by Jo Schaffer
“Mm. Hello, you doctor, you.” Mumsy teetered forward with a flirtatious grin.
“This is a wonderful party, Mrs. Malloy.” He put out a hand to steady her.
Mumsy cackled and slapped him on the shoulder. “Karl, how nice of you to say.”
Hazel loved her mother. Mumsy had become more affectionate and attentive since the kidnapping, but it still ashamed her when Mumsy got drunk and caused a scene.
“Um. Mumsy, father was looking for you. I think he’s in the drawing room,” Hazel lied.
Mumsy yawned without covering her mouth. “Oh, for crying out loud. That man. Ruins all the fun.”
“Shall we find him together?” Dr. Galton offered his elbow.
“That would be the bee’s knees.” Mumsy’s face brightened.
Hazel fought back the urge to object. She had hoped to steer the doctor away from the spectacle of her mother’s crass behavior. But the look on his face told her that he was acting in kindness without judgement. Hazel smiled, grateful.
“Have a good time at your party, Hazel. Go. Find someone to dance with.” Dr. Galton took Mumsy away.
Hazel wandered through the crowd. People smiled at her and gave birthday wishes. They were good people. Refined and educated. Many of them gave generously to charity and had expressed so much concern and support in the days since her kidnapping. For the first time, she had begun to feel like she actually belonged.
As her head began to ache, the music became too loud for her to bear. She made her way back out onto the veranda to take in the night air and to think. The cool air felt good on her skin and seemed to relieve her headache. Hazel stepped around a shattered champagne glass and leaned against the railing. The smell of the torches mingled with the sweet aroma of magnolias and spilled champagne. Hazel looked up at the moon and thought of how much her life had changed in a couple of months. She didn’t feel like the messy-haired misfit anymore. But who was she now?
She ran her hands down the front of her silk gown and thought of the people she had seen in Forest Park dressed in threadbare, ragged clothing. Hazel knew that the best way to help them was to use her position in society, like Dr. Galton. Not by fighting the elite and chasing conspiracies.
Sandy emerged from the garden and came up the steps onto the veranda. Her lipstick was smeared, and her black dress was crumpled and slightly twisted across the bodice. When she saw Hazel, she ran a hand through her bobbed hair to tame it as if it were the long, honey mane it once was. “Hello, best pal. Happy birthday. I left your gift in your room.” Sandy’s usual sparkle had been gone for a while now, but Hazel was still getting used to the sardonic, flint-eyed girl who had once been her best friend.
Something was definitely off. It had been ever since the kidnapping. But tonight there was something new. Hazel hugged her friend, and the smell of cigarettes hit her. She stepped back to examine her face. “Thanks. Glad you came. Thought you were going to skip it.”
“You know how I love a party.” She gave a wicked smile; the scar down the side of her face crumpled like a poorly stitched seam. As if suddenly conscious of it, Sandy brought her hair forward to hang over the side of her face.
“What have you been doing out there in the moonlight?” Hazel gave her a little push on the shoulder, hoping to sound playful.
Sandy bit her lip, and a look of guilt flashed across her face. Something inside Hazel froze. Who was Sandy’s beau? Hazel thought of how Stanley had smelled of cigarettes earlier, and now Sandy did. Stanley had disappeared into the garden after Hazel sent him away.
“Just taking in the night, you know.” Sandy ran her fingers around her mouth to tidy her lipstick. “So what did I miss? How’s the party?”
Hazel narrowed her eyes. “It’s a scream.” Hazel felt a little sick to her stomach. She had no claim on Stanley, but Sandy had been her best friend for years. How could they?
Just then, there was shouting from inside the conservatory. Hazel rushed in to see a crowd gathering around something. The band had stopped playing, and someone was calling out.
“Is there a doctor in the house?”
Hazel pushed her way past the silk dresses and tuxedos; the air was thick with perfume and cologne and the faint smell of sweat. On the floor in the middle of the gathering was Teeth Guido in a crumpled suit that was too big for him and an outdated tie. He was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his mouth gaping open like the wind had been knocked out of him.
“Teeth!” Hazel forgot about her silk dress and kneeled beside the scrawny kid. “You okay?”
He let out a moan and pressed his hands to his stomach. “My legs gave out, and now somethin’ ain’t right in my guts, Hazie.”
She put a hand to his forehead; it was hot and covered with perspiration. He began to writhe around, his eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m here.” Dr. Galton appeared, lowering himself beside Hazel on the floor. He examined Teeth closely, not saying a word. He put an ear to his chest then held the boy’s scrawny wrist, looking at his wristwatch.
“Doc. Am I dyin’?” Teeth gasped.
“I doubt that very much.” Dr. Galton tapped on Teeth’s abdomen and then laid the back of his hand on his forehead. He quickly wiped his hand off on the knee of his pants. Hazel hmphed to herself and wished Stanley had been there to see it.
“Is he okay?” Hazel asked.
“I need to get him to the clinic. Up you go.” Dr. Galton hooked his hands under Teeth’s shoulders, and another man who had been watching helped pull the boy to his feet.
Teeth winced in pain, wobbling on shaky legs. “I don’t wanna go unless Haze comes too.”
Hazel stood and glanced around. It was her party … but she liked Teeth and wanted to see that he was okay. “Okay, let me grab my wrap.”
Hazel stood beside Teeth where he reclined in the examination chair, while the doctor looked him over and asked him questions about his health, family, and past injuries.
“I ain’t got much, doc, but my folks are hardy. The Guidos eat nails,” Teeth said proudly. He was a wiry, tough kid. Hazel had seen how he held his own in a scrap.
“I have no doubt. You seem to be from good stock. But I’d like to keep you here for a while to run some tests and make sure there isn’t a serious problem that might require an appendectomy.”
“A what?” Teeth furrowed his brow and then squirmed in pain again.
“Surgery.” Dr. Galton turned to his sink and began to wash his hands.
Teeth went pale. “Cut me open? But Doc, I gotta be out on the streets selling my papes, or eatin’ won’t come easy.”
“If your appendix is infected, eating won’t come easy either. We will need to take it out,” he said, shaking the water from his hands into the sink.
Hazel handed him a towel. He nodded at her and dried his hands. “Thank you.”
She smiled and felt very useful. In the spirit of that feeling, she placed a hand on Teeth’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, fella. You’re in good hands. And Shuffles can help sell your papers if that happens.”
Teeth looked doubtful. He chewed his lip and ran his hand over the nice suit he’d been given to wear to Hazel’s party. “I can always hock this,” he said.
“You won’t need to.” Hazel gave him a wink. She could buy his whole stack of papers if she had to.
Dr. Galton took up his notebook and jotted down something onto the page. “Hazel, I see no reason why you should miss any more of your birthday party. Have your driver take you home. I will take care of your friend.”
Hazel searched Teeth’s face. “He is in a lot of pain.”
“It’s okay, Haze. You gotta go back to your party. I shoulda thought of that,” Teeth said.
“I wanted to come,” she said.
“I will give him something for the pain. Next time you see him, he will be a new man.”
Hazel felt reluctant to leave. She worried about Teeth, but she also loved helping the doctor an
d being a part of something. “Okay. Well, I’ll check in on you later. That okay?”
“Sure thing, tomato.” Teeth winked at her.
As Hazel made her way through the clinic, she passed by one of the other exam rooms. The door was ajar, and there was a light on. Hazel peeked inside and was struck with the metallic smell of blood mixed with the sharp burn of hydrogen peroxide bleach. The German nurse, Marie, was mopping the floor and did not see Hazel.
She raised her hand to say hello, but something made her stop. The nurse pulled the wadded sheet off of the exam table and removed what looked like a piece of clothing and dunked it into the mop bucket of bleach. Hazel backed out of the room, uneasy. Marie was busy and was not a terribly friendly woman. Best not to bother her while she was working.
On her way out of the clinic, Hazel felt the crackle of something underfoot. She stooped down and picked up the crumpled pamphlet. She had seen one like it on Dr. Galton’s desk before. It had something to do with healthy childbirth or something. She opened it and read:
Good genes make a strong man strong and an intelligent man smart, while bad genes lead to poverty, prostitution, and criminality. Improving the human race requires ridding the population of ‘defective protoplasm’ while encouraging the superior stock to breed more.
Hazel crushed the pamphlet in her hand, and another sharp pain shot through her head. She took a deep breath. It was good that there were people out there trying to better the world and eliminate suffering. It was great that science was making that possible. Which reminded her that she would have to take another Bayer tablet when she got back to the party.
She raised her hand to massage her forehead, and the St. Joan of Arc medallion from Stanley brushed her cheek. Hazel rubbed the raised image of the young, warrior girl and tried not to think about the hurt look on Stanley’s face as he had walked away.
Stanley’s instincts burned to a feverish pitch the closer they got to the Rookery. Goosebumps raised up and down his arms. The entire landscape seemed to pulse with a warning of whatever evil lurked inside. His stomach rolled, and he fought back the urge to throw up.
“Stanny, you okay? You look as white as a banshee. Maybe you shouldn’t go in,” Seamus said, halting them before they reached the door.
Shaking his head, Stanley said, “I have to. Feel it.” He gulped a huge breath of air just to get the words out.
Nodding, Seamus pointed at Arthur. “You have to stay here, boy. Can’t get you in. Shouldn’t even let Stanley in, but I need him to understand what we’re up against. This ain’t no game.”
Stanley hated the sound of that. Something had his uncle terrified. In the last month, Seamus had tried to discourage Stanley from being involved in the Veiled Prophet mess. He said to leave it up to him, Mr. Malloy, and other trusted men to get to the bottom of things. Stanley had ignored every warning, insisting that he and his Knights could handle themselves.
His body began to tremble as he followed his uncle into the mildewed, shadowed interior of the Rookery. Maybe he’d been cocky thinking he could deal with all of it, because he suddenly felt like he was about to get in over his head.
Seamus led Stanley down the same hallway he’d walked not long ago to visit the Raven. The walls seemed to close in on him, and he took a few deep breaths. Some beat cops and two detectives talked in low tones.
“Gotta wait for the meat wagons to clean up this mess. Ain’t never seen anything like it,” one cop said as they walked past. Other uniformed officers clustered together, muttering and shaking their heads.
“They knocked out the lights in there.”
“Suppose they did that before or after decorating?”
“Gives me the creeps.”
Seamus and Stanley passed into the cavernous, main room of the warehouse, and at first glance he didn’t understand all the fuss. It was dark, but for the large squares of light on the floor from the moonlight coming through the high windows and the lights in the hallway. Everything looked to be undisturbed and in place. The hissing of a record playing at its end came from one side of the room, but there was a heavy stillness that made his heart skip. It was the kind of quiet and void he’d felt in a cemetery. Where was the party? The back of his neck prickled and he looked up.
Row upon row of bodies dangled from the rafters by long, thick ropes. Men in suits and women in dresses. Some of them swung gently as if blown by an unseen breeze, while others didn’t move. Each one’s head was covered with a black bag.
“Saints preserve us,” Stanley breathed out. He wanted to bolt for the door, but he couldn’t move. He could not look away. There were dozens of bodies just hanging like the branches of a weeping cherry tree, the ladies’ skirts like drooping blossoms.
The last of the St. Louis gangsters.
Seamus shook his head, and his voice came out hoarse. “Not even sure the saints can save us now. How do you suppose anyone could take a whole gang by surprise like this? Not a drop of blood any place. No struggle.”
Stanley stared at the rows of bodies and thought how much work went into stringing them all up like that … it was a deliberate display. This was dark work. Unearthly. The musty, still air seemed to have had all goodness and life sucked out of it.
A few tables near the walls were spread with playing cards and untouched food. Even the room was dead now. Seamus walked over to the phonograph and removed the needle to stop the hissing sound, ending the party for corpses.
Vinnie said he was bringing Patricia here. Stanley’s stomach dropped. Vinnie. Where was he?
He looked upward and searched the hanging bodies, examining the shoes. When he reached the final row, he saw them gleaming black, swirling slowly in the dark.
“No. No. Please, God. No. Please. Not Vinnie.” Stanley ran over to the body, reached up, and grabbed his friend’s dangling feet.
“Boyo, what are you doing? We can’t pull them down. Not yet. What’s wrong with you?” Seamus shouted from across the room.
Stanley collapsed to his knees and crossed himself. He let out a guttural cry. Memories of Vinnie working at the ballpark with him, punching each other in the boxing ring, and laughing together on long trolley rides passed through his mind like a fading reel of film. The first time they met at the age of six, they’d shouted Irish and Italian insults at each other. And after a brief fight, they’d become fast friends.
Now, here was the end of Vinnie. Sobs heaved out of him in waves. It couldn’t be real. He let loose with a string of Irish Catholic, dirty words.
“Stanny, Stanny …” His uncle clutched at his shoulders and shook him.
“Vinnie, Seamus. This is Vinnie.” Stanley didn’t recognize his own voice. It was broken and shrill.
“No. Can’t be.” Seamus let out a groan.
“Shoes. Let him borrow them. My shoes,” Stanley forced out between sobs.
“I didn’t know, lad, I’m sorry … I wouldn’t have brought you in … Mary and Joseph, pray for us. Curse these bastards. Damn them to Hell.” Seamus knelt down next to him. He put his arm around Stanley and whispered in his ear.
“The fat is in the fire now, boy. Understand? Look at them. This is what we could all be. They want annihilation, not just control.”
Stanley wiped his face. Anger rose inside him. He stood and balled his fists. They couldn’t get away with this. Seamus’s plan to scare him off had backfired. More than ever, Stanley was determined to fight them. Vinnie needed to be answered for. He looked up at the body of his friend and noticed something strapped to his leg. Stanley reached up and removed the black, painted branch, just like the one he’d found on his pillow.
“The Winnowing has begun, Seamus.” Stanley clenched his jaw.
“Yes, boyo. There’s no safe place now, if there ever was.”
They stood there for a moment. No matter how long Stanley looked, he couldn’t take in the horror or process it. Something inside him blocked every emotion, and he just felt numb now.
<
br /> “Listen. We need to get out of here. The Chief of Police is lurking around, and he’s not to be trusted, understand?” Seamus took Stanley’s arm and led him away from the horrible room of body piñatas. Arthur waited outside, standing in the shadows.
“Artie … I …” Stanley wiped the back of his hand across his nose.
Arthur squinted at him, and a look crossed his face that Stanley never saw there. Fear. “That bad, eh? Hey, the Chief is here. I gotta scram, Stanny. I’ll be seein’ ya.” Arthur darted away before Stanley could say a word.
After Arthur melted into the night, a tall, well-dressed man with white, slicked-back hair in a trench coat came up to them. He eyed Seamus and sucked on his teeth as if he had food stuck between them.
“Interesting night, wouldn’t you say, Fields?” He raised his chin to the dark warehouse.
“Guess so, Chief,” said Seamus.
“And I know this young man. Our famous, hero newsie. How are you, kid?”
He offered his hand, and Stanley shook it out of polite obligation. It was hard and cold. All Stanley could think about was Vinnie’s body swinging back and forth, the Post-Dispatch shoes gleaming with a recent shine. And the black branch.
Seamus straightened his fedora. “Chief, why haven’t the meat wagons comes yet? We gotta start processing these bodies, collecting evidence, and it’s too dark in there.”
“Ah, well, Fields, I have another crew on the way. I’m going to relieve you of this responsibility right now. Take this young man home. He looks like he’s about to fall over.”
Seamus stood for a moment, looking as if he wanted to argue the point.
“Don’t worry about it, Detective. You’ve done good work here. Now, let someone else take over.”
Stanley would have bet money that under any other circumstances, his uncle would have fought tooth and nail. Instead, Seamus smiled and said, “Well, very good Chief. Guess these rat bastards got what they deserved anyhow. Probably the mugs who did this are long gone by now.”
“That’s the idea, Fields. File your report with me personally. I’ll let your captain know.”