Henry shook his head. “I told you, I live by the hospital.”
“But before that, was this your house?”
“Before that I lived in the asylum.”
“The asylum?”
“Till I was seventeen.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three. They sent me there when I was twelve. I only escaped six years ago. They called it the crazy house.”
“Were you—” She almost asked if he was crazy. “Why did you live there?”
“I burned a building. Many buildings. A peddler cheated me and I snuck into his yard and set his crates afire. It burned to the ground—an entire building. I was a very dangerous boy. I burned up a picture of Jesus Christ. I hit a boy on the head with a brick, and blood came out his ear. Once I pushed a baby down the stairs. I killed a man, too, but nobody knew about that. And I threw hot ashes on a little girl. She went into the hospital, my father had to pay for it.”
Pin stared at him, repulsed yet also fascinated. “Why’d you do all that?”
“I just hated babies.” He shook his head in remorse. “Not now. Now I love and protect them. My little sister disappeared when I was four.”
Pin’s neck went cold. “Your sister? What happened?”
“Nobody told me.”
“What about your father?”
“Father, bother.” Henry cut across the lawn toward the house. “He made good pancakes. I cut a teacher with a knife, her arms and face, what a place. They put me in the home for boys. Awful noise. People did bad things. I watched the snow…”
He threw an invisible snowball. “Blizzards. People froze standing up. I saw a cyclone pick up a barn with cows in it. There were cows hanging in the trees. You had to climb to get milk.”
“That’s not true.”
“Who said it was?”
“Where was your mother?”
“Dead. Dead in bed. My sister murdered her. I went to an outside school until Dr. Stegman sent me to the asylum. A big tunnel where we walked in the winter, under the snow. That was where the people froze to death, in the fields by the asylum. They turned to icicles. Men put them in their mouths and sucked on them. Five years I kept running away. Finally I escaped.”
Pin rubbed her arms, trying to dispel the chill that had overcome her at the words My little sister disappeared when I was four. In the near dark, Henry looked younger and tougher than he had back at Riverview. Twenty-three wasn’t so old, really. She would have felt safer with someone older. She looked up at the dark house and trees in front of them. She would have felt safer if she hadn’t come at all.
Chapter 52
THE SUN WAS low when Francis left the station, the park even more crowded. Bennie’s story would have hit the streets by now: People who’d never been to Riverview, or who might have been there the day before, would stream through the gates and make a beeline for Hell Gate to gawk at the site of a child’s murder. The ride hadn’t reopened yet—the commissioner had quashed that—but the minute the police detectives completed their investigation, Francis knew there’d be hundreds of people lined up, gaping at the devil guarding his gimcrack palace.
He wandered in that direction, brooding. There was no way Clyde Smithson could have killed that girl, but the park employed nearly a thousand men who might have—groundskeepers, carpenters, mechanics, concessionaires, performers, animal trainers, ticket takers. It was likely the murderer was someone who’d specifically visited the park to commit his crime—Cue’s account of the Wonderland killing suggested that.
But what if it was a man who worked here, someone who’d familiarized himself with the rides, so he’d know precisely when and where he could defile a child, then disappear into the crowd? No one who worked at Hell Gate would be so stupid, but someone from one of the other dark rides might easily have figured out the precise place and timing in the canal tunnel.
Yet it didn’t need to be someone from a dark ride, or any ride: everywhere he looked, he saw men in boater hats with money to spend, and little oversight as to how they spent it. Just a month ago, two policewomen from the Chicago force had been assigned to Riverview, specifically to arrest men who came here to pick up girls no older than fifteen, plying them with alcohol at one of the beer gardens, then spiriting them off to a nearby hotel. After two weeks, the policewomen were detailed to the beach, and the mashers resumed their pleasure as before.
Francis passed Hell Gate, where sawhorses and a makeshift rope fence kept the rubberneckers at bay. He wandered along the path toward Fairyland and the Woodland Cabaret: the shadowy side of Riverview, with its booths selling seedy postcards and the ragged hootchy-kootchy tents.
But he saw no policemen here: once Clyde was taken into custody, there was no need to question anyone else. Francis sighed in frustration, elbowing past a line of men who watched the Dancing Dolls, young women in skimpy dresses who flounced around pretending to be life-size toys.
A few yards away stood the She-Male’s tent. Usually there’d be a crowd by now, though Max kept an unreliable schedule, especially on Sundays. Francis knew he had a woman somewhere—Max had made a point of telling him that. So Max wasn’t a fairy, and Francis had never heard of him molesting Pin, or any of the other boys. He pushed aside the tent flap and peeked inside, wrinkling his nose at the reek of mud and urine; dropped the flap and walked over to Max’s shack. He rapped at the door and, when he heard no reply, turned the knob. The door opened, which was odd.
But inside he saw nothing worth stealing. A half-full bottle of whiskey and some dirty postcards, a stained cloche hat, and a tattered silk skirt, tinsel drooping from its hem. A table scattered with cosmetics and some empty cigarette packets. A gaffed freak’s dreary props, all dusted with cigarette ash and a melancholy air that made Francis quickly return outside.
He headed back to the Pike, wiping a trickle of sweat from his cheek. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He considered getting a hot dog, decided to wait until supper. His landlady, Mrs. Dahl, served a decent pork chop. He walked toward the exit gate, pausing to tip his helmet at a young woman in a smart new military-style frock. “Very nice,” he said, admiring her hat, a regimental turban in bright pink.
The woman’s cheeks pinked. He started to ask if she was in need of directions, but she turned and ran toward a man waiting beside the Lagoon.
Francis watched her go, the flicker of desire fading into the more familiar pang of loss. Maria Walewski; his sister, Ellen; Maura; that girl in Boston…Women and girls, they were all destined to disappear.
He flinched, thinking of Maura. The abortionist had stolen three lives that afternoon—Maura’s, their bastard child’s, his own. Yet maybe it wasn’t too late for Francis to steal back the kind of life that should have been his. He did an about-face and headed to the arcade on the far side of the park.
Three high-school girls stood in front of Gina Maffucci’s booth. One, pretty and plump in a dotted-swiss dress and straw Panama, burst into laughter when she saw him.
“There’s the next man you see! Hey, Mister, want to marry our friend here? That’s what her fortune said!”
Francis tipped his hat at each of them. “I could, but then what about the rest of you? I’d hate to leave anyone disappointed.”
The girl they were teasing stuck her tongue out at him. “I ain’t marrying no old man,” she announced. “Who says I’m marrying ever? Maybe I’m a suffragette.”
Her friends doubled over as she stalked off, nose in the air.
“Yay, you ain’t so old,” the plump girl said to Francis. “But my fortune says I’m gonna marry someone from across the sea. So unless that’s you…”
“Um, no. I’m from right here in Chicago.”
She made a show of sighing in disappointment and ran after her friend, the third girl at her heels. Francis stepped to the fortune-teller’s booth and read the sign pinned above the velvet curtains:
MADAME ZANTO ORACLE OF THE AGES
WHAT DOES YOUR FUTURE HOLD?
25 Cents
He hesitated, then entered, removing his hat. “Mrs. Maffucci?”
The slight figure at the table looked up, a flash of panic in her eyes. “My God, is it Pin? Did something happen to Pin?”
“No, no! Or, well, I wouldn’t know.” He stood awkwardly, the heat rising in his face. “I’m—well, I’m off duty, I just thought I’d see how the boy was doing. And you.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Pin? No. Big crowds today. And I’ve been busy.”
“Of course.” She sighed, and he saw how drawn she looked, her eyes deeply shadowed beneath a dusting of face powder. “I can’t bear to think about it. And Pin…I can’t make him stay put.”
“If I had a daughter, I’d be inclined to keep her at home. But I’m sure Pin can take care of himself.” Francis tried to smile reassuringly, and glanced at the objects on her little table. A teapot, two dirty china cups. “I never had my fortune told. Figured I’d try it out.”
He set down a quarter. Gina slid it toward her and dropped it into a small red pouch. He continued to stand, hat in hand and unsure where to look in the tiny space. Gina Maffucci’s black shirtwaist revealed only a demure décolletage, but her skirt was short enough that he could glimpse her legs, crossed at the knee and sheathed in black stockings. Skinny legs, skinny arms, peaked face. Like her son, she looked like she could use a few hot dinners.
“You looking for an answer to a particular question, Sergeant?”
“Francis,” he said.
“Francis,” she repeated. For the first time, she smiled, revealing a tiny gap between her front teeth. “Have a seat.”
He did, trying not to stare at her. But there really was nowhere else to look.
She set a velvet pouch in front of her and removed a deck of cards so creased and worn he couldn’t imagine shuffling them, but she did so with ease. She had small delicate hands, long fingered, with silver bracelets around her thin wrists. A ring winked from her left hand, the gold plate slightly tarnished.
He should have known. He wrenched away his gaze, pretending to show great interest in the cards. After a moment he asked, “Does your husband work here at the park as well?”
Her reply was terse. “He’s dead.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. He was an evil man.”
Francis blinked at her vehemence. “Do—do any of your predictions come true?”
“What makes you think they all don’t?” With a loud snap she set the cards down in front of her. “Well, there’s your answer. You get one question.”
“That wasn’t my question!”
“No?” She burst out laughing. “Well, what is it?”
Without thinking, he blurted, “Would you care to have dinner with me?”
She blushed and shuffled the cards again, set them back down. “I already had some hard-boiled eggs. But thank you.”
“That’s not much of a dinner.”
“I’m not a big eater.”
He leaned across the table. “Well, would you like to go out dancing?”
“Dancing?” Her eyes widened. “What, now?”
“Well, no. But the Casino Restaurant’s open for a few more hours. We could go dancing after supper. Or we could go somewhere else. Sadowski’s, they have a good band plays ragtime.”
“It’s a busy time of day for me.”
“Or the Idle Hour Café, that’s right across the street. I can come back later to pick you up.”
She stared at the cards. “I shouldn’t be out late. Not after last night. My son, Pin…”
“Pin knows how to find his way across the Pike.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip, reminding him of when he’d questioned Pin in the station house. Finally, she said, “I’ll do your fortune. Give me your hand.”
He hid his disappointment but obediently put his hand on the table. She took it in both of her own, turning it over to examine it. Frowning, she extended her finger to trace the lines of his palm.
“How many times a day do you do this?” he asked, hoping to break the mood.
“Hush.” She bent over his hand for a long time, at last sat back. “I’ll go with you to the Casino for dinner.”
“What?” He stared at her, confused, and she grinned.
“I just wanted to be sure you weren’t married. Some men, they take off their wedding rings, but you can always tell—”
She tapped the base of his ring finger. “There—the sun never reaches it. So if they wear a ring, you can see where it was, ’cause it’s white.”
She sat back in her chair, pleased with herself. Francis laughed.
“Well, that’s very clever,” he said. He stood, relieved. “Should I come back, say at half past?”
She nodded. “I’ll close up early. Like you said, big crowds today. I’ve been busy. That poor girl…”
Her voice trailed off, and her expression grew strange—not frightened but vacant. It unnerved him, and he stared at her, tongue-tied, until she blinked, the spell broken. She withdrew a small pouch, heavy with coins, turned her back to him, and made some adjustment to her blouse. When she turned back, the pouch was gone.
“I keep it with me,” she explained. “Even at night. If anyone’s going to steal it, they’ll have to kill me first. I have this, too.” She twitched her hand and held up a shiv.
Francis tried to hide his shock. “Well, I know where Pin gets his moxie, I guess.”
Once again her face grew masklike. She set the deck of cards on a small shelf, alongside a notebook and a hurricane lantern, and froze.
“Oh, God! I forgot all about this!” She picked up the notebook and shook her head. “A customer left it, I meant to go after him and give it back, but someone else came in right away.”
Francis glanced at the little book—the sort of notebook reporters like Bennie used. “I can bring it to the station house tomorrow—we have a lost-items box there, he might come to reclaim it.”
“Oh, could you? Thank you.”
She handed him the book. He slid it into his pocket and pulled aside the velvet drapes in the doorway. “I’ll secure us a table at the Casino,” he said. “After, we can do whatever you’d like—dancing, I hope.”
“I’d like that,” Gina replied, and smiled.
Chapter 53
WHEN HE ARRIVED at his apartment, Lionel hung up his jacket and hat, removed his collar, and exchanged his shoes for his house slippers. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, set it on his desk beside the typewriter, and went to retrieve his notebook from his jacket. He’d begun writing the scenario in his head on the way home. If Essanay refused to let him make it into a photoplay, he’d turn it into a story and sell it to one of the adventure magazines. Someone was going to cash in on this Hell Gate killing: Why not him?
But the breast pocket of his jacket was empty. He found his handkerchief and coin purse in one of the other pockets, along with a toothpick. But the notebook was gone.
He cursed under his breath, pacing the room as he struggled to reconstruct the last few hours. His thoughts were still slightly blurred from Max’s hashish. When had he last had the notebook? In Fairyland? Yes, but it was after he’d left the woods that he’d seen all those cops at Hell Gate and realized that was where the murder had occurred. He’d written a note to himself, and then gone—where?
In an instant he remembered: the fortune-teller. He’d searched his pocket for a quarter to pay her and set his notebook on the table. Then forgot it just minutes later.
He swore again, more irritated now than genuinely upset. Surely she would have held on to it. Though if she happened to look inside, God knows what she’d make of his scribbled notes. He’d go back first thing tomorrow, drop by to see if Max was around to buy another few cigarettes. Make a few sketches of Hell Gate. Maybe he could even go inside, if they’d opened it again.
He sank into his desk chair and stared at his typewriter, feeling a frisson of mi
ngled fear, desire, expectation: the emotion he experienced writing or reading a tale of forbidden things, walking after dark along the Manhattan docks or sitting in a dim Bowery saloon where men gathered to meet others with the same furtive thoughts. The world held a secret—many secrets—and he didn’t need a notebook to uncover them.
Flushed with excitement, he thought of the tunnel beneath Hell Gate, the mysteries it held that he might re-create on the page. He rolled a fresh sheet of paper into his Royal Upright, and began to type.
Chapter 54
THE BARN WAS tucked into a weed-grown yard behind the house, surrounded by old elms. Henry lifted the latch and pulled the heavy door back, revealing a single long room cloaked in shadow. He stepped over the threshold and was immediately swallowed by the darkness. Pin hesitated, then went in after him.
The barn smelled of dirt and neat’s-foot oil, chicken shit, and straw. After a few seconds her eyes began to adjust, and the outlines of unknown objects gradually became recognizable. A scythe, hoes and rakes and shovels, a wheelbarrow. A hay rake, twice as long as she was tall, hung from the rafters like a huge many-taloned claw. Sawhorses had been pushed against one wall, along with a wire frame that contained a small chicken coop.
Pin knelt in front of the coop and peered inside. She heard soft inquisitive clucks as the hens stirred in the straw where they slept. She poked a finger through the chicken wire, trying to touch their fluffed-up feathers.
“Here’s a rabbit,” Henry called.
She stood and joined him in front of a hutch. A large grey rabbit lay pressed against the front of the wire cage, hind legs outstretched like one of the leaping targets in the shooting gallery. Henry slipped his fingers through the wire and stroked its fur. Pin stared at it with longing and trepidation. “Will it bite me?”
Henry shook his head. She warily slid a finger through a gap in the chicken wire and touched the rabbit’s long ear, feeling it quiver beneath her touch. She stroked it gently, the velvety fur softer than anything she could have imagined. “Can I let it out?” she asked.
Curious Toys Page 16