Ten Days in August (12 page)

“Is it really up to you to make that determination?”

Hank sighed. “I do not know, but I plan to run my investigation in my own way until someone tells me otherwise.”

They were at something of a crossroads. Hank had all of the information he needed for his investigation, so Nicky could walk away now and not feel guilt over his part in this. He could leave Hank to find the killer and go about his life.

Or he could stay.

That Hank had taken control and helped Nicky's family this morning remained something of a miracle to Nicky. In his memory, no one had ever availed himself so selflessly to help Nicky.

“This is what I come from,” Nicky said. “My parents came here from Ireland during the famine. They had nothing when they left and even less when they arrived. We lived in a tenement just like Brigid's. I was born after the war, but my father is no war hero. He is a failed farmer who drank to forget his failures. Since he is not at the church now, there's no telling where he is—I imagine he found a saloon to drown in.” Nicky took a deep breath, unwilling to look at Hank for fear of what might be on Hank's face. “My mother never quite recovered after she had my younger sister, and she died on a hot day not unlike this one.”

“I'm sorry,” said Hank.

“This city. When I was a boy, my father would talk about all the opportunities in America. What opportunities? To be crowded into a dark tenement? For a little girl to not get a chance at life because her family has nothing? There are men who come to Bulgaria who have everything. Money, fancy clothes, huge houses. They pay men like Charlie to take care of their needs and then go back uptown to their gold and their wives. They are privileged above all else, but today, my niece died because she could get no relief from the heat.”

“Yes. I know.”

And Hank
did
know. Hank was a queer police officer, that was plain. His investment in the case was likely due to his own intimate familiarity with the world Nicky occupied.

This was not to mention his years as a police officer as he worked up the ranks, during which time he'd probably witnessed things Nicky could not even imagine.

“New York is a city that will bleed you dry,” Hank said. He wiped his face with his handkerchief again. “And yet I would not live anywhere else.”

“No. Nor I.”

They shared the silence for a few moments. A horse pulled a cab up Henry Street, blowing out breaths like a steam engine did puffs of smoke. The heat bore down on them, wet and oppressive. The street stank of mold and rotting meat. There was a haze over everything, like they had taken up permanent residence in a cloud close to the sun, slowly baking. Nicky had already sweat through his shirt, his waistcoat was damp, and his coat now lay on the step beside him, for all the good taking it off did. Hank was similarly damp, sweat dripping off the ends of his dark hair and pooling at his collar. He put his hat, the dusty brown bowler, on the step beside him, near his own coat, and stared forlornly at the street.

“In all my life,” Hank said, “I cannot recall a week like this.”

Nicky couldn't either. He wondered even if the one good thing about it, currently sitting beside him, was like an imagined oasis in the desert.

“Is your brother-in-law still talking to the people from the funeral parlor?” Hank asked.

“Yes. He does not have much. He owns a shop, but they only make enough to get by because there are so many mouths to feed. Brigid works a few days a week at a shirt factory near Washington Square. They trade off watching the kids, or my father watches them if he's sober, but sometimes Brigid's oldest daughter Lucy works at the factory in her stead. Lucy is twelve.” Nicky's heart squeezed. He could feel his grip on everything slipping away, but if he couldn't keep holding on, he'd fly to pieces.

Hank reached over and briefly rested a hand on Nicky's knee. Then he withdrew his hand again.

The small gesture did more than Nicky could ever express.

“I need to go to my precinct house this afternoon for an hour or two,” Hank said softly, his voice low and close to Nicky's ear. “But I will stay for as long as you need me.”

It was all Nicky could do not to cry. He pressed his fingers to his eyes as if he could keep the tears at bay and he nodded. “Thank you.”

Hank took one of Nicky's hands and held it between both of his. It was too hot to touch, and Nicky's hands were slimy with sweat, but Nicky couldn't pull his hands away. He looked up at Hank and their gazes met. They simply stared at each other for a long time. “You're welcome,” Hank said.

Day 5

Sunday, August 9
Temperature: 97°F

H
ank ran his hand up the length of Nicky's spine. They were huddled together in bed, the covers tossed aside, their nude bodies stuck together with sweat, but Hank didn't mind a bit because Nicky lay here with him.

“I had a crazy idea,” Hank said.

“Mmm.”

“What if we took the train out to Coney Island today? I don't actually have to go to the office and you don't have to be anywhere until tonight, right? Maybe if we went to the beach, we could get some relief from this heat.”

Nicky yawned. “It is an interesting idea.”

“Just interesting?”

“Well, darling, I imagine every person in the cities of New York and Brooklyn who can afford train fare just had the same idea.”

“I think sometimes about what it would be like to leave the city for more than a day or two,” said Hank. “To visit somewhere else, I mean. To travel.”

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

Hank thought about the question for a few moments. “Italy.”

“Italy?”

“Yes. My friend Amelia went to Europe after she and Jonathan were married. She toured everywhere. France, Spain, Italy. I made her tell me about every place. She loved Paris because of the food and the fashion, but the way she described Italy . . . there's so much art there. Just out on the streets. And the Roman ruins. I'd like to see those.”

Nicky burrowed into Hank's side and threw an arm over his chest. Nicky's body was like a heavy wool blanket. Hank still didn't care.

“I know there are museums in New York.” Hank put his arm around Nicky and held him close. “But it's not quite the same.”

“Mmm. Just like you can walk to the piers and look out at the water, but it's not the same as going to the beach.”

“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?”

“As far as possible,” Nicky said. “Maybe China or Japan. I have a gown made of fabric imported from China, and it's so beautiful. I'd like to see the place it was made. It must be beautiful, too.”

“I'd like to see that gown.”

“Maybe I'll wear it for you one day, darling.”

Nicky had nearly ceased with the pet names since their talk on the steps of St. Teresa's the day before, but they snuck back in sometimes. Hank was all right with that, as long as he didn't feel like Nicky was hiding something or deflecting him. That wasn't the case here. Instead, Nicky's words were seductive in a way.

Hank was falling for Nicky hard and fast. That could not be denied.

He stroked Nicky's hair.

Nicky sighed, and it sounded happy. Sunshine streamed in through the windows of Hank's bedroom, bouncing off his white sheets and making parts of the room glitter. It was a little like being inside a fluffy cloud, everything white and brightly lit, and he was here alone with Nicky. The world outside his windows didn't matter.

“Can I ask you something?” Nicky said, his lips against Hank's chest near one of his nipples.

The movement of Nicky's mouth against his body sent a shiver up Hank's spine. “Please.”

“Do you think there's any hope in the world?”

It was such a broad question. A simple question. And yet it was a hard one for Hank to wrap his head around. “There has to be some hope. Or else why bother?”

“Yes, but . . . everything seems hopeless sometimes.”

“In what way?”

Nicky turned his head a little, taking his lips away from Hank's skin, but otherwise he didn't move. “When I was a boy, I would go with my family to the Fish Market or up to Washington Square, and we'd see what life outside our neighborhood was like. I used to hope to be a part of it some day. To get out of the tenements and experience the life the city had to offer me.”

“Understandable.”

“My siblings felt the same. They each left home. They got jobs that paid better than my father's piddling salary and moved to apartments uptown. My older brother William left the city altogether. He lives out in New Jersey now.”

“What kept you here?”

“That same hope, I think.” Nicky pulled in a deep breath and let it go, his chest quivering where it met Hank's. “When Brigid married Antonio, we thought she'd leave home, too. Antonio ran this business, after all. He's a good man, but not a great businessman, so he struggled all the time. Then they had their children one after the other. So they stayed. That, and Brigid was the only one willing to take care of my father.”

“You stayed for Brigid.”

“Partly. I thought if everyone else left but I stayed, I could help her.”

“I'm sure you did what you could.”

“When I was young, I used to hope to be made differently. These queer feelings I had, they were wrong. I wanted to wear clothes meant for women, and I knew that was wrong, too. I used to pray at night for God to change me. To make me like the other young men I knew.”

Hank knew all about that. He hugged Nicky tightly to convey he understood. He'd had his own late nights wrestling with the demon of his inverted sexual appetites and gotten nowhere beyond a reluctant acceptance he could not change himself.

“How did you come to be at Bulgaria?” Hank asked, keeping his tone light to show Nicky he didn't judge.

“I actually got my start at Armory Hall on Hester Street. Did you ever go there?”

The name poked at some long-forgotten memory. Hank didn't think he'd been there, but if he recalled correctly, it was old Billy Mc-Glory's concert saloon, a place where management encouraged men to wear women's clothing or fraternize with other men. “I know of it,” Hank said.

“It was just a few doors down from the house my family lived in, you know. I saw a man I thought handsome go in one evening and I followed him. What I saw inside changed me.” Nicky shook his head. “When I realized some of the women were painted men, I knew I'd found a home. The first time I dressed as Paulina, I did it by stealing a dress from one of my sisters. I could sew a little, so I altered it to fit me. The first time I went into Armory Hall, I'm sure I was not convincing as a woman, but I learned quickly.”

Hank closed his eyes and tried to imagine it. Nicky dressed as a shabbier version of Paulina must have been a sight to behold.

Quietly, Nicky said, “The first few men I . . . well. I was so poor, and they had so much money. I could not refuse.”

Hank held Nicky and stroked his back. Hank was not the sort who would or could preach about morality, and he was genuinely unbothered by Nicky's past. He felt a pang in his chest, more because Nicky had been put in such a position to begin with. A poor kid in the tenements didn't have a lot of options.

“When Armory Hall finally closed, I was adrift. I thought I might find more reputable employment, but I had limited skills. I worked for a time in a tailor's shop, but I found the work dull and unfulfilling. Maybe that sounds foolish.”

“It doesn't,” said Hank.

“It didn't matter, because the tailor shut down his shop and moved uptown, and I was again out of a job. I was walking up the Bowery one evening, after a fruitless day of trying to find something I could do to bring in money. I thought I could get work as a store clerk or something. No one would hire me. My clothes weren't nice enough. I was too effeminate. I was the wrong thing for every job. Then I walked up the Bowery and I saw this woman. She was so strange looking. She wore a black gown that didn't fit her quite right. And she looked troubled, so I asked if she was all right.”

“You were on the Bowery. Did she proposition you?”

Nicky let out a little surprised burp of a laugh. “Well, she was a he, darling. And he did proposition me. He lost interest when I said I had no money. But then I asked how he came to be standing on the Bowery in this huge gown, so he told me. Then he brought me to Bulgaria.”

Hank played with the ends of Nicky's hair. “And you had a home again.”

“I did. It was exactly what I'd been looking for, what I needed at that time in my life. Be assured, I did not get pulled into this life. I chose it. I saw a room full of men just like myself and I wanted to be among them. When I discovered I could make as much money in a single night at Bulgaria as I could in a week at the factory where Brigid worked, I made a decision.”

Nicky had curled away from Hank in his righteousness, which Hank recognized as a defensive gesture. Hank reached over and pulled him back. He hated to think of Nicky,
his
Nicky, servicing other men, but he accepted that reality. He'd heard what Nicky said. It was why Hank himself had frequented resorts like the Slide in his youth. The Slide had been the home of some of the worst depravity in the city. Men openly embraced other men, danced with them, kissed them. And Hank had loved every minute of it.

“I understand,” Hank said, stroking Nicky's damp hair.

Nicky made a little choking sound in the back of his throat. “I've never met anyone like you.”

Not sure whether to take that as a compliment, Hank remained silent.

Nicky said, “I ask about hope because a day like yesterday dashes it. I had hope I could help Brigid and her family, but I couldn't, and now little Edith is dead. I had hope I'd outgrow Bulgaria and be able to pursue a more useful career. As a child, I hoped I'd fall in love someday, but men like us do not have that opportunity.”

“There is still hope,” Hank said on instinct, though he wasn't sure how true that was.

Nicky picked up his head and leaned on his elbows on Hank's chest. “Do you think there is any hope for us? Once you solve your case, is that the end? Or do we continue to spend time together? I'd like that, but I know how your world works. If your bosses find out you spend time with another man, you'll be fired, yes? I imagine it's only worse if that man is a former prostitute who sings while wearing ladies' clothing.”

“It wouldn't matter. If they would fire me for loving a man, then it is not the profession for me.”

“It would matter, darling. It would. You derive satisfaction from solving mysteries. I can tell. You have the conviction to find a killer murdering prostitutes in a neighborhood most New Yorkers would just as soon set on fire. You are an asset to the police department. But your involvement with me could cost you everything.”

What Nicky said was true. It was all true. Hank loved his job. He valued it, and he was good at it. He'd wanted to become a detective from the moment he'd joined the police department and he'd worked hard to get this far. If anyone discovered their liaison, his career would be over faster than he could sign his name. The pending promotion to inspector made this especially true. This promotion hadn't been something he'd strived toward or asked for, and he didn't care for the politics of it or the way it made him such a public figure in the department. But it gave him power and discretion, meaning he had space to pursue the criminals he thought belonged behind bars, and squirrelly men like Stephens, who thought it more important to lock up prostitutes and drunks instead of helping them, could not prevent him from doing so.

But the promotion brought attention to Hank. The smart thing to do would be to give Nicky up. To go back to his celibate life.

But Hank did not want to.

“No one can find out, then,” Hank said.

“Be practical.”

“One has to have hope,” Hank reiterated, “or else what is the point?”

Nicky shook his head. “What made you become a police officer in the first place?”

What was it? Hank hardly remembered. He hadn't aspired to be a police officer, although in the wake of the economic depression that coincided with his coming of age, there were few options available to a middle-class man who had just reached adulthood. “You're right, I do like a mystery. And I had strong convictions as a young man. I joined the police when I was twenty-three, nearly on a whim. The career suited me well.” Of course, corruption was the word of the day when Hank had joined. He wondered if he'd risen so far so quickly because he hadn't indulged in any of the pay-offs some officers received to look the other way. His only vice was his love of men.

“I'm sure it does suit you,” Nicky said. “Oh, speaking of police, do you know an Andrew Ritchley?”

The abrupt change in subject surprised Hank. “Yes. He's one of the secretaries at Police Headquarters. Mostly he follows Commissioner Roosevelt around. Why do you ask?”

“Charlie—you remember Charlie—met him last night. Andrew implied he understood Charlie and could be trusted.”

Hank nodded. “Andrew is a friend.”

Nicky raised an eyebrow. “A ‘friend,' darling?”

Hank grunted. “Yes, a friend. We've known each other for years. But not in the way you're implying. Is he trustworthy? Yes, I'd trust him with my life. He happens to be . . . of our kind, as well. But he really is just a friend.” And it was nice to have an ally, someone within the department who understood where Hank came from. The two of them had met five or six years before, when Hank was still working his way up the ranks. “Why, are you jealous?”

Nicky scoffed, but Hank suspected the ‘darling' thrown in there answered his question well enough.

“I suppose, love, I just wanted to know if Charlie could trust this man should something happen to him.”

“Yes, but to be clear, Andrew is not an officer. He has the ear of Commissioner Roosevelt, but he can't actually engage in any law enforcement practices. But Andrew is a good man.”

“All right.”

“And you're getting agitated because you want to be my only man.”