“When my sister was just fourteen, a man offered to buy her an ice-cream soda after work. She’d never had one before.” She shook her head in wonder. “Such a simple thing, an ice-cream soda! She told me that night when she came home that it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. The next day, she was gone. We discovered later she was working in a brothel on Hester Street.”
“You mean the man abducted her?”
“No.” Her mouth tightened. “She chose to work for him.”
“She chose to be a prostitute?”
I jumped as her palm struck the table. “Is it so hard to understand that she might succumb? Our men pride themselves on the purity of their women, but they fail to consider just how we are to maintain this purity when so much is expected of us, and so little given! Should a girl be blamed for wanting some small comfort for herself in life? Even a stone yearns to feel the rain, at times!”
Drawing a calming breath, she continued, “When my parents found out what she’d done, they cast her off as if she were dead, slashing their clothes and sitting out seven days of mourning.” She stared into the distance, as if seeing it all again in her mind’s eye. “They forbade me to see or speak to her, and I obeyed, angry at her for leaving us and for bringing disgrace on our family. She wrote to me, but…” She drew another, sharper breath. “I didn’t reply. Two years later, in the winter, my sister was found dead in a rear yard, along with her frozen newborn baby.” Her eyes met mine. “I didn’t help my sister, to my eternal shame. But there are other girls in trouble, and I have sworn to do whatever I can, whenever I can, to help them. So don’t tell me I have no reason.”
“Oh, Pauline. I’m so sorry.” I shook my head. “But I still can’t let you do it. I’d never forgive myself if you were hurt.”
She leaned toward me across the table. “It isn’t up to you.” Sitting back, she added, “Besides, if you want this done right, you need somebody capable, and I’m the most capable person I know.”
Gazing at the woman in front of me, with her formidable intelligence, energy, and conviction, I found myself actually contemplating her offer. “But you’d need to convince his mother of your purpose for coming,” I pointed out, “and you don’t even speak Italian…”
“But I do,” Angela offered. She smiled at Pauline, who smiled back.
“Oh no, now that’s not fair,” I protested. “I don’t stand a chance against the two of you!”
“Just tell us where he lives,” Pauline said, crossing her arms, “and we’ll take care of the rest.”
Chapter Fifteen
I was a bundle of nerves the next morning as I waited to hear from Pauline and Angela, who’d promised to call me the minute they got back from the Fabronis’. Although I could, in fact, think of no one more capable of getting the job done, I already regretted involving them. I’d thought about calling the whole thing off, but suspected that once Pauline had been set in motion, there could be no stopping her. At least she’d agreed to abandon the mission if Antonio’s van was at the curb when they arrived. I was terrified that he’d see through their disguise and suspect them of an ulterior motive.
I passed the time by helping put up several jars of peach preserves, one of my father’s favorite winter indulgences. It had been years since I last helped with the preserving, and Katie had to constantly refresh my memory on the finer points of temperature and paraffin seals, making me more of a hindrance than a help, but I appreciated the distraction. I made sure to leave the kitchen and stairwell doors open so that I could hear the telephone upstairs, just in case Pauline called earlier than expected, and ran to the steps more than once thinking I’d heard it ring.
It wasn’t until eleven o’clock, however, when the jars had been cooling in the pantry for nearly an hour and I was pacing a hole in the sitting room carpet, that the call finally came. I lunged toward the closet and grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”
“You didn’t tell me he was such a handsome scoundrel,” Pauline said on the other end.
I let out the breath I’d been holding all morning. “You got it?”
“I’m looking at it as we speak.”
Antonio’s van had been gone when they arrived, she told me, and they’d found Mrs. Fabroni alone at home. As I’d predicted, she hadn’t been eager to let them in, but had acceded when Pauline flashed a makeshift badge. The photograph was exactly where I’d told them it would be, and as Angela took Mrs. Fabroni by the arm and guided her into the parlor, chattering all the while, Pauline followed behind and simply lifted it into her bag.
I told her I’d come retrieve it immediately. I was leaving the house a few minutes later, shutting the front door behind me, when I saw Simon walking up the street with a satchel over his shoulder.
He smiled in greeting. “Katie called and offered to give me some jam for the boys.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the shape-up?” I asked. Usually on Wednesdays, Simon took the unemployed male residents of his district down to the South Street docks, in the hope the hiring bosses would select them from the scores of other longshoremen who assembled there, looking for work. As he was not the only person peddling Tammany influence at these events, however, and as his men were not always the most impressive of physical specimens, he usually had a few left over from the morning selection. Often, he remained at the docks through the early afternoon on the chance that another tramp steamer or coastwise boat might arrive and trigger a second round of hiring.
“I only had one man left after the morning pick, and I got him a job as a watchman on a coal barge.” He looked me quizzically up and down. “Where are you off to?”
Somewhat reluctantly, I told him about the successful mission, unsure how he would react. “I’m on my way to pick up the picture now,” I finished, “to deliver to Detective Cassidi.”
“I thought we agreed you were going to let the police handle things from now on.”
“I was. That is, I am. But Pauline insisted on doing this one thing.”
His shoulders rose with a deep inhale, but perhaps afraid of being compared to my father again, he said only, “I’ll go with you then. Just let me get the jam first. The boys’ll tar and feather me if I come back without it.”
We arrived at the Goldstein home some twenty minutes later to find Pauline waiting in the entry. I rushed toward her and gave her a hug. “Thank you! For the picture, and for not getting caught. I never would have forgiven myself.”
“Psh,” she said, pulling awkwardly from my embrace. “I owed you, for Sarah.” She lifted the photograph from her bag and handed it to me.
Simon stepped up behind me, peering at it over my shoulder. “He wasn’t much more than a kid when they took that.”
“This is Simon Shaw,” I told Pauline. “He’s a Tammany captain in Yorkville. He’s been helping me look into Teresa’s disappearance.”
The two nodded, sizing each other up.
I returned my attention to the photograph, which I’d only glimpsed before. A girl who strongly resembled Antonio, and who I guessed was his sister, stood in the center, wearing a white dress and veil and smiling shyly at the camera. Mrs. Fabroni stood to one side of her and Antonio to the other. They in turn were flanked by two men who looked about the same age as Mrs. Fabroni, dressed in formal clothing.
“Angela says it’s a confirmation picture,” Pauline told us.
“What happens when they realize it’s missing?” Simon asked.
Pauline and I looked at each other.
“Did you leave anything at the flat that could identify you?” I asked her.
“Nothing but the brochures, and they’re handing those out all over the city. Don’t worry. We left no trail.”
Angela came into the entry, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hey, Doc! We did good, huh?”
“More than good. Thank you so much for your help.” I introduced her to Simon, and
the two shook hands.
“So now you have what you need, yes?” Angela asked me. “To find your girl and put this man in jail?”
“It’s a start.”
“It will take time, though, to hear back from Italy?”
This was unfortunately true. Even with the faster mail boats to Europe, it would be several days before the authorities could receive the photograph and respond via telegraph. “The police have put a tail on him in the meantime,” I told her. “If he’s got Teresa holed up somewhere, he may lead them to her.”
“Why doesn’t Mr. Shaw try looking for her in the disorderly resorts near Italian Harlem?” Pauline asked coolly. “In case her abductor has already sold her to one, or is holding her there.”
I frowned at her, puzzled by her tone. “I wish that were possible. But I don’t suppose we’re going to find a list of suspected disorderly resorts at the public library.”
“Mr. Shaw?” Pauline said. “Maybe you would know where to find such a list.”
“Why on earth would he know?” I asked.
“He’s a Tammany man, isn’t he?”
They regarded each other in stony silence.
I looked from her to Simon. “I’m not sure why—”
Simon glanced at me. “Some assembly leaders allow disorderly resorts in their districts,” he explained, “in return for a cut of the protection money. But there’s no such thing as a master list, as far as I know. And even if there was, I wouldn’t be privy to it.”
“Maybe you’ve got friends in the police who could tell you,” Pauline said.
“Look, Miss Goldstein,” he said, “I don’t have a hand in the disorderly till, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Pauline!” I protested. “I can assure you, Simon would never take advantage of women in such a way.”
She pursed her lips, her amber eyes appraising him. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said finally.
A few moments later, Simon and I were back out on the sidewalk on our way to the Italian Legion’s office, the precious photograph in my bag.
“So that’s Pauline,” Simon mused.
“Mmm.”
“She doesn’t pull any punches, does she?”
I made no reply.
“Somethin’ troubling you?” he asked when I’d said nothing more for several moments.
I stopped and faced him. “What Pauline said in there…” I shook my head. “I was under the impression that Tammany had changed its ways.” The election of 1901 had been a turning point for the city, when citizens fed up with Tammany’s profitable connections with criminal enterprise in general, and prostitution in particular, had voted a reform candidate into the mayor’s office. I wasn’t so naive as to believe that corruption would ever disappear entirely, but from what Pauline had said, it sounded as though the current ties between Tammany and prostitution were still far more extensive than I’d realized.
“It’s a big organization, Genna,” he said with a sigh. “Different members have different ways of doing things. I can only tell you that it’s not as bad as it used to be.”
I frowned at him, unable to understand why it was allowed to persist at all. “How can you work for an organization that supports the victimization of women?”
“It doesn’t sit well with me.”
“And yet you continue to work for them.”
“If I were to quit, someone worse might take my place. Besides, Rush doesn’t allow profiting from prostitution in his assembly district,” he said, referring to the Tammany man he reported to, “and even if he did, I would never take a nickel of that sort of graft, you must know that.”
I did know that, and so didn’t press him further. But my hazy notions of his employer’s essential magnanimity had been abruptly dispelled. How could you applaud the Tammany organization for giving free coal to a needy family with one hand when, with the other, it took a cut from the ruin of that family’s daughter? Clearly, the intricate web of interactions I’d perceived as benign had a far more sinister side.
• • •
Detective Petrosino was once again out on a case when we arrived at the Legion’s office, but Detective Cassidi was eating lunch at his desk and greeted us warmly. Or more accurately, he greeted me warmly, jumping up from his desk to pull a chair around for me before returning to his seat, leaving Simon to fend for himself.
“You remember Simon Shaw,” I said as Simon dragged a chair over from one of the other desks.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Shaw,” he said with a brief nod in Simon’s direction. He turned back to me, his eyes aglow. “I have news.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Yesterday, I sent a telegram to my contact in Italy, asking for information on the Fabroni family. This morning, I heard back from him.”
“And?” I asked, leaning toward him.
“There is no Italian ex-convict or wanted criminal by the name of Antonio Fabroni,” he said gravely.
“Oh,” I said, sitting back again.
Lifting his forefinger in the air, he added with a mischievous grin, “Fabroni is, however, the maiden name of the wife of Micello Gagliere, a former capo in Naples and one of the twelve chiefs who ran the Camorra before the crackdown of 1901.”
I gasped. “Are you telling me that Antonio’s mother was married to a Camorrist?”
“So it appears. Serafina Fabroni married Micello Gagliere in 1882. Her husband was imprisoned in 1901 at the age of forty-six, convicted on counts of prostitution, counterfeiting, and extortion. She had one daughter with him, who died at the age of twelve, and a son, named Antonio, who was eighteen at the time of his father’s arrest. Gagliere’s organization remained active during his imprisonment, which caused the police to suspect he was conveying orders to his subordinates through his son. They arrested the son on suspicion but were never able to build a case against him.”
I did a quick calculation: if Antonio Gagliere was eighteen in 1901, he would be twenty-four now—right about the same age as Antonio Fabroni.
“Micello Gagliere was stabbed to death on the day he was released from prison, in November of 1904,” Cassidi continued. “His murderer was never apprehended. His wife and son disappeared from Italy shortly thereafter, although there is no official record of their departure.”
“It all fits!” I exclaimed. “Antonio is the right age, and if he ran the business while his father was in prison, he would have learned the ins and outs of the prostitution trade and be prepared to take it up here. He must have used a false passport to leave the country.”
“You can make it fit, but you can’t be sure you’re right,” Simon interjected. “There are plenty of twenty-four-year-old men in the world, and probably more than one named Antonio Fabroni.”
“Then let’s make sure,” I said. I pulled the photograph out of my bag and slid it over the desk to Cassidi.
The detective’s eyes widened. “How did you get this?” he asked, then immediately put up a hand to silence me. “No, don’t tell me, or I might have to arrest you.” He flashed me a smile. “Either that, or make you an honorary member of the Legion.”
I blushed at the compliment and heard Simon mutter under his breath.
Cassidi looked back at the photograph. “I’ll send this to the Italian authorities on the next mail boat. We know Antonio Gagliere was arrested at least once, so there should be a picture of him in their police files.”
“I’ve received some interesting information as well,” I told the detective. “I’m not sure how it fits in, but the Italian girl who was rescued in Chicago named one of the men who abducted her here in New York. She called him ‘One-Eye.’ If Antonio is, in fact, the ring leader, then perhaps this One-Eye is working for him.” I glanced at the rogues’ gallery on the back wall, looking for anyone who might fit the description.
Cassidi frowned. “The
only one-eyed Italian criminal I know of is a gambler, not a procurer. But I’ll ask the other detectives if anyone comes to mind. I will ask the Italian authorities, as well, if they’ve heard of such a man. Perhaps Fabroni had a one-eyed confederate in Italy who traveled here with him.”
We smiled happily at each other.
Simon sat back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You still need to find where he’s put the girl,” he said, introducing a sour note into our celebratory spirit.
Cassidi turned to him. “As Dr. Summerford is aware, we already have one man watching the peddler we found with Miss Casoria’s valise, and another is following Mr. Fabroni. But I agree, more is needed.” He turned back to me. “Which is why,” he added, “I have asked for more men to help me carry out the next phase of my investigation.”
I clapped my hands together. “What are you planning to do?”
“The next passenger steamer from Italy is scheduled to arrive here tomorrow afternoon. I intend to post detectives at Ellis Island, the Barge Office, and the Thirty-Fourth Street pier to keep an eye on all disembarking passengers. If anyone attempts to take a single girl in hand, whether she comes in steerage or in cabin class, we’ll be ready for him. The men will be instructed not to apprehend any suspects but to follow them to their destination, where, if we are lucky, we might find other women already in captivity, including Miss Casoria.”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!” I cried, feeling a surge of gratitude for this spry little detective who, unlike so many people in power in the city, seemed to have no other agenda but to see that justice was done, and had treated my concerns with respect from the first.
“I only wish we could spare more men,” he added, “but unfortunately, most of them are already tied up with other cases.”
“I could help,” I said. “I could go to the Thirty-Fourth Street pier and be another pair of eyes.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Simon snapped. “Fabroni has already seen you. As have the men from his painting crew. They could all be in on this.”
A Promise of Ruin Page 19