Chapter Forty-Five
The brewery hand cast a surprised glance at Gerritt’s rumpled clothes and said, “It’s not like you to show up looking like you’ve been to the dog fights. You’re welcome to the taps, though, as usual, until the bartender comes in. Five cents a glass. You still got money?”
Gerritt fished out a wallet fat with bank notes, and the grizzled man lifted one eyebrow in approval. He left Gerritt alone in the factory tavern of the Story Brothers’ Malt House, more than a mile away from City Hall in South Albany on Broadway, at the corner of Cherry Street, close to the Hudson. Out of force of habit, he had come by way of Harley’s house, but had wrenched himself away from the doorstep when he grew cognizant of the curious stares of Harley’s neighbors. From deep inside the warehouse, you could hear ship blasts on the Hudson and train whistles high and soulful over the South Bridge. Only railroad men from the nearby Albany and Susquehanna roundhouse and the brewery’s cellar hands patronized this workaday tavern, but when a stranger stumbled in and pleaded need, he was admitted without ceremony. Of course, Gerritt was no stranger, though he’d not been in since the flood. The warehouse and factory had been inundated, and eight weeks later, the musk of bottom silt still breathed in the tavern’s rough-hewn walls. But the river hadn’t breached the brewery’s machinery, and it churned on in the warehouse, overriding the tang of mold with the familiar sweet odor of yeast and spiky hops. Gerritt availed himself of a chipped glass from shelves behind the bar and downed his first two glassfuls of warm ale in quick succession. He then perched on a stool and took his time with the third and fourth.
The first time Gerritt had visited Emma, he had come here afterward, to this tavern, and since then he had sought oblivion here more than once, always after her.
His hands still shook. He’d charged out of City Hall, humiliation boiling in his ears, Jakob’s rancid question hammering again and again: Do you miss me?
A pool of yellow light splashed onto the floor from a single, high window, but the barebones tavern was menacingly dark and lonely. Gerritt took heart now that no policeman ever made his way to this blighted place. Even Mantel would never guess where he was: a boon today, for Gerritt knew he ought never to have used Mantel’s name on the receipt.
What a damned foolish mistake that had been. He’d used Mantel’s name as a decoy, yes, but as a joke, too, because he’d never believed that anyone would ever trace the dolls. And sending Emma that note had been another mistake, a miscalculation. But he’d needed to let her know that he knew where she was. He’d sent it so that she would keep her mouth shut. In a moment of weakness he’d forgotten that she couldn’t possibly identify him. He’d always made certain that it was too dark for her to make him out. And how clever his son had been, delaying his question about the dolls until the end, when he was rattled enough to react. Still, as he thought about it now, fortified with alcohol, Gerritt realized that the only thing that Jakob had truly established was that he, Gerritt, possessed a penchant for sending gifts attributed to others and was the owner of several brothels and a cherry red sleigh.
Jakob had never drawn a straight line between him and Emma. Still, if Jakob hadn’t drawn a straight line, he’d drawn a crooked one. Allusion and association, while not proof, were suggestion. And suggestion might be enough.
Do you miss me?
How did Jakob know? Viola, of course, on that lark of a trip to Manhattan City with that Mary Sutter. Mary Stipp. No fool, that woman. No doubt she had ferreted out that receipt, though Viola deserved that black eye he’d given her.
Or maybe Jakob had figured out everything on his own from that second set of books. He ought never to have sent Jakob for them the night of the flood. That boy was too curious by half.
But the truth was, if Emma had found a way to identify him, he’d be arrested by now.
Jakob had proved nothing. With an unsteady hand, Gerritt hefted the glass to his lips and took another draft of the hoppy ale. It tasted bitter, cheap.
Gerritt pushed aside the memory of blurting out Mantel’s name, blaming him for sending the dolls. That had been a mistake, too.
So many ways to betray. So many ways to be betrayed. Do you miss me? Gerritt’s heart had stopped when Jakob had said that.
Gerritt lurched off the stool, rounded the end of the bar, and pulled another glassful from the tap.
Emma. Dear God, Emma.
That ungrateful girl. Where would those girls be now if not for him? They’d been lucky that he’d seen them floundering in all that snow. If he hadn’t come along at just that time, they would have met the same fate as their parents. And he’d be safe now. But, God, what a lark it was to have found them.
He’d been on his way to Harley’s to get him to come take a look at the district with him to see if anything needed to be done. Had he been heading the opposite direction, toward home, he might have taken those girls to Viola for safekeeping. It was only at Harley’s door that he realized the opportunity before him. He’d not even figured out that they were David O’Donnell’s daughters until days later. It had just been happenstance, really, and then after that, luck that David hadn’t survived the blizzard. That turn had been so convenient. Except for those Stipps looking for them. Then later, when he’d learned that Emma and Claire had escaped the flood, he’d reminded himself a hundred times that they could never identify him.
Except for that damn note he’d felt compelled to include, no one would have ever questioned the gift of the dolls.
But there had been too much to account for. He’d been shocked to pass Captain Mantel on the way into the courtroom, shocked that he had been called as a witness. Had Jakob questioned Mantel about that receipt? What had he said?
Mantel was the variable.
It had been easy to bribe Harley into compliance. All he had had to say was that he would keep taking care of him, keep sending him money. It had been easy enough to get him away from the hospital. And easier still to dupe the night jailer after Harley had gone and gotten himself arrested. But it had been an inspired choice to impersonate a physician at the jail. The subterfuge had been unnecessary, but he’d liked the game; he knew that the jailer was amenable to bribes—a tidbit he had once heard and stored away for future use.
Harley had been asleep when the jailer admitted Gerritt, luckily, or it would have taken some clever footwork to keep Harley from blurting out his name. He’d thanked the jailer and lit a candle and nudged Harley awake. The bandage on the back of his neck was a dirty, wrinkled mess, and for show, Gerritt leaned over it and inspected it, pretending interest, in case the jailer had snuck back and was on the opposite side of the door, peering in through that narrow window.
Gerritt addressed Harley in a whisper, leery of other prisoners who might be listening from surrounding cells, though there was so much shouting and chaos that precaution was probably unnecessary.
“How the hell did you get yourself arrested?” Gerritt hissed. “You were in a whorehouse on the outskirts of town, by yourself, in a room, with orders to shut the hell up. And now you’re in the county jail. What happened?”
Harley shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. A policeman tricked me.”
“He tricked you?”
“I don’t know. Somehow he knew.”
“How?”
Harley winced as he tilted his head to look up at Gerritt, his eyes bleary with exhaustion. “I said nothing.”
“Christ.”
“But at least they’re alive.”
Yes, Gerritt thought, they were, and lucky for Harley, too. “Yes, but you lost them. You owe me compensation.”
“I won’t say anything. I told no one about you. I swear it.”
“How am I supposed to believe you?”
Harley closed his eyes and sighed. “I won’t say a thing. The girls, though. They’ll say there was someone else besides me.”
; “But yours is the face they know,” Gerritt said, primed for this. “They can’t identify me. And if you expose me, you won’t save yourself and we’ll both be in jail. Outside though, I am free to manipulate the situation. Jakob’s agreed to be your lawyer. He’ll never cross-examine Emma on the stand. He can’t do it. It’s not in his nature. And I’ll pay your bail.”
“If there is any.”
“Listen to me, Harley,” Gerritt said, leaning down to whisper directly into his overseer’s ear. “I’ll take care of you. You just have to take care of me. Keep your mouth shut. That’s all you have to do. No one can make you talk.”
“But I’m not the one who had relations with Emma,” Harley said.
“Which will protect you in court. And if there’s a trial, and it begins to look bad, then I’ll get you out, and you can take all that money I paid you and skedaddle downriver on a night boat if you want—or buy a train ticket—then board any damn boat in Manhattan harbor leaving the country.”
“How will you get me out?”
“How do you think I got in here tonight? I’ll bribe the jailer to look away for as long as necessary. Or someone will hit him over the head and steal the keys.”
Harley peered at him, disbelieving.
“You have enough money, for Christ’s sake, after what I paid you for your silence. And I’ll send you more. You can live forever on what I’ll give you. Head to Paris, for God’s sake. It’s cheap there. You’ll be free.”
“I don’t speak French.”
“Jesus. Go to Argentina then. No one will find you.”
“The money,” Harley said, burying his head in his hands. “Oh, my money.”
“What?”
“It’s in my house.”
For a moment, Gerritt didn’t understand, until he did. He groaned. “You kept the money I gave you in your house? The police have already been there. My God, you are careless.”
“This isn’t a trick, is it? If Jakob does a lousy job defending me, then you are scot-free and I take the punishment. He is your son. I’m nothing to him.”
“I can control Jakob. Easily. But you’re free to ask anyone else to be your lawyer. Go ahead. You think you have such a good chance? Do you want to answer questions you don’t want anyone to know about?”
Harley cradled his head in the palms of his hands. “What do I tell him, then? Doesn’t he need to know something?”
“You tell him that some stranger brought those girls to you in the blizzard. You knew their father, and when you read in the papers that their parents had died, you vowed to take care of them. You had no idea that anyone was looking for them. You were going to send them to school when they recovered from the shock of losing their parents, but they were still fragile. When the flood bells rang, a mysterious object hit you in the head and you don’t remember anything else. What? One of them was interfered with? How dreadful. It must have happened when they were away from your protection. You’re heartbroken. You adore them both.”
Even to Gerritt, this litany was a creative wonder, anchored by one truth and contaminated by untruths that made far more sense than what had really happened. He marveled at the story’s sinuous beauty, and as Harley recited it back several times, perfecting his recitation, Gerritt congratulated himself on his ability to manipulate anyone to do anything.
The door at the end of the hall clanged open.
Gerritt leaned over and said, “Remember now, I’m a doctor.”
The jailer shoved two inebriated men into a nearby cell before stopping at Harley’s.
“I think it’s best if you have the jail doctor see you from now on,” Gerritt said, snuffing out the candle. “Good-bye, Mr. Harley. You’ll be fit in no time.”
—
At least, Gerritt thought, lifting his glass to his lips, Harley had kept his part of the bargain. He’d said nothing about him all those weeks in jail, when he could easily have saved himself by telling the truth. Such was the power of money. It bought loyalty where none was deserved. It bent minds and curated behavior. It solved problems.
But what Harley might say about him now, he didn’t know. And there was no way of extracting Harley from the courtroom or Albany, which was something Gerritt had never planned on doing anyway, and which Harley must now realize.
Fodder for betrayal, Gerritt thought. And seeking oblivion in malt and hops was not the answer to his problem. The only answer was to extract himself from the city immediately. He had money enough and could easily get more.
A train whistle sounded. Yes, of course. He would take a train. He wouldn’t even need to buy a ticket. He’d just hop on it after it left the station, purchase a ticket on board from the conductor.
His thinking was growing muddled, but it was a pleasant sort of muddle, an easing of the throbbing pain at his temples.
His glass was empty. He staggered to the tap to draw himself a final swallow.
The tavern door flew open and a crowd poured in, raucous with news.
The jury had gone out and come in again. Harley had been acquitted.
“Of all the charges?” Gerritt croaked from behind the bar, shocked that it had all happened so fast.
A few men turned, surprised to see him in the gloom. Someone was lighting a gas sconce high on one wall, dissipating the shadows.
“Oh yes. Not the kidnapping and not the deflowering. Not the imprisonment, either.” Laughter all around. “The girl was a liar. We all knew it.”
Someone leaned across the bar and slapped Gerritt in celebration on the chest, spilling the beer Gerritt had just poured himself. The man apologized, came around, and drew Gerritt another. The place was teeming with brakemen and warehouse hands.
Harley had been acquitted.
Gerritt gave a derisive laugh, because his clever son had cast just enough doubt to earn Harley a reprieve.
Do you miss me? His son knew, had perhaps known for months. What a cool man he’d raised. Jakob had probably spirited Viola away, too, in anticipation of today. And how long would it be before Jakob found a way to persuade Harley to tell the truth? Especially now that Jakob had saved him from the worst?
Gerritt threw back a good portion of the ale, lowered his glass.
Across the bar stood the stocky figure of Arthur Mantel, dressed, surprisingly, not in his uniform, but in the ubiquitous brown cloth suit of the working class, which made him, in this part of town, invisible, giving him free rein to go places he never would otherwise in his official role.
Gerritt set his glass on the bar. “I said nothing about you,” Gerritt lied. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Why did you use my name for the receipt?”
So, Mantel knew. Jakob must have told him on the stand. Mantel had known when they had crossed paths in the echoing hallway outside the courtroom, reason, Gerritt now understood, for Mantel’s frosty look then. Gerritt ran his hand over his vest, conscious of his disheveled appearance. He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say to appease the police captain. “Did you follow me? And how the hell did you have time to change your clothes?”
Mantel’s gaze roved from Gerritt to his half-empty beer stein, then back to Gerritt. “I thought we had an understanding, Gerritt. I stopped looking for those girls; I looked away; you kept me paid; and you said nothing to anyone about the money.”
“But I didn’t say anything.” Lying seemed to be the best strategy Gerritt could muster. He threw coins on the bar and staggered out the back of the building, onto Broadway.
Mantel followed and took Gerritt by the shoulder, spinning him around. The workday had ended and the streets were full of workers hurrying home, their empty lunch buckets jouncing against one thigh, their attention bent on dinner and home, or booze and brawling, dictated not so much by familial situation as preference.
“Somehow your son knows about our arrangement,” Mante
l said. “Did you tell him?”
Gerritt needed his ale-soaked brain to work, but he was dizzy and drunk. He lurched away, down Cherry to Quay Street, where he plunged northward along the river shore, forcing himself not to look back. There was nothing pretty about the south end of the city, choked with industry and mired still with detritus from the flood. Black silt still coated Quay Street, and Gerritt’s boots sank two inches deep. At the open doors of an icehouse Gerritt caught the familiar smell of sawdust smothering blocks of harvested ice. He sold this icehouse his sawdust. He could sell anything to anyone and had, for years. He had even sold everyone on his innocence. Until now.
Mantel caught up and glued himself to Gerritt’s side.
“Did you keep books on me, too? Did you write down what you’ve paid me all these years?”
“Are you as stupid as Harley was? Where is all that money I gave you?’
“Safely under the floorboards of my kitchen.”
“You idiot. They’ll find it. If I were you, I’d leave with me. I’m going to catch the six o’clock NY Central. We’ll be in Manhattan City by nine o’clock. We could draw a draft from any bank in Manhattan City in the morning before anyone—Jakob or Hotaling—thinks to freeze my funds. And I’ll pay you more.”
“I wouldn’t go to a train station. It’s likely they are looking for us both by now.”
Gerritt whirled on him, feeling a rising panic loosen the last of his moorings. “Why are you here?”
Mantel said, “Why did you use my name on that receipt?”
Gerritt turned away, trudged on. The solid hulking structure of the South Bridge was coming into view. He could make it to the railroad bridge. Climb up onto it. Grab the caboose of the six o’clock.
Gerritt was gathering courage. Surely Mantel could be persuaded that leaving was the only choice now.
A black river snake darted out from the rushes and ran over his boots and wriggled back into the reeds. Gerritt stopped to empty his bladder and plodded on, heavy with sloshing ale, trailed by Mantel. It took only another ten minutes to reach the south edge of the Basin, where a jutting dock adjoined one of the bridge abutments. Gerritt set his sights on reaching it. He’d climb the safety ladder to the bridge deck and onto the pedestrian walkway. The trains trundled slowly over the bridge—five miles an hour—a safety precaution—and a boon for him now. He would step onto the back platform of the caboose as the train chugged past, then sail downriver to the freedom of Manhattan City.
Winter Sisters Page 36