A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  He raised an eyebrow. “It seems you have a detective’s eye for detail after all, Doctor.”

  “What exactly were you doing?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say just yet. But if you read tomorrow’s paper, I believe all your questions will be answered.” He jumped into the passenger side of the patrol wagon as Cassidi cranked the engine. “We’ll leave Officer McNulty here to stand watch,” he said, nodding toward the uniformed man, who had already returned to the stoop. “But with Velloca on his way back to Italy, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble. The magistrate fixed Nucci’s bail at five thousand dollars this morning, and will likely do the same for this one. Without Velloca to pay for the bail bond, I expect both men will be enjoying a long summer vacation in jail.” He saluted me as the wagon rolled away from the curb.

  Simon came and stood beside me, reaching for my hand as we watched the wagon drive off. I closed my eyes, focusing all my attention on that one simple connection, feeling no need to speak or to move. After the commotion of the last few days, it felt like heaven.

  “So, what did happen with Velloca at the café?” he asked finally, turning toward me.

  I opened my eyes reluctantly. “Well, let’s see. I tried to trick him, and to reason with him, and to threaten him.” I shrugged. “And when none of those worked, I shot him.”

  “You shot him? It wasn’t Petrosino?”

  “Apparently, I was making a citizen’s arrest, although I didn’t know it at the time.”

  He was looking at me with a strange expression. “You’re a marvel, Genna Summerford.”

  I felt myself blush.

  His gaze drifted over my flushed cheeks to my half-parted lips and lingered there. Was it possible, I wondered, that the thought of a woman shooting someone could have a passion-rousing effect? If so, I did hope it wasn’t the only thing that could put that glint in his eye.

  “Hey, Doc, watch this!”

  I turned to see that Frankie had persuaded Officer McNulty to let him borrow his baton and was practicing twirling it, policeman style, by its thong.

  “I’d better get him home,” Simon said. “His father will have been expecting him back after carpentry class.”

  “Oh, yes, you’d better then.”

  He released my hand. “See you for lunch tomorrow?”

  Lunch at his saloon after my Sunday class had become something of a ritual in prior months. “I’ll be there.”

  He turned toward the stoop. “Come on, Frankie. Let’s go.”

  Reluctantly, the boy relinquished the baton, and the two started off down the street.

  I watched them walk away, still hardly able to believe that the nightmare was over. For me at least. But there were thousands of other women, I now knew, who would likely never waken from theirs.

  There was something terribly wrong, I mused as I started back inside, with a world where so many women could be treated so abominably with such near impunity. And it wasn’t just the Vellocas who were the problem. I thought of the quote I’d seen on the kitchen wall at the Goldstein Home, by the reformer George William Curtis: The test of civilization is the estimate of woman. Among savages she is a slave. In the dark ages of Christendom, she is a toy and a sentimental goddess. With increasing moral light, and greater liberty, and more universal justice, she begins to develop as an equal human being. Would we ever have a society, I wondered wearily, where women were given the same respect as the sons they brought into the world?

  I returned to the kitchen to find Maurice and Katie still seated at the table, finishing their tea. After being assured that Maurice had suffered no ill effects from his run-in with Gallo, I asked him to drive me up to 109th Street so that I could tell Teresa and the others about Velloca’s capture, suggesting he take a look at the motorcar first to make sure I hadn’t inflicted any damage. He went to do as I asked, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Katie.

  She got up from the table and carried some teacups and saucers to the sink. I watched her wash and rinse and rack as I had watched a hundred times before, feeling an after-tremor of fear as I thought of how close I’d come to losing her. On impulse, I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” I said, laying my cheek on her back.

  She turned around and grasped my hands, pushing me back as she did so and looking me sternly in the eye. “Now none of that, Miss Genna. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I almost got you killed! I should have listened when you warned me not to get involved—”

  “Don’t you waste another breath apologizing,” she ordered, giving my hands a shake. “I understand now why you got involved! Good lord, what’s the world coming to when a man can steal a woman right off the street? Somebody’s got to stop those devils.”

  She released my hands and returned to the table for more cups. I shook my head in wonder. I must have done something right, if I’d earned even Katie’s approval.

  I followed her to the table and reached for the remaining cups. “We’re going to have quite a story to tell Mother and Father when they get back.”

  She dropped the saucers she was holding back onto the table and swiveled toward me. “Not a word to your parents, about any of this!”

  “But…I thought you said the people who care for us deserve to know the truth!”

  “Oh sure, sure,” she said, wagging her head, “but not your mother and father! It would kill them.”

  I bit back a smile. “Won’t they know we’re keeping something from them? You did tell me I was a terrible liar.”

  “Psh,” she replied, waving her hand in the air. “Don’t you worry on that account. I’m a much better liar than you are. Now you go do what you have to do, and let me clean up my kitchen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nobody answered the door when I knocked at Felisa’s flat. “It’s Genevieve Summerford,” I called, knocking again. “Is anyone home?”

  Several more moments ticked by before the key turned in the lock and the door opened. Teresa gazed out at me, her gaze stony.

  “I have news.”

  She stepped back, and I walked into the foyer, glancing to my right and left. The flat was quiet, the kitchen and the front room abandoned. “Where is everyone?”

  “At church, making a novena. Per la remissione dei loro peccati.”

  For the remission of their sins, I silently translated. I searched her face. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “There is no place for me in God’s house.”

  “But, Teresa, if God is all merciful, surely—”

  She turned away. “You said you have news?” She led me into the kitchen and took a seat at the table.

  “The police have taken Velloca into custody,” I told her, sitting across from her. “They’re sending him back to Italy to stand trial for a murder he committed there. They tell me he is certain to be convicted and sent to prison for a very, very long time.”

  A muscle in her cheek twitched, but she evidenced none of the relief—or the sense of vindication—that I’d been hoping for. “I will tell the others.”

  I studied her with concern. There was a new hardness in her demeanor, a deadness in her eyes that hadn’t been there in the stable. I feared she was walling herself up in punishment, cutting herself off from anything that might bring happiness into her life. “Will you tell Antonio and his mother too?”

  For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed her face. “Felisa will tell them.”

  “Teresa,” I implored, “have you spoken to Antonio at all?”

  “I have no reason to speak to him,” she said flatly.

  I sat back. “What are your plans then?”

  “As soon as I make enough money from the feathers, I will move into a boardinghouse on Elizabeth Street that Felisa knows. I hope to give lessons in Engli
sh to Italian women who wish to learn.”

  “That sounds like a good plan.”

  “But there is one thing that troubles me.”

  “Yes?”

  She clasped her hands on the table. “Rosa. What will become of her?”

  I had been wondering the same thing myself. “Perhaps there are relatives, here or in Italy, who can help care for her and her family after her father goes to prison.”

  “Will she be told of his crimes?”

  “I don’t know. I would hope that her grandmother would keep the whole truth from her and her brothers.”

  “I want to see her.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “She has already lost her mother. I don’t wish her to think I have forgotten her.”

  Well, that was something, I supposed. At least she wasn’t cutting herself off from everyone she’d ever cared for. I reached for a scrap of butcher’s paper and a pencil from the center of the table. “This is her address,” I said, scribbling it down and handing it to her.

  She slipped it into her pocket.

  “You’re a good woman, Teresa.”

  Her lips compressed into a hard line. Without another word, she got up and showed me to the door.

  • • •

  Mrs. Fabroni was holding what appeared to be a snail in her hand when she answered my knock a minute later. “Miss Summerford!” She stepped aside so I could enter. “I am making Antonio’s favorite recipe to celebrate. Won’t you join me?” She gestured toward a work table positioned near the sink. A wicker basket sat on one end with its lid open, next to a bucket of water. I took a seat next to the basket as Mrs. Fabroni crossed to the bucket, plunged the snail briefly into the water, and started scrubbing it with a nail brush.

  “What are you celebrating?” I asked, staring at the horned creature in her hand as it pulled back into its shell.

  She dropped the cleaned snail into a bowl and lifted another one from the basket. “Carulo’s arrest, of course.”

  I looked up at her. “You already know about it?”

  “I’ve had a man following him since the night I last saw you. He told me what happened at the café today.”

  I thought of the man I’d seen in the wagon near the café. “You’ve been following Carulo all this time?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Why else do you suppose he is still alive? I had to have him followed, to make sure Antonio did nothing foolish.”

  It took me a moment to digest this. “You think Antonio wants to kill him?”

  She paused in her brushing, locking eyes with me. “My son is a decent, law-abiding man who wishes only to be a good American. But there are some things a man cannot ignore if he wishes to keep his honor.”

  I shook my head. “Then why have you been protecting Carulo?”

  “I am not protecting him,” she said, resuming her brushing. “I told Antonio I would see to him if the American authorities did not. I made my son promise that he would not sacrifice his own life by killing Carulo and ending up in prison.” Her lips curved into a wry smile. “Even a good son needs help sometimes, keeping his promises.”

  “And…will he be satisfied, do you think, to see Carulo in prison?”

  “That is not the question,” she said, dropping another snail into the bowl. “The question is whether Carulo will go to prison. He has escaped from the Italian authorities before.”

  “But not from custody, as far as I know. He came to America before they could apprehend him. Besides, I expect he’ll be very closely guarded.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “Let us hope so.” She pushed back a snail that was trying to climb out of the bowl.

  “What will you do if he does somehow evade prison?” I asked uneasily.

  She regarded me for a moment in silence, her dark eyes unreadable. Gesturing toward the basket of snails, she said, “My son brought these home for me from the park. They like the damp earth beneath the benches near the shower baths.”

  “Is that right?” I asked queasily. “And they’re safe to eat?”

  “Oh yes, quite safe. And delicious too. But of course, you already know that, for you have eaten them before.”

  “Oh no,” I said, suppressing a shudder. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Oh, but you have! I remember you enjoyed them very much, the first time you came to my home.”

  I blanched, recalling the stew I’d tasted during my visit. “I was eating snails?”

  She eyed me ruefully. “You see, Miss Summerford, sometimes it is better not to know too much.”

  A few minutes later, she walked me to the door.

  “Please say good-bye to Antonio for me,” I said, “and tell him that I wish him well.”

  “Why don’t you stop at the shop on your way out and tell him yourself? He’ll be in the back, washing out his equipment. I am sure he would like to thank you for all you have done on Teresa’s behalf.”

  “Perhaps I will,” I said, for there were things I’d like to say to Antonio as well. I held out my hand. “Good luck, Mrs. Fabroni.”

  She took my hand in a firm grip. “And to you.”

  • • •

  Since it was Sunday, the bar was empty when I arrived at the Isle of Plenty for lunch the next day, but the dining room was filled with families enjoying bowls of creamed oysters with thick slices of buttered bread. I caught Billie’s eye as he came through the doors from the kitchen, carrying a loaded tray over his shoulder. He jerked his head toward Simon’s office, mouthing, “In the back.”

  I waved my thanks and cut across the room, pausing at the door to pinch my cheeks and bite my lips for color.

  “Come in,” Simon called at my knock.

  He was sitting at the table with his sleeves rolled up, staring down at a number of documents spread out before him. “Genna!” he exclaimed with a glance at the wall clock. “I didn’t realize what time it was.”

  I went to stand beside him, peering over his shoulder. “What are those?”

  “Job applications. I’m trying to get some men hired on at the Ninety-Sixth Street power house.”

  There must have been at least a dozen of them. “Shouldn’t they be filling out the applications themselves?” I asked.

  “I’m just giving them my endorsement,” he said, stretching his neck. “They’ll stand a better chance that way.”

  I longed to knead his neck for him, but I wasn’t sure how he would react. In fact, I wasn’t sure quite where things stood between us, now that the crisis was past. “I could come back later, if you’d like.”

  “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t like.” He stacked the papers and pushed them away.

  “Well then, shall we go see what Billie’s cooked up for today?”

  “In a minute,” he said, getting to his feet. “There’s something I want to say to you first.”

  I caught my breath. This sounded serious. Before he could continue, there was a loud knock and the office door flew open. A burly man in dungarees rushed into the room, waving a paper in his hand. His frantic gaze swept over me and landed on Simon. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Shaw, but Billie told me you were in here. I got another notice letter from the landlord; it was under the door when I got home. He says if I don’t pay him his back rent by tomorrow, he’s going to evict me.”

  “Let’s see it,” Simon said. He scanned the paper with a frown. “This isn’t a legal notice. He can’t kick you out yet. Tell him you’re going to pay off a quarter of the back rent each month. You can do that, can’t you? Now that you’re working the extra shift?”

  The man nodded. “That’s what I was planning to do.”

  “Well, make sure he knows it, and tell him I’ll guarantee the payments. I know Fiedler. He’ll agree.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped in relie
f. “Thanks, Mr. Shaw. I swear to you, I’ve never been late on the rent before. It’s just that I fell behind during the strike…”

  “No need to explain, Max,” Simon said, laying a hand on his back and propelling him irresistibly toward the door. “I wouldn’t guarantee the payment if I didn’t think you were good for it.”

  He practically pushed the man out of the room before turning back to face me. “As I was saying. I’ve been doing some thinking. About you and me.”

  “You have?” Definitely serious, then. But was it good serious, or bad?

  “About us getting married,” he added.

  My heart sank. Bad, then. He’d changed his mind about marrying me; he didn’t want to wait, or he’d decided I was too reckless or uncontrollable or under my father’s thumb to make a suitable wife…

  The door flew open again and two young men barged in, one wearing a bandage around his head. “Simon,” demanded the uninjured one, “will you tell this pigheaded brother of mine he’s got to save his fighting for the ring? He won’t be in shape for Saturday if he keeps going after every bum who rubs him the wrong way.”

  “Do I look like a baby minder?” Simon growled. He put a hand on each of their shoulders and turned them around. “Try to work it out between yourselves, will you, boys? And if you can’t do that, come back and see me on Monday. The office is closed.”

  He shut the door firmly behind them and turned to face me. “Remind me to tell Billie I’m not to be disturbed, the next time you visit.”

  “You can’t do that,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “People might think something improper was going on.”

  He started toward me, his eyes gleaming. “Maybe they’d be right.”

  Hmm. Perhaps not bad serious, after all…

  He came to a stop a foot away, so close I had to tilt back my head to look up at him. “I thought for a while that I might have lost you, when you disappeared from that poultry plant,” he said, his voice husky with the memory. He shook his head. “I never want to feel that way again. But it made me think about what’s important. In fact, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last few days.” His gaze drifted over my face, certain and determined. “I know I told you before that I couldn’t be all in while you were still deciding. But the truth is, I’m already all in. I’m in so deep, I can’t tell which way is up and which is down anymore. I do know, though, that I’m not doing myself any good drawing a line in the sand, when the one thing I want most in the world is standing on the other side of it.”