Ten Days in August (9 page)

The temperature was still high despite the late hour, the darkness providing no relief from the thick warmth in the air. Andrew removed his hat, feeling daring, but the air stood still and did nothing to relieve him.

“Where are the patrolmen?” Roosevelt said. “Caspar and O'Sullivan are usually walking around these parts.”

Andrew looked around. He spotted two uniformed police officers in the distance, walking up Christie Street. “There, sir,” said Andrew.

“Capital! Come along, then.”

Both officers shot Andrew a wary look when Roosevelt met them. “I believe, sir,” said Caspar, “there has been little crime tonight because everyone is too hot to move. The only person we've encountered tonight flaunting the law was a twelve-year-old boy who stole a moldy loaf of bread from a man on Forsyth when he closed down his pushcart for the day. Then the man let the boy have the bread.”

“Hear that, Ritchley? What an orderly night!”

Andrew did not believe their luck would last, and indeed, when they crossed Houston some time later, they were almost immediately accosted by a woman who hiked her skirts up to show off her shapely calves.

“Put that away, madam,” Roosevelt told her. “Or I'll have you arrested.”

Andrew was tired by then from the heat and the exertion of walking quickly to keep up with Roosevelt, but Roosevelt seemed to have an unending tap of energy, gallivanting over toward the Bowery.

Andrew was aware of Hank's reports and of the other news of the day filtering in. “Sir, I believe this neighborhood has been the site of some recent violence. You would do well to be cautious.”

“Finnegan patrols this area, yes? And his partner's name is . . . De-Lauria.”

“Yes, sir. I believe so.” It had been Finnegan who had found the dead female impersonator the night before, in fact.

They crossed under the elevated tracks, and Andrew couldn't help but notice just how many people were about even here, just like those in the tenements trying to escape the extreme heat indoors.

They encountered a young man at the corner of Bowery and Second Street who stood with a cigarillo in his hand, the smoke billowing up into the night. The man was quite striking, young with tousled blond hair and an insouciant expression, his dark suit neatly tailored although a bit threadbare, as if it had been made for him years ago but was now well-worn. Andrew thought this might have been the one nice suit this man owned and so probably got a fair amount of use, but then, this man was probably standing here in case a man such as Andrew happened to be strolling by. Of course, with Roosevelt at his side, Andrew could not be tempted by this bait.

“You there, young man!” Roosevelt said. The man looked startled for a moment. He dropped his cigarillo and put it out with the heel of his shoe.

“Do not fear us,” Andrew said, attempting to defuse the situation. “We are merely on a late stroll. If you are just out here to smoke, you are doing nothing wrong.”

The man nodded. Up close, Andrew could see his youth was manufactured with makeup and the man was quite a bit older than Andrew had first supposed.

“Do you know who I am?” Roosevelt asked.

“I have a notion,” said the young man. “Police Commissioner Roosevelt, yes? I've seen your photo in the papers.”

“No doubt next to an article excoriating me for caring too much about the Sunday laws. It is good policy, though, regardless of what Mr. Hearst or Mr. Pulitzer may print in their papers. What is your name, son?”

“Charles Evans, sir. Most people call me Charlie.” The poor man had a look in his eyes like a boy who had just been caught with his hand in the sweets jar.

“Have you seen anything interesting tonight?” Roosevelt asked.

“No, sir.”

Even Roosevelt could tell the response came too quick.

“You should know,” Andrew said, searching for the right language. “This row has seen a bit of violent crime of late.”

“Yes,” Charlie said. He met Andrew's gaze, but Andrew only saw fear there, not real understanding.

“Have you seen my men on patrol?” Roosevelt asked.

“A pair of officers walked by not five minutes ago,” said Charlie.

“That is good,” Andrew said, trying to catch Charlie's gaze again. He wanted to convey that he was friendly. He noticed little tells, signs this man was just what Andrew suspected he was: his hair looked like it had been brightened with peroxide and he'd tucked a red handkerchief into the pocket of his jacket. To someone who knew the signs, this man was practically waving a flag saying he was available for purchase to any man interested. “Be mindful of the officers on duty.”

Charlie worried his fingers together and looked off in the distance. He opened his mouth as if about to speak a few times and then clamped it shut. Then he seemed to think better of silence and said, “I heard about the boy killed here two nights ago.”

“Yes,” said Andrew. “The detective on the case is a friend of mine. He has sworn to investigate the matter with his full capacity.”

“Which inspector?” Roosevelt asked.

“Henry Brandt, sir. Acting Inspector Brandt, I should say.” Andrew quite deliberately failed to name George Stephens, whom he disliked intensely. Stephens wanted the glory of solving a crime to get a promotion, but had no interest in solving crimes that involved anyone poor or queer. Which was most crime in his jurisdiction; Stephens would have been better suited to an uptown precinct. Andrew hoped he'd soon be minding goats instead of the wallets of Mrs. Astor's Four Hundred uptown, although at least if Stephens got his wish, he'd be mostly out of Andrew's and Hank's hair.

“Oh, yes, Brandt. Of course,” said Roosevelt. “Bit of a rebel our Brandt. Saw him without his coat yesterday.”

“It was rather hot, sir,” said Andrew. “Still is.”

Charlie looked between them as if he didn't know what to make of this. “How much danger do you think there is?”

“Enough,” said Andrew. “Do you work around here?”

“A resort on the next block. I needed to take a few minutes to myself. Er, do not tell my boss.”

“Perish the thought,” said Roosevelt. “Though it would be the responsible thing for a young man such as yourself to return to his work and leave the patrolling of the streets to the professionals.”

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie.

Roosevelt turned and bounded up the block. Andrew fished into his pocket for his card and handed it to Charlie. “Listen,” Andrew said quietly. “Hank Brandt is a good man and he will find the man who is terrorizing this neighborhood. My greatest hope is you will soon have nothing to fear. But if you need anything, that is where you will find me. I work as a secretary at Police Headquarters.”

Charlie's eyes went wide. “But, sir . . . do you know . . .” He looked worried.

“I know what you are. I do not judge you for it. Neither will Hank Brandt.”

Charlie met Andrew's gaze. He was a handsome man, that did not escape Andrew's attention, and it was a shame he was rotting down here, an aging working boy who would likely die on this street. Andrew wanted to rescue him but knew he could not.

Or could he?

“If you see anything, know anything, fear anything, need anything, please come ask for me at Police Headquarters.”

Charlie nodded.

“I must go catch up with the Commissioner. Please, Charlie. I want to help you.”

“I do not know if I can be helped.” But he pocketed the card instead of throwing it away.

Andrew reached over and briefly squeezed Charlie's hand. Then he darted up the block to catch up with Roosevelt.

A
s Nicky peeled off the last vestiges of Paulina, someone knocked on the door of his dressing room.

“Come,” said Nicky.

Charlie came through the door, a dazed expression on his face. “You will never believe what just happened.”

“Likely not,” said Nicky. He hung his gown in the closet and then shrugged into a white cotton shirt.

“I needed a few minutes away. A man got rough with me tonight, and I worried he was . . . well, you can imagine.”

“Yes.”

Charlie walked into the room and ran a finger over the edge of Nicky's makeup chair. “So I was outside. And who should come up but the police commissioner! Mr. Roosevelt, I think is his name.”

Nicky dropped the suspenders in his hand. He clucked his tongue and then bent to pick them up. “The hell you say.”

“The very man! He was with a fellow who claimed to be a secretary at police headquarters.”

“Out on some patrol, no doubt,” Nicky said as he fastened his suspenders to his trousers. “I read somewhere Commissioner Roosevelt does that sometimes. Just decides to check on his patrols at odd hours of the night. I cannot believe you actually met him, though.”

“The secretary gave me a card.” He pulled it from his pocket and showed it to Nicky. It said, “Andrew Ritchley” in fine script across the middle, then “Secretary, Special Assistant to the Commissioner, New York City Police Department.” The address of police headquarters was below it. Charlie went on, “He said the detective on the case to solve Edward's death was friendly to us. He”—Charlie looked around the room—“I am not sure what to say, but there was something about him.”

“What about him?” Nicky handed the card back to Charlie.

“I thought at first he was interested in, ah, procuring my services, but he left with Roosevelt. Now I think on it, I wonder if he wasn't . . . a man of our kind.”

“Ah.”

Charlie pocketed the card again and then put a hand over his pocket as if its cargo were precious. Maybe it was. “Anyway, I believe he may have been trying to tell me the detective investigating the murders was tenacious. This Ritchley fellow essentially told me our profession mattered not, that the detective would still find the killer.”

“The detective on the case?”

“Someone named Brandt?”

Nicky let out the breath he'd been holding. “Yes, I do believe Brandt to be friendly. I have spoken to him.”

“I was terrified I'd be arrested. But I did not solicit them. I was merely smoking outside.”

“And no arrest was forthcoming, so you'll be all right.”

Charlie seemed exasperated, waving his hands. “The secretary told me to go to Police Headquarters if I needed anything.”

“Maybe he was sweet on you.”

Charlie wrinkled his nose. “I think that unlikely.”

Nicky looked in the mirror as he pulled his suspenders on over his shoulders. He picked his waistcoat up from the table and briefly lamented the fact he'd have to put on clothes, further insulating his body despite the heat.

“This Brandt. Do you trust him?” Charlie asked.

Probably more than he should have, particularly considering he was seriously considering walking to the address written on the scrap of paper now in his trousers pocket. “As much as I trust anyone.”

Charlie frowned. “Not at all, in other words.”

Nicky laughed, despite himself. “Well. I trust him a little more than that. However, he is still a police officer. As ever, I believe we should be cautious.”

Charlie reached into his pocket, likely to touch Ritchley's card. Nicky knew the feeling. It was all he could do to keep from reaching for Hank's address, tidily written on that piece of paper.

He looked back at the mirror. He'd successfully transformed back into a man, or done a sufficient enough job to walk about in public. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on reluctantly, already feeling the lining sticking to his shirt.

“Do you really think the police will catch the man who killed Edward?” Charlie asked.

“No, but Inspector Brandt certainly seems determined to try.” And that Nicky did believe. He hadn't quite overcome the sense Brandt would turn on him and throw him in jail at any moment—and certainly anyone with half a brain would take the word of a police inspector over the word of a man who wore dresses when he performed, so Nicky was at a disadvantage—but he believed Brandt genuinely wanted to solve this crime.

Charlie glanced out the door. “I do not want to go back to the ballroom tonight, but I need the money.”

Nicky's heart broke for Charlie. He looked so unhappy. “I could lend you—”

“No. It is my problem to solve.” Charlie smiled, but it didn't go to his eyes. “I'll be all right.”

Nicky knew about pride, but he said, “If you need something . . .”

“I know, Nicky, and I love you for it, but I have to make my own way. The days I'll be able to make money are numbered, and then I don't know what I'll do, but for now, I can close my eyes and pretend I'm something else.”

Nicky's chest tightened, but he nodded. “Well. I must be going.”

“Of course. Good night, Nicky. Be careful.”

Nicky sometimes felt the same way about Charlie as he did about his sister Brigid; if he could afford to move the lot of them out of their situations and into safer environs, he would do it in a heartbeat. As it was, keeping his own roof over his head was a struggle on a singer's salary.

As he walked out of the club and onto the Bowery, he fingered the slip of paper in his pocket and entertained the fantasy this liaison with Hank Brandt was his ticket out of this life. But that was utter nonsense.

Nicky walked up the Bowery toward the Cooper Institute, but instead of turning right toward his apartment, he went left toward West Tenth Street.

It wasn't a great distance to walk, although in this weather, it felt interminable. There was a heavy haze hanging over the night, making the electric lights look like they had auras. Nicky had been a teenager when most of these lights had been installed, and he had no nostalgic feelings toward the old gaslights, but the way these lights flickered tonight cast a pall over West Fourth Street as he walked across town. There was something ghostly about the night, although it was too hot to be anything but alive. People were gathered in Washington Square, likely because it was an outdoor space, and it was at least cooler outside than it was in many indoor locations.

It was a dreary night. It smelled more of death and decay the closer Nicky got to Sixth Avenue. A man lay unconscious—Nicky hoped he was unconscious—on the sidewalk, hidden in the shadows from the elevated trains above. There was a dog howling somewhere in the distance. The clop of horse hooves echoed in the canyon created by the buildings on the avenue. Nicky crossed over to the other side of Sixth Avenue and not for the first time entertained fantasies of leaving this whole city behind. What did it have to offer anyone but hopelessness?

Well, except for a certain man who lived on West Tenth Street.

Nicky found the address without any trouble and was surprised to see it was a squat, three-story brick house. The wide front door was painted dark green, or so it looked in the sickly electric lights from the street, and there was a brass knocker below the house number. Did Hank really live in this house? Did he rent rooms here? Only one way to find out.

Nicky lifted and banged the knocker against the door a few times. He wondered as he waited whether to expect a mistress of the house or a butler or another man or what, but then Hank himself answered the door with a smile.

“You came.”

Hank stood there wearing just a white shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and the first few buttons at his collar undone. He had a couple of days of beard growth shadowing his face and his dark brown hair was carelessly tousled. He had on the same trousers he'd been wearing earlier in the day, but Nicky hadn't noticed earlier how nicely fitted they were. Hank had the sort of body that had seen violence or defended himself from same—strong and muscular but not boxy. Without a waistcoat, it was clear how trim his waist was, how well formed his buttocks and thighs were, and Nicky vowed then and there if he ever saw Hank naked again he would take the time to savor him instead of rushing.

“Nicky?”

Nicky came back to himself. He lowered his eyelids and cocked his hips. “Apparently you are irresistible, darling.”

Hank ushered Nicky inside, and again Nicky was struck by how nice the house looked. It was modestly furnished but clean, from what Nicky could see. “Do you live here alone?” Nicky asked.

“Yes. It was my family's home, but I'm all the family I have now.”

The foyer was all dark wood with a grand staircase that presumably went to the second floor. There was a large room off the foyer that had a threadbare settee and more dark wood. The furniture was scratched and worn at the edges, from what Nicky could see, but there was something comforting about that. This house was worn and lived in. It was well-loved and cared for, despite Hank's modest means, or so Nicky imagined. He had no real sense for what money a police inspector made.

“Can I find you something to eat?”

Nicky looked at Hank, feeling astonished. “You want to feed me?”

“If you're hungry. When was your last meal?”

Nicky couldn't remember. His indecision seemed to push Hank into action and he walked to the back of the house. Nicky followed into a small kitchen. There was an ice box in the corner—an ice box!—from which Hank pulled a block of cheese.

“I think this is still good. I couldn't get ice delivered today, but the box stays cool for a long time.” He sniffed the cheese. “Seems all right. Sit at the table.”

Nicky sat and watched as Hank put out cheese and bread and fetched a knife from a drawer.

“I apologize for not having more. I have not been home much of late.”

“This is wonderful.” And it was. The cheese was cool and tangy and the bread was hearty.

Hank excused himself and came back with a pitcher of water. That was remarkable, too, and the water was clear and cool and refreshing. Nicky gulped down a glass full and then poured a second. His apartment had running water most of the time, which he couldn't say for Brigid's family—the pipes were forever clogged and water rarely came out of the taps clean if it was working—and that weighed on Nicky's mind. He was so hot and thirsty, though, that he was thankful for this.

He wanted to do more for Brigid and decided he'd go see her in the morning. He felt guilty pushing thoughts of her and little Edith away, but there was nothing he could do for them in waning hours of the night.

“Did you eat?” Nicky asked.

“Yes. Really, eat as much as you want. I wish I could give you more.”

That gave Nicky pause. “You aren't just doing this because you feel sorry for me, are you? Because of my lot in life and all that?”

Hank balked. “No. I just know what it's like to work long hours, so I figured you might have missed a meal.”

Nicky believed him and saw the compassion in Hank's actions. In that moment, they'd crossed a threshold, when they went from strangers who stumbled into each other's lives to something like friends. Hank didn't care about Nicky merely as a witness or as a warm body in his bed, but rather he cared enough to make sure Nicky ate.

“Any progress with the case?” Nicky asked.

“Not since I saw you last. It was . . . a difficult afternoon.”

“How so?”

Hank reached over and nabbed a bit of bread. He chewed on it and then said, “This heat is a terrible villain to contend with, because there's nothing to be done for it. There's no escape from it unless you're wealthy enough to buy ice or leave the city.”

“People have died,” Nicky said.

“Yes.” He stared off into the distance. “Among others, an officer who had spent all day on patrol passed out in the precinct house this evening. We took him to Bellevue, but he may not survive.”

How much was the heat making Edith's illness worse? There was no way to know, but Nicky assumed it was a factor.

“Are you all right?” Hank asked.

“Better now I've eaten.”

“You looked so sad just then.”

Nicky felt a little thrill that Hank was paying enough attention to detect his moods, though he was a detective, so it was probably habit. “I was thinking about my family.”

“Do they live in the city?”

“Mostly, yes. I have six siblings. We all kind of scattered once we became adults.”

“It was just me when I was a child. Although my friend Amelia was like a sister to me.” Hank looked wistful for a moment, but then his whole face changed. “Amelia. She's having a party next week.”

Nicky couldn't imagine what that had to do with anything, so he said, “I'm sure it will be lovely.”

“Not just a party.” Hank sounded disgruntled. “Her husband is Jonathan Cooper.”

“Should that name mean something to me?”

“Steel. He owns a steel production plant in Pennsylvania. Worked for Andrew Carnegie ten years ago. He's become something of a magnate. He's made more money than you or I will ever see in our lives. He and Amelia have been rising up through New York society for the last few years.”

“Well, love, that is impressive.”

Hank narrowed his eyes. “You start dropping nicknames on me when you want to build walls. I explain about Amelia not to show off some connection I have, because believe me, Jonathan Cooper is nice to me but thinks I'm worth about as much as the dirt beneath his butler's shoes. I mention it merely to show how Amelia has changed. We grew up like siblings, but she lives in another world now.”