“No, miss,” he said with a sniff. “I never saw the need to learn.”
“Do you think you could help me get it started?”
He shrugged. “I’ve helped Maurice often enough.”
“All right then, grab the crank.” I opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. I’d watched Father and Maurice operate the machine on countless occasions. Once I got the thing going, I thought I ought to be able to manage. I flipped the switch I’d seen Maurice throw before he cranked the engine. “Give it a turn,” I called.
He frowned at me over the hood. “You’ll want to bring the spark down first, miss, so she don’t take my arm off.”
I peered at the two levers attached to the column below the steering wheel. The one on the right was already as far forward as it could go, so I pushed up the one on the left. “All right, go ahead.”
He grasped the crank handle and pulled it upward. The car bucked as the handle jerked back counterclockwise in his hand. He yelped and let go of it, shaking his wrist. “All the way down, miss,” he said, eyeing me with misgiving.
“Sorry.” This time, I moved the lever as far as it would go. “Try again.”
Warily, he grasped the crank and gave it another turn. The engine started up but sputtered out again almost immediately.
I closed my eyes, envisioning Maurice at the controls. After he spun the crank, he always hurried back and pulled both levers partway toward him. “Once more, please.” This time, the moment the engine started, I eased both of the levers toward me. The vehicle shook and coughed, spewing out a cloud of exhaust, and then settled into a steady clatter.
“Open the doors!” I cried, sliding closer to the wheel.
Oliver scratched his head. “Are you sure, miss?”
“Now, Oliver, please!”
While he was swinging the carriage house doors open I grabbed hold of the gear stick, envisioning Maurice as he worked the stick in concert with the clutch pedal. With a silent prayer, I stepped on the pedal and pushed the stick into the low position. As I cautiously lifted my foot from the pedal, the car started to move forward. I gave a silent prayer of thanks and steered toward the open doors. I’d gone only a few feet, however, before the car bucked and stalled once more.
I smacked my palms against the wheel. At this rate, I’d never get out of the carriage house, let alone up to Simon’s and to the cafe. But I’d already wasted too much time to find another conveyance. I gestured impatiently to Oliver to spin the crank. This time, as I let out the clutch I pulled the gas lever all the way toward me. The car lurched toward the door. “Watch out!” I shouted, searching frantically with my foot for the brake pedal. I was halfway across the sidewalk before I found it. I stamped down hard, terrified I might hit a pedestrian, and the engine cut out once more.
I gritted my teeth. All right then; no more braking. “Again!”
Rubbing his shoulder in silent rebuke, Oliver returned to the crank. The car started up, and I cleared the rest of the sidewalk. I veered hard right, afraid to use the brake lest I stall out again, and plunged into the traffic on Madison Avenue. Fortunately, it was Saturday, so traffic was light, but weaving through the vehicles that were on the road, using only the throttle for control, was still a knuckle-whitening exercise. I swerved around a street car, then squeezed between a surrey and an ice wagon, constantly searching the road up ahead for the path of least resistance. As I came to an empty stretch, I tried advancing both levers and felt the car respond with a surge of speed. Spotting a rig approaching the next intersection from the right, I advanced them even more to beat it.
I was now going well over the speed limit and, from the noise the machine was making, guessed I ought to be changing gears, but I was too worried I’d stall out again to try it. And so I weaved on down the avenue and across Eighty-Third Street with the motorcar straining and vibrating in protest, shouting at the occasional pedestrian to get out of my way, until the Isle of Plenty came into view.
A handful of the youngest Wieran boys were clustered under the canopy on the sidewalk. They all turned and stared as I roared up the street and pulled abreast of them. I stomped on the brakes, bringing the engine to an abrupt stop, and leaped out of the car. “Is Simon here?”
Frankie Dolan shook his head. “He’s picking up the tools for carpentry class. He told us to meet him here at eleven o’clock to help him unload.”
My heart sank. I couldn’t wait until eleven; I had to be at the cafe by then. “What about Billie?” I asked, peering into the dark saloon.
“He ain’t here yet,” Frankie told me.
“All right, I need you boys to give Simon a message when he comes,” I told them. “Can you do that for me? It’s extremely important.”
Four heads bobbed in reply.
“Tell him I’m meeting Velloca in a café at eleven o’clock, on the corner of 105th Street and Third Avenue. Have you got that? Tell him they’ve got Katie.”
“Velloca, eleven o’clock, 105th and Third, Katie,” Tommy Farrell repeated. “Got it.”
“And tell him to come as soon as he can!” By the time he arrived, I reasoned, I’d either know where Katie was, or know that Velloca wasn’t going to tell me, so there’d be no need for Simon to stay under cover. I jumped back into the car.
“Frankie,” I called, retarding the spark, “could you turn the crank for me?”
He trotted around to the front to spin the crank, bringing the engine to sputtering life. I pushed out the clutch and threw the gear lever into position, but forgot to advance the spark and gas levers, putting the engine once more through its death throes. I strangled a curse, my eyes tearing in frustration. I shouldn’t have wasted the time trying to bring Simon on board. I was going to fail Katie before I’d even begun…
“Say, Doc, maybe I should drive.” Frankie stood beside my door, watching me with a frown.
I looked up at him, feeling a spark of hope, remembering his ease at the controls of his father’s van. But I was on my way to meet with a vicious criminal, who wouldn’t think twice about hurting anyone who got in his way. It would be inexcusable to introduce a child into such a situation…
He reached across me to adjust the lever then went back to crank the engine. I was still debating as he returned to my side and tweaked the levers with a practiced hand, coaxing the engine from a grumble to a purr. He pulled the door open. “Shove over, Doc,” he said, with the authority of someone three times his age. “I’ll get you where you need to go.”
To my eternal discredit, I moved over and let him drive.
• • •
Exactly ten minutes later, at two minutes before the hour, we pulled up to the curb a block away and around the corner from my destination. “You stay here with the motorcar,” I told Frankie. I had given him a rough explanation of the situation on the way up, not so much as to inspire him to heroics, but enough so he’d know I was serious about him not coming after me. “The man I’m going to meet will not be pleased if he sees I’ve brought someone with me.”
For once, he didn’t protest. I gave him a smile meant to suggest that all was well, although it didn’t quite reach its intended span, and set out toward the café. I saw no sign of Detective Petrosino, who I could only hope was watching from inside one of the storefronts, ready to intervene should Velloca try to spirit me away. I did notice a swarthy-skinned man sitting in an idle wagon halfway down the block, however, who watched me with interest as I walked past. I gave him a wide berth, ready to grab my gun if he climbed out of the wagon.
Reaching the café on the corner unmolested, I wiped my damp palms on my skirt and walked through the open door. Velloca was seated at a table near the back, facing the street. Only two other tables were occupied: one by a couple of young men in dungarees, the other by an older, bearded man near the window. The young men looked up when I entered, but registered no particular interest in my
presence and quickly resumed their conversation. A waiter stood behind a counter in the back, making coffee.
“My dear,” Velloca greeted me without getting up, motioning to the seat across from him. “How wonderful to see you again.”
I lowered myself onto the chair on quaking knees.
“Due caffè, Marco,” he called to the waiter.
“Where’s my housekeeper?” I asked, willing my voice to be strong.
He settled back in his chair. “In my country, we have a custom of breaking bread before conducting business.”
“Well, you’re in America now. We prefer to get to the point.”
He gave me a chilly smile. “As you wish.” He held out his hand, tipping his head toward the envelope.
“Tell me where Katie is first.”
“You are in no position to bargain.”
“You’re in no position not to. If I give these photographs to the police, they’ll have proof that you’re a rapist and a white slave trader.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I think not. The photographs merely show a man and woman engaged in one of life’s most pleasurable activities. Surely, there is nothing wrong with that? They do, however, have a certain sentimental value, which is why I must insist on their return.”
The waiter arrived with two coffees and set them in front of us. I couldn’t be sure Velloca would tell me where Katie was once I handed the envelope over. But since the pictures weren’t actually in the envelope, I really had nothing to lose. I laid it on the table between us. “Now tell me where she is.”
He pulled the envelope toward him. “All in good time,” he said with a contented sigh, tucking it under his arm. “I know you’ll understand when I tell you we must keep her close until Nucci’s trial, to make sure you remember where your loyalty lies.” He pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Wait! We’re not finished.”
His eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “I find your desire to spend more time with me touching,” he said, his gaze raking my body. “Perhaps, at some future date…? But I’m afraid that now, I must go share these photographs with an old acquaintance.”
“Look in the envelope,” I said, easing my skirt up under the table.
Uncertainty flickered across his face. He turned the envelope over and pried it open. As he was doing so, I slid the gun out from under my garters.
He reached into the envelope and pulled out the pieces of paperboard. He stared down at them and then at me, his face flushing. “Where are they?”
“Somewhere you’ll never find them until Katie is returned.”
His eyes narrowed into calculating slits, and for a moment, I glimpsed the reptile behind the smooth facade. He threw the envelope and its contents onto the table. “I regret, for your housekeeper’s sake, that we were unable to come to terms.” He turned and started for the door.
He was calling my bluff. I jumped to my feet, pointing the revolver at his back. “Tell me where she is, or I’ll shoot.”
He stopped, and slowly turned.
All other movement had ceased in the café. The distant cry of a newsboy was the only sound that penetrated the silence as Velloca coolly took my measure.
“Somebody call the police,” I rasped, cocking the hammer with shaking fingers.
Nobody moved.
“Put the gun away, Miss Summerford,” Velloca said, “before you hurt somebody.”
“If you don’t want to get hurt, you’ll tell me where she is.”
He shook his head. “Such big talk, for such a little woman.”
Sweat trickled down my back as we held each other’s gaze. He didn’t think I would shoot, I realized. He was so used to dominating women, he didn’t believe that one could ever best him. For a moment, unnerved by his utter lack of concern, I wasn’t sure I could either.
But then I thought of Lucia’s limp body, and Caterina’s ruined eye, and Teresa’s broken heart. I thought of all the women who were even now lying on a filthy bed in some mining camp or barred up in a brothel against their will. And I thought of Katie, cowering in terror when she should be at home, having her tea. My hands stopped shaking as a strange calm descended over me. I lowered the gun, aiming at his crotch, and fired.
Velloca stared down at the red spot that appeared on the inside of his thigh, then back up at me in astonishment.
“Where is she?” I asked again.
Helpless rage spread across his face.
I aimed higher, at his chest, cocking the hammer again. “Tell me, or I’ll kill you.”
“That won’t be necessary!” The old man by the window leaped to his feet, yanking a false beard off his face and throwing it onto the table. His other hand aimed a revolver at Velloca. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Joseph Petrosino, and you are under arrest.”
Not a fly buzzed in the stunned silence that followed.
Velloca recovered first. “You’re arresting me?” he protested, clutching his bleeding leg. “You should be arresting her! She’s the one with the gun!”
“Put your hands in the air.” Without moving his eyes from Velloca, the detective added, “Please, Dr. Summerford, put away your gun.”
“But what have I done?” Velloca asked. “Surely, it is no crime for an old widower to have coffee with a young woman who has befriended his daughter? A woman who, I have only now discovered, is mentally deranged?”
“You’re charged with unlawfully entering this country to avoid arrest for murder in Italy,” the detective said. “Under Section 21 of the Immigration Act of 1907, you will accordingly be arraigned in federal court and, upon conviction, turned over to the authorities for immediate deportation.”
For the first time in my experience, Velloca seemed to be at a loss for words.
“I said hands up,” Petrosino repeated.
“Very well, detective,” he sputtered, “but at least allow me to tie my wound. I would not wish to bleed to death on the way to the station.” He started limping back toward the table.
“Keep your hands where I can—”
Before the detective could finish his sentence, Velloca had grabbed me and swung me around in front of him. The next second, I felt a knife blade pressing against my throat. “I’ll take that,” he snarled in my ear, wresting the revolver from my hand. I felt him thrust it under his waistband. “Slide your gun toward me on the floor,” he ordered Petrosino.
“You can’t escape, Carulo,” the detective said. “You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Velloca said with a sneer, “but I’ll take my chances. Now give me the gun.”
Petrosino lowered the gun to the floor and slid it toward him. Velloca shoved it under his waistband as well, then started pulling me backward toward the open door.
His arm was tight as a barrel hoop around my chest and shoulders. I locked eyes with Petrosino, praying that he would do something—but he was as helpless as I was. Velloca couldn’t take me far, I told myself. As soon as we were on the street, Petrosino could summon help from nearby patrolmen, who would quickly chase us down…
Then I remembered the man in the wagon, waiting at the curb down the street. If he was one of Velloca’s men, he could drive us away before help arrived. Ignoring the bite of the knife, I dug in my heels and flailed frantically for the doorframe as Velloca started to pull me through. He might slit my throat, but that would be better than ending up alone with him and at his mercy. No matter what he did to me here, I was not going to go through that door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Before I could grab hold of the doorframe, I heard Velloca grunt in surprise and felt him topple backward, pulling me with him. He threw up his arms to catch his balance, releasing his hold on me. I rolled to one side and landed on all fours on the sidewalk.
As I was scrambling to my feet, I saw a young boy crouched
on elbows and knees on the café threshold, his head down and body tucked, with Velloca’s legs sprawled over him. I lunged toward Velloca’s knife hand as it landed on the sidewalk and stepped hard on his wrist, holding it there until Petrosino could run up beside me. The detective leaned over Velloca and smashed the butt of his gun over his head. “Be advised that you are also charged with resisting arrest and assault,” he muttered.
I pulled Frankie out from under the legs of the now unconscious Velloca—for of course it was Frankie on the sidewalk, who had ignored my instructions and come to my aid—and helped him to his feet. “Are you hurt?”
“Nah,” he said, brushing off his pants. He pointed to my throat. “But you’re bleedin’.”
I pulled my handkerchief from my skirt pocket and pressed it against the cut. “It’s just a nick,” I said, “although it could have been much worse. How did you know I was in trouble?”
He shrugged. “I could tell something was dodgy, the way you were acting, so I decided to follow you and keep cases on things.” Warily, he added, “I nicked a newspaper from the stand down the block and started hawking it near the corner, where I could see you through the window. When I saw this monkey start pulling you out the door, I figured it was a good time for a jelly roll.”
I shook my head. “You wonderful, wonderful boy.”
He frowned. “You ain’t mad at me then, for nicking the newspaper?”
“Mad at you! I’m forever in your debt, Frankie Dolan.”
“Say,” he said, his face brightening, “does that mean you might buy me another one of them ice-cream sandwiches?”
“Oh, Frankie.” I grabbed him in a breath-defying hug. “I’m going to buy you a whole cartful.”
I heard an engine start and looked up to see the wagon I’d noted earlier do a U-turn and race to the other end of the street, disappearing onto Lexington Avenue. “I think that might be Velloca’s man,” I told the detective, who was clapping a pair of handcuffs onto Velloca.
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