Ten Days in August (26 page)

“Splendid. That is the kind of work you are best suited for. I'd like to keep you on this sort of detective work. Let Mr. Stephens play at politics and ambition. As you seem to not have much in the way of political ambitions?” Roosevelt paused.

“No, sir,” Hank said. “In fact, I generally try to stay far away from politics.”

“I gathered that, yes. Well, in that case, I do believe you would do well at detective work, so I will keep you in your position in the Seventeenth Precinct, and then I intend to promote Detective Stephens to a loftier position. I may even discuss an appointment with Mayor Strong.”

Hank's disappointment at not earning his promotion was mild; he was sad not to have his work appreciated, but he agreed that he was better suited to detective work and not the bureaucratic nonsense that accompanied the inspector position. And more, to have Stephens out of his hair was something Hank greatly desired. “I think that sounds capital, sir.”

Roosevelt grinned again. “I am dee-lighted you think so.” Then he became serious. “Do put a little more effort into your appearance and keep on the straight and narrow. There are a few unsavory rumors floating around about you. No evidence to back them up, mind you, and I expect they are mostly hogwash, but just the same, keep your nose clean. I'd hate to have to launch any sort of investigation. And let us hope your current case results in a conviction, because Detective Stephens implied it took perhaps more of your time than it necessarily warranted.”

“Yes, sir. I believe I may have been a bit overzealous in my pursuit, but as you know, it paid off in the end. I have the perpetrator behind bars. I believe he may have been responsible for the murders of at least five men.”

“Then it is good you got him off the streets! Excellent work, Inspector. I won't take up any more of your time.”

Hank walked out of Roosevelt's office a moment later not altogether sure he understood what had just happened.

On his way back out of Headquarters, Andrew intercepted him. “Hank, thank God,” Andrew said.

“What is it?”

“Brigham Knight is dead. Another inmate killed him during an altercation.”

“The devil you say.” Knight was dead? How could that be possible? “What in God's name happened?”

Andrew took a deep breath and then related the story of the inmate with the glass shard.

“The surgeon said he bled a great deal and very quickly. The glass was sharp enough to cut the artery at Knight's throat. Had the guards intervened faster, the man with the glass might not have inflicted other cuts, which included another at his chest from which he bled profusely. He lost so much blood so quickly that by the time the guards did get to him, he was half-delirious. He expired in the infirmary within the hour.”

“My God.” Hank still had a hard time understanding what had transpired. Knight had been killed by an inmate? “What prompted the attack?”

“No one is certain, but when I got to the infirmary, the inmate with the glass raved about Knight being a sodomite. Rumor around police headquarters indicated the same, so I suspect news of the nature of the crimes of which Knight had been accused had made its way through the inmate population, and this man imagined some behavior in Knight that prompted him to attack.”

Hank took in and let out a breath. “What a day! I just met with Commissioner Roosevelt and it seems not only am I not being fired, but Roosevelt wants to promote Stephens such that Stephens and I will no longer work together.”

Andrew's eyes popped wide. “That is an unexpected turn of events.”

“I think Roosevelt intended to tell me I will likely not earn the promotion from acting inspector to inspector, but it doesn't matter because he prefers to keep me doing actual police work, not working at a desk.”

“Perhaps that is the best possible outcome.”

For the first time since he'd left his house that morning, Hank smiled. “Yes, I agree.”

“Do you have the time to accompany me to my desk to deal with the small matter of wrapping up this case before you adjourn for your precinct house?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Then come on. I think you'll agree with me that we'd all like to put the past two weeks behind us.”

Hank thought of Nicky. “Well, not all of it has been terrible.”

A wistful expression briefly flashed over Andrew's face. “No. I suppose you're right.”

Friday, November 13
Temperature: 48°F

 

 

T
he theater on Twenty-sixth Street was small and cramped and not altogether reputable, but Hank made his way to a seat in the middle row of the audience and settled into it. The audience was only about half-full, but it hardly seemed to matter. The show was the thing. The amount of attention it received was beside the point. Well, that, and Hank hoped the reputation of the show would spread quickly and draw more people to the seats, at least for the sake of the producer who owned the stage.

The house lights dimmed after a few minutes and somewhere off stage, someone shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen! May I present to you the newest sensation at the Townhouse Theater, Miss Paulina Clodhopper!”

The curtain rose on a man seated at a piano. He started banging out the opening bars of “The Sidewalks of New York,” and it was clear to Hank the piano was out of tune, but he knew that was beside the point. The
raison d'etre
of this whole production sauntered onto the stage a moment later. She was a woman dressed in head-to-toe emerald green with a matching parasol she twirled into hands. When she at last began to sing, it was the sweetest sound Hank had ever heard.

It was Nicky.

Perhaps this was still not the most reputable of places. There were men skulking about in the back of the small theater, any of them likely willing to take Hank somewhere private. Hank wanted no part of it, given the most spectacular person Hank knew was right up there on stage. All other men would pale in comparison.

Speaking of people skulking about, Charlie ducked his head and hurried down the row to sit next to Hank. He nodded to acknowledge Hank and then watched Nicky sing for a moment. When the song ended and Nicky paused to consult with the pianist about the next song, Charlie said, “I apologize. I feel dreadful for having missed the beginning of the show.”

“He just started.”

“Andrew sends his regrets, but he's been detained at headquarters with the planning work for the election. He thought he'd be able to get away, but apparently one of the Tammany politicians is making a lot of noise about election fraud and security.”

“A Tammany politician is concerned about fraud?” Hank asked.

“That was what I said. More likely he's perpetrating fraud and creating a smokescreen.” Charlie motioned toward the stage. “He's about to sing again.”

This time, Nicky broke into a rousing version of “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Nicky's repertoire of popular songs was somewhat limited, but it didn't matter. Hank imagined Nicky could sing police reports and Hank would still be as captivated.

Nicky finished out the set by announcing, “I'd like to dedicate this one to my own dearest love, who I'm sure is somewhere in the audience, though I can see nothing past these infernal stage lights.” He grinned and twirled his parasol. The audience whistled and hooted appreciatively. Then Nicky said, “My man is more of a chocolate brown than a strawberry blond, but you get the idea, I imagine.” He began to sing “The Band Played On,” changing all instances of “girl” in the lyrics to “boy,” which had everyone in the audience laughing.

Much later, Hank and Charlie snuck backstage to see Nicky. Nicky greeted Hank with a quick kiss and Charlie with a brief hug. “Well, darlings, what did you think of my debut?”

Hank reached for Nicky and put an arm around him. “You were magnificent.”

Nicky tittered a bit, mostly an act from what Hank could tell, but then said, “I was rather magnificent, wasn't I?”

“I'm glad you were able to find this place,” Charlie said. “It's much nicer than Club Bulgaria.”

Nicky nodded. “Did I tell you, Charlie? The owner is someone I knew from my Armory Hall days. He used to be one of the painted girls roaming the floors there. He recognized me when I came in to audition and gave me this job on the spot. And it's
perfect
. I only wish the seats in the audience had been more occupied.”

“They will be,” said Charlie. “Once word gets out.”

Nicky ran a hand down the front of his gown, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I certainly intend to enjoy this for as long as it lasts. Mr. Graham, he's the owner, he thinks I might have a shot at singing at a fancier theater someday. Who knows? They're opening up all those places near Longacre Square. What's the name of the big theater Mr. Hammerstein opened?”

“The Olympia,” Hank said. “I don't know what business he has opening a theater on Forty-fourth Street. It's so far from everything.”

Nicky laughed. “You are so short-sighted, my love. As long as people move here and women have babies, this city will continue to expand, and where is there to go but up the island?”

“Unless this consolidation plan happens,” Charlie said. “Can you imagine, if New York merged with Queens and Brooklyn? What a huge city we'd be then!”

“More police departments for me to fight with,” Hank said.

“Oh, I thought you were satisfied with the direction your career had taken of late,” said Nicky.

“I am, just . . . I don't know. It's a lot of change being visited on the city all at once. You get used to it being one way, and then suddenly it's something else entirely.”

Nicky patted Hank on the chest. “Change is good, Hank. It's progress!”

“It's a headache, is what it is.”

Nicky laughed. “My dearest love, will you unlace me? I'd like to get out of this corset.”

Charlie and Hank worked together to get Nicky out of his gown and into his street clothes, a simple gray suit with a white shirt. Hank knew Nicky hoped this theater job would last long enough for him to earn money for new clothes, but as it was, money was tight. There had been a long few weeks in which Nicky was certain he'd never get another job, but then at Hank's suggestion, he started auditioning for song-and-dance opportunities at concert saloons and small theaters. He'd acted in a terrible play in September, which hadn't lasted long once the papers started publishing reviews, and then he'd gone to an audition he'd seen advertised in the paper, and suddenly he had this job. Hank didn't mind supporting him while he pursued his dream, but Nicky insisted he continue to support Brigid and his father without Hank's help.

Hank didn't know if this current theater job would really last, but it felt like the beginning of something important, so he chose to remain optimistic.

“Do we still have that bottle of wine?” Nicky asked Hank.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Good. Take me home. I want to celebrate with you.”

And Hank wanted to celebrate. “Will you be all right to get home, Charlie?”

“Yes. It's a nice night. I think I'll walk. Andrew should be home soon.”

“Good. Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Nicky gave Charlie a hug. Then he turned the full force of his charm on Hank. “Come, my love. The celebration awaits.”

Hank laughed and followed Nicky out of the dressing room.

If you enjoyed
Ten Days in August
, don't miss Kate McMurray's
Such a Dance,
available now!

 

 

New York City, 1927.
Eddie Cotton is a talented song-and-dance man
with a sassy sidekick, a crowd-pleasing act, and a promising future
on Broadway. What he doesn't have is someone to love. Being gay
in an era of Prohibition and police raids, Eddie doesn't have many
opportunities to meet men like himself—until he discovers a hot
new jazz club for gentlemen of a certain bent . . . and sets eyes on
the most seductive, and dangerous, man he's ever seen.

 

Lane Carillo is a handsome young Sicilian who looks like
Valentino—and works for the Mob. He's never hidden his sexuality
from his boss, which is why he was chosen to run a private night
club for men. When Lane spots Eddie at the bar, it's lust at first
sight. Soon, the unlikely pair is falling hard and fast—in love. But
when their whirlwind romance starts raising eyebrows all across
town, Lane and Eddie have to decide if their relationship is doomed
. . . or something special worth fighting for.