Five Points (8 page)

“Really well!”

“Then I suppose he's managed to earn himself one fan in town,” Appo said.

“Don't worry, George,” Red said. “To me you're still the greatest.”

When Bethany came out the next morning, she found Ben sitting on the front steps. She sat down next to him and bumped his shoulder with hers. She loved him dearly, but as a brother. She wished that was enough for him.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, yourself.”

“Still sulking?”

“Naw,” he said, “I'm over that. Now I'm just angry. ”

“Jesus, Ben,” she said, “you're always angry.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I feed on it.”

“I think it feeds on you,” she said.

“I'm gonna have to go and see Ma today,” Ben said. “You wanna come?”

“No,” she said. “I never like to see her unless I have to. And I don't want to see how she treats you. When do you figure Willie will get here with the goods?”

“Another few days, at least,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “The longer I go without seein' his ugly face the better.”

“You and me both. You see George last night?”

“Yeah. I ate with him and Little Red at the Metropole. ”

“That little guy's got a bad crush on you,” he said.

She nudged him with her elbow and said, “That makes two of you, huh?”

He leaned away from her.

“Don't tease me, Bethany. You know how I feel about you.”

“I do know, Ben,” she said, “and I try to make light of it. It ain't right. You're my brother.”

“Half brother.”

“Still . . .”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's just how I feel.”

“You have to find a nice girl, Ben.”

“Bethany,” he asked, “what would a nice girl want with me?”

Clint approached the clerk at the front desk and had to admit to himself he didn't know if it was Owen or Ted.

“Hello.”

The young man looked up. It was Ted, the one from earlier in the morning.

“You said if I needed anything,” Clint said. “Did you mean . . . anything?”

Ted looked around, then leaned on the desk and lost the benign look he'd been wearing.

“Yes, sir . . .
anything
. Are you in need of . . . something special?”

“Not as special as what you're thinking,” Clint replied.

“I didn't think so,” Ted said. “I saw Angie leave a little while ago.”

“Yes, well, what I need is a message delivered to someone who lives in Brooklyn,” Clint said, “on Sackett Street. His name is Delvecchio.”

“Just Delvecchio?”

“That's all he goes by.”

“What's the message, sir?”

“That I'm here, and would like to see him.”

“That's it?”

“That's all.”

“You wouldn't want him . . . brought here?”

“No,” Clint said. He took a couple dollars from his pocket and laid them on the desktop. “Just deliver the message today.”

“Yes, sir.” Ted slid the money from the desk into his pocket.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir,” Ted said, once again assuming that blank, benign look he and Owen shared when it suited them.

Clint left the hotel and wondered what his next move should be. Delvecchio was a private detective who lived in Brooklyn. He and Clint had worked together the last time he'd been in New York. The detective had helped him with Teddy Roosevelt, Annie Oakley, and P. T. Barnum. No such names involved this time, but maybe the man would still be willing to help.

He was going to be interested in Delvecchio's opinion of Captain Tom Byrnes. He already knew that Delvecchio respected Talbot Roper's reputation—a rep supported by Clint himself. Well, Clint respected the Brooklyn detective's opinions, so a conversation about Byrnes would be very interesting.

Clint decided to go down to Printers Row to spend some time in one of the newspaper morgues. He wanted to do some reading about the fencing and pickpocket situation in Manhattan.

Captain Thomas Byrnes came into his office that morning, refreshed from a good night's sleep. He called O'Halloran into his office immediately.

“What have you got for me?” he asked.

“Sir?”

“On those fences.”

“Sir . . . I've only just come in.”

“You didn't work on it last night?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

“Did you give it any thought at all?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“And what conclusions have you come up with?”

“Sir?”

“Sergeant,” Byrnes said patiently, “give me the names of three fences you think could handle as much merchandise as we are talking about.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” O'Halloran said, thinking fast. “Buzzy Rothstein, Declan Murphy, and . . . Ma Mandelbaum.

“Good,” Byrnes said. He wrote down the three names. “Keep your ear to the ground, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

As O'Halloran left and closed his boss's door behind him, Byrnes sat back. He'd thought of Fredericka Mandelbaum himself. This was the kind of thing she'd do to make a point that she was as good or better than the men in the business.

Yes, he should probably have a talk with the Queen of Fences, but first a check to see how Clint Adams was doing.

Bethany was still sitting on the front steps, worrying about Ben when Red came along and plopped himself right next to her.

“Hi, Bethany.”

“Hello, Red.”

“You look sad.”

“I've got things on my mind, Red.”

“What things?”

“Grown-up things,” she said. “You wouldn't understand. ”

“Well, I got somethin' I think might cheer ya up.”

“Oh, yeah? What's that?”

“Clint Adams.”

“What about him?”

“That was him I saw in the train station.”

“How do you know?”

He told her about having breakfast with the Gunsmith that morning.

“You better not be lying to me, Red.”

“I ain't lyin', I swear, Bethany,” Red said. “I wouldn't lie to you.”

“You'd lie to your mother, if she was alive,” Bethany pointed out.

“I know,” he said, “but not to you.”

She studied him for a few moments, then asked, “Now, why would that be good news to me? If he's in New York, it means he's lookin' for whoever killed that woman in Denver.”

“And that wasn't you, right?”

“Right.”

“So then he ain't lookin' for you,” Red said. “Ain't that good news?”

“That's right,” she said. “He's lookin' for Willie O'Donnell.”

“Right.”

“But . . .”

“But what?”

She turned and patted Red on the head.

“Never mind, Red,” she said. “Thanks a lot.”

“You want me to leave, don't ya?”

She smiled at him. “I have some thinking to do.”

“Grown-up thinkin', right?”

“Right.”

“Okay,” he said, standing up. He took his cloth hat from his pocket and jammed it on his head. “Ya don't gotta tell me twice.”

As Red walked away, Bethany started to worry about Ben again. It wasn't Willie who people might have seen with Libby Wellington in Denver—it was Ben. People were bound to remember the handsome young man who was hanging around the older woman in the last days before she was killed.

What if Clint Adams was in New York looking for Ben?

She sprang off the steps and ran down the block after Red.

“Hey, Red,” she said, grabbing his shoulder.

“Don't do that!” Red said, turning around. “You scared the crap outta me.”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” she said. “Look, where did you say Clint Adams was staying?”

“The Belvedere Hotel,” Red said. “Union Square.”

“Thanks, Red, thanks.” She turned and started running.

“Crazy girls!” Red said.

Clint came out of the morgue of the the
Morning Telegraph
with black ink on his hands. He'd been through the morgue copies of the paper and now knew that Captain Tom Byrnes had been a bear on pickpockets in New York in recent months, and in recent years had been the main reason for the increase in proficiency of the New York City Police Department. Byrnes, from what Clint could glean from the newspapers—and from reading between the lines—was both feared and respected by the lowlifes of New York.

Clint wanted a drink, but first he wanted to wash the ink from his hands. He decided to go back to the hotel, wash up, and then get that drink at the tavern next door.

“Anyone looking for me?” Clint asked the clerk. Damn. Couldn't tell if it was Owen or Ted.

“No, sir. No one asked, and no one has been looking. Oh, and we got that message delivered for you.”

“Thank you.”

He went upstairs, washed his hands, and then came back down to go to the tavern. As he entered, he spotted both Angie and Captain Thomas Byrnes. One of them smiled at him, and the other waved.

Since Byrnes was at his table, Clint joined him. Angie hurried over to take his order.

“Beer, please, Angie,” he said. “A cold one.”

“Comin' right up.”

The captain already had half a beer in front of him, so he waved her away.

“I thought I might find you here,” Byrnes said. “Wanted to check on your progress.”

“Not much,” Clint said, “except to become more impressed with you.”

Byrnes wiped some beer foam from his mustache with his finger and said, “What's that?”

“I checked the morgue at the
Telegraph
—went back quite a few months. Seems you're making it hard for the criminal element in New York to make a living. ”

“That's just my job,” Byrnes said.

“Nevertheless, it's impressive. Think if I stay away a couple of years again and then come back, the streets will be clean of crime.”

“Not much chance of that,” Byrnes said, “but it's a nice thought.”

“What about you?” Clint asked. “Any luck?”

“I can think of two or three fences who might be able to handle the volume of merchandise we're talking about,” Byrnes said. “I'm going to talk to them.”

“Mind if I come along?” Clint asked. “Looks like I don't have that much to do until the stuff gets here.”

“I'm going to go and see Ma Mandelbaum down in Little Italy right from here,” Byrnes said. “Don't see any reason why you shouldn't tag along.”

“Can I have a drink first?” Clint asked. “Kind of dry in that morgue.”

“Sure,” Byrnes said. “There's no hurry.”

Angie brought Clint his beer, set it down, and made sure she bumped him with her hip as she was leaving. Byrnes noticed, but said nothing.

“I sent a message to a friend of mine,” Clint said. “Thought he might be of some help.”

“Bat Masterson, you mean?”

“No,” Clint said, “not that message. I sent one here in town. Well, to Brooklyn, actually.”

“Brooklyn?” Byrnes said it as if it were some foreign country he hated. “What's this friend's name?”

“Delvecchio,” Clint said. “He's a private—”

“I know who Delvecchio is, Mr. Adams.”

Clint wondered what happened to “Clint”?

“I would think you'd pick your friends a little more carefully.”

“He's been a big help to me during my other visits, ” Clint said. “What's your problem with him?”

“He plays both sides,” Byrnes said. “In my book you've got to pick a side. If you don't, then you might as well be bent.”

Clint didn't say anything. Byrnes seemed real intense about this, and Clint didn't want to get on the man's bad side. He also didn't want to insult Talbot Roper's friend.

“I'll keep that in mind, Captain.”

Byrnes finished his beer, wiped away the foam again, then seemed to relax.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't mean to tell you who your friends should be. It's just . . . if I were you, I'd be careful of Mr. Delvecchio. That's all I'm saying.”

“I appreciate it, Captain,” Clint said. “I mean it, I'll keep your words in mind.”

“You finish your beer,” Byrnes said. “I want to talk to the bartender a moment. Then we'll go and see Ma Mandelbaum. She is known as the Queen of Fences.”

“Sounds like somebody who's going to be interesting to meet,” Clint said.

“Interesting is the least of it,” Byrnes said.

Bethany got to the Belvedere Hotel just in time to see Clint Adams leave and go to the tavern next door. When she hurried over and peered in the window, she saw him joining Captain Byrnes at a table. There was no way she could go in and talk to him, not while he was with Byrnes.

She was just going to have to wait.

Clint finished his beer as Byrnes came walking back over.

“You ready to go meet the only female fence in Manhattan?” Byrnes asked.

“I'm ready.”

He stood up and the two men walked to the door. Clint waved at Angie and signaled to her that he'd see her later. At least, he hoped she understood what he was trying to convey. Either way, she smiled and blew him a kiss.