Hot time, p.6
Hot Time, page 6
Just then a thin man pushed in front of him, so close that Gallagher could smell his body odor. He recognized him as the first speaker, Smolenski. In his hand was a stack of flimsy newspapers that he was hawking. As the man passed, Gallagher turned away, as though something across the room had suddenly attracted his attention.
Smolenski glanced at him, then continued working his way through the crowd. Following along behind, Gallagher saw, was a heavyset man with round features. Their eyes met. It was just for a second, hardly a flicker. But it was enough. The round-faced man made his way toward the back door. Gallagher followed.
By the time Dutch reached Rose Street, the sun was already down. Not that the air seemed any the cooler for it. As he walked, he bit into a frankfurter heaped with sauerkraut. Sometimes that was the hardest part of roughing it, not the sleeping but the eating. Tonight, like every Monday, they’d be having pork and beans at the Newsboys Lodging House. It was his favorite, and there was no limit on seconds.
That morning, he’d woken up late, after sunrise. That was another thing about bumming, trying to get yourself up in time to get the early edition. He’d run down Rose Street and through the dank tunnel under the Brooklyn Bridge. In another few blocks he’d come to the back of the World Building, the gold-domed skyscraper Mr. Pulitzer had thrown up, like a challenge, right across the street from the offices of the Tribune. A couple of other boys were hurrying out, but most had already collected their stock and left. Dutch rushed into the delivery room, then stopped before a wooden counter, calculating. The hot wave and the presidential election had been good for sales. It was late in the morning, but the weather was clear. He decided to take a chance and invest in forty papers. He fished two dimes from his pocket and handed them to a man behind the counter, who gave him a brass token. He carried the token to another man standing beside bundles of newspapers, who took it and handed over the copies.
Dutch ran to the end of the block, past City Hall. He knew better than to try to sell his papers there; that beat belonged to older boys ready to pound him if he so much as breathed the word World. The clock on the Tribune Building said five to eight. Even later than he thought. He bought a banana from an Italian peddler, then, dodging men in their business suits, ran up Broadway to the corner of Pearl. He hoped he hadn’t missed too many of his regular customers. He scanned the headlines, then began to cry in his high boy’s voice: “Get your World here! Dozens more die of the heat! Get your World here! Only a penny! Get your World!”
Business was slow, and it was early afternoon before he sold out. He invested some of his proceeds in a crunchy mandelbrot from a bakery on Pearl Street, then went back to the World Building to pick up the evening edition. By seven they were sold, too, and he was headed toward Rose Street. Even after paying for his frankfurter, he still had more than seventy cents in his pocket. Tomorrow he’d go by the lodging house and put another dime in his bank account. From the start, he had resolved not to be like the other newsies, not to waste his money on shows and gambling and drinking. When he found his mother, he wanted to surprise her with how much he had saved for her.
He made his way down the alley and climbed the pile of crates that he was beginning to think of as his. He felt worn out. Slipping the embroidered handkerchief from his shirt, he stroked it against his cheek. In a moment he was asleep.
In his dream, he was sitting at his family’s kitchen table. His father, just home from work, was seated at one end, wearing a white shirt with a stiff collar and a soft gray necktie. At the other end sat his mother. She had just taken off her apron, revealing her crisp shirtwaist and a big oval cameo pinned below her neck. Her blonde hair was hanging limp because of the cooking, and she hooked a loose strand behind her ear. Then she took a big wooden spoon, filled a dish, and set it before him. While he waited for his father to be served, he looked down on his plate: potato pancakes, red cabbage, and sauerbraten, all his favorites. His mouth watered. He had never been so hungry. Finally, his mother nodded. He picked up his fork and knife and cut a strip of the meat. But as he lifted it, he was shaken by a terrific bang. The kitchen door burst open, and a cold black cloud burst in, shrouding his parents and the table. The gust struck him with such force that he thought his chair would topple. Gripping the seat, he rode it like a wild pony, his hips bouncing on the wooden planks and his feet thrashing through the air. He held on like he’d never held on to anything in his life.
Dutch opened his eyes, breathing hard. It took him a second to remember he was back in the alley. He felt the stack of crates swaying beneath him. Holding tight, he braced for a tumble.
Then he heard a deep voice. “Goddamn it!”
Still groggy, he inched to the edge of the platform. Just below him a man was bent over a long, narrow bundle. At first it looked like a rolled-up rug. Then Dutch saw a pair of shoes sticking from one end. The heavyset man stood up, rested his hands on his hips, and stretched his back, like he wasn’t used to this kind of work. As he did, he seemed to look straight into Dutch’s face. Dutch stopped breathing. Maybe the stranger hadn’t seen him in the dark. Then he heard a raspy voice yell, “Come here, you little son of a bitch!”
Dutch dove from the stack of crates. As he landed on all fours, he heard a clatter of wood behind him. At the end of the alley he turned onto the deserted sidewalk, then hesitated. The Newsboys Lodging House was just around the corner, but the door would be locked at this hour. He went the other way. A couple of doors down he knew another alley. He darted in and crouched, trying to catch his breath. He heard footsteps approaching. They grew fainter, and he crept out just in time to see a dark figure disappear onto Duane Street.
He ran all the way to Pearl and crossed in front of City Hall. The Tribune clock said twenty after two. Dutch didn’t see another soul. Throwing a final glance over his shoulder, he slowed to a walk, but his heart kept racing just the same. Behind the World Building, he slumped to the pavement and rested his forehead on his knees. Had he really seen what he thought he’d seen? Or had it been part of his dream? No, he was sure he’d seen a man lying in the dust, with the heavy one standing over him. And he’d never forget the deep voice echoing off the brick walls, “Come here, you little son of a bitch!” As he hunched in the dark, the scene played over and over in his mind, like looking into a Kinetoscope.
Eventually, he felt a cuff on the back of the head. He jumped to his feet but saw it was only Grady.
“Hey,” Grady said, “you going to get your papers or what?”
Grady was thirteen and already had a growth of fine dark hair on his upper lip. He and Dutch weren’t exactly friends, but Grady was all right. Once when Dutch had lost all his money, Grady had spotted him twenty cents to buy his stock. That was how the newsboys were, Grady said, the older ones looked out for the younger ones. But he was the only one who had ever looked out for Dutch. Grady was born in Ireland, he’d told him once, though he couldn’t remember the Old Country. He’d been on his own since he was seven, after his folks died of a fever. He couldn’t even remember what they looked like. He’d never been to school, never learned to read the papers he sold. Once Dutch had offered to teach him, but Grady had answered by pounding him on the arm. Everything he knew he learned on the street, he said, and that was good enough for him. But since he couldn’t read the headlines, he always needed help deciding how many papers to get and what story to cry. When Dutch was around, he would lend a hand. Grady didn’t seem to hold it against him that he spoke in proper English.
As they pushed toward the delivery room with the other boys, Grady asked, “What happened to your cap?” It didn’t seem right to see a newsie without his cap.
“I lost it,” Dutch answered. Then he had a sudden thought. Sticking his hand in his pocket, he satisfied himself that he hadn’t also lost his money in the chase last night. The two boys bought their papers, then crossed in front of City Hall. The sun was just up over the East River, flashing off the World Building’s golden dome.
Grady asked, “You still staying in that alley behind Rose Street?”
Dutch nodded.
Grady studied him. “What’s the matter with you this morning? You look like you seen a ghost or something.”
Dutch shrugged. Then he asked, “Hey, Grady, have you ever seen a dead body?”
“A crape? Sure, lots of times.”
“What do they look like?”
“Like somebody sleeping is all.”
“Have you ever seen a killer?”
“Sure. They’re ten for a penny down here. Why?”
“If you did, would you go to the police?”
“Cripes, no. You know what they say about cops. ‘Their kind God don’t want and the devil won’t have.’ Steer clear of those bastards.”
Dutch pulled up short. He’d had another thought. Looking down, he saw that his shirt button was still undone. He slid his hand inside, though he already knew what he’d discover. As he ran up Pearl Street, Grady called after him, “Where you going? You bughouse or something?”
Dutch kept running until he turned the corner of Duane and Rose. The street was busy now, with delivery wagons and men on their way to work. He stood for a long minute, finding his breath and his courage. Then, as though treading on tacks, he inched into the alley. Halfway down its length, in place of the jumble from last night, he saw the crates stacked neatly against the wall again. There was no body on the ground. He followed the alley to its dead end. Nothing. Was it a dream after all? Or was the man on the ground only sleeping, like Grady said? He raked his hand through his thick blond hair. Well, that wasn’t why he’d come back. But there was no sign of the handkerchief with the embroidered violet.
FOUR
Tuesday, August 11
RAFE UNBUTTONED HIS uniform coat and spread it over the back of his swivel chair. Then he took a seat and stretched his feet across his desk. He wouldn’t have done either if Mr. Roosevelt or Minnie were in, but as it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, he figured to have the office to himself for a while.
At quarter of five that morning he’d awakened to find sweat pooling in the hollow of his chest. It was too hot to go back to sleep. The sky had already begun to lighten, and he lay there for a while, watching the shifting shades of gray. At six o’clock he collected his clothes and stole into the kitchen. In another minute he was outside.
Allen Street was quiet, but on the Bowery the delivery wagons had begun to stir. A middle-aged man in evening clothes slunk out of a house across the street, threw a guilty glance over his shoulder, and hurried toward the elevated station. As Rafe crossed under the tracks, he saw that his usual newsboy was already there.
The boy seemed just as surprised to see him. “You’re out early this morning, sir,” he said as he handed Rafe his paper.
“So are you. What time do you start?”
“About now. You know, the early bird and all that.”
“What’s your name, son?”
The boy balked, then apparently decided the man was all right, even if he was a copper. “Grady,” he said. But his look turned to disappointment on finding two pennies in his hand and not another nickel.
At headquarters, Rafe saw that Mr. Appleby’s card was still on the commissioner’s desk, where he had left it. He could only hope that the man’s business wasn’t as urgent as he’d claimed, or that the commissioner had gotten his telegram at the Union League Club.
Settling himself in his chair, he unfolded the Sun. The city had been even hotter yesterday than the day before, he read, with thermometers outside several Manhattan drugstores hitting ninety-seven degrees. And people seemed to be going literally mad with the heat. When someone in the Bronx had asked his friend if it was hot enough for him, the man had drawn a revolver and shot first the other, then himself. Yesterday alone, 179 people had been taken to the hospital with prostration. Fifty-four had died on account of the heat, making a toll of 112 since the start of the hot wave, a week ago yesterday. Rafe sighed. How many more would die today?
The Sun’s other lead story was about the election. The Democrat, William Jennings Bryan, had left Chicago after midnight on Monday, barnstorming through Indiana and Ohio, including McKinley’s hometown of Canton, then made a speech last evening in Pittsburgh. Tomorrow night he would be here in New York, at Madison Square Garden, to officially accept his party’s nomination. It was a gutsy move, Rafe had to admit, because New York was McKinley country. The force was taking no chances with Bryan’s safety. Later today, the commissioners would meet with Chief Conlin to review his precautions for the event.
Rafe flipped the paper over and scanned the headlines beneath the fold. A short box in the center of the page attracted his eye.
PUBLISHER FOUND DEAD
_____________
MURDER SUSPECTED, SAY POLICE
_____________
What he read next caused him to sit up and drop his feet to the floor.
The body of William d’Alton Mann, publisher of the society magazine “Town Topics,” was found early this morning in an alley off Rose Street.
The discovery was made by roundsman Horace Miller, who heard a disturbance in the area at approximately 2:15 a.m. Arriving on the scene, Officer Miller determined that Col. Mann was deceased. The preliminary investigation was conducted by detective sergeant Thomas Gallagher, of the 4th precinct. According to Sgt. Gallagher, the apparent cause of death was a blow to the head, and the presumed motive was robbery.
A native of Ohio, Mr. Mann served as colonel of the 7th Michigan Cavalry. After the war, he invented the boudoir railroad car and founded the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits. He assumed the editorship of “Town Topics” in 1891.
Rafe looked for a byline. Jacob Riis, exclusive to the Sun.
He stood up and went to one of the tall windows in the commissioner’s office, but there was no movement yet in the news bureau across the street. After his activities last night, Riis would probably be in late today.
When Minnie arrived at seven forty-five, Rafe was still sitting in his shirtsleeves. She took one look at him and pulled up short on the threshold. “Good Lord, they’ve fired the commissioner!”
“What? No, no.”
“Well, you look as though you’ve had some sort of shock.” “Have you seen this morning’s Sun?”
She shook her head. “The boy wasn’t there today.”
Rafe handed the newspaper over his desk and pointed to the story. As he buttoned his coat, she read.
“Well,” she said at the end. “So, Mr. Mann was a magazine publisher. Have you ever heard of Town Topics?”
“Vaguely. Can’t say I’ve ever seen it.”
“Funny to think he was just here,” she said, with a glance toward Mr. Roosevelt’s door. At police headquarters, murders and robberies were as common as cod. But the victims generally didn’t have a run-in with the commissioner a few hours beforehand.
“What could Mr. Roosevelt have wanted with him?” Rafe asked as he took the paper back. Then more to himself, he added, “And what did he have to do with J. P. Morgan?”
Minnie gave him a puzzled look. As she unpinned her hat, he told her about the summons to Mr. Morgan’s table on Sunday night, but she had no idea what to make of it, either.
The commissioner stalked in a little after eight o’clock, with a newspaper folded under his arm. To Rafe’s question whether he had received the telegram at his club, he grunted in the affirmative.
Rafe followed him into his office. “Mr. Riis was also looking for you yesterday afternoon. He wanted to know if the two of you would be going out last night.”
“Hmm? Is that right? Well, I had to see Appleby, didn’t I?” Rafe was used to the commissioner’s moods, but this morning he seemed particularly out of sorts.
As Mr. Roosevelt laid the newspaper on his desk, Rafe was surprised to see the familiar rays of the Sun’s nameplate. The commissioner was generally a Tribune man.
“You’ve seen the news then,” Rafe said.
Mr. Roosevelt nodded. “Get me Gallagher’s report.”
As he came back into the anteroom, he saw Minnie watching him. “He wants to see the file,” he whispered as he crossed toward the hallway. He didn’t wait for a response.
He trotted down the central staircase to the first floor. The detectives’ room was a wide, plain space, but Rafe never entered without a certain hesitancy, a jumble of intimidation and aspiration. Hanging from one wall was Thomas Byrnes’s famed Rogues Gallery, an ornate wooden frame displaying hundreds of photos of the city’s most notorious criminals, complete with physical descriptions, aliases, personal habits, and modus operandi. In the basement was another of Byrnes’s innovations, the Mystery Chamber, a museum filled with photos, knives, pistols, clubs, and other mementos of his detectives’ successes.
Glancing over at the long wooden counter, Rafe saw that he was in luck this morning. Mulcahy was on duty. That meant fewer questions, less grief.
“Sean, do you have that report on William d’Alton Mann?” Rafe asked. “Commissioner Roosevelt wants to take a look.”
Mulcahy lifted a manila folder from a stack under the counter. The original would be at the precinct house, but a copy had been delivered here to headquarters, so recently that it hadn’t been filed yet.
Rafe signed it out and started up the wide staircase. Then, on the landing between the second and third floors, he stopped. With studied nonchalance, he leaned against the wall and, oblivious to the steady traffic up and down the stairs, he opened the folder and began to read.
