Tough Prospect

by Laura Strickland

  “As many of you know, my husband Rey and I are in the process of trying to adopt. I believe anyone who can, should. But many of these children will never be adopted. There simply are not enough families. We must improve conditions at the orphanages and children’s homes. No one should live the way these little ones do. I suggest we introduce legislation to improve the institutions. Meanwhile we must make our presences felt—let the administrators of these hell holes know we are watching them and that we see the atrocities.”

  Tessa glanced at Rey, who glowed with pride. “Are conditions in those places really so bad?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Mrs. Carter. As part of my job, I’ve been inside. It would break your heart.”

  “And you’re adopting?”

  “If they’ll let us.” He hesitated. “You see, with my wife not being human…”

  “Seems like she’s more human than most people I’ve met.”

  His brown eyes warmed. “You should come on a tour with us sometime.”

  Tessa nodded. Lily returned, slipped into her seat, and put her hand into Rey’s.

  “Did I do well, husband?”

  “You were wonderful.” He raised her hand to his lips.

  A gesture of love. Tessa started, remembering her husband performing the same gesture earlier.

  Love, or possession?

  Chapter Eight

  “How was your afternoon?” Mitch asked his wife across the dinner table. One of the few places they met was here, for meals; as a consequence he went to great lengths to assure he could attend.

  At least he got to look at her for the duration of the meal, watch the emotions flicker in her exquisite eyes, and follow the way the auburn curls caressed her cheeks.

  He wanted so badly to touch those velvety cheeks himself, with gentle fingers. To touch her everywhere.

  She looked different tonight, brighter, and more cheerful.

  “It proved quite interesting. I was very glad I went. I met other people engaged in philanthropic undertakings.”

  Bunch of soft fools, Mitch thought, though he didn’t say it. “Yes? And did you decide where you want to put your money?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “It isn’t all about the money.”

  He tried not to snort and failed. “Most of it is.”

  “Well, I suppose people become involved for all sorts of reasons—because they want to be seen”—she thought of the gossipers—“or want to feel good about themselves. But not everyone there’s the hoi polloi.”

  “No?” He scarcely dared breathe. His wife was talking to him, really talking. And for the moment at least she seemed to have abandoned her anger. Her sadness.

  “Not at all. Some are in great earnest. Have you ever heard of a man called James Kilter?”

  “I have. Isn’t he the fellow tends to go off kilter?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Falls into rages, beats people up.” Mitch’s sort of man, when he thought about it.

  “I don’t know about rages. He’s founded a refuge for animals.”

  “That’s right.” Mitch snapped his fingers. “The Buffalo Animal Refuge. No, he’s not hoi polloi.”

  “And a woman called Topaz Gideon spoke about relief for prostitutes. And a man called Patrick Kelly, he’s involved in rights for automatons.”

  “I’ve heard of him too. He’s a member of the Irish Squad.”

  “He’s very nice.”

  “Not human.” At least he didn’t have to worry Tessa might get interested in him.

  “I know.”

  “Who else was there?” Had Tessa’s lover attended? Was this how she intended to see him?

  “A charming lady called Lily Michaels. She’s not human either, but I liked her very much.”

  “Another one of those fighting for automaton rights?”

  “No, for children. She and her husband want to reform the orphanages.”

  “What?” Mitch froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “They say some of the institutions for children are just horrible. Children starve there, or are neglected, even beaten. Do you think it’s true?”

  Mitch’s fork fell with a clatter, and he recovered it with great deliberation. “I know it is.”

  She stared at him. “That’s right… You were in Carter’s—you came from there, didn’t you? Tell me what it’s really like.”

  At last, he had her attention, and in the one way he didn’t want it. He could tell her tales all right, ones that would straighten the curl right out of her hair. But he didn’t want to. She knew from whence he’d come, everyone knew, but she hadn’t made a connection, obviously, between him and those starving children. And he didn’t want her pity.

  He’d left off even pitying himself.

  He said in a hard tone, “When it comes to them places, whatever they told you is true.”

  And what did he see in her eyes, those bottomless pools of emerald green? Not pity, no, but consideration. A hint of understanding.

  God, but she had beautiful eyes.

  “Well, then,” she said softly, “maybe that’s a good place for us to put our money.”

  Our. Had she said our? A veritable leap. And Mitch didn’t want to rock that boat. No, he didn’t. If it would bring her closer to him, he’d spend any amount of coin she named.

  He said only, “Perhaps.”

  “Either way, I really did like Lily Michaels. I wouldn’t mind having her for a friend.”

  “She’s a machine.”

  “She doesn’t seem like it, though. She’s funny and very sweet. Anyway, Valerie’s a machine.” She reached down and stroked the little dog that sat at her feet. “And I love her.”

  Love. So she was capable of that emotion.

  “Well, all right,” he said slowly. “Just so long as you don’t let anyone take advantage.”

  She made a face. “Like everywhere else, there are factions; I think if I stay clear of the nasty people I’ll be fine.”

  “Nasty people?”

  “There were these women—” She broke off and eyed him again, this time with speculation.

  “Was someone rude to you? If so, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Send some of your toughs to set them straight?”

  Exactly what he’d been thinking.

  “That would just reinforce what they already think of you.”

  “Me?”

  “They whisper about you. They refuse to speak your name outright.”

  “That’s a mark of respect, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s a sign of fear. Of loathing. What is it they call you? The King of…”

  “The King of Prospect. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re proud of it?”

  In a backward, half-assed way, he was. King of anything sounded pretty good, considering where he’d started.

  Before he could answer, she went on, “If you wish to be known for anything, I should think it would be something noteworthy and beneficial.”

  Cunningly he said, “Then perhaps I should go with you to one of these meetings sometime.”

  “Would you?”

  If it brought him closer to her, he’d walk through fire. He’d go into her meeting naked, revealing all his scars.

  He said, “Maybe.”

  The dining room door opened and the mechanical maid rolled in.

  “A message, sir, for Mrs. Carter.”

  Tessa looked surprised. Mitch held out his hand. “Give it here.”

  “It’s mine,” Tessa protested.

  The maid, ignoring Tessa, placed the envelope in Mitch’s hand. He scrutinized the front—which, as she could see, had her name on it.

  “That’s my father’s handwriting.”

  “Is it?” He handed the envelope across the table and watched while she opened it and read the writing inside.

  She paled, thrust the letter back into the envelope, and laid it aside.

  “What does it say?”

  “He asks
me to come and see him.”

  “You can have the car tomorrow.”

  “He wants me to come tonight, this evening. Says he must speak with me.”

  Mitch hesitated. As so often, he found it difficult to read her mood. “I’ll ask Marty to bring the car around, shall I?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll go with you, if you like.”

  “I don’t like.”

  Mitch huffed a breath. There went all the ground he thought he’d gained.

  “Then go alone.”

  “I am not going.”

  “No?”

  “No. He’ll just snivel and whine and complain about how miserable he is. How miserable he is! Him.” She glared at Mitch, all her frustration and unhappiness on display.

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit, she still detested being his wife, detested him as much as ever.

  Very carefully he said, “You must do as you like.”

  She nodded, all her earlier enthusiasm flown. She pushed away from the table, picked up her dog, and left the room without so much as another look for Mitch.

  Curse it all, he thought. If the only way he could win Tessa’s regard lay through good works, so it must be.

  The last damn thing in which he’d ever choose to engage.

  Chapter Nine

  “Boss, Danny Dwyer’s asked for a meeting. He says he wants to discuss terms.”

  “Before breakfast?” Mitch had just come down from his bedroom to the office and hadn’t yet got his head on straight. His dreams last night had been about Tessa—deep, and so erotic they’d wrung him dry. The last thing he wanted to think about was the South Buffalo lowlife trying to muscle in on his territory.

  “Well, he ain’t here in person,” Tiny said. “He sent word, like, through the usual channels.”

  “Tell him, through the usual channels, to keep to his own patch. I’ve let him have South Buffalo. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I think he’s got ambitions, Boss. Eddie’s here. He brought the message. Want to talk to him? Only, he’s on his way to the hospital.”

  “Hospital?”

  “The message had teeth, like.”

  “Bring him in.”

  Eddie Carter came, with his dirty blond head bare and bowed, blood and bruises all over his face and one arm braced against his chest.

  Mitch gave him the once-over unhappily. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Eddie gave Mitch a look out of squinted gray eyes. No softie, Eddie. They must have roughed him up bad.

  “Got jumped, didn’t I?”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning. Still dark.”

  “Where?”

  “Swan Street.”

  “Who?”

  “Danny Dwyer and his boys. There were four of them, and they caught me alone.”

  “He was there, with them?”

  “He was, and did the talking. The others did the hitting. Held me down. I struggled. Think I broke my arm.”

  Indignation filled Mitch, hot and bright. He’d seen Eddie whipped, back at Carter’s, and denied food for three days just for speaking out of turn. Eddie hadn’t cried then. But as Mitch knew, there were triggers, moments that took you back. A haunted look now hovered in Eddie’s eyes.

  “Damn mick,” he said. “He thinks I’m going to let him push in on my ground, he’s got another think coming.”

  “He said to tell you he wants downtown.”

  “Neither of us has downtown—yet.”

  “Yeah, but he knows you’ve started negotiating for property there. He’s warning you off, Boss, and he wants the message to stick.”

  “He’ll pay for this, Eddie. Don’t I always make them pay?”

  “Yeah, Boss. Well”—Eddie considered on it—“except for old Master Fink.”

  “Don’t call him that. He ain’t our master no more. Besides, he’s retired, isn’t he? There’s somebody new running Carter’s.”

  “No better, from what I’ve heard.”

  “No. Anyway, old Fink’s gonna pay. I’m working on it. You’ve got my promise.”

  Eddie brightened. “What you going to do to him?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “I heard,” Tiny piped up, “he’s real sick, lying in that house of his over on Michigan.” Tiny’s eyes moved to Mitch’s face. Tiny could be surprisingly quick at times. “That’s where you’ve been trying to buy property.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh.” Eddie’s eyes widened.

  “Look,” Mitch told Eddie, “you go get the quack to take a look at your arm. Tiny, you get me some of the boys—a small squad, like. We’ll send a message back to Dwyer.”

  “All right, Boss.”

  Eddie went out, but Tiny hesitated before leaving. “Hey, Boss?”

  “What?”

  “You called Dwyer a damn mick.”

  “That’s what he is.”

  “Well, but…” Tiny hesitated. “How do you know that’s not what you are? I mean, you don’t, do you? Your people could have been Irish.”

  “Do I look like a damn mick to you?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe. There’s such a thing as black Irish.”

  “Go get the boys.”

  Tiny went, and Mitch started thinking about what he wanted to tell Dwyer. He figured his message should be as forceful as Dwyer’s had been, which meant muscle. Of course, that could start a war. But he wasn’t afraid of trouble.

  You had to do what you had to do.

  Oh, and yeah, he’d better accelerate things with that old bastard Fink, too.

  ****

  Tessa, on her way down to breakfast in the dining room, stopped when the doorman hailed her.

  “Mrs. Carter, ma’am, a message has arrived for you.”

  Another one? She’d just heard from her father last night. Surely he wouldn’t ask her to call again so soon. Yet the doorman held out a hastily folded note, this one addressed in not her father’s but her mother’s handwriting.

  Tessa opened and read it. The familiar writing blurred before her eyes as she distinctly felt all the blood drain from her head.

  “Mrs. Carter? Ma’am, are you all right?”

  The doorman’s voice seemed to come from afar. “Doris,” he called to the maid, “you’d better get Mr. Carter. She’s—”

  The note fluttered from Tessa’s hand. Her knees gave way, and she sank down in a heap, still conscious, much as she might wish otherwise. Sound came and went in her ears as commotion erupted all around her. She heard the doorman’s voice, the maid’s exclaiming, and then her husband’s.

  She looked up and saw him approaching at a run, a small squad of other men behind him.

  “What is it? What’s happened? Tessa?”

  “I don’t know, sir. She received this message.” The doorman thrust it into Mitch’s hand. “She read it and came over all ill.”

  Mitch unfolded the note. Before he could read it, though, Tessa stared into his eyes and said, “It’s my father. He’s killed himself.”

  She must have fainted then. The next thing she knew, she lay on the settee in the parlor, with Mitch Carter’s face swimming above her.

  He repeated her name urgently. “Tessa? Tessa!”

  She fought through the clouds of horror that enfolded her and grasped the nearest handhold, which turned out to be her husband’s wrist. She stared once more into his face.

  “He hanged himself, Mother said. In the note. Last night—last night…” She felt herself crumble. “When I didn’t go to him.”

  Rarely enough did Mitch Carter’s face reflect emotion. Now, though, Tessa caught a flash of horror and dismay before he pressed her back into the settee cushions and said, “Foolish woman—why didn’t she send someone to break the news more softly? Here, now, Tessa, breathe. Just breathe.”

  She ignored the advice. Speaking more to herself than to him, she said, “She found him this morning—hanging there in his room. When she went in. That awful, gloomy room.”

  “Hu
sh. You’re in shock.” Very gently he disengaged his wrist from her grasp. She felt him move away from her.

  The parlor door opened, and a voice asked, “Boss, should we send for the doctor?”

  “Yeah, that fellow on Franklin Street.”

  The parlor door closed gently. Mitch returned to the settee with a glass which he tipped to Tessa’s lips. “Here, drink.”

  She did, and choked when the raw whiskey touched her tongue.

  “Slowly, now.”

  “No.” She pushed the glass away and tried to sit up. “I need to go to her. My mother—”

  “All right.” Mitch Carter’s dark, narrow face looked grim. “You can do that if you like, but if you go rushing off now, you’ll likely faint again. What good will that do, eh?”

  “I can’t worry about me. Don’t you see?”

  “I see.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “I should have gone to him when he asked! Then he’d—he’d still be alive.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He wanted my forgiveness. Last time we were together, he asked for it, but I denied him. And then last night—”

  Again, emotion flashed in Mitch Carter’s face like a spasm of pain. Did he realize the cause of the break with her father lay in her hatred of her marriage to him? Oh, he must.

  But she couldn’t worry about that now.

  “I must go home. To my mother. I have to see him.”

  “You’re not going to want to see him.”

  “But I—”

  “Not if he hanged himself. They’ll likely have taken him away by now anyway. If you want to go to your mother, that’s fine. I’ll take you.”

  “What?”

  “But give it a minute. Here, take another sip.”

  She obeyed; the fiery sensation seemed less intense this time.

  “Just lie here,” Mitch said. “I’ll go order the car ’round.”

  He left her again, and she lay staring up at the ceiling, her head buzzing. As she had learned, moments came in life when everything paused, changed direction, and started up again. Her marriage to Mitch Carter had been one; this was another.

  Nothing would ever be the same.