His eyes widened. “Ah, yes indeed. Come in, young man.”
He was led to a room lit by a single lightbulb hanging over a long oak table. Owen guessed there were fifteen men seated around it, counting the man who had risen to answer his knock. “Take my chair,” the mustached man said, pointing to the lone empty spot.
“I can stand.”
“Oh no. We all want to speak with you. Please sit.”
Owen felt the stares as he took a seat. A gentleman seated at the head of the table grunted and twiddled his thumbs. After an awkward moment of silence, the man spoke. “I am William Baldwin, chairman. McNulty, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He proceeded to introduce each man by name. About halfway through, Owen recognized one of them. Blevins, his father’s friend and business associate. He stood, halting the introductions. “Owen, let me explain. I’m here solely because of what the criminals are doing—”
“As we all are, Blevins,” the man to his right said. “Sit down, please.”
He acquiesced, and the introductions continued until they ended with the man at the head. Owen barely heard the names. They were wealthy concerned citizens—railroad men, university presidents, lawyers, publishing giants—just as the pawnbroker had said. But Owen had never imagined Blevins would be involved.
The committee chair spoke. “Nicholson sent you here?”
“He did. I was supposed to—”
“I understand.” The man turned to his right. “Edwin, is this the man?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
Owen wasn’t sure he recognized the man who confirmed his identity. “Were you the man I spoke to over by the Hudson River docks?”
“No, no, but I consulted with the gentleman a few hours ago. We hire these men . . . investigators of a sort. We thought you’d changed your mind about bringing in that Dusters gang leader when you didn’t show up for your arranged meeting.”
“Oh no. I apologize. I have not changed my mind. My father . . . Well, I was detained.”
The man stood abruptly and slammed a fist into his open palm. “There can be no dereliction of duty here.”
Owen’s neck began to sweat. “No, sir. I assure you I am committed to this end.”
The man remained standing while the others shifted on their wooden chairs and murmured to each other. The man began to shout. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. Time is of the essence.” He passed around a paper. When it came to Owen, he saw that it was the Disorderly House Report the other man had filled out that night. Goo Goo Knox was clearly written on one line. The man seated next to Owen cleared his throat, and Owen passed the paper on.
After they all had examined it, the man called Edwin demanded order again. “I am prepared to give you all the information we have, Officer McNulty, with one condition.”
“Yes, sir. What is it?”
“You must see to the matter immediately. No delays for any reason. If the settlement missions move out, Lower Manhattan will be overrun with debauchery. Can you tell me you will do so, Officer?”
“I give you my word.”
The man twisted his jaw before he spoke again. “With the current condition of the police force and the Tammany Hall machine that controls much of it, I’m afraid that is not enough.”
His word wasn’t enough? “What more can I offer, sir?”
“Tell us here why you are committed to this. Do you have any compulsion other than the orders of your precinct captain?”
“I do.” Owen explained the day he’d tried to help Officer O’Toole and the little girl when they were struck by the trolley car. His voice caught, surprising him. He thought he had been controlling his emotion. He swallowed hard and continued. “I didn’t understand how miserable conditions were for people just a few miles from where my family lived. And I just knew that day, felt more sure of it than anything before or since, that God called me to the profession.” He paused and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. Please, God, let me get this story out.
“Go on, son,” someone encouraged.
“I imagine you all have various motives for being on this committee, both business and moral God-fearing reasons. And these aims drive you to do this, I suppose. Like you, I have no choice, gentlemen, than to answer that call, and I am accountable to a much higher power than my captain, you understand.”
“Hear, hear!” The room erupted with applause and approval.
“That will do fine,” Chairman Baldwin said.
Only one face in the room appeared less than pleased. Blevins gazed at Owen with a look that seemed to say, “But what about your father?” And Owen felt ashamed, wondering if he had really been seeking the approval of men rather than seeing to the responsibilities of an only son.
29
“ANOTHER TENEMENT FIRE. When will something be done?” Mrs. Hawkins tossed the newspaper on the tea table and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
Grace picked it up. “Anyone hurt?”
“I suppose so, but by God’s mercy it appears no one died this time.” The Hawk wiped her nose and returned to her chair without her tea.
Grace looked at the newspaper. “Where?”
Mrs. Hawkins sighed. “Chatham Square. Thankfully the fire department put it out before it spread very far. Those buildings are as flammable as cardboard.”
Chatham Square? Grace had never learned the exact location of Mr. Parker’s property. She wondered if she brought up the subject with him—it was in the paper, after all—she could find out.
“Maybe I could take pictures. With my camera.”
“Now why would you do that, love? No, stay away from that area. Think before you leap, as my Harold always used to say.”
Grace turned to the breakfront cabinet to choose a book. She’d already taken some shots, but no one knew that. Had Mr. Parker seen what she saw? Did he have any remorse over cheating those people by charging high rents?
Annie bolted into the parlor. “People are in the streets, yelling and protesting. Even the mission workers, Mrs. Hawkins.”
The woman twisted in her chair. “What are you talking about? Where?”
“On State Street. Nora, the housekeeper at the Mission to Irish Immigrant Girls, was just here to tell us. She’s run off to warn the others.”
“Ridiculous. Protesting what, love?” The Hawk was standing now.
“They say the police have to do something about the gangs in the Battery or they’ll move out. Mrs. Hawkins, are we going to move as well?”
The woman walked to the hall in a huff. “I’ll say not. Get my coat, love.”
When Grace and the others arrived, the sound of a brass band made the protest sound more like a carnival. Mrs. Hawkins stopped a lad with a megaphone. “What is going on here, young man?”
“The police must act. We will not be bullied.” He darted away.
Grace noticed a group of young people laughing and smoking in the narrow alley beside the Irish mission house. Annie noticed too. “That’s what they are talking about,” Annie said. “Even the rich take part in alcohol and cocaine parties, but these church-sponsored mission houses will not put up with it happening on their doorsteps.”
Grace removed her camera from her bag and snapped a photograph of the revelers despite her earlier vow not to take strangers’ photographs. Before long, she realized she had wandered away from the others while observing what was happening beyond the rambunctious protesters.
An overwhelming feeling of dread filled her as she scrambled down the street between milk trucks, carriages, and people on foot. Too many times she’d been warned not to be out alone after dark. Stupid of her.
She tucked the camera back into her bag and looped the handles tightly around her arm. Fear like spiders crawled up her arms as she could not find Mrs. Hawkins and the others.
When she approached an alley, she wandered toward it to avoid a band of drunken soldiers. A hand reached out from the unlit recesses and grabbed her. “Gotcha!” A man with breath worse than three
-day-old cabbage in a pot spoke into her ear.
“Let me go!”
“What’s a pretty lassie like you doing out here alone?”
She squirmed until she was able to shove her knee where it would incapacitate him the most and he let go. She bolted away as fast as she could but managed to run into another man, this one much bigger.
“Whoa there.”
“Let me go.”
He released her. “Just trying to help.”
She continued rushing down the street, tears streaking down her face. As bad as the workhouse had been, there had not been this many people to maneuver around. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream. A very small, foolish salmon, not the wise one in Irish folktales.
“Hey, stop!” Three thugs blocked her path.
She started to turn down the cross street, but one of them caught her.
“Steal from a shop, did ye?”
“What’s it to you?” She would not be intimidated even though this dark-eyed thug could see her tears.
“What’d ye get?” He grabbed her arm.
She screamed.
He held a knife to her cheek, drawing blood.
Suddenly a whistle blasted from somewhere behind them.
“Cops!” The thugs took off.
Grace put a hand to her chest to steady her breathing. Not seeing anyone else around, she scurried out into a mass of people, where she felt safer. She hadn’t known such terror existed so close to Hawkins House. No wonder the people were protesting. She wondered if Owen McNulty and that horrible Feeny peeler were doing their job in the slightest.
She edged toward a building to free herself from the flow of people so she could think and get her bearings. Across the street two men tussled. The truth. Someone had to show the truth of this place. She pulled out her camera and found a vacant spot near a lamppost where she had enough room to extend her elbows and aimed.
Whack! Someone struck her arm.
Owen left the meeting conflicted. Yes, he had to go after Goo Goo right away. Yes, he had to help his father right away.
He pulled out his pocket watch as he rounded Water Street. Only half past nine. This was going to be a long night, and there was not much he could do alone except keep an eye out for the gang boss and watch where he went. That is, if folks didn’t register minor complaints for him to follow up or he didn’t spend all his time rounding up prostitutes, which was becoming a larger problem of late as the missions had said.
He encountered Feeny just east of the Battery. “A protest going on right in front of those mission houses.”
“What?” Owen started to move, but Feeny stopped him.
“Got some fellows containing the crowd. Don’t worry about it. What are ye doing down here anyway?”
Rats! He wasn’t supposed to let Feeny see him. “I . . . Nicholson gave me an assignment over on Worth and since I was done there, and things are quiet on my rounds, I just thought I’d check in with you fellas over here.”
“We’re fine. I’m betting things won’t be quiet over yer way all night. Better head back before Big Bill finds out ye were off your post.”
“I’m not off my—”
“Beat it, McNulty.”
Yeah. Who but Walter Feeny would tell the police chief about a lowly beat officer wandering a couple of blocks from his rounds? “I’m going.”
Owen turned and headed back, but out of sight he turned left to trudge up the crooked path of Stone Street. Better check out this protest. He wasn’t needed in his patrol area because a sergeant and two roundsmen were near there, but Feeny didn’t need to know that.
Owen spotted a man and a woman standing in front of a building.
“You came out here for a reason, Rosie. You and that camera!”
The man stepped backward into a crescent of light under the streetlamp. Smokey. This was not how Owen had hoped to encounter him.
“Let me go!” the woman wailed. “I didn’t come here to see you. How was I to know you’d be here?”
“I w-w-won’t be panned.”
“Smokey, that’s your name, isn’t it? Let go of me. I got lost, is all.”
“I’m to teach you a lesson, Rosie, and I aim to do it!”
She kicked him but that only fazed him for a brief moment.
This was just the kind of distraction Owen had hoped to avoid. There were no other Dusters around that he could see, and he would have to arrest these two and bring them in for disturbing the peace and the usual public drunkenness. “Halt. Don’t move,” Owen called out.
Smokey flung the girl away from him and she landed in a seated position on the icy sidewalk. The thug tried to run off, but he was truly pickled, so Owen had no trouble handcuffing him. “She’s a liar. No matter what she says to you, she’s lying.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Owen snapped the handcuffs and yanked Smokey to his feet.
Owen glanced at the girl. “Hold on, Miss Rosie.”
“That’s not my name.”
Now that he was closer, Owen recognized that voice even though her face was shadowed and partially covered by her dense, disheveled hair. “What are you doing out here?”
“I got lost.”
“Lost? This time of night?”
“That’s right. I . . . uh . . . We . . . left Hawkins House. There is a protest . . .”
“You better come with me.”
“All right. I should have known better. I don’t know why I keep—”
“You’re all right now. Just come along.”
She trailed behind Owen as he lugged Smokey along. “Isn’t Hawkins House the other way?”
“We’re going to the precinct. There’s a patrol wagon a few blocks north.”
“Uh, no. I’ll find my way.” She stepped out from the curb, but he pulled her back with one arm while still struggling with the criminal with his other hand.
“Let go.”
“Look, Miss McCaffery. You should not be out here.”
“As I well know. I’m going home.”
“I can’t let you go on alone. Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll call over to Hawkins House and they’ll come get you.”
“No.”
He had to squeeze tighter on her wrist. “I don’t mean to frighten you. I’m trying to help.”
Suddenly she gasped for air. Owen thought she might faint.
“Need some help, McNulty?”
Walter Feeny.
Grace took a step closer to Owen. “I’ll come.”
Owen shouted as they plodded down the dark street. “No, Feeny. I’ll handle it.”
“I don’t think so.” Feeny pulled out his gun.
“What are you doing, Feeny?”
“This is my beat, Owen. Let the man go.”
“Public drunkenness. Surely you can see that.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Owen stared at the man’s face. He was serious, although probably showboating for Grace’s benefit. Owen didn’t want Grace to be in the middle of it. “I’d let you if I hadn’t already used my cuffs on him.”
Smokey’s eyes rolled heavenward. He was clearly unaware of what was happening. Feeny seemed to notice it too. He put his pistol back. “You don’t know what yer messing with, McNulty. But . . . because of this delicate lass here, I’ll let ye carry on.”
“Noble of you, Feeny.”
“I’ll just escort Miss McCaffery home.”
Owen felt her shudder against him. “I already made arrangements, Feeny.”
“That so? Unmake them.” He took Grace’s arm.
“Let go of me! Officer McNulty is taking care of me.”
Owen saw the man’s red face turn a shade darker.
Feeny leaned close to Grace. “I warned ye, now didn’t I? Don’t ye forget I was the one.”
Owen tugged Grace forward. “Leave her be, Feeny.”
Walter raised both hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. But let me give ye a tip. If this fella wasn’t so snickered, he’d have done ye some harm
, Miss McCaffery.”
Owen pulled Grace tighter while Smokey slumped against his shoulder. “She understands she should not be out here alone at night.”
“Yeah? Well, so. Let me tell ye something ye both don’t know.”
“Get lost, Feeny.”
They left the man stammering on the curb.
Back at the station, Smokey sat in a jail cell. They would charge him with disorderly conduct and he’d be back on the streets in less than forty-eight hours, likely with no memory of the faces of those who had arrested and questioned him. Now fallen down drunk, possibly also dazed by cocaine, rampant among the Hudson Dusters, Smokey Davis would scarcely even realize he was alive by morning. When he was able to stand on his own feet, the captain would send him off. He was small potatoes but still a lure to follow. With any luck Smokey wouldn’t remember Owen. Feeny? He was all talk and nothing else.
Tammany Hall boss Crocker and even Big Tim Sullivan—the politician most folks liked because they didn’t know how he did business—might have their greedy tentacles over most of Manhattan and her ubiquitous illegal businesses, but not the night court in the First Ward. The judge would send Goo Goo up the river, if Owen could catch him.
But he had precious little time to do it.
“None of my girls should be in such a place!” The short, stout woman with the British lilt to her voice stomped into the main office, her chunky heeled boots pounding loudly against the tile floor. Owen had never seen Mrs. Hawkins so out of sorts, but he couldn’t blame her.
Grace stood, but Owen motioned to her to sit. She ignored him and called out to the woman. “Mrs. Hawkins, I assure you ’tis all a mistake.”
The middle-aged woman tried to wiggle past a patrolman who stopped her. “Let Miss McCaffery go. I’ll take her home straight away.”
The captain, alerted by the commotion, flung open the door to his office and marched up to Owen’s desk. “Let her go, McNulty.”
Grace was angry with him, although she’d come willingly. It wasn’t his fault she’d wandered off during the protest. Whatever life she’d escaped in Ireland had obviously filled her with mistrust. “I’m happy you were not hurt, Miss McCaffery.”
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