold?”

  SIXTEEN

  Vincent Costello was pleased with himself. Damned pleased. It made him proud to be a Catholic, the way the money was rolling in from all points on the map. The faithful took care of their own, he was happy to see.

  And he would take care of himself.

  Like a king in his realm, he was holding his daily audiences. In the new post, his duties were many and varied. He had to make his reports to the church comptroller and auditor, reckon the expenses of his office and send out letters of pious praise to the generous donors. Then, of course, there were less exalted jobs, such as seeing to the needs of the poor and to the church. St. Brendan’s had listed itself in dire want of a steeple, of all things. The faithful flock were clamoring for it to be rebuilt. It had become a symbol of hope for them. Well, they could wait. Vincent had to look out for his own interests.

  He wasn’t about to fritter away perfectly good money on a steeple while h
is private fund was still growing. Paper bills and silver certificates were stacked neatly in the new Acme safe installed in his office. All that remained was to decide when enough was enough and then move on.

  The trouble was, he liked Chicago. Though he would never admit it, he was glad his hunt for Dylan Kennedy had led him here. In this town, he was fast discovering, a man could make a name for himself if he knew how to handle money.

  Faith was getting on well enough, too. Her misguided affection for Dylan was bothersome, as usual, but Vince couldn’t bring himself to reveal him for a scoundrel in his daughter’s eyes. The low-bellied thief deserved to get his kneecaps broken and be left to suffer in a ditch somewhere—but Faith would be crushed at the loss. Vince would simply have to bide his time and hope his daughter outgrew her infatuation.

  He was doing his best to keep her distracted, ordering her to assist that sniveling clerk—what was his name?—Lynch. Maybe if she had plenty to occupy her, she wouldn’t mope around and sigh about Kennedy all the time.

  He considered the cash in the safe, and a surge of lust warmed his limbs. He loved money more than women, even. He wasn’t happy with the stacks of bills just lying there. He needed to put the cash to use, and he’d already made a place for himself on the Liquor Board and the Board of Trade. He just needed the right opportunity to present itself. He was mulling over his options when an African giant stepped into the office.

  Vincent had seen tough fellows before but never one as tough as this. His skin was polished ebony. The breadth of his shoulders blotted out the day. Yet the big man shuffled his feet in a curiously deferential way as he took off his battered hat and held it in front of him.

  “Name’s Eugene,” the man said in a deep bell-toned voice. “Eugene Waxman.”

  Vincent suppressed a twinge of annoyance. His assistants were supposed to see to individual charity cases. “What can I do for you, Mr. Waxman?”

  “I heard tell you got yourself a seat on the Board of Trade.”

  My, my, thought Vince in surprise. Word certainly traveled fast. “You heard right, young man.”

  “I come to ask, can you make a transaction for me?”

  Vincent perked up. This fellow was far more interesting than a charity case. “Indeed. Perhaps I can. Sit down, Mr. Waxman.”

  The big man lowered his bulk to a chair. He sat on edge, clearly unused to conducting any sort of business at all.

  “I understand your dilemma, Mr. Waxman. Many men won’t do business with a man of color,” Vincent said bluntly.

  “Do you have that problem?”

  “Of course not. Money’s money.”

  Waxman took out a soft chamois bag. Holding it reverently, he opened the drawstring and emptied the contents on the desk between them. “There’s about a hundred dollars there, sir. All’s I got in the world.”

  Vincent almost felt sorry for the poor lummox. “And you want me to make a trade for you.”

  “Yes, sir.” He rocked back on his heels.

  Costello pressed his hands to the surface of the desk. “Mr. Waxman, do you understand how futures trading works?”

  “Reckon I do, sir.” He held his hat by the brim and kept turning it in circles, as if he were closing a water main. “See, the way I figure it, when there’s plenty of grain, it’s cheap. And when there’s a shortage, the price goes up.”

  Costello nodded. The big man had at least a rudimentary understanding of the trade. Still, out of fairness he wanted him to comprehend exactly what it was that he risked. Trading was no different from gambling, especially in the hands of an amateur.

  “Why now?” he asked. “The new Board’s only been open three days.”

  The hat kept rotating in the big hands. “Well, sir, it’s like this.” He fixed Costello with an earnest stare. “I heard tell you can turn one dollar into ten when grain’s in short supply.”

  Costello sat straighter in his chair. “What makes you so sure there’ll be a shortage?” he asked.

  Waxman blinked slowly. He was an odd sort. Huge, lumbering, deliberate. Yet there was a keen precision to his thinking that suggested there was more to him than met the eye. Vince knew when a man was holding back information. He waited, for Waxman appeared to take his time deliberating.

  “Well, it’s like this, sir. There’s been a drought this season—”

  “Everyone knows of the drought. The price has been adjusted accordingly.”

  “But not everybody knows of the shipping report.” Waxman spoke very quietly, staring down at the floor.

  “The shipping report’s not expected until—” Costello stopped. Every hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end. He stared at the round cap in Waxman’s hands. Gold braid edged the brim, and for the first time he noticed the insignia showing the silhouette of a bird in flight. It was the emblem of the Union Telegraph Company’s local branch.

  At last Waxman lifted his big, shining head. “The telegraph company likes to use Negro men for couriers, sir. They don’t think any of us can read or write.”

  Costello felt an icy chill clutch at his gut, and his mind came to full alert. This was the same feeling he had when he sat at the poker table and knew he held the winning hand.

  The only question now was how much to bet. How much for a full house?

  “But the thing is, sir, I can read,” Waxman said quietly, matter-of-factly and without pride.

  A straight flush, Costello amended. He held very still, but his fingers tingled. He had to restrain himself from diving for the safe.

  Ordinarily the Board of Trade received wires directly, but since the fire, price communication had been sporadic and unreliable. Costello forced himself to stay quiet, waiting. Waxman would say what he had come to say in his own good time.

  “What I saw, sir,” he said in his deep mournful voice, “is that the shipping report is down. There’s to be no grain shipped to Chicago because of damage to the yards.”

  A royal flush, thought Costello.

  Cautiously, he said, “It’s illegal to act on this information.”

  “That’s why I came to you, sir.” Heaving a long, weary sigh, he added, “Reckon I done worse in my life. Reckon you done worse, too.”

  Costello was about to object when Waxman took a thin folded piece of paper from the brim of his hat.

  “Sir,” he said, “I got a delivery to make. I can’t wait much longer.”

  Costello swept all the money from the desk and gathered it into a box. When it came to matters of commerce, he considered himself unstoppable. “Tell you what. You leave this with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  The next evening, as the city lay beneath a brooding bank of clouds, Kathleen surveyed the stacks of money they had collected. She could barely move a muscle for soreness. Her nerves were still jangling from the ordeal of having a blind man hurl knives at her. Her sense of ethics suffered each time she thought of those taken in by their games. Being a swindler was hard work, harder still on her conscience.

  Glaring at Father Michael, she said, “Why can’t you raise funds like a normal priest?”

  “My dear, do you know how many bake sales and ice-cream socials it would take to earn this?” He gestured at the counted money. “How many quilt lotteries? Besides, it will all come back to the church.”

  “One thousand one hundred forty-two dollars,” Dylan said.

  “And fifty-seven cents,” Bull added. At Dylan’s surprised look, he said, “I can count. Did you think I couldn’t count?”

  “The question is,” Dylan said, his gaze boring into Kathleen, “is it enough?”

  A shiver passed through her, but it was not a shiver of doubt. It was excitement. She aimed a pointed stare at him. “Do you trust me?”

  He laughed, and it was the magical laugh that had captivated her from the start. Leaning down, he whispered into her ear, “As much as you’ve trusted me to stay on the sofa each night.”

  Her cheeks burned, and she looked up quickly
to see if the others had heard. But they were busy looking over the contract drawn up by Barry Lynch, of all people. She had assured Barry that she’d found a way to reclaim the relief fund money.

  “I’m getting tired of that sofa,” Dylan continued, still whispering in her ear. His warm breath awakened her senses.

  She tried to pull away, and it struck her that she was actually enjoying this—the games, the planning, the anticipation. “Go on with you,” she whispered back. “We’ve got work to do.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard I’d work to—” He dropped his voice even lower. His shameful suggestion made her blush to the roots of her hair. Only the presence of the others stopped her from smacking the smirk off Dylan’s face.

  Ducking her head to hide her blush, she bade goodnight to Bull and Father Michael and stood at the door while they left.

  “Now what?” Dylan asked, walking to her side and pressing close.

  She shied away, stepping behind the piecrust table to put some distance between them. “We engage the tug and get ourselves out to Eden Landing with this contract on the grain.”

  He poured himself a glass of unconsecrated communion wine, thoughtfully provided by Father Michael. “I seem to recall that a train took us there last time. How do you propose we get there tomorrow?”

  Her heart sank. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you suppose we could hire a wagon or cart or—”

  “Every wagon in the city has been commandeered by the militia.”

  “We’ll walk if we have to,” she said stoutly. “It’s only twenty miles.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m not the sort to walk twenty miles.”

  She sniffed and turned away, heading for the berth behind the screen. “I’m not too proud to walk. But I shall need a full night’s rest, so excuse me.”

  As she undid the bodice of her dress, she sensed, like a phantom warmth, his presence behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Go away.”

  Instead, he caressed the nape of her neck with his lips. “Ah, Kathleen. You weren’t saying that the first time we—”

  “I’m saying it now.” She swung back and stared at nothing, hoping her voice didn’t betray her hurt. “My bed is for someone who means to stay.”