Second Street Station (20 page)

“You haven’t responded to my proposition.”

“The problem is, I don’t know if I’d get what I asked for.”

“Nonsense. You’d be my partner.”

“So is Thomas Edison.”

And with that, she left the room, ending their meeting. Mary had refused Morgan’s offer and had bested him. The rest of the day would not be pleasant for him or for anyone who came across his path.

The next morning Mary and Charles had just woken up, and she was lying on her bed after he had gone to the sink for a glass of water. He had come over the night before after the disastrous meeting he and his father had had with Edison. She had surprised him by being optimistic, assuring Charles they’d find a better deal somewhere else.

“And I thought we’d wallow in our mutual cynicism.”

“I’m afraid your excessive negativity has made me see the folly of my ways.”

“I don’t deserve you, Mary.”

“It’s by plan. I always court beneath me.”

Mary had enjoyed their lovemaking even more that night. She was beginning to relax, and there were times she was more the aggressor. That night though, Mary had felt a strong caring and vulnerability from Charles that was authentic and especially endearing. She was now certain their relationship had limitless possibilities.

“Come back to bed, Charles,” she beckoned him.

“In a minute.”

“That seems like such a long time,” she said with a sigh.

Basking in her happiness, Mary didn’t notice the change in Charles. He purposely stood with his back to her. He was sweating and shaking and desperately trying to control it. Withdrawal had started, and this wasn’t his first experience with it. He gulped down the water and refilled his glass.

Mary got out of bed and headed for him. She was in a playful mood. “So, are you contemplating cooking another surprise for me?”

Charles was barely hanging on. Her proximity rattled him. The glass slipped out of his hand and crashed to the floor, shattering broken glass everywhere. She noticed the condition he was in for the first time.

“Charles!”

“I’m fine, just an upset stomach.” Making a last-ditch effort to cover the state he was in, he tried to brush by her. She put out her hands to stop him and touched his shirt.

“Your shirt’s soaking wet.”

“I have to go. See how Father’s doing.”

As he hurriedly grabbed his coat, the image of Senator Conkling on his deathbed flashed through Mary’s mind. She blocked the door. Charles knew he was at a breaking point and summoned his last ounce of self-control.

“Mary, please get out of my way.”

“You’re obviously sick, and you’re not going to do your father any good by turning it into pneumonia.”

His patience vanished. “Goddamn it! Get the hell out of my way!”

His outburst surprised, confused, and frightened her. She backed away. The adrenaline rushed through Charles’s body.

“That’s in one of your journals under violent mood swings. Not from cocaine. Morphine. We ran out yesterday.”

Mary was speechless. She hadn’t had the least suspicion. He laughed. It was a bitter one.

“Your new optimism blinds you,” he said, then opened the door to go.

“Let me help, Charles. There are cures—”

“Damn it, Mary, I’m no good! Stay away! Stay far away or I’ll bring you down, too!”

He bolted out the door. She had started to go after him when she realized she was still in her nightgown and rushed back to throw on some clothes.

Distraught and disheveled, Mary charged out of her tenement building. She looked up and down the block. Charles was nowhere in sight. As she was about to choose a direction in the hope that Charles had chosen the same, she heard a male voice.

“Are you that lady detective?”

The last thing Mary wanted to deal with now was her dubious popularity, or worse, a fan. She turned to quickly dismiss him. He was a wiry man in his thirties, wearing a white apron and large rubber boots. She didn’t get a chance to speak.

“Barney Wallenski. I worked for Charles Goodrich. Thought you might be interested in a book he gave me.”

Mary sat next to Wallenski on the trolley. They were on their way to the Fulton Fish Market, where Wallenski worked.

“I was a part-time fix-it man at his buildings,” he explained. “Added to what I bring in at the fish market.”

“And he just gave you the journal?” Mary was understandably incredulous.

“Paid me, for safekeeping. Said it was a family heirloom.” Wallenski rose. “This is our stop.” He headed toward the exit, and Mary followed.

“But he had a brother.”

“Guess he trusted I’d never sneak a peek.”

“And why is that?”

“I can’t read.” And he hopped off the train.

It made sense. Charles Goodrich couldn’t trust his brother to protect the journal. W. W. Goodrich was too conscious of the family image. Why not leave it with someone who had no idea what it was? It was actually rather clever.

The Fulton Fish Market was in lower Manhattan next to the East River and close to the Brooklyn Bridge. The bridge was only five years old, and people were still marveling at the engineering genius that went into designing it and mourning the lives lost during its construction. The Fulton Fish Market had been around since 1822, and the routine was the same every day. From very early in the morning, the market was abuzz with activity. Fishermen unloaded their wares, fishmongers prepared and hawked them, and buyers ranging from restaurants to institutions to housewives flocked there to get their daily supply of fresh fish. There was no mistaking what business they were in. If you were sensitive to a fishy smell, you would be wise to stay several blocks away.

As Mary and Wallenski walked through, he waved to other fishmongers who were dressed just like him.

“See Sal for swordfish, José for shrimp.” He banged a counter and proudly shouted, “The best fish in the world is right here.” Several fishmongers nearby bellowed their agreement.

Mary followed him to the back, where they entered a gutting room. The room wasn’t large, about ten feet by twelve. On one wall there was a large tin tub with a pipe protruding from it into the floor. Buckets of various sizes, cutting instruments, and newspaper rested on a large table nearby. Wallenski made a hat out of newspaper and put it on as he explained the lay of the land.

“We gut the large ones here—your tuna, swordfish—and the blood drains through this pipe to the sewer.” He indicated the buckets. “The guts get dumped here…”

“I appreciate the education, I really do. Can I please have the journal now?”

Mary was impatient but also trying to be polite. She could get her fish education at a later date.

Wallenski took a second to process her words. “I understand. Time for business.”

With surprising swiftness, he grabbed a cleaver off the table and hurled it at Mary. She was startled but ducked just in time. The cleaver deeply embedded itself in the wooden door where her head had just been. Disappointed at his near miss, he picked a knife off the table and went for her. Mary had regained her composure and was ready for him. She studied Wallenski, measuring his moves. He jabbed at her twice, and she jumped back. The third time he lunged. Mary snagged his knife arm and flipped him over, sending him crashing into the wall and then to the floor. He was stunned but soon shook it off, rose, and charged at her again, meeting with the same result. Wallenski was confused.

“I see you’re not familiar with the ancient art of jujitsu,” Mary commented. “It’s all about leverage, a specialty of your boss J. P. Morgan. Or is it Thomas Edison?”

Wallenski wasn’t relinquishing any information. He responded by jumping to his feet and scooping another knife off the table. With a knife in each hand, he moved methodically toward her, slapping the two blades together, making a clicking sound.

“Slice and dice, slice and dice,” he repeated with maniacal glee.

Not sure what to do, Mary grabbed two empty buckets, the larger one in her right hand. As they sparred, she fended off jabs with her buckets. She was becoming adept at it and was gaining confidence when Wallenski slipped through her defenses and cut her right forearm. She glanced at it and saw the blood streaming down. Wallenski became emboldened and closed in, sensing the kill.

“Slice and dice, slice and dice.”

Mary kept desperately defending herself, lifting the left bucket, then the right; the right, then the left. Soon Wallenski was going only to her right. It was the smart move. He knew the wound would eventually take its toll, and Mary would be unable to hold the bucket up much longer. When her arm eventually lowered enough to make her vulnerable, he was ready. But so was Mary. She knew what he was doing and had exaggerated her weakened state. She purposely lowered her arm before she had to, knowing that he’d come in for the kill. When he did, she stunned him with her speed as she deftly deflected his knife and whacked him in the head with the bucket in her left hand. She hit him with such force that the bucket cracked open, and he tumbled, senseless, into the tin tub.

After a huge sigh of relief, Mary attended to her wound. She ripped off a piece of her dress and wrapped it around her forearm. She smiled, thinking of her habit of always lugging her pocketbook wherever she went. Sean had joked about it often and so had others. Even that morning when she was in a frantic rush to catch up with Charles, she had taken it with her. “Always carry a pocketbook,” her mother had often told her. “You never know when it will come in handy.” This time it was especially true, because in it, there were handcuffs.

Mary dragged a mortified Wallenski, handcuffed behind his back, into Second Street Station. Their reception reflected her change in status among the men. Some cheered. Others applauded. In response, Chief Campbell emerged from his office.

“Who’s this sorry creature?” he asked.

“No one of import, Chief.” After two policemen carted Wallenski away, Mary approached Chief Campbell, lowering her voice. “If he was hired by who I think he was, he won’t be here long.”

He spotted her wound. “You better have someone tend to your arm.”

Chief Campbell went with her to the hospital to have her arm stitched and bandaged. On the way, she related her meetings with Morgan and Edison and also relayed her suspicions.

“This has gone much further than I ever imagined,” he said. “I can’t in good conscience allow you to continue.”

“You have to let me, Chief. This job is my one chance.” She immediately regretted those words, knowing they wouldn’t persuade him. They wouldn’t have persuaded her.