Ten Days in August (8 page)

“I know how that is,” Nicky whispered.

“Maybe it's strange, but I'm grateful to that man, even though I gave him more than I could afford to. And even after I joined the police, I kept an eye on your stretch of the Bowery, wanting to be sure the men there were all right.” Hank tried to catch Nicky's gaze, but Nicky stared at the floor. Hank went on, “It has never been my aim to prosecute the men who work in resorts like yours. I have no interest in arresting working boys or prostitutes or even saloonkeepers who serve intoxicating beverages on Sundays. A little vice is good for a man. It keeps him from becoming too self-righteous.”

“Look who's self-righteous,” said Nicky.

“I do not think hunting down murderers is self-righteous. I think it is my duty as a police inspector.”

“Theodore Roosevelt might have a different opinion.”

Hank wanted to dispense with the nonsense here. By coming to Nicky's home, he'd made a clear decision, and he needed Nicky to know that. “You understand the considerable risk I'm taking by being here, then.”

“I suppose I hadn't really considered it, darling. Where I come from, the police have the power and I have naught but the clothes on my back. And sometimes not even those.”

“I became a police officer because I wanted to make the city safe.”

Nicky nodded. “I began to sing because it kept me safe. Does that make me selfish?”

“No.”

“I suppose you fancy yourself a hero.”

Hank closed some of the distance between himself and Nicky, stepping close enough to Nicky to smell him, to see the sweat beading at his hairline. “I'm no hero,” Hank said.

“You're the first person to come along in a very long time who seemed interested at all in doing anything but beating or arresting me.” Nicky finally looked up and met Hank's gaze. “That seems heroic to me.”

Hank reached over and cupped Nicky's cheek. Nicky glanced down again, his surprisingly dark eyelashes fluttering, but then he looked into Hank's eyes.

“On my terms,” Nicky said. “We do this my way.”

“All right.”

The expression on Nicky's face turned fierce. “I choose you. Money plays no part in this exchange.”

“I understand.” Hank's heart pounded now.

“Kiss me.”

Hank did, bowing his head to at last banish the distance that separated them. He pressed his lips against Nicky's, gently at first, but then more forcefully as Nicky parted his lips and let Hank in. Nicky put his hands around Hank's neck and tugged him a little closer, so Hank felt like he wouldn't be overstepping if he put his hands on Nicky's waist.

Once Hank's hands met with the warmth of Nicky's skin, even through the flimsy fabric of the dressing gown, Hank didn't want to stop touching Nicky. He finally got a taste of Nicky's lips, found them oddly sweet, and he explored Nicky's mouth until he was convinced he could get lost there. When Nicky wrapped his arms more firmly around Hank's shoulders, Hank pulled him close, until their hips met.

It had been so long since Hank had been this close to a man. It had been so long since he'd felt the rush, the skin tingling, the burst of arousal that couldn't be replicated when he was alone deep in the night. His longing for Nicky was a palpable thing, and not only because he was a man and he was nearly naked. No, Hank wanted
this
man, the one in his arms, the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on.

And Nicky wanted him. Nicky had chosen him.

“I didn't come here for this,” Hank said against Nicky's lips.

“It's all right, love.” Nicky brushed kisses across Hank's cheek and then whispered in his ear, “You did, at least in part. But I want this, too.”

“I believe you when you say you don't have more information about the case, but I sense there is something you are not telling me.”

Nicky grasped onto Hank a little tighter and said, “There are many things I am not telling you. My consenting to this does not mean I trust you yet, not completely.”

“And yet.”

“And yet nothing. It's pleasure and sex. No more.”

Hank sensed the lie, but let it be. Instead, he kissed Nicky again, but otherwise let Nicky lead him. When Nicky slid the dressing gown off his shoulders and stood nude before Hank, Hank looked his fill—and Nicky was striking, his body thin and perfectly formed—but made no further moves or gestures. He waited for Nicky to tell him what to do, although his heart raced and he longed to grab Nicky, to touch him, to drag him to the bedroom. Out of respect for Nicky, though, he waited. He was rewarded when Nicky turned and walked out of the room with a gesture to follow.

Hank trailed behind, watching the long length of Nicky's back and the soft rise of his buttocks. Nicky had the kind of beauty that artists likely would want to paint or sculpt.

As he walked, Hank loosened his tie and started to undo the buttons at his throat. Nicky reached the bed, then turned abruptly to face Hank, completely nude, hard, incredible.

“There are certain limitations,” Nicky said.

Hank couldn't believe they were still talking when Nicky was so naked, but he nodded.

“I will not allow you to bugger me,” Nicky said. “I will not allow you to spend near my face. If I say no to something, you must stop right away.”

“All right.” That still left Hank with a lot of options. He went about unbuttoning his shirt and undid the top button of his trousers.

“I did not intend to make this a contract negotiation, but you must understand—”

“I understand perfectly.”

For a brief moment, Nicky's face went completely blank, and he looked sweet and innocent and closer to his actual age. Hank had him pegged as older than twenty-five but not yet thirty. His face showed signs of aging, though, from the crinkles at his eyes to a faint scar on his chin; Nicky had lived a difficult life and had seen more in his few years than some people saw in their whole long lifetimes. Hank knew this without knowing the particulars, because those lines of memory were engraved on Nicky's beautiful face. But here, for a fleeting moment, it all went away, and Nicky was soft and vulnerable.

The vulnerability went away almost as quickly as it appeared.

Hank continued to peel off his clothes—a relief in the stifling heat of the bedroom, where the cloth of his shirt stuck to his clammy skin—and met Nicky's now-defiant gaze.

“I imagine you do understand,” Nicky said softly.

Nicky took a step toward Hank and grasped the button plackets of his open shirt. Nicky peeled the shirt off and dumped it on the floor, then made quick work of Hank's tie and cotton undershirt, letting them fall away. He grasped the waistband of Hank's trousers and yanked him close, pressing his naked cock against Hank's still-clothed one. Hank went rigid immediately, his whole body springing to life, and he groaned because he'd forgotten this. He'd forgotten the intensity of it, the smell of another man, the flush and tingle of skin, the softness of hair. He thrust his fingers into Nicky's hair and tugged his head until their lips met in a fierce kiss. Nicky groaned into his mouth, quivering, pressing his palms to Hank's shoulder blades.

Hank loved the feel of man in his arms, of slick skin under his palms, the hot press of a hard cock on his hips. He grasped Nicky's hips and brought them together, rubbed until Nicky cried out. Nicky hooked his thumbs into the waist of Hank's trousers and pushed them down. He shifted his hips so their bare cocks rubbed together, and Hank could do naught but surrender to it, thrusting his hips forward and throwing his head back, closing his eyes to just feel. He stepped out of his pants and kicked them away as Nicky tugged his arms and guided him toward the bed.

It was so overwhelmingly hot, the air in the room dense and heavy, dust clinging to the sweat of their skin. Hank didn't care. Nicky lay on his back and spread his legs wantonly, and there was nothing Hank could do but go to him, to hover above him, to guide their bodies together until they fit, cocks sliding together, bellies and chests touching.

Hank dipped his head and kissed Nicky, licking into his mouth, exploring all of his flavors lest he never taste this again. Nicky put his arms about Hank's shoulders, holding loosely. Hank could feel the moment when Nicky's whole body surrendered to him, became limp and receptive. It was a rush, Hank's head and heart overpowered by this man, until Hank himself wanted to surrender everything to Nicky, would have given anything to make this pleasure go on forever.

Nicky reached between them and took their cocks in his hand, his fingers clever and pressing just enough to tease until he grasped more firmly. Hank gasped, surprised by the magic of that. He moaned out Nicky's name.

“Yes,” Nicky whispered. “Hank.”

Nicky shook, his body moving jerkily, perhaps overwhelmed by the heat. Hank worried they'd die this way, suffocate together in the oppressive blanket of air around them, but he didn't care. This would be a marvelous way to go.

“So beautiful,” he murmured in Nicky's ear.

Nicky jerked beneath him, groaning, digging his fingers into Hank's skin. “Too much,” he whispered.

And Hank knew all about that, because pleasure pooled at his groin, powered over his chest and skin, started at his toes and zipped up through his body.

“Just like this,” Nicky said, still stroking. “Just like—”

Then Nicky went stiff, his body bowing off the bed, his cock thrust up against Hank's and his hand, and Hank felt the wetness of Nicky's spend on his skin. Hank reached down and kissed him, pressed his cock against Nicky's hip as Nicky went limp, and then found his release as if he were being hit over the head with a mallet. He groaned and cried out Nicky's name and shot and shot until he thought his body completely empty. He still shook afterward, like aftershocks from an earthquake, and he pulled Nicky into his arms as he rode it out.

Then they lay tangled together, their skin sticking to each other as if it were glued. It was so miserably hot in that room, but Hank's mind swum in a pool of pleasure and relief.

Still, he asked, “Was that all right?”

“More than all right, darling,” Nicky said.

Hank felt disappointed by Nicky's tone, so calm and cool as if he had not just had a life-changing experience. Hank wanted for Nicky to have achieved the same bliss Hank had.

“This was not what I came here for,” Hank said.

“I know. That is why I allowed it.”

They lay together for some length of time Hank could not determine. Hank mostly lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, lightly stroking Nicky's shoulder. He breathed deeply, relaxed, and sank into the old, saggy mattress.

Then he looked at the clock.

“I have a meeting,” he announced.

Nicky sighed. “When, darling?”

“Twenty minutes. At the precinct house two blocks from here.”

“Plenty of time.” Nicky's voice sounded sleepy.

“Well, not really. I've already been gone long enough for Stephens and my other colleagues to notice.”

With a long groan, Nicky rolled away from Hank. Hank watched, took in the long line of Nicky's spine, the curve of his hip, the subtle musculature on his arms and shoulders. He reached over and ran his hand over those muscles, but then forced himself to stand.

He kept an eye on Nicky as he dressed. Nicky rolled onto his back and stretched languorously, throwing his arms above his head and pointing his toes toward Hank.

“You really are the loveliest of creatures,” Hank said. “I do not wish to leave.”

“Thank you, love. But you must depart.”

Hank considered. He did have to leave, and he would do so in minutes, but he did not wish this to be the end. Although he was still convinced Nicky was hiding something vital to his case, he also thought Nicky had told Hank all he would. Nicky's involvement in the case might as well be over, from an ethical perspective. Or so Hank told himself. As he finished buttoning his shirt, he said, “I would like to see you again. Socially.”

“As long as you quit badgering me for information I do not possess.” Nicky sat up, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. He was still naked as a newborn babe. “All right. When?”

“Tonight?”

Nicky laughed. “Now you've had a taste, you want the whole feast.”

“Something like that.” Hank considered his options. “Come to my house after your performance ends tonight. It is but a few blocks from Bulgaria.”

“I will consider it. Write down the address on that pad of paper on the chest of drawers over there.”

Nicky pointed at an ivory-colored chest of drawers with chubby cherubs painted on the faces of each drawer. It was . . . not a piece of furniture Hank would have chosen for himself. There was a sheaf of paper atop it, not a pad so much as mismatched scraps of paper held together with a clip. There was a pencil nearby as well, so Hank dutifully wrote his address. He wondered if he should really expect Nicky or if this was all for show.

On his way out of the room, he bent to give Nicky a quick peck on the lips. Nicky lifted his head and held onto the kiss, drawing it out, prolonging their connection.

Hank forced himself to pull away. “No more, or else I'll never leave.”

“Good-bye, Hank.”

Hank left, hoping it would not be forever.

B
randt felt a bit like he'd set himself up as the punch line in a joke, as he strolled into the precinct house. No doubt he looked disheveled and disreputable after his midday encounter. Stephens stood as Hank reached his desk and opened his mouth, likely to point out how far away from the dress code Hank had wandered.

“Have you been outside?” Hank said in response, but he did tug on his waistcoat and run a hand down each sleeve to try to free them of wrinkles.

Andrew burst into the precinct house just then and looked around quickly. When he located Hank and Stephens, he headed right for them. “I have news, gentlemen.”

Stephens held out his hand for the report. “Yes?”

Andrew glanced at Hank. Hank feverishly wished Stephens would disappear. Alas.

Andrew took a deep breath. “I went to the morgue to request a more thorough report, as you suggested. Even the coroner suspects we have a series of murders.”

There was a bit of an edge to Andrew's voice, cynicism perhaps. The coroner held no medical degree and had indeed been a political appointment, so there was no telling what cockamamie ideas he had regarding these crimes.

Before Andrew could continue, Captain Leavy walked through the room, gathering those assembled for the afternoon meeting. Andrew handed Hank a folder, and then tipped his hat and left. Hank thumbed through the papers as he and Stephens walked to the meeting room, amused that Andrew had circumvented Stephens's request for the file.

The meeting was ostensibly about the police power needed for William Jennings Bryan's speech, and Stephens, who had earlier expressed that he didn't see the point in being there, looked bored senseless. Hank knew Stephens to be a Bryan supporter, but everything was political; Stephens, and Hank for that matter, worked hard to put himself into a position wherein he'd be promoted out of having to be glorified security. Stephens had taken a step further, and kissed up to Roosevelt regarding the Sunday laws. Hank figured even if one agreed the saloons were a scourge on New York society and Sunday was a day reserved for family, Hank had spent enough time on the streets to know how futile the enforcement of those laws really was. That Hank had been appointed Acting Inspector chafed at Stephens. Probably Stephens was better suited for it, but someone on the police board had likely recognized Stephens was a weasel, and so here they were.

Hank sat through the meeting, hoping Captain Leavy would appoint Stephens to be a glorified ticket taker at Madison Square Garden. Stephens let out an audible breath of relief when Leavy finished assigning people without mentioning him and moved on to the next topic.

Stephens gave his report, a just-the-facts run-down of the open cases, but he added a lot of, “code of conduct” this and “if it please the Captain” that.

Hank didn't have time to dwell on Stephens's political machinations, however, because it was now his turn to speak.

He stood and cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, officers. I thought some of you might be interested to know I testified in court on Monday in the matter of the Boresky trial. This morning, the jury found her not guilty.”

“And you disagree with the verdict,” Captain Leavy said.

“No. Her lover was the killer. I would have him tried for the crime, but the prosecutor seems to think the matter closed.”

Captain Leavy grimaced.

“If nothing else, the outcome of this case illustrates the need to be thorough and collect evidence when investigating. Some of what happened was prosecutorial discretion and out of our hands, but I believe if we'd been more diligent in our efforts, the right man might be behind bars.”

“Not much can be done about that now,” said Stephens under his breath.

“Indeed. Moving on.” Hank looked down at the folder in his hands. “Detective Stephens and I have been investigating the murder of a man found in the ballroom of a resort on the Bowery. Evidence indicates he may be one in a series of dead men.”

“Dead prostitutes,” Stephens added.

Hank shot him a look intended to quell further discussion, but Stephens ignored him. Hank said, “Yes, it seems likely, albeit unconfirmed, the dead men worked the streets, as it were. But a dead man is a dead man, and we are obliged to investigate, particularly if we have a serial killer on our hands.”

“How many dead?” asked Captain Leavy.

“Three that I'm aware of.”

Stephens was likely still not altogether sure these were crimes worth investigating, but he sat back and nodded. Hank was the ranking officer in the room, and pursuing this particular line of investigation fell under his purview.

Hank paused to consider how to phrase the next thing he wanted to say. “An hour or so ago, I spoke with a witness to one of the murders, and he believes he can identify the killer if he sees him again, although I have nothing but a description so far.” Hank frowned at the folder and thought of the lack of police presence on the Bowery the night before. “I had hoped to have more information to report by now, but so far I only have coroner's reports linking the murders and one possible witness. But, given the circumstances, I'd like to request those officers who patrol the Bowery between Houston and Eighth Street be on alert. There may be a dangerous man about.”

Stephens sat back in his chair and stared at Hank as if this surprised him. Hank pushed Stephens's reaction aside; he was the one in charge now.

Leavy nodded. “We can do that. I assume you still want additional officers on patrol?”

“Yes,” said Hank. “I intend to pursue the matter, though I do not want to spread police resources too thin. For now, I'll keep Stephens on the case and keep up the increased patrol until we determine the people who frequent the clubs there are safe. In the meantime, I'll ask officers in this precinct to use caution.”

After the meeting broke, Stephens tailed Hank back to his desk. “You really should keep me informed of your movements.”

Hank looked at him, surprised. “You are upset I interviewed a witness without you. Need I remind you I outrank you? You report to me, not the other way around.”

Stephens frowned. “This is still my case. You should tell me when you decide to conduct any interviews.”

Hank crossed his arms. “I'm telling you now I interviewed Nicholas Sharp this afternoon and wasn't able to gather more than that he is a potential witness. At least I have that much. If I'd left the investigation to your discretion, we'd have nothing, given you barely think this case is worth investigating.”

Stephens opened his mouth as if he intended to argue the point, but he was interrupted when a woman burst into the precinct house. “Help! Oh, please help me!”

Stephens was closest and ran to her, Hank on his heels. She led them out front and down the block a little ways to a man who had collapsed on the sidewalk.

“What happened?” Stephens asked.

“He collapsed.”

“Is he your husband?” asked Hank, kneeling to check the man's vitals.

“Yes. He seemed fine as we walked down the street. Then he said he felt strange. Then he simply . . . fell.”

“Where does he work?” Hank asked.

“What has that to do with anything?”

Hank felt for the man's pulse and pressed a hand to his forehead. The man was still alive, at least. “Does he have an occupation that would require heavy lifting? Manual labor?”

“He works as a carpenter. His shop is on Eighth Street.”

Hank nodded. “I fear he may have succumbed to the heat. He is still alive, but he is very ill, possibly with heat stroke. We must get him to a hospital. They will be able to cool him off there.”

“I'll fetch an ambulance,” Stephens said.

“Yes,” said Hank.

Hank stayed with the woman and her husband, and used his own handkerchief to wipe the man's face. Stephens stood there for a moment and pursed his lips before he went to find emergency personnel to secure an ambulance.

By the time Stephens returned to the scene, the collapsed man was awake, but stared unseeing into the distance. His wife was apoplectic, crying and screaming and generally making a scene. Hank worked not to let his agitation show. He helped the man into the ambulance. The driver hopped down and said, “Sixth time today.”

“Where will you take him?” asked Stephens.

“Bellevue. Some hospitals are turning away patients because there are so many crumbling under the heat, but at Bellevue they will put him in an ice bath. I saw them do it not an hour ago. The man who they treated is now quite recovered.”

Hank nodded.

“Or,” the ambulance driver went on, “they're bleeding some patients because the heat causes high blood pressure. It offers some relief, from what I can tell. Either way, ma'am, your husband will be in good hands.”

“Bleeding?” said Hank. “How barbaric.”

“Yes, but if it helps . . .” said the driver. He then helped the wife into the ambulance.

Hank bid him to go, although Stephens held up a hand. “I am tempted to go along to make sure the man is all right. Sixth time today, you said?”

“Or the seventh.” The ambulance driver made a nickering sound to his horse. “It's hard to keep track.”

Stephens looked alarmed by this news. “All of them are all right, though.”

“No.” The driver dropped his voice, soft enough so as not to be heard by the wife. “Actually, most expire before we reach the hospital. One man had a seizure when he was placed in the ice bath.”

“Oh dear,” said Stephens.

“I'd better get going if this man is to have a chance. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Hank and Stephens stood on the sidewalk and watched the ambulance go. Hank shook his head. “Perhaps the real crime is this infernal heat.”

“It is difficult to argue with that.” Stephens grunted. “You spoke with Nicholas Sharp this afternoon? Was he the funny little man with the red scarf? The one who failed to make his appointment yesterday?”

Hank nodded. “I tracked him down. He keeps rooms in a house not far from here.”

“Why bother to put forth all that effort? I can't imagine he was forthcoming with the truth.”

“I believe he's been honest with me. He thinks he could identify the man he saw with Edward if he saw him again, which is not an indictment, but it is something. I just need a suspect now.”

“But you can see how this could be a waste of time. We don't have enough evidence, we have no way of even finding a suspect, there's not really enough manpower to patrol the Bowery at night unless the city is willing to pay for it, which they undoubtedly will not do—”

“I refuse to give up. Not yet, at any rate.”

“Why do you care so much? Why bother with dead working boys at all?”

Hank glanced at Stephens, whose face betrayed his frustration with an unsolvable case. It didn't matter. Hank could solve this case himself if he had to. He said, “As I've said, a dead man is a dead man. This one died in this precinct. Three men died in this precinct. That makes them our responsibility.”

“Yes, but it is morally reprehensible, what these men do. Do you not think we are better off without them?”

Hank pursed his lips and looked up First Avenue. The elevated train tracks above them at least blocked out the sun, so it was not nearly so oppressive right in this spot, although the heat seemed inescapable even here. Stephens took off his hat and a hint of a breeze moved his hair.

But Hank was angry now. “I suppose next you'll want to set fire to the tenements and watch them all burn. Good riddance, right?” He went back inside without waiting for a response.

 

“Ritchley!”

Commissioner Roosevelt burst out of his office. Andrew eyed him warily. It had been a long day and didn't appear to be ending soon. Andrew had agreed to stay late at his boss's request, but he suspected Roosevelt's appearance at his desk meant not that he would be dismissed but instead that a parade was about to take place.

“Tell me, Ritchley,” Roosevelt said. “In your intense study of the crime reports of the day, where would you say the most attention is needed in terms of police protection?”

Andrew suppressed a reaction, even though he knew precisely where this was about to go. “Probably the Bowery, sir. The tenements as always. Eight arrests for theft on Orchard Street alone. The Seventeenth Precinct has seen quite a bit of crime today as well, although some of the violence was due more to the heat than anything else. Ten men at a construction site near Cooper Union collapsed this afternoon.”

“Let us take a walk, Ritchley.”

Naturally.

They exited Police Headquarters onto Mulberry Street. It was well after dark, but Andrew didn't have a sense for the time. Probably close to midnight. Roosevelt was fond of these late-night constitutionals to check on his patrolmen. He was never completely satisfied with reports and insisted on periodically checking for himself that his police were doing their jobs.

So Andrew accompanied Roosevelt on a walk around the neighborhood, looping south to Canal Street and then east into the Tenth Ward. Here was the heart of the tenements, and nearly everyone was still on the street. From his vantage point at street level, Andrew could see people gathered on fire escapes, on stoops, and likely also on the roof, anything to escape the heat in their buildings. There was even a child asleep alone on the steps in front of a tall, crumbling tenement building. Andrew thought perhaps Roosevelt would wake her up and tell her to go home, but he only spared her a glance before continuing to walk.