CHAPTER 11
Muldoon
slipped quietly into the boarding house when he arrived home. The parlor door was open just a bit, and he could hear voices inside. He didn’t recognize the tone and wondered if it were an applicant for the recently vacated rooms. He passed by the door quickly, catching only a glimpse of a woman in a pale dress sitting carefully on a chair. From the angle, he didn’t think he knew her.
He emerged from his room a short time later, washed and changed. Mrs. Dunn placed a full pitcher of water on his dresser each evening, knowing he needed to clean up after a hard day’s job. If he was too much of a mess when he got home, either from his duties or from wrestling, the pitcher and basin wouldn’t be enough. Instead, he went to the outside pump, which had been installed for the use of tenants in the boarding house. He appreciated this luxury, since most folks had to use the common one further up the block. He’d fill several buckets and carry them into the kitchen, where Betsy would heat them on the stove. She’d pour them into the big washtub, and after she left the room, he would prop himself up over the tub and wash the sweat, blood, and dirt from his body. Tonight, a good washing in his room with the carefully laid out towel and washcloth, a bar of soap and water from the pitcher, was enough. He hung his uniform from a peg, ready to be worn again the next day. He might even ask Betsy to give it a good brushing. Once it got too soiled, he’d pay to get it washed, switching to the extra uniform hanging in his wardrobe.
He donned his most worn-out pants and shirt, pulling suspenders over his shoulders. His shoes were good, but old. Normally, he liked to be well-turned-out. It was a symbol of his success, not just as a wrestler, but as a New Yorker. This night, though, he was going back to the Points. He had two things he needed to do. First, he needed to see Kavanagh, and second, he wanted to check up on Meg McAllister. He hadn’t seen her since he’d arrested her son.
The evening grew dark as the rain started again. Muldoon walked swiftly toward the Points, turning up his collar. Mrs. Dunn had been thrilled when he told her he wanted the front rooms as he’d headed out the door. She had interviewed several people during the day and found nobody suitable. With the smaller, back apartment vacant, she could afford to wait for the right tenant. The larger front rooms nearly doubled his rent. Figuring his finances, he’d realized he could easily afford the change… so long as he continued to wrestle. It would be nice to sleep in the big double bed in the front apartment. A bigger place, nice things, and expensive clothes—he wanted to stand on an equal footing with Harry Hill, or even with Boss Tweed himself—and the things he gathered around himself gave him a sense of satisfaction.
The muddy streets were still crowded as he headed south. That was one of the things he liked so much about the City. People constantly moved through the streets, going about their business. Noise filled the air as people called out their wares, pushing a cart, or carrying a basket full of some item or another. Wagons and buggies rushed by, horses clip-clopping at a fast pace.
As he reached the grocery, he could see the proprietor through the window. The man pushed a broom, carefully cleaning his store of the grime tracked in during the day. Somehow it seemed out of place in this district, a gleaming nickel in a jar of darkened pennies. Muldoon tapped on the window. The grocer waved when he saw the policeman, pausing only a moment before he bustled over to the door and let him in.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said. “But I thought you might be back this evening. As how you wanted to see Mr. Kavanagh, that is. He came in a short time ago. If you’d follow me?”
Muldoon shrugged. “Don’t worry, I know the way. You keep on cleaning up.”
“The quicker I’m done, the quicker I get my supper.” The man grinned widely.
Muldoon nodded, then passed through the store and into the back hall. He turned to the door on the right and rapped lightly. On the other side, a chair scraped across the floor, papers rattled, and a drawer slid shut. The door swung open, a man standing just inside. Short brown hair curled tightly against his neck, and dark lashes framed pale blue eyes. Muldoon noted the clean brown slacks, suspenders, and white shirt. Spectacles barely peeked out the top of his chest pocket. He looked young.
“You must be the policeman Mr. Connolly said was coming?” The man smiled, bringing a twinkle to his eye.
“That’s me. And you’ll be Sean Kavanagh?”
“Aye. You’ve been inside already. But you can come in and look around again, if you wish.” He smiled again. His actions and appearance seemed devoid of any fear or guilt.
Muldoon followed him into the apartment. He glanced about as they walked through the sparsely furnished front sitting room, and through to the bedroom in back. Nothing had changed from his earlier visit. He hadn’t expected it to. What he was interested in was Kavanagh.
“You don’t have any other folks living here, do you?” Muldoon asked. It was unusual, a man in the Points living in such a large space alone. It should be filled to the brim with humanity, mother, father, children, aunts and uncles, even grandparents. When a man could afford this much, he moved to a better part of the city.
“No, just me. I’m only living here for a while. Until I get my affairs straightened out.”
“What affairs?” Muldoon pulled aside the curtain and looked out into the street.
“I lost my job,” Kavanagh said. “At the bank. I’m… I was… a clerk.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Nothing, really. Certainly, nothing I did, that is. I was just told, that… well, the bank didn’t have a need for me anymore. I went back the next day, because I have an account there… and another man, a new boy, was at my usual seat.”
“Let me guess,” Muldoon said, barely hiding the irritation in his tone. “He was a native?”
“Aye, he was English. And now the money’s tight, so I’ve moved back down here to the Points. I can afford a place down here.”
Muldoon raised his eyebrows.
“I had some savings.” Kavanagh shifted his weight from one foot, to the other, and then back again.
“I see.” Muldoon gazed long at the younger man, then pointed out the window. “You know the dead man was found right out your window here?”
“So I’ve heard. But I didn’t see anything.”
Muldoon looked down the road toward the park. The street light had been lit, and glowed dimly through smoky glass. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but Muldoon remembered the lamp hadn’t shed much more than a slight pool of light, barely reaching the ground beneath it. Its glow didn’t illuminate this stretch of the road.
“You didn’t wake up? Maybe look out the window?” Muldoon dropped the curtain and turned to glance around the room again.
“No. I didn’t see a thing.”
“Okay, then. If you think of anything, you can leave a message for me at the front desk at Police Headquarters. Or I’ll be walking the beat in the Park.” Muldoon headed back across to the door, turned the knob, and stepped out into the hall.
“Sure, if I think of anything,” Kavanagh said.
Muldoon turned suddenly, head tipped just a bit to the side. “You didn’t see anything, but did you hear anything?” he asked.
Kavanagh thought for a moment. “You know… maybe I did. I’m pretty sure it was Sunday night.” He reflected, tipping his own head, his ear cocked toward the window. “I think I might have been woken up. But I don’t know what it was that woke me. A sound, maybe. Or, no! I know… it might have been wheels. And a horse. I think a wagon came by just there… outside my window.”
“Thank you,” Muldoon said. “That might be very helpful.” He pulled out a stub of pencil and scribbled on a small pad from his pocket. Pushing it back into the recesses of his jacket, he nodded and took his leave.
CHAPTER 12
One
more place to go, Muldoon thought as he headed deeper into the Points. He had to get over and see Kelly McAllister’s m
other. She didn’t live far, just the other side of the Park. He picked up the pace, turning his collar up against the damp evening mist. It wasn’t particularly safe in this district after dark. Still, the streets would be active for hours yet; then slowly they’d thin out. First, the mothers and children would disappear from the streets, then the fathers heading home from a day’s work in distant parts of town. The less respectable folk would remain on the streets, moving from saloon to saloon… shady women, gamblers, and thieves.
As Muldoon crossed the Park, he passed the two night policemen who quietly whiled away the time. They swung heavy nightsticks rhythmically, holding them ready just in case. They were both Patrolmen, though he’d heard Mickey O’Brien might get promoted soon.
“Hullo, O’Brien, Denehey.” Muldoon called out as he passed.
“Hey there, Muldoon,” they responded almost in unison, and fell in beside him.
“Quiet evening?” Muldoon asked.
“So far,” O’Brien said. “Den and I’ve just been having a talk about the man that killed that wrestler-fella. Talk on the street says he’s some sort of devil worshipper… called up the devil his-self to do him in.”
“He’s not.” Muldoon growled. “He’s a man, same as me or you.”
“Don’t get me wrong none,” said O’Brien. “It ain’t for nothing. There’s talk of strange symbols where he died. And on the body. Stars and the like… and a circle drawn in the dirt around him. That’s unholy stuff, Muldoon!”
“Aye,” put in Denehey, crossing himself quickly. “They say he was shaved clean and drained of blood.”
“He was shaved. But not drained,” Muldoon said. The cold finger ran down his spine again. He shrugged it off. “He wasn’t a sacrifice, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The two cops reached the end of their beat, and turned to head back to the police shack. Muldoon moved on to the McAllister’s place on Cross Street. By now it was full dark, and he knew it would be even darker inside. He remembered the garbage-strewn hallway, his lip curling at the thought. Still, he needed to see to Meg McAllister.
He climbed the stairs inside the dark hall carefully. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. Muldoon avoided touching the greasy banister, instead running the back of his hand lightly against the wall, not really for support, but to help keep his bearings. As he reached the top floor, he rapped on the door. He waited a moment, and then knocked again, this time a bit louder. Cocking his head, he listened intently to the darkness. The loosely hanging door stood still, no step came to greet him. No light filtered through the cracks at its sides. Somewhere beyond the door, a slight creak of the floor alerted him.
Muldoon could picture the marks along the wooden boards, dug in from years of scraping, he knew them well. Why hadn’t Kelly ever fixed that? But of course, the boy was raised in this world. He didn’t know any better. He slid his fingers between the door and the jamb, where the crack was largest, and pulled, guiding its movement with the loose knob. It scraped hard along the floor. So much for a quiet entry, he thought.
Muldoon stepped inside. He didn’t bother pulling the door shut behind him. He didn’t know what waited for him in the dark. His policeman’s instinct kicked in and he moved forward cautiously, standing low, akin to a wrestler’s stance. The place felt wrong. Heavy silence weighed in on him. A chair lay on its side just inside the door, one leg hanging crazily.
Muldoon inched forward, his head cocked. He stood at the ready. In the deep silence, he heard a sound—just a light noise—a breath. He tried to see through the blackness. Turning his head slightly, he tried to peer into the darkness of the corners. He couldn’t see a thing. Nothing moved.
“Ma?” he finally whispered.
No answer came. A touch of light filtered in the window. The pane, ancient and waved, the glass thicker at the bottom than top, was filth-encrusted from years of dust and dirt build-up. A slight movement drew his attention, not toward the bed, but the far corner, in the shadows next to the window.
“Ma?” he asked again. He could just make out her pitiful form squatting in the corner. “Are you alright? What happened here?”
His foot brushed something that rolled unevenly away. He reached down and grabbed the stub of wax. Pulling a box of matches out of his pocket, he struck a small wooden stick and lit the painfully small candle. Light sputtered from its wick, its tiny flame trying to illuminate the room.
Muldoon held up the candle. The place had been laid bare. Nothing of value remained, not like there had much to begin with. Anything left had been smashed and broken.
Meg didn’t respond at first. Then she reached one hand toward him. For a moment she seemed to be a shadow of his own mother, lost so many years before.
“Can she bake a cherry pie? Billy-boy, Billy-boy,” she sang quietly, then rising up in her corner. She took a few steps toward him, and collapsed into a heap on the floor.
“Ma!” Muldoon rushed to her side. She moaned, and he laid his palm over her forehead. She was hot. He pulled his hand away as her flesh burned his and she began to shake. Her tremors grew violent, and he tried to hold her down. He’d never seen her like this, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t like being helpless.
“Billy-boy,” she whispered again. With an abrupt lurch, her chest arched toward the ceiling, as if pulled by a thread attached to the center of her breastbone. She collapsed in a sudden movement, her arms and legs limp and head lolling back. Muldoon knelt beside her, and gathered her into his arms. She’d had some sort of a fit and she needed a doctor. But, he knew people who had fits like the one she’d just had were considered insane. He wasn’t about to send her son to the Tombs and then send her to the asylum. As she regained consciousness her head tilted slightly upward. Dark eyes, pupils grown unnaturally huge, stared into his.
“There’s a darkness within you,” she whispered hoarsely. “And a darker one outside. It seeks a lamb for its altar. It will have five. Four are yours, two by your own hand. But in the end, it is six-sided.”
She laughed, a low sound in her throat. Then, with a sudden movement, Meg McAllister pushed out of his arms.
She sat up and looked toward him again. The corners of her lips turned up slightly in a tiny smile.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been able to see,” she said, and then broke into tears.
CHAPTER 13
His
mother read tea leaves. She used to collect sprigs of mint and make a mild herbal tea. After the last bit was drank she’d flip the cup quickly to drain the dregs. Turning the cup back over, she’d gaze into it and try to make sense of the shapes formed by small pieces of soggy herbs. Muldoon didn’t believe in prophecies. But Irish women-folk did. He guessed it was their way of trying to understand the world around them.
Meg’s sobbing eased. When ready, she would speak, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what had happened in her flat. He helped her over to the broken bed and she perched on its edge.
“Now, tell me what happened,” Muldoon said.
“Tell me,” he said again, motioning toward the room in general.
“They came… ” she whispered at last.
“Who? Who did this?” Muldoon could barely control his rage.
“The men who took Kelly.”
“I took Kelly.” He admitted it grudgingly, apologetically.
“No.” She covered his hand with hers. “You just think you did. They told you to. The Natives.”
Muldoon closed his eyes. “You mean, coppers did this?”
“Aye.”
“Detective Graham.”
“I think that’s the name they called him by. He said he needed my things for evidence. I told him I don’t have anything for him to take. Still… he took everything anyway.”
Muldoon shook with rage. They took everything from her. More than was needed for any kind of evidence. Her small supply of dishes, the few extra rags she called clothes… even the blankets off the bed. And she wouldn’t be getting any o
f it back. Graham and Collins would pawn the stuff to supplement their own incomes. Benefits of the trade, they’d call it. Muldoon pulled her slowly to her feet. Her hands clutched something close to her breast, something he hadn’t noticed before. Pulling her hands loose, he eased the fingers of her left hand open. She cried out at their movement, and he apologized for hurting her. Her fingers had become stiff and cramped, so long had she held the small wooden frame. He gently took the picture from her, turning it around, though he knew what was there. It was the picture of a beautiful woman in Ireland, a woman of substance.
“Why did they take it all, William?” she asked. “It wasn’t any of it worth anything to them.”
Muldoon glanced away guiltily, though he knew he shouldn’t feel that way. “I think it’s because of me. They think they can get to me, by hurting you.”
“But it’s my son they have. Not you!”
“I know. And somehow, I think that’s my fault, too.”
“No. I won’t have you blame yourself, now! I know you’ll find a way out for my boy.”
“I plan on it,” he said. He looked around again at the empty room.
Suddenly, Meg McAllister broke into tears again. She turned her swollen eyes toward him. “They even took your dollar!” Big, wrenching sobs tore from her. “As if that was evidence.”
Muldoon shook his head angrily, but what could he do? He was just a Sergeant, they were Detective and Captain. He was Irish… and they were Native—English stock. Though he was second-generation, they still looked on him as fresh off the boat, one of the newcomers bent on taking jobs and destroying the country. Muldoon shook his head slowly, deliberately. He held up the candle and looked intently at the room.
Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1) Page 7