“No, no. Let me do that.” She took the tray from Grace’s arms. “I’m here to help and I intend to. I can only imagine how weary you must be, child.”
What a relief—both that her exhaustion was acknowledged and that this woman did not seem inclined to call her an Irish biddy.
Mrs. Parker, who had not long ago returned from her nap, sat in a rocker by the fire in the parlor, wee Douglas snuggled to her breast. She complained of soreness whenever she moved, so it seemed best for her to rest. Grace had been doing everything for her.
The children gathered at their father’s command and he introduced them to their aunt. Grace wondered why they didn’t already know her. Perhaps Mr. Parker had stayed away from his family because they would know who he truly was.
The woman bent low to speak to the children. “You all will call me Auntie. While your mother is recovering, you come to me if you need anything. I’ve brought books and paints. We’ll get along famously.”
Holly clapped her hands, but Hazel held back. “We have Miss Gracie.”
Auntie Edith put an arm around Grace and squeezed her close. “Of course you do, children, but your nanny needs a rest. She’s going home for a few days. But she’ll be back. Won’t you, Grace?”
“I will.”
Hazel frowned. “What about our Christmas dinner?”
Mr. Parker grunted. Mrs. Parker was silent.
Edith whispered in Grace’s ear. “Do you have anything prepared?”
“In the icebox there is a Christmas goose prepared to roast, cranberries cooked and jelled, and the ingredients for oyster stuffing.”
Edith bobbed her head. “See there, children. We have all we need. With your cooperation, I’ll finish the meal and we’ll all eat together.”
A nurse in a starched uniform escorted Owen to his father’s bedside. His father was asleep. “What’s wrong with him?” Owen whispered.
“Heart trouble.” The nurse backed away, fiddled with something on the side table, and then left.
Owen had never seen his father looking so old, so weak, so weathered. His forehead perspired and his breathing was labored.
A short time later a doctor stopped at the foot of the bed. “How’s the patient?” The doctor, wearing a pince-nez, smelled of iodine.
“You tell me.”
“I’m Dr. Thorp. Is this your father?”
“Yes. My apologies. I’m Owen McNulty.” Owen shook the man’s hand.
“Has he ever have heart trouble before?”
“Not that I know of. We . . . uh . . . we haven’t seen each other in a while. Have you spoken to my mother?”
“No. I wasn’t on duty when they brought him in last night. Do you expect her?”
“Yes. Shortly. How is he, Doctor?”
He held up a finger and then approached Owen’s father and held a stethoscope to the patient’s chest. Then he checked his pulse, looped the instrument back around his neck, and leaned against the bed’s foot rail, arms across his chest. “What does he do for a living?”
“He owns a chain of dry goods stores. Very successful—perhaps you’ve heard of them.”
“McNulty? Ah, yes, indeed. Does he have a staff of executives to help run the business, or do you do that?”
“Uh, no. He has one close associate, but mostly he prefers to handle operations himself. I am a New York City policeman.”
“Well, he’ll need a few days of rest here. Then some convalescing at home. After a month, if all goes well, he can return to work. He’ll have to take it easy, though. Get regular fresh air outings and eat properly. No sausages or other spicy foods to upset the stomach. If he does that, I believe his heart will give him several more years.”
“Thank you.”
“Any chance you can take over the business duties until he’s better?”
“I’ll think of something.”
After the doctor left, Owen considered his options. If he could get a leave of absence, he could help out, but he knew his father would use that opportunity to try to convince him it was his obligation to stay on. Maybe he should consider it. Owen had been so sure God had called him to police work, especially after Mr. O’Toole had expressed his gratitude and told him there was no doubt he was meant for the job. But losing the O’Toole watch made him second-guess himself.
The clanging of metal and a few groans somewhere down the hall interrupted his thoughts. He looked again at his father, so frail. A clattering of footsteps. He turned.
“Oh, Owen. How is he? Did you talk to the doctor?”
“Calm down, Mother. He needs to rest.” He proceeded to tell her what the doctor had said, minus the suggestion that he help out with the business.
“How will we manage, Owen?”
“I’ll think of something.”
When Owen got to work late that afternoon, he discovered that Jake had the night off. He should have remembered. He was not surprised that the captain had scheduled him for patrol in the Fourth Ward instead of the park.
“Hey, McNulty.” Nicholson motioned for him to come into his office. He shut the door. “Look. I’m pulling you and Stockton off the Dusters.”
“What? Why?”
“Big Bill got wind of it. He’s the boss.”
Owen stomped his foot. “What reason did he give?”
“Says you boys would be better working Chinatown, where the folks like you better. Feeny and that unit will patrol the Battery.”
“Feeny’s in with the Dusters and you know it.”
“Come on, McNulty. We can’t prove that. Now collect your badge and be on your way.”
“That’s it? Captain, what about the societies pulling out? What about the crime that’s going to spread down there like rabbits? You were worried about that.”
“I still am.” He leaned over to whisper. “What you and Jake actually do, I got no idea. You boys are out there in the dark. You might start out in the Fourth when it’s daylight, but how am I to know where you go when it’s too dark to see out there?”
“Gotcha.”
“Tonight, no Stockton. You stick to the assignment.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Captain? What if I were to need a few weeks off?”
“Criminy! What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. But what if I had something I had to attend to first?”
“No way.” He swore and paced behind his desk. Then he looked up. “All right, then. I could try to get someone from Stockton’s former precinct. But the time we’d lose . . . I don’t know. We need you, Owen. For the first time since you joined us, we really need you.”
“Never mind. I’m in.” More important than the promotion was the fact that Big Bill could not be allowed to bully them over this and put innocent immigrants in danger.
Grace collapsed onto a dining room chair just as Annie was serving Christmas dinner. The smell of roasted meat made her mouth water. Grace had eaten so little the last few days that any meal sounded good.
“Mrs. Parker wears you out, doesn’t she?” Annie set a large bowl of potatoes in the center of the table.
Mrs. Hawkins reached across the table and patted Grace’s arm. “She doesn’t need to answer for us to see that. Take a hot bath right after supper, love. It will relax you and help you sleep.”
That sounded glorious. “Are you sure you don’t mind? The coal it takes to warm—”
“We’ve enough. Take the bath, love.”
Annie poured glasses of milk and then they all bowed their heads.
Mrs. Hawkins prayed. “On this most holy day of our Savior’s birth, we give thanks and especially thank you for the safe arrival of the Parker infant. Bless this food, almighty Father. We thank you for your providence and the bounty you provide. Amen.”
So weary were Grace’s arms that even buttering her bread was a chore. The warm meat and gravy seemed to be the best thing she’d ever eaten. With her stomach full, she climbed the stairs and closed herself in the bathroom. Privacy at last.
Until someone
knocked on the door.
“I forgot to give you this.” Annie shoved a piece of paper under the door. “It came yesterday.”
“Thank you.”
Grace picked it up, hoping to see her mother’s handwriting, but it wasn’t what she thought. S. P. Feeny. Why would he write? She dropped the letter. Please, God. My mother is a pious woman. You wouldn’t let anything happen to her, would you?
But she could not think of any other reason he would write. She dropped to the floor next to the letter, stared at it a moment, and then picked it up. Fingers trembling, she opened it. No greeting, no well-wishes, and thankfully no despairing news.
I got a nephew in the New York police. He’s agreed to check in on you, Grace, assure your mother you are well. Expect to hear from Walter Feeny and give him a report. I will explain at a later date. Your mother is fine, although concerned about you.
Grace closed her eyes. She had written to her mother as soon as she’d arrived in New York, but clearly she had not received the letter when S. P. wrote this note. She would write again tomorrow and hope to reassure her mother as soon as possible. There was no need for some relative of S. P.’s to get involved. No need for S. P. to stick his nose into her business.
22
WITH HIS FATHER RESTING COMFORTABLY in the hospital, Owen decided to meander the streets the next day before his shift and seek out a pawnbroker. He also needed information—and trustworthy sources—that he hadn’t had time to search out during his patrol.
Shopkeeper after shopkeeper told him either they had no silver pocket watches or else they had some, but not his. As he neared Cedar Street, he stopped at a small shop with an array of jewelry in the window.
The shopkeeper rubbed his whiskered chin. “Got one, but . . . it’s not available.”
“May I see it?”
The man narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you around here. You’re a beat cop . . . What is it? Oh yeah, McNulty. That’s you, ain’t it, college boy?”
The words rubbed like raw wool. Owen stretched out his hand. “Owen McNulty. But I’m off duty.”
The man took his hand with a weak grip. “I don’t deal in stolen goods.”
“I assure you today I’m just a customer.”
“So you say.”
“May I see the watch?”
“Fine.” He brought out a box from under the counter. “I don’t sell to cops.”
When he took the lid off, Owen saw that it was the O’Toole watch. “You can see that this is a police-issued piece.”
He immediately slammed the lid back on the box. “You said no police work today.”
“It’s a private matter.”
“I’m not getting in the middle of some dispute. Good day, Officer.”
“I’ll be back.”
Owen wasn’t sure how much to tell that man. He could have demanded the watch back. He could have paid him much more than it was worth. But neither of those things would earn him the respect he needed in that neighborhood to do his job.
That evening after nightfall, Owen and Jake were on their way to Battery Park. Owen had not even been thinking about the pawnbroker when they passed by, but Jake mentioned it. “Did you try looking for your watch?”
Owen glanced across the street to the sign with the three gold balls, the mark of the business. “I . . . uh, yeah. I believe I found it.”
“That’s great. I hope you didn’t have to pay to spring it.”
“Long story, but I couldn’t get it yet.”
“Let me talk to the fellow. I’ll get him to give it up. It’s stolen property.”
Owen put a hand on his partner’s chest. “Not just yet.”
After several rounds through the park and up and down State Street, they rested on a bench and stared toward the Western Union telegraph office.
Laughter came from the shadowy corners near the water.
“C’mon.” Owen led the way.
They approached two merchant sailors. “Public drunkenness is against the law,” Owen said.
One staggered toward him, his breath smelling like rotting garbage. “Going to arrest me, Officer?”
Jake took hold of his arm.
“That depends,” Owen said. “You sniffing the white powder?”
“Might. It ain’t against the law.”
It should be. “Public intoxication is, pal.”
The other fellow said nothing but rubbed his nose in a way that told Owen he’d been partying with some of the Dusters gang.
“Tell you what.” Owen put a hand on the pistol at his waist, just to make a point. “You do me a favor, and I’ll do you one.”
“What?” The subject chuckled as though this was some vaudeville act.
“Take me to the fellas who gave you the sniff, see, and I’ll send you on your way, free and clear.”
This time the sailor burst out into full laughter and his buddy joined him.
Owen’s face grew hot.
Jake tugged the guy along. “We got a wagon over here.” They did not.
“Hey, I did nothing.”
“Disturbing the peace ain’t nothing,” Jake bellowed.
Owen had hoped not to use rough intimidation. He would have to communicate better with his partner in the future.
“I don’t know where the guys went. I don’t.”
Jake shoved the man away. “Says you.”
The man straightened his coat and the two of them marched off. Then the first man stopped and turned. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell your kind of cop. If Feeny were here, he wouldn’t care.”
Feeny! That man grated on Owen’s nerves like a starched collar.
“Come on, Jake.”
“Where? There’s nowhere else to look. They’ve gone.”
“Suppose that pawnbroker is still open?”
Jake scrambled to catch up. “Let’s go see.”
The lights were still on, so Owen tried the door. It was unlatched, so they went in. The sound of boxes falling in a back room was followed by the appearance of the man Owen had spoken to earlier.
“Ah, come in.” The man beckoned them in with a wave of his hand. “I don’t want any trouble, Officers.”
“Still have that watch?” Owen approached the counter with Jake at his heels.
“Oh, it’s you. It’s yours for fifteen dollars.”
“What?” Jake nearly came out of his shoes.
“Hold on, Jake. I told you I’d handle this.”
The man lifted his hands. “I run an honest shop. Like I said before, I don’t usually sell to cops. I’m doing you a favor.”
“Fat chance,” Jake mumbled from behind.
Owen accepted a box from the man and lifted the lid to expose the O’Toole watch. He reached into his pocket. He’d brought some savings with him, what he kept under his mattress for emergencies. He hadn’t decided until this moment whether he’d pay the man. “Here you go.”
“What are you doing?” Jake slapped his hand on top of the bills on the counter.
“The man’s just doing his job, and I did tell him it was not police business.”
The pawnbroker grinned at Owen.
“But it was stolen while you were on duty. I don’t see why—”
Owen grabbed his partner by the collar. “We’ll be going now.”
Jake complained loudly all the way outside.
“Don’t you see, Jakey? We’ve earned his trust.”
“Paid for it, you mean.”
“Well, I suppose, but besides that I made him a promise and I did not go back on it. He’ll be on our side should we need him in the future.”
“You sure?”
“Instincts, Jakey. Instincts.” Owen might be getting a handle on things after all.
Owen visited the shop the next day.
“You again?” The man sat on a stool examining jewelry and glared at him from behind a magnifier.
“A word, if you don’t mind.”
“Look, Officer. I pay off some fellows from your p
recinct and in return, they stay out of here. I think I pay out enough.”
“I’m not looking for that. Something else.”
“Information, I suppose.”
“That’s right. You know I’m a man of my word, an honest cop. It’s my job to protect the hardworking citizenry, and I’m going to do it.”
The man smiled. “Well, it’s about time. It’s about ever-loving time! Come into my office.”
Owen followed the man into a back room and sat on a crate. “What can you tell me about what goes on around here? I’m looking to find Goo Goo Knox. Know who I mean?”
“First, let me tell you about a little project some folks got going, businessmen and well-to-dos who don’t like public debauchery. Folks who want to put some pressure on the police force to get things done.”
“Go on.”
The man leaned back in his office chair and tented his fingers. “They are calling themselves the Committee of Fifteen. You might not have heard of them yet, but I’ll venture that in the future you’ll hear plenty. They are doing their own investigations, writing up reports—stuff the cops ought to be doing. When they present the information publicly, they figure the department will have no choice but to follow through.”
“Interesting. Citizens demanding the law be enforced. I like that.”
“Thought you would. Now, as for that Goo Goo fella.” He turned back to his desk and scribbled something on a pad of paper, tore it off, and handed it to Owen. “Go there. Ask for that fella. You probably have his face on your mug shot wall, so it shouldn’t be hard to find him. He’ll tell you what you need to know.”
“Why would he do that? Do I need to pay him?”
The pawnbroker laughed. “Sometimes a fella likes to see a guy get what’s coming to him, know what I mean?” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Look, McNulty. I know there’s got to be good guys on the force. I figure you’re one of ’em. You can trust what I gave you. Can I trust you not to muck it up?”
Owen stood and stretched out his hand. “You most certainly can.”
23
“HELP, MISS GRACIE!”
Grace spun around before opening the oven, thankful she’d not caused the cake to fall with an unintended blast of cold air. “What is it, Hazel?”
Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01] Page 17