The devils half mile, p.3
The Devil's Half Mile, page 3
Justy felt as though the world had stopped. There was nothing but the girl in front of him and the pulse in his throat, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.
He had known Kerry O’Toole from the day she was born. Her father was from the same village as the two Flanagan brothers. O’Toole had hired himself out to them as a porter in return for passage to America. Justy’s father had hired him on for the voyage, but it was Justy’s uncle Ignatius, the Bull, who had seen O’Toole’s long-term potential. When Francis Flanagan took the high road to Wall Street, the Bull stayed on the waterfront, with O’Toole beside him as his bodyguard and his enforcer.
The free blacks and the Irish may have fought each other ceaselessly when it came to finding paid work, but they mixed freely in the cheap, dank taverns and rickety dance halls that had sprung up on the waterfront. Relations between Irishmen and the free Negro girls of the town were common. Some even had black mistresses. But the unwritten rule of the Irish community in New York was that no one ever married outside his race. O’Toole didn’t give a damn for the rules. He fell in love with a black woman and married her. She gave birth to Kerry but died on the same day, and the story was that O’Toole had picked up the little brown baby, taken her down to St. Peter’s, made a bed for her out of the green silk altar cloth and left her screaming on the steps of the sacristy.
Then he went to get drunk.
The priest had called the Flanagan brothers, and while Francis looked after the child the Bull went in search of the father. It took him nearly two days to find O’Toole, who had vowed to drink himself to death. But the Bull laid him out with a single punch and had his lads carry him up to the Collect Pond. It was February, and the water was frozen solid. The men had to cut a hole, and then they tossed O’Toole in. The shock of it brought him round and they pulled him out again, but only after he swore to take care of his responsibilities.
He had taken the pledge and stopped drinking, but he became a sour, morose man, given to sitting in the dark in the front room of his narrow house on the rare occasions he was home and not out breaking heads for the Bull. Kerry was raised by her aunt Grainne, she of the green hat, and because Justy lived only a few doors down, he had come around every day, to play with Kerry and read her stories.
He remembered how she used to be: lanky and scrawny, as though she never got enough to eat. Now she was even taller, almost as tall as him. Not scrawny anymore, but wiry instead, filled out and muscled, with long legs, slim hands and broad shoulders. She looked like she would be quick on her feet, quicker than he was, maybe. Her flat chest and narrow hips meant the clothes she had chosen fit her well, and she passed easily for a man, with her long hair piled under the spacious caubeen.
He tried to think of something to say. A gaggle of children hurried past. One of them grabbed another’s hat, and they screeched with laughter as they tossed it about.
Finally: “It looks like you haven’t had a haircut since I last saw you.”
She pulled a face. “Is that so? Well, you look like you haven’t had a shave.”
He smiled, rubbing his stubbled chin. He wondered how bad he smelled.
He nodded at the caubeen on her lap. “So what does your auntie Grainne think about you wandering about the place in men’s clothes, wearing her hat?”
“She doesn’t think. She’s dead.”
He bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She shrugged. “I would have written you. Except I still don’t have my letters.”
“I thought O’Toole agreed to let you go to school.”
She laughed drily. “Oh sure, his mouth opened and he said the words all right. But when it came to putting his hand in his pocket…”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’d best cheese saying that.”
“All right.” He paused a beat. “I’m sorry.”
They grinned at each other.
“You’d better put that tile back on, if you’re not to be caught,” he said.
She wrapped the long rope of her hair around her fist and tucked it quickly under the caubeen. The long hairpin flashed as she put her hands behind her head and pinned the hat into place.
“You really had me fooled there. You have your act down exact,” Justy said.
“Well, I’ve been called a long-meg mopsie so many times, I may as well make use of what God gave me.”
“I saw you fish that mackerel out of that fat fella’s pocket earlier.”
She gave him a cool look. “Are you going to tell me off?”
“Not at all. I thought you did a fine job.”
He meant it. She was an excellent thief. She was daring, aggressive, and as quick as a cat. He looked at her hands. She had long, slim fingers, perfect for dipping into a man’s coat pocket.
Kerry looked amused. “So it’s all right with you? Me being a street knuckler? Dressing up in men’s clothes?”
Justy felt suddenly embarrassed. He avoided her eyes.
“I didn’t have much of a choice,” she snapped.
“How’s that?”
“Look at me. Half Negro, half gangster’s daughter. No one’s going to marry this, black or white. So it’s either get on my knees and scrub floors or get on my back and put Madge Laycock to work.”
He felt himself flush. “Jesus, Kerry!”
“What?” Her face was tight. “You think I’m joking? My own cousin offered to get me started on the game. He said my light skin would make up for the fact I’ve got neither heavers nor crackers and a body like a boy.”
“What did you say to him?”
Kerry smirked. “Not much. I did give the madge a good kick in the tarrywags, though. He didn’t mention it again after that.”
Justy didn’t know what to say. She seemed cool and collected, an entirely different person from the one he’d known before. He wondered whether she really had kicked her cousin in the balls. He looked at the tilt of her chin and the tight line of her mouth and decided she had.
She kicked her heels out and stretched, arms up, arching her shoulders over the back of the bench.
“So now you’re back, where are you staying? With the Bull?”
Justy shook his head. “I’ll go to see him, but I’ll not stay. I’ll find a room in a boardinghouse somewhere.”
She nodded. “Aye, I’d be a bit skittery, staying with him just now.”
“Why’s that?”
“You saw that carry-on down at the dock today, didn’t you? It’s not a safe time to be out and about on the waterfront. Or in Canvas Town. Or anywhere else there’s gangs. You’ll see.”
“So where’s safe?”
She smirked. “There’s a lady I know in the New Town who rents rooms. Her name’s Mrs. Montgomery. She made the mistake of marrying an Englishman who got milled in the war. But she’s pals with O’Toole, and he gave her some money to buy a place and start over. She’s a lively old girl. You’ll like her.”
They walked slowly along the side of the Park and up to Chambers Street. It was getting dark, and the lamplighters’ carts were squeaking their way up the main thoroughfares. Candles illuminated a thousand windows around them, silk and muslin curtains filtering the light into a patchwork of colors.
Justy glanced at her. She looked strong and confident, her head up, her shoulders thrown back, cock of the walk in her boys’ clothes. He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the patched, grubby rags he was wearing.
They crossed the Broad Way. Down the hill, closer to the town, the main streets had been fitted with new lanterns that hung from iron posts every twenty yards or so. But here the streets were dark, the town houses only recently built.
“This is the New Town,” Kerry said. “They’re building all the way to Greenwich Village, can you believe it?”
Justy peered north, into the darkness. “They’ll have to. The way things’re going in Ireland, I can imagine people coming over by the shipload.”
“To this hole of a city?”
“Better here than there, let me tell you. You wouldn’t believe the way we’re treated in Ireland. I’d say slaves in America are better off.”
“Fuck off.” Her lip curled.
“It’s true. The English treat the Irish like animals. Worse. Certainly they treat their horses better. I’ve seen folk living in caves there, like wild beasts. The English take everything. Land, livestock, food, even children, to work their fields and serve them at table. And they pay nothing in return.”
“It’s not the same as being a slave.” Her mouth was a tight line.
He felt a surge of anger. “No, it’s not. In a way, it’s worse. At least an owner looks after his slaves. The bastard English just strip the land bare and leave the people to starve.”
She stopped. She was almost as tall as him, and they stood, eye to eye.
“You should try being a slave sometime yourself, Justice Flanagan.” Her voice was quiet, but her eyes burned. “Then maybe you’d know the kind of shite you’re talking.”
“Kerry?”
But she was already walking away. He hurried to catch her.
“I’m sorry, Kerry. That was a benish thing to say.”
She ignored him. Her face was tight, her chin thrust upwards. He could feel the anger coming off her, like heat from a fire.
He matched her stride, kept his mouth shut. It was a few moments before she spoke. “So what were you doing at the jail?”
“Do you remember my father?”
“Sure. He used to take us to Drammen’s shop on Saturdays. He always bought me butterscotch.”
Justy smiled. “I forgot that.”
An old woman came slowly up the hill towards them, bent double under the weight of an enormous linen bag, stuffed with laundry. Her ankles were as thin as rails, and her white hair floated over her dark brown skin like a puff of smoke. She glanced up and smiled gratefully as Justy and Kerry separated to let her pass.
“Do you remember how my father died?” Justy asked.
Kerry looked away. “He hanged himself.”
He kept his eyes on her until she looked back. He had the sudden feeling that he needed her to understand what he was doing there. “What if I told you he didn’t? Hang himself, I mean.”
“But you’re the one who found him.”
“I know. And he had his neck in a noose, right enough. But what if that wasn’t how he died?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He stopped under a streetlight. Clouds had rolled in with the dusk, so that the sky looked like a low roof over the town.
“Do you know what I was studying, while I was away?” he asked.
“You told me you went for the law.”
“I did. But I studied a lot more than the law. I was in France for a while, my second year. They have something there called a police force. It’s like the Marshals and the bailiffs and the Watch all rolled into one, but better.”
“Well, they couldn’t be worse.”
He smiled. “Their constables go after lawbreakers, especially murderers and thieves, and try to bring them to trial. I spent a summer with them in Paris, to see how they investigate crimes and suspicious deaths. It was fascinating. They have a whole library there, full of pictures and sketches, showing how people die.”
She shivered. “They sound like a bunch of ghouls, so.”
“Not at all. They use it to decide whether a death is suspicious or not. Someone only has to describe a body for an investigator to get a good idea of how someone died. You can tell if it’s a natural death or an accident or a murder. And if it is a murder, you’re already halfway to catching the killer.”
He leaned close. “I’ll never forget finding him, Kerry. I remember it, like it was this morning.” He tapped his temple. “There’s a picture in here, as fresh and exact as though someone painted it the moment I walked into the house and saw him there. But there was something wrong with that picture, I always knew it. I never really believed he was the kind to kill himself, but it was more than that. Something just wasn’t right.”
Kerry shrugged. “It’s hard to accept, someone topping themselves.”
“I know. You always hear people saying he or she never seemed the type. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that something didn’t fit. So I copied out that picture in my head, every detail of it. And then I went to the archive and went through every report I could find that mentioned hanging and suicide. I read every word and examined every sketch, and I compared them to mine. I went out with the police, too. I saw dead bodies. Murdered people, hanged people…”
He stopped. She had a wary look in her eye. He knew that if he wasn’t careful she’d think he was mad. But it was too late to worry about that. “He didn’t do it, Kerry. I know I sound like one of those people, but I’m certain now. He didn’t kill himself.”
She said nothing.
“Did you hear me?”
She frowned. “I hear you, right enough. Do you hear yourself?”
He took a deep breath. The night was cool, but he still felt warm. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, felt the sweat, slick under his palm.
“I know it sounds like I’m cracked, but I’m telling you, if he’d died in Paris and not here, it would never have been ruled a suicide. They’d have called it what it was.”
“Which is what?” Her face was grim.
“Murder.”
She stopped, looking down the hill at the lights of the town. Her jaw was set tight. Justy saw a small pulse in her cheek.
“Jesus!” He jumped as a carriage hammered past them out of the dark, sweat on the horse’s flanks, the coachman slashing down with his whip. “What’s the hurry this time of night?” Justy shouted.
She grinned at him. “You’ve been away too long, a chara.”
He shook his head. His heart was pounding. “I’d forgotten the way people drive in this bloody place.”
She chuckled and walked on across a side street, taking long strides to avoid the horse manure clumped on the cobbles. They stepped to the side as three young lads ran past, barefoot and dressed in ragged breeches and coats several sizes too big for them, hooting and laughing at some prank they had pulled.
She gave him a long look. “You’re sure about this?”
“I know what I saw. And I know my father wasn’t the kind to kill himself. You remember what he was like.”
“I remember he loved you. You were always together. I remember wishing O’Toole was the same.”
They walked on in silence. The surface of the street was uneven here, the cobbles newly laid, the mortar that held them in place not fully bedded down yet. Justy trod lightly, careful not to trip. “You were too young to remember my mother,” he said.
Kerry nodded. “O’Toole talked about her once. He said she was a grand lass.”
Justy felt a sudden wetness in his eyes, a tingling in his nose. He was glad it was so dark. “The day we buried her, my father sat me down. It was just before we went down to the church. We were in the house on our own, I remember. He held my hand and told me he would never, ever leave.” He could hear the tremor in his voice. “He kept his word. He was always there. He did everything for me, but I was an ungrateful mouth, you know? I wanted to be down on the waterfront, living that life. I wanted excitement, not books, but he wasn’t having it. He locked me in and made me study. All the time. I cursed him for it. I hated him. When he died, part of me was glad. Can you believe that?”
He stopped. Kerry stepped close and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her, his face buried in the pillow of her hat, his tears soaking into the coarse green fabric. His chest ached, as though his ribs were broken. “I never got to thank him. I never got to tell him how much I loved him. I owe him so much. But he’s gone.”
She squeezed, and he felt her heartbeat against his chest. He closed his eyes and waited for the tears and the trembling to stop, and then he let go.
He wiped his face. “Sorry for snotting all over your tile.”
She smiled. “It’s seen worse, I’m sure.”
They started walking again, slowly now, like two people stretching out the time.
She took a deep breath. “All right then. Say he was murdered. So who killed him?”
He felt a rush of something, relief tinged with excitement. And gratitude. “I don’t know. But I’m ready to find out. And to do something about it.”
“And that’s why you went to the jail?”
“The man I came to see knew what happened; I’m sure of it. But now he’s dead, too.”
“Who was he?”
“William Duer. Have you heard of him?”
“Sure. A Wall Street cove, right?”
“Aye.”
She made a face. “Making him a bigger thief than me. What did he have to do with it?”
“He was a swindler, and Francis was one of his marks. The old man worshiped Duer. He was forever trying to find a way to do business with him. Bank shares, government bonds, whatever. Duer always turned him down. But one day he brought him in on a scheme. Francis was over the moon. I remember him coming home that day; he skipped through the house.”
He thought about his father dancing about the place, powder from his wig dusting the shoulders of his black coat. “The next thing I know, the Panic happened. Duer ran out of money and everyone who had invested with him lost all their capital.”
“Including your da.”
“That’s what everyone told me. That he put every penny he had into the venture, and then went to the bank and borrowed a whole lot more. And he wasn’t the only one. Duer had plenty of other dupes. Some of them killed themselves, too.”
He felt Kerry looking at him. He kept his eyes front. It had been months since he had drunk anything stronger than weak ale, but he suddenly craved something strong and harsh. Anything to dull the raw edge of his feelings.
“Did you know all of this before you went away?” she asked.
“Only some of it. I found out a lot from a fella named Constable. I met him in London. He knew my father quite well. And I wrote a lot of letters. It’s taken me nigh on a year to piece it all together. But I needed to speak to Duer for the whole picture.”
She glanced at him. “And what will you do now? Go back to Ireland?”
