Grace's Pictures (31 page)

“There’s no one else?”

“No one I can find that quick. Look, I know I’m bucking the system. I know Devery put me down here because he wants me out of Tammany business. Reckon that’s why you’re in my ward, McNulty. But God willing, we can do our job down here.”

So the captain knew Devery wanted Owen to back off tracking the gang even without Owen telling him. He should have figured. “Captain? How did you know to find me in the park that night my mother telephoned the precinct?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms against his chest. “Think I was born yesterday? The Committee of Fifteen. Some of their inspectors were in the area and telephoned to tell me you were there. Wanted to know if I approved. Sometimes they’re meddlesome; sometimes they’re helpful. The citizenry is often my secret weapon. Now keep that under your hat, son.”

That evening Owen slipped away from his rounds to get over to the meeting Captain Nicholson steered him to. Night classes were in progress at the Italian mission house next door. The windows were lit up and you could see rows of tables with people huddled over them. The quicker immigrants learned the language, the money, and the customs of this country, the easier time they’d have of it. There was no shortage of schemes to separate a newcomer from his money.

He tapped lightly on the front door of the limestone building. A man with a handlebar mustache opened the door. “May I help you, Officer?”

“McNulty. Captain Nicholson sent me.”

“Sent you why?”

Owen whispered. “To attend the meeting.”

The man made no sign of recognition.

“The Committee of Fifteen? I was supposed to meet a man at the precinct today, and I was late.”

His eyes widened. “Ah, yes indeed. Come in, young man.”

He was led to a room lit by a single lightbulb hanging over a long oak table. Owen guessed there were fifteen men seated around it, counting the man who had risen to answer his knock. “Take my chair,” the mustached man said, pointing to the lone empty spot.

“I can stand.”

“Oh no. We all want to speak with you. Please sit.”

Owen felt the stares as he took a seat. A gentleman seated at the head of the table grunted and twiddled his thumbs. After an awkward moment of silence, the man spoke. “I am William Baldwin, chairman. McNulty, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He proceeded to introduce each man by name. About halfway through, Owen recognized one of them. Blevins, his father’s friend and business associate. He stood, halting the introductions. “Owen, let me explain. I’m here solely because of what the criminals are doing—”

“As we all are, Blevins,” the man to his right said. “Sit down, please.”

He acquiesced, and the introductions continued until they ended with the man at the head. Owen barely heard the names. They were wealthy concerned citizens—railroad men, university presidents, lawyers, publishing giants—just as the pawnbroker had said. But Owen had never imagined Blevins would be involved.

The committee chair spoke. “Nicholson sent you here?”

“He did. I was supposed to—”

“I understand.” The man turned to his right. “Edwin, is this the man?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Owen wasn’t sure he recognized the man who confirmed
his identity. “Were you the man I spoke to over by the Hudson River docks?”

“No, no, but I consulted with the gentleman a few hours ago. We hire these men . . . investigators of a sort. We thought you’d changed your mind about bringing in that Dusters gang leader when you didn’t show up for your arranged meeting.”

“Oh no. I apologize. I have not changed my mind. My father . . . Well, I was detained.”

The man stood abruptly and slammed a fist into his open palm. “There can be no dereliction of duty here.”

Owen’s neck began to sweat. “No, sir. I assure you I am committed to this end.”

The man remained standing while the others shifted on their wooden chairs and murmured to each other. The man began to shout. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. Time is of the essence.” He passed around a paper. When it came to Owen, he saw that it was the Disorderly House Report the other man had filled out that night. Goo Goo Knox was clearly written on one line. The man seated next to Owen cleared his throat, and Owen passed the paper on.

After they all had examined it, the man called Edwin demanded order again. “I am prepared to give you all the information we have, Officer McNulty, with one condition.”

“Yes, sir. What is it?”

“You must see to the matter immediately. No delays for any reason. If the settlement missions move out, Lower Manhattan will be overrun with debauchery. Can you tell me you will do so, Officer?”

“I give you my word.”

The man twisted his jaw before he spoke again. “With the current condition of the police force and the Tammany
Hall machine that controls much of it, I’m afraid that is not enough.”

His word wasn’t enough? “What more can I offer, sir?”

“Tell us here why you are committed to this. Do you have any compulsion other than the orders of your precinct captain?”

“I do.” Owen explained the day he’d tried to help Officer O’Toole and the little girl when they were struck by the trolley car. His voice caught, surprising him. He thought he had been controlling his emotion. He swallowed hard and continued. “I didn’t understand how miserable conditions were for people just a few miles from where my family lived. And I just knew that day, felt more sure of it than anything before or since, that God called me to the profession.” He paused and lifted his gaze to the ceiling.
Please, God, let me get this story out.

“Go on, son,” someone encouraged.

“I imagine you all have various motives for being on this committee, both business and moral God-fearing reasons. And these aims drive you to do this, I suppose. Like you, I have no choice, gentlemen, than to answer that call, and I am accountable to a much higher power than my captain, you understand.”

“Hear, hear!” The room erupted with applause and approval.

“That will do fine,” Chairman Baldwin said.

Only one face in the room appeared less than pleased. Blevins gazed at Owen with a look that seemed to say, “But what about your father?” And Owen felt ashamed, wondering if he had really been seeking the approval of men rather than seeing to the responsibilities of an only son.

29

“ANOTHER TENEMENT FIRE.
When will something be done?” Mrs. Hawkins tossed the newspaper on the tea table and wiped her eyes with a napkin.

Grace picked it up. “Anyone hurt?”

“I suppose so, but by God’s mercy it appears no one died this time.” The Hawk wiped her nose and returned to her chair without her tea.

Grace looked at the newspaper. “Where?”

Mrs. Hawkins sighed. “Chatham Square. Thankfully the fire department put it out before it spread very far. Those buildings are as flammable as cardboard.”

Chatham Square?
Grace had never learned the exact location of Mr. Parker’s property. She wondered if she brought up the subject with him—it was in the paper, after all—she could find out.

“Maybe I could take pictures. With my camera.”

“Now why would you do that, love? No, stay away from that area. Think before you leap, as my Harold always used to say.”

Grace turned to the breakfront cabinet to choose a book. She’d already taken some shots, but no one knew that. Had Mr. Parker seen what she saw? Did he have any remorse over cheating those people by charging high rents?

Annie bolted into the parlor. “People are in the streets, yelling and protesting. Even the mission workers, Mrs. Hawkins.”

The woman twisted in her chair. “What are you talking about? Where?”

“On State Street. Nora, the housekeeper at the Mission to Irish Immigrant Girls, was just here to tell us. She’s run off to warn the others.”

“Ridiculous. Protesting what, love?” The Hawk was standing now.

“They say the police have to do something about the gangs in the Battery or they’ll move out. Mrs. Hawkins, are we going to move as well?”

The woman walked to the hall in a huff. “I’ll say not. Get my coat, love.”

When Grace and the others arrived, the sound of a brass band made the protest sound more like a carnival. Mrs. Hawkins stopped a lad with a megaphone. “What is going on here, young man?”

“The police must act. We will not be bullied.” He darted away.

Grace noticed a group of young people laughing and smoking in the narrow alley beside the Irish mission house. Annie noticed too. “That’s what they are talking about,” Annie said. “Even the rich take part in alcohol and cocaine parties, but these church-sponsored mission houses will not put up with it happening on their doorsteps.”

Grace removed her camera from her bag and snapped a photograph of the revelers despite her earlier vow not to take strangers’ photographs. Before long, she realized she had
wandered away from the others while observing what was happening beyond the rambunctious protesters.

An overwhelming feeling of dread filled her as she scrambled down the street between milk trucks, carriages, and people on foot. Too many times she’d been warned not to be out alone after dark. Stupid of her.

She tucked the camera back into her bag and looped the handles tightly around her arm. Fear like spiders crawled up her arms as she could not find Mrs. Hawkins and the others.

When she approached an alley, she wandered toward it to avoid a band of drunken soldiers. A hand reached out from the unlit recesses and grabbed her. “Gotcha!” A man with breath worse than three-day-old cabbage in a pot spoke into her ear.

“Let me go!”

“What’s a pretty lassie like you doing out here alone?”

She squirmed until she was able to shove her knee where it would incapacitate him the most and he let go. She bolted away as fast as she could but managed to run into another man, this one much bigger.

“Whoa there.”

“Let me go.”

He released her. “Just trying to help.”

She continued rushing down the street, tears streaking down her face. As bad as the workhouse had been, there had not been this many people to maneuver around. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream. A very small, foolish salmon, not the wise one in Irish folktales.

“Hey, stop!” Three thugs blocked her path.

She started to turn down the cross street, but one of them caught her.

“Steal from a shop, did ye?”

“What’s it to you?” She would not be intimidated even though this dark-eyed thug could see her tears.

“What’d ye get?” He grabbed her arm.

She screamed.

He held a knife to her cheek, drawing blood.

Suddenly a whistle blasted from somewhere behind them.

“Cops!” The thugs took off.

Grace put a hand to her chest to steady her breathing. Not seeing anyone else around, she scurried out into a mass of people, where she felt safer. She hadn’t known such terror existed so close to Hawkins House. No wonder the people were protesting. She wondered if Owen McNulty and that horrible Feeny peeler were doing their job in the slightest.

She edged toward a building to free herself from the flow of people so she could think and get her bearings. Across the street two men tussled.
The truth.
Someone had to show the truth of this place. She pulled out her camera and found a vacant spot near a lamppost where she had enough room to extend her elbows and aimed.

Whack!
Someone struck her arm.