Cindy Thomson - [Ellis Island 01]

by Grace's Pictures

“Ever been to one of those maid dances?”

  “Me? No.”

  “Owen rarely goes anywhere,” Jake added, popping up on Owen’s left.

  Thanks, Jake.

  “I invited a pretty lass to come tonight. Ye fellas might remember seeing her around the Battery when ye were patrolling.”

  Jake groaned. “Not one of those ladies of the evening, Walter. What are you thinking?”

  Walter reached around Owen to slap Jake’s back. “Not the typical one, anyway. Yous might have seen her loitering some time back, but she didn’t stay around. This one is maid for my wee cousin’s school chum.”

  “Swell.” Jake attempted to steer Owen on ahead of Walter, but the man kept trailing right along with them.

  “The Parkers over on Fourteenth. Nice house. Real nice.”

  Owen waited up for him. “You don’t mean Grace McCaffery?”

  “Oh, and you do remember her, so.” He whistled. “Fine-looking lass.”

  Jake tugged on Owen’s arm. “Let it go. None of our concern.”

  Owen put his hand on Jake’s shoulder before they ascended the stairs at headquarters and muttered in his ear. “You know how Walter treats the ladies?”

  “Yeah. Chews ’em up and spits ’em out. He’s always trying to one-up you, Owen. Haven’t you noticed? It’s his problem. Ignore him.”

  “Reverend Clarke would want me to do something for that young lady.”

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So do something. Hey, Walter, hurry up.”

  The man jogged up next to them.

  Jake slapped the Irishman on the shoulder. “Where’s this dance held?”

  When Owen entered the hall Thursday evening, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. The building was familiar. He’d passed it every day on his way to the station. “Are you sure this is the right address, Jake?”

  “Yeah. These kinds of dances are pretty plain. The musicians will be here soon.”

  “Your wife all right with you coming?”

  “Sure. I told her I had to look out for you.”

  “You didn’t have to come.”

  “And let you deal with Feeny alone should something brew up? No way.”

  Inside the wood frame building, a row of folding chairs lined one wall. A few people mingled about. Jake found someone he knew and left Owen sitting alone. That old feeling of not belonging swept over him again like a murmuration of black-winged birds, back and forth, in and out. He thought he’d be fine; then he wanted to run out the door. But of course he couldn’t. Grace might need him.

  He sipped on a fizzy drink as five men carrying instruments pulled chairs together in a circle. Two fiddles, a round skin-covered drum, an accordion, and a small flute. Owen sat on a chair across from them while Jake continued to talk with a couple of fellows.

  Owen was still there much later when the music was in full swing and dancers twirled about. He’d tried to strike up conversations with folks sitting nearby, but the music made that nearly impossible. When he stood to refill his refreshment, his eyes fell on a petite girl dancing in the center of the crowd.

  Grace McCaffery.

  Feeny swung her around on one arm. They clapped their hands and stomped their feet. Owen kept his eyes on them.

  Someone leaned toward him. “Lose yer date, did ye?” A wiry old gent glared at him over the top of spectacles.

  “Uh, I didn’t have a . . .”

  “Don’t need a partner to dance.” The man shrugged and looked toward the crowd.

  Owen smiled and stuck a hand in his pocket to check for his watch. Still there. “I was just going to get . . .” He held up his cup. He didn’t know what the Irish called their fountain drinks. “Would you like something?”

  “Thank you, no. Enjoy!” The old man winked and then wormed his way into the crowd, singing at the top of his voice.

  Owen had never had trouble making friends, but he was in foreign territory, and it seemed everyone knew it. They parted when he walked by. One or two folks acknowledged him as a cop in their neighborhood but then moved on.

  Leaning against the refreshment table, he caught another glimpse of Grace. Her normally pale cheeks flushed, and while those around her seemed to be having a good time, Grace appeared as annoyed and uncomfortable as he felt. When the music stopped, he approached her. He overheard their conversation.

  “I told you, I don’t care for any of the Feenys.” Grace tried to pull away from Walter but he held fast to her sleeve.

  “We Feenys are just friendly, that’s all. You don’t know what’s good for ye, simpleminded as ye are. New York’s a big scary place for weaklings. Let me help ye.”

  “Let go of me!”

  Owen pushed his way in and towered over them both. “Walter. Enjoying the dance?”

  Grace did not look up at him. “I don’t need your help, Officer.”

  Walter sneered. “Hear the lady, McNulty?”

  Owen gripped the man’s shoulder. “What’s the trouble?”

  Walter huffed. “You see this here lass, McNulty? We know her kind, don’t we?”

  Grace ducked between them and inched away.

  “Whoa, now.” Owen caught her arm before she got two paces away.

  “I told you I did nothing wrong,” she whispered. “Now leave me alone.”

  “I didn’t say you did. Is he bothering you, Grace?”

  “He is. And so are you.”

  She managed to get through the crowd and out the door to the street before he could stop her. When he caught up, he found her leaning against a vacant hitching post, chest heaving as though she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “What’s wrong, Grace? Feeny’s gone. He won’t bother you.”

  She gazed at him, wild-eyed. “You can’t take me away again. I won’t let you! Any of you!”

  “What are you talking about? No one’s taking you anywhere.” He placed his hands gently on her arms, hoping to nudge her out of whatever trance she seemed to be in.

  “Peelers. The cottage. Burning. Pulled me away.” She turned her face toward him, swollen with tears. “How could he do this all over again? He married my mother!”

  “Walter Feeny? No, Grace, you’re confused. I told you, he won’t—”

  She broke away from him and tore down the alley.

  “Wait!”

  She turned. Owen rushed toward her. She ducked into a cross alley and he tore after her. A dog, barking an alarm, chased him for a few moments until he reluctantly kicked it away. Ahead he saw Grace trip over discarded tin cans and reach for her knee.

  “Wait, Grace!”

  They emerged at the bottom of a set of stairs leading to the elevated train.

  She scrambled up the steps and threw herself onto a train seat just as the car lurched forward, bellowing steam.

  Jake pulled up next to Owen. “What happened? I heard a commotion, and folks said you were following the McCaffery girl out here.”

  “I’m not sure what happened. Feeny had his hands on her. She didn’t like it much, and I was steering him away when she just took off like a shot.”

  Jake smacked his lips together. “Odd. She’s disturbed in the head, Owen.”

  “I don’t know. Something has traumatized her, that’s for sure, and Feeny, despicable as he can be, didn’t have an opportunity to do any harm. She got on the el.”

  “Well, you accomplished what we came here for. You kept her out of Feeny’s clutches. I’m ready to head home now.”

  Owen knew Jake needed to get back to his wife, so he didn’t mention that he had some promising information from the pawnbroker and would be headed down to the park, especially since he knew Feeny wasn’t on patrol tonight. “See you tomorrow, Jake. Tell Sandra and the kids hello for me.”

  Owen pulled his collar up and hailed a cab. Not in uniform, he could be an ordinary citizen and not draw attention to himself. “Night fishing,” he explained to the driver.

  The man laughed. “Oh, sure. But not t
he kind you’d do in the Hudson, I don’t suppose.”

  It was a lame excuse, but Owen didn’t need to explain himself.

  After he paid the driver and gave his horse’s nose a pat, he lumbered off toward the benches near the center of the green area. A quick check of his watch told him he’d arrived in time. Goo Goo Knox himself had been making personal visits to some of the cops in the Battery according to the pawnbroker. Tonight Owen would just observe. He had to determine if the pawnbroker was trustworthy.

  A few moments later a police wagon stopped on State Street. A couple of cops jumped out and headed straight for him. Owen glanced around. Seeing no one near, he realized they were coming for him. He darted behind the statue into the shadows.

  “McNulty! Come out here. We’ve had an emergency call from your mother.”

  Owen considered the possibility that Big Bill had set him up, but when he recognized one of the men, he came out of hiding.

  “Captain Nicholson, how did you know where—?”

  “C’mon, McNulty. You can use the phone at the closest precinct.”

  “Mother? Calm down. I can’t understand you.”

  “Owen, yesterday the bankers called. Maybe that brought it on.”

  “What, Mother? Brought what on?”

  “Your father’s heart trouble. Oh, Owen, your father is ill and now the business might fail. You must come home.”

  “Is he . . . all right? Are you at the hospital?”

  “No. We are home. He’s stable.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Owen hung up the phone and returned to the wagon where his captain waited. “Thank you, but how did you know where to find me?”

  “You were not at home. Telephoned over to Stockton’s place and he said you were going home. Figured you took me up on the . . . suggestion. Know what I mean? And sure enough you were in the Battery.”

  “Yes.”

  As Owen hailed another cab, this time headed uptown, he pondered what Nicholson might be up to. From the time he left Jake to the time Nicholson found him in the Battery . . . well, no. Nicholson could not have been blindly searching for him. He’d found him too quickly. But why would his own captain, a man who’d told him he wanted to go against headquarters and run the Dusters out of Battery Park, be trailing him?

  A young Irish servant Owen had not seen before opened the door of his parents’ house for him and led him upstairs to his father’s bedchamber. Owen’s mother sat dozing on a chair. In the dim room he could barely see his father’s face, but he heard his snoring. The servant quietly closed the door behind her. Owen tapped his mother’s shoulder. “Mother?”

  Her eyelids rose and then she sat up, dropping the book she’d been reading to the floor. “Owen. When did you get here?”

  “Just now. How is father?”

  She stood and took his father’s hand. “Resting. The doctor was just here.”

  “Son?”

  “I’m here, Father.” Owen moved to the opposite side of the bed and leaned down.

  “Good, good. Listen.” He licked his lips.

  “Rest, Father. We can talk in the morning.”

  “No. Listen. In the morning, go to my office. Bring the books home with you.”

  “Father, I do not think now is a good time—”

  “Can’t trust Blevins. You hear me?”

  “I will. Now rest.”

  His father sighed, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

  When Owen and his mother got to the parlor, Owen had plenty of questions for her. “Since when does Father not trust his closest colleague, Mother?”

  “Since the bankers threatened foreclosure. Please, Owen, you’ve got to go look into it.”

  She was right. But he was just about to root out the leader of the Hudson Dusters. He could not be in two places at the same time. He stood. “I’ll handle this. Get me Father’s keys.”

  Grabbing his coat, he kissed his mother and then rushed down the four blocks to his father’s office. He let himself in, flicked on the electric light, and headed toward the file cabinet behind his father’s desk. After retrieving the account books for the last several months, he locked the office door and turned toward the entrance.

  A light shone from under another door. He knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  “Owen McNulty. Who’s in there?”

  The door flung open. His father’s associate, Alvin Blevins, blinked bloodshot eyes at him. “Glad you’re here, son. I’ve been going over my salaries and such, trying to see where we can cut expenses.”

  “That’s not your area of expertise, Mr. Blevins.”

  The man shook his head. “I know. I always follow your father’s direction and carry out his orders, but in times like these . . .” He glanced to the books in Owen’s hands. “Ah, the accounts.” He reached for them. “Perhaps I can cut expenses there as well. Maybe return some of our stock.”

  Owen backed away. “I’ll be handling that.”

  “Fine, fine. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  “There isn’t. Go on home now. I’ll lock up.”

  “Well . . .” He sputtered his lips. “Yes, very well.”

  Owen waited until the man was properly attired and then followed him out, where they said good-bye. He had never even asked about Owen’s father’s condition.

  25

  THE HAWK SPUTTERED through her lips when she saw Grace’s scraped knee but made no other comment. Somehow that woman knew when to speak up and when to keep silent. Grace tried to explain. “I just wanted to leave sooner than everyone else. I was tired, you know.”

  “Yes, yes. You work hard, love. When Annie gets home, we’ll give her your skirt. She’ll have it mended before you need it again.”

  Grace went to her room and shut the door. She’d messed up . . . again. If this Feeny complained about her to the Parkers, she might lose her job. He’d spoken what she was afraid to acknowledge. Simpleminded. She closed her eyes tight. God, if you hear me, help me understand. Why have the Feenys followed me all the way to America?

  Grace relived her outburst in the alley. Owen had been there. He had always been there when she needed help, but this time she had pushed him away. He was not like the Feenys. She knew that. She’d just failed to believe it before. Mr. Parker liked Owen and Owen would stand up for her. Mr. Parker did not know Walter Feeny. She’d been foolish to think Feeny could get her fired over seeing her in the park. She’d done nothing wrong. Oh, God, why do I keep listening to people like the Feenys? Like her da?

  Grace lit the gas lamp on the desk and sat in front of it. She needed to do something. Take action. Not allow Walter Feeny to bully her out of her job. Hazel, Holly, Linden, the wee babe Douglas. They needed her now. Springing from her chair, she retrieved her camera and checked to see how much film it held. If Mr. Parker saw for himself evidence of how happy his children were with her, he would have no reason to let her go.

  She couldn’t sleep, so she wandered down to the kitchen for a snack. Noting that the garbage had not been taken out, she picked it up and stepped outside.

  There were always people out and about in New York. She thought nothing of the figures milling about in the alley until she caught the outline of a police helmet. Walter Feeny in uniform stood leaning against the adjacent house.

  “Got McNulty’s shift for tonight. Captain called me in right after the dance.”

  “How nice for you.” She emptied the can she had in a trash barrel and turned toward the door to the kitchen.

  “Ye left the dance in an awful hurry.”

  “I . . . wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Well, I’ll be seeing ye about, Rosie.”

  She spun around. “Why did you call me that?” Rosie was the insulting moniker that man in the park had given her.

  He crossed his arms. “Ain’t that what old Smokey calls ye, or is that a name—” he came toward her—“just between the two of ye?”

  “You’re making that up jus
t to scare me.”

  “What’s the matter, lass? Don’t like cops? Just McNulty?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He laughed. “We’re not all the same, ye know. McNulty’s just a soft ole college boy.”

  She set the can down and crossed her arms to match his authoritative stance. “What does that matter to me?”

  “Smokey is a lookout, protection for his gang boss. Sometimes he takes jobs from folks to . . . intimidate their enemies. I suppose ye didn’t know as dull as ye are, but some of us on patrol observed ye speaking to him.”

  “You mentioned that before. I told you, I don’t know him.”

  “He quite certain knows ye.” He winked. “Do ye recall spying on a card game, lass? With that box camera of yers?”

  How does he know about that?

  “I can see from yer face ye do. Smokey recognized ye from that night, lass. There’s folks don’t like their picture made. Makes ’em real mad, it does. Ye probably don’t even know ye took a photograph that night of a reformer, a fella that preaches against gambling.”

  “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know anything about that.”

  He held up his palms while his nightstick dangled from a leather cord around his wrist. “I understand. Blameless folks can get caught in the webs they don’t see, don’t ye know? But nothing for ye to worry about. Just give me the photograph, and no one gets hurt, see? No need to worry about Smokey being after ye.”

  “He’s after me?”

  “Now didn’t I just say so, lass?”

  Photograph? She was not at all sure which roll of film that shot might be on. “I don’t have it.”

  “Now, don’t be putting up a fuss about it. I’m trying to help ye.”

  Fat chance. “I sent the rolls off to Kodak. I haven’t yet received the prints.”

  “I see.” He lifted his round shoulders as he turned away. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ye.”

  She glared at his despicable wee round head and noted the smell of the garbage still clinging to her hands. “And why aren’t you out there right now looking for that Smokey fellow, Officer?” she shouted at his back.

  He laughed. “So little ye know, lass. It’s all about favors.”