City of Promise (37 page)

Mollie glanced up and saw the dark silhouette of what appeared to be a larger than life statue. No, it was a live woman and she was sitting on a sort of throne suspended in midair. Mollie didn’t get a chance to ask who she was because a trumpet fanfare called the room to silence and what light there was dimmed further. “Ladies and gentleman, your attention please.” It was the black giant, and he was speaking from just to Mollie’s right. “Welcome to the wedding of Mama Jack’s adopted daughter, Maude Pattycake, and her groom, our own Ebenezer Tickle.”

At precisely that moment a series of rope pulleys were activated and four lanterns rose behind the oaken bar, illuminating its full length. “Trained by Barnum many of them,” Josh whispered in his wife’s ear. “They’re showmen to the core.” The point was underlined by the appearance of a dwarf atop the bar at the far end, fiddling madly as he danced toward them down the narrow strip of wood.

“Groom’s next,” the giant announced. “With his best man.” He sounded another fanfare and Ebenezer appeared, walking the length
of the bar with his cousin Henry beside him. But the dwarf walked on the bar and his over-six-foot cousin beside it. The effect was to make Ebenezer the taller.

The giant blew a few notes on his trumpet. A voice somewhere in the rear sang “Swing Low Sweet Chariot . . .” Just the opening words, then the singer fell silent and so did the trumpet. “Ceremony,” the giant said into the hush, “will be done by the preacher, Willie Sykes.” A hunchbacked man dressed entirely in black and carrying a prayer book rose from the back of the audience and walked forward to take his place beside the Tickle cousins.

“And the maid of honor is none other than Mama Jack herself.” Another lantern rose to the ceiling and swung across the room to illuminate the woman seated on the dais above the heads of Mollie and Josh. She was draped in baby blue lace. Yards of it—acres of it, Mollie thought—fell over and around and below her. A crown of tiny pink rosebuds topped her huge head, and she held a matching posy, dwarfed by her enormous hands.

The trumpeter raised his horn yet again and blew the notes familiar to most everyone in the room, “Tom Tiddler’s Song,” the announcement that Maude Pattycake was going to dance, but she didn’t immediately appear. Instead the fiddler took over and Mollie heard what people now called “Here Comes the Bride,” the same music she’d chosen for her own appearance at the head of the aisle of majestic Grace Church. It was from a German opera by the composer Richard Wagner. “Faithfully guided, draw now near,” the aria began, and brides everywhere had begun using that melody to accompany their walk toward the most fateful moment of their lives.

A lantern moved slowly to the far end of the bar and created a pool of light. Maude stepped into it. She wore white silk, tight-waisted and drawn back into a bustle from which flowed a white lace train. Her veil fell from a circlet of white roses, these full blown, and she carried a spray of them in her tiny hands. The beam of light from the lantern followed her slow and deliberate walk along the top of the bar, and
when she drew level with the Turners Mollie saw the tips of silver slippers peeking from below the hem of her gown.

“Dearly beloved,” the preacher began.

A man’s head appeared between Mollie and Josh. He was behind them, leaning over so he could whisper something in Josh’s ear. She heard Josh say “now” in an incredulous tone, and the man say “Yes, right now.”

“But the ceremony’s just starting,” Josh protested.

“Right now,” the man repeated. “Or they’re going to shut you down and confiscate the lot.”

“. . . holy estate,” the preacher was saying, “not to be entered into . . .”

Josh got to his feet, pulling Mollie up beside him. “My wife will need an escort home.”

“Thought of that,” the man said. “Follow me.”

Mollie heard the preacher ask Maude Pattycake if she would take Ebenezer Tickle to be her husband, but nothing more. Josh was pulling her along beside him and in seconds they had left the cave, not, however, by the way they’d come in. Their exit was through a different and steeper tunnel. It avoided the taproom on Eighth Street, Mollie realized. “Josh, what is it, what’s happened?”

“I’m not quite sure. Something to do with the police.”

“But who is this man? How do you—”

“Name’s Frankie Miller, Mrs. Turner. I work for your husband. Watch yourself, ma’am. Pretty narrow going here.”

She had to turn sideways to fit through an opening in what looked like a solid rock wall, then Josh guided her up a set of stone stairs and into a narrow alley. She had no idea where they were, and for a moment it seemed Josh was equally puzzled. He looked around, getting his bearings, then said, “Washington Square Mews?”

Miller nodded. “Secret way in and out of Mama Jack’s. Saves a bit of trouble.” He was hurrying them to a small rig, a buggy, drawn by a single horse and driven by a slim, freckle-faced boy who looked no
more than twelve. “This here’s Eddie the Babyface, Mrs. Turner. He’ll see you safe home. I guarantee it.”

Mollie spied two horses a bit further down the alley. Each was saddled and ready to ride. “Josh, I—”

“Please, Mollie. I’m told this is an emergency and I accept that it is.” He wrapped her coat around her as he spoke, and lifted her into the rig. It had only a single bench, so she had to sit beside the driver. Close up, she thought he might be older than she’d first thought, a speculation that faded in importance when she saw a rifle lying lengthwise at her feet. “Josh . . .”

“Later. I’ll explain. I promise.”

Eddie the Babyface jerked the reins and they moved off down the alley. Mollie turned and looked between the metal struts that held a gaily fringed leather canopy above their heads. Josh was already astride one of the horses. Frankie Miller was mounting the other. The buggy made a sharp turn to the left and she lost sight of both.

They were on lower Fifth Avenue, the road lined either side with substantial brownstones, many of them sold when ultra fashionable New York moved north. Miraculously there was not a great deal of traffic and they flew past the Hotel Brevoort and Miss Lucy Green’s, the school Mollie had once attended. Eddie kept turning his head and craning his neck to look back the way they came, urging the horse to go faster all the while. “Mr. Babyface, why are we in such a great rush?”

“My job’s to get you home safe,” he said as they entered Washington Square Park. “It’s what I mean to do.”

The buggy was lurching from side to side meanwhile, and Mollie started to protest that there was greater safety with less speed when she saw the pistol in his hand. “Dear God! What—”

“Here, take the reins. And scrunch down as low as you can.”

“I’ve never—”

“Take the reins.”

She had to, otherwise he’d have dropped them and the horse would be without any control at all. Mollie had never driven any kind of vehicle.
Josh had promised to one day teach her to guide the phaeton, but so far he’d not done so. She had no idea what she was supposed to be doing and she simply held on as tight as she could, astonished at the weight and power she felt pulling against her. The horse seemed to realize it had virtually been given its head and surged forward.

She heard the crack of a shot and saw Eddie hanging over the side of the buggy, clinging on with one hand while he aimed with another. “Mr. Babyface, you are surely going to—”

“Get down. As low as you can. Like I told you.”

There were two more shots in quick succession. One seemed to whistle past her cheek. A bit of the canopy’s fringe landed in her lap and the peacock feathers of her coiffure floated by and drifted away. Impossible unless . . . Eddie the Babyface, Mollie realized, was not the only one shooting. “Who is following us? Why?”

He was fully back in the buggy for the moment, bending down to get the rifle. “It’s the Eye-ties. Tony Lupo himself. It’s you they’re after, not me.” He reached over while he spoke and gave the reins a sharp jerk, almost but not quite pulling them out of her hand. The horse neighed loudly, rose for a moment on its hind legs, then dropped back and swerved. The buggy went up on its left wheel. She’d never put the polonaise on properly and it slipped off her shoulders and fell into the street. “Hang on,” Eddie shouted. “Don’t let us tip over.” He was on one knee now, facing backwards and aiming the rifle out the struts.

Mollie gripped the reins, bracing both feet against the front lip of the rig, wishing to heaven she had on proper boots, not patent-leather slippers with silk rosettes. The buggy righted itself with a thud that bounced her six inches off her seat and back down again.

“Down,” Eddie shouted. “Scrunch down.”

She tried to do what he said and control the buggy at the same time. It was nearly impossible, and the horse was definitely stronger than she. “Mr. Babyface, I can’t—”

He reached over and took the reins from her hands. “It’s all right now. Too much traffic down here. He’s backed off.”

The horse slowed some in response to the return of a firm hand. Mollie sat up straighter. She reached up and touched her coiffure, a silver band decorated with iridescent bird feathers that had been the outfit’s crowning glory. The feathers were gone. Shot off her head by someone of whom she’d never heard, much less met. “Who is Tony Lupo?” she demanded.

“Head of the Sicilian gang. You must be important, missus, for him to come himself.”

Mollie turned her head. She was just in time to see a rig not unlike the one she was in slow and start the turn into Spring Street. The man driving it, she saw, was well dressed and had an eyepatch. Nothing else to identify him and on any given day she passed a dozen men who looked exactly the same.

Moments later they were on Grand Street and Tess came to the door in response to Eddie’s knock. “Mrs. Turner . . . What’s happened? Well, I never . . .”

Mollie walked through the open door and headed for the stairs, looking neither right nor left and not pausing to say hello to Tess or goodbye to Eddie. Tess stared after her for a long few seconds, then realized the man was gone and closed the door. “Are you all right, love? What’s happened? I don’t—”

Tess stopped speaking. There was a trail of something behind her mistress. At first it seemed to be bits of purple chiffon dropping from the extraordinary gown the girl was wearing. Then Tess realized she was looking at splatterings of blood. They grew larger and closer together as they progressed. By the time Mollie reached the top of the stairs, blood was puddling in her wake.

There was a police cordon stretched across the entrance to the foundry, seven coppers standing elbow-to-elbow, all holding their billies at the ready. Josh pulled the horse up in front of them. “Just what are you doing here? I’m a businessman and these are my premises. I’ve broken no law.”

A man in civilian clothes appeared at Josh’s side, standing and looking up at him through spectacles that caught the midday sun. “I’m afraid that’s not true, sir.”

“And who are you to be calling me a liar?”

“I’m an attorney, sir. Acting for Mr. Henry Bessemer of London, England.”

“And just what is Mr. Bessemer’s complaint?”

“I believe men in your employ have been making steel inside this building.” The lawyer nodded toward the foundry.

“That’s correct.” Out of the corner of his eye Josh could see Frankie Miller still sitting his horse, but hanging back, remaining out of the direct view of the coppers. He couldn’t see anyone else, but he knew Miller’s men were nearby. Not much good to him in this situation. An armed battle with the police would eventually land all the survivors in jail. Himself included if a bullet didn’t finish him first.

“And is your steel,” the lawyer asked, “made in what’s known as a converter?”

“It is made,” Josh said, “in a Kelly converter.” He was conscious of someone walking up behind him, but he did not turn around to see who it was.

“Mr. Bessemer,” the lawyer said, “bought Mr. Kelly’s patent some years past. Making steel in that way is now known as the Bessemer process. It is protected by patents Bessemer owns. Here in the United States as well as abroad.”

“No doubt about that,” a voice said. “Afternoon, Josh.”

“I’d ask what you’re doing here, Clifford,” Josh still didn’t turn around, “but I’m quite sure I know.”

“I’m a fair-minded citizen, Josh. Only that. Helping the police to enforce international law.”

Clifford moved into his line of sight. “Fair-minded,” Josh said.

“That’s right. Sorry to interrupt the festivities. I’m sure you’ll be missed. Your wife as well.”

For the first time Josh felt a frisson of fear. “Leave my wife out of this. You’re not fit to mention her name.”

Clifford chuckled. “High dudgeon suits you, Josh. Goes with your red hair. But it’s not much use just now. You have been making steel in violation of Henry Bessemer’s patent and Mr. Clark here,” Clifford nodded to the attorney, “has a court order to close this foundry. He’ll also be confiscating the building on Sixty-Third Street known as the St. Nicholas flats. Given that it was built illicitly with his steel, Mr. Bessemer has a substantial legal interest in that building. No one is to be permitted to move in until the courts have decided the issue of how much of the property Mr. Bessemer can claim. Is that not correct, Mr. Clark?”