Ten Days in August (13 page)

“What? Hardly. Of course not. How could I expect such a thing? As you keep pointing out, we have known each other mere days.”

Hank had to suppress a smile. “You're my only man, Nicky.”

Nicky visibly relaxed, his shoulders going slack. “Well, all right. The same is true of you for me. But I'm not jealous.”

“No,” Hank said, letting the smile bloom on his lips. “Of course not.”

They lay together silently for a few moments. There was a moment of relief when a breeze came through the open window.

“So what do you say, Hank? Shall we adjourn to Coney Island?”

Even though Hank had suggested it, he now had no interest in leaving his house. He did not want to deal with the world outside. “We could just stay here. Fill my tub with cool water and submerge ourselves.”

Nicky laughed. “Just like the ocean.”

 

On his way into Police Headquarters, Andrew passed a dozen men and women who had made beds of the sidewalk the night before or who were resting on carts or in gutters. Baby carriages lined one stretch of Broadway, most of them occupied by howling, squirming infants in scant clothing with worried mothers occasionally rocking them.

Andrew arrived at Headquarters displeased to find it was still as hot inside the building as ever.

Roosevelt had left for Oyster Bay, which afforded Andrew some peace, at least.

Roosevelt's last order before he left town was to deploy all available vehicles—police wagons, hearses, whatever was available—to transport victims of the heat to hospitals. There were not enough ambulances to escort all of the patients.

Andrew got through one long, sweaty hour of paperwork. Headquarters was nearly silent, as most of the regular staff had the day off, although there was still the occasional bustle of activity as people who needed things came in. The morning was fairly calm, though; most of the city was at church. Except for the heat, it was a typical Sunday.

Then it suddenly became atypical.

The baffled-looking guard on duty escorted Charlie from Roosevelt's Friday night frolic to Andrew's desk.

“This kid keeps asking for you, Mr. Ritchley. He insisted. Shall I see him out or—”

“I'll speak with him,” Andrew told the guard, who seemed satisfied to return to his post.

Charlie looked rattled, dressed in a suit but shaking as though he were cold, which seemed impossible in this weather. Andrew grabbed a chair from an empty adjacent desk and put it at his desk. He motioned for Charlie to sit, and then he did the same.

“Y-you said you could help me,” Charlie said, his teeth chattering. “D-d'you remember me?”

“Yes. I remember. Charlie, right? What is it? What do you need?”

Charlie shivered. “I'd like to report a crime.”

Andrew realized Charlie wasn't cold; he was terrified. “I'm just a secretary, not a police officer. Do you want me to fetch an officer?”

“I-is Inspector B-Brandt here?”

“No, today is his day off. I can get someone else for you to speak with.”

Charlie shook his head. “N-no. No. I t-trust you. I w-want to t-talk to you.”

“All right.” Andrew realized he must have successfully conveyed to Charlie he was friendly. “What happened?”

“L-last night. A man came to . . . I work at a resort. B-Bulgaria. On the B-Bowery.”

The name of the club tugged at Andrew's memory. He grabbed Hank's last report, which he'd left off to the side on his desk. “Inspector Brandt is investigating a murder there.”

Charlie nodded. “L-last night, I . . . there was a m-man.”

“One of your customers?”

Charlie frowned. “No. W-well, he . . . he wanted me to . . . but he made me uncomfortable. I s-said no.”

“Then what happened?”

“He l-left. But then when I walked out of the c-club to go h-home, he grabbed me. He p-pulled me onto Third Street. D-dark corner.”

Charlie started shaking harder and stopped speaking as he clearly struggled to get his breathing back to normal.

Andrew understood. All at once, he knew what had happened.

“He took liberties,” Andrew said, carefully reaching over to touch Charlie's knee.

Charlie looked up and met Andrew's gaze. He nodded. Then he went back to shivering.

Charlie had been raped. There was no better way to frame it.

“This man,” Andrew said, trying to think the way Brandt would. “Did you get a good look at him?”

Although his body still shook, Charlie managed to nod. “H-he had d-dark hair. F-fancy clothes.”

Andrew looked back at the report. That description could have been of anyone in the city, but it also happened to describe the person Nicholas Sharp last saw with the victim. Coincidence, or was it the same man? “You may be very lucky to be alive. How did you escape?”

“After he . . . f-finished, I got away. I m-mean, I r-ran. I l-lost him.”

“That's good. I'm glad you did. Did you go home after?”

Charlie nodded.

“Where is home?” asked Andrew.

“B-boarding house. On G-Great Jones Street. I s-slept there. Th-then I came here.”

Andrew pulled a piece of paper from his drawer and wrote down everything Charlie told him. As he finished writing, he said, “I'll share this with Inspector Brandt tomorrow. He will pursue this matter. Will you talk to him if he needs to ask you additional questions?”

Charlie hesitated.

Andrew leaned close to him. “Brandt will not care about your profession. He is a safe man to talk to. He'll want to find the man who did this to you and make sure he is prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Charlie let out a breath. “Nicky said he trusts this Inspector B-Brandt as much as he trusts anyone. That may be N-Nicky's strongest endorsement.”

“Nicky?” Andrew glanced at Hank's case notes again. “Nicholas Sharp?”

Charlie nodded. Then his face fell. “I can't go back. To B-Bulgaria.”

“Is there someone you want me to send for? Get word to? Can I be of help to you in some other way?”

Charlie looked up and met Andrew's gaze again. Charlie had really remarkable eyes, the color of honey in the sunlight. He said, “Can I stay here for a little while? I f-feel safe with y-you.”

Andrew nodded. “Yes. Stay as long as you need.”

Day 6

Monday, August 10
Temperature: 100°F

A
ndrew woke up knowing he'd done something wrong. It was not a reassuring feeling.

Nothing had happened, not exactly. Oh, sure, a man who was probably a prostitute was lying in bed next to him, sleeping the sleep of the dead, but no money had changed hands and they'd only slept. It was Andrew who had suggested they strip to their drawers—because of the heat, naturally—before climbing into bed. Maybe that was a mistake, now that he was presented with the tousled hair, long neck, and broad back of a very handsome man who was currently sharing his bed.

But Charlie was truly shaken up and had not wanted to go home alone.

Andrew could do nothing but offer him company.

So Andrew had brought him uptown to the apartment he kept on Thirty-sixth Street. Before they got there, they had dutifully gawked at the temperature recorded on the Herald building's thermometer—101 degrees despite sunset approaching—and wondered aloud how long this could go on. Once inside, Andrew had poured them each a finger of whiskey and they'd talked about nothing. Then Andrew had offered his bed, as there was nowhere else to sleep aside from the old divan that was barely wide enough to sit on.

But Andrew still didn't know what precisely it was that Charlie did at Club Bulgaria. He had guesses. He liked his job and so generally stayed away from the fairy resorts on the Bowery, but he'd been to the Slide once, and then, a few years ago, he'd gone to Paresis with Hank, mostly out of curiosity.

Now Charlie stirred and rolled onto his back. It took him a few long moments to wake up, but eventually, he blinked at the ceiling and then turned toward Andrew. Their gazes met and they stared at each other.

Eventually, Charlie said, “What time is it?”

“Early. The sun has barely risen.”

Charlie blinked rapidly a few times.

“If you need me to leave . . .” Charlie said.

“No, it's all right. Stay as long as you need to.”

“Dawn and it's already so hot.”

Andrew mumbled an agreement, but then took a moment to really look at this man beside him. Andrew felt foolish for so easily trusting him, but then, no ill had come from it. Instead, it was just Charlie, wearing only his drawers, all of his skin on display. Andrew could see now the dark roots of the hair on his scalp and his dark hair everywhere else. His skin was pale, as befit a man who likely slept away his days so he could work all night. He had those honey-colored eyes as well as a face that was a bit heart-shaped, but still masculine and quite striking. Andrew found Charlie unbearably attractive.

Not a single thing could happen between them. Not with what Charlie had been through.

Charlie lay on his back but turned his head toward Andrew, who rolled onto his side. “Thank you for taking me in. I slept better last night than I have in ages.”

“I'm glad.”

“You didn't have to trust me.”

“Then don't make me question if I should have.”

Charlie nodded. “I just meant, I . . . that is, you know what I do to make a living. You must.”

“I have a notion.”

“I did not have a lot of options. My father threw me out of the house when I was sixteen. I washed up on the stoop of Julie—Mr. Juel, he owns Bulgaria—and he put me to work. I've been there for almost ten years. I suppose you can't really call me a working
boy
anymore.”

Andrew's heart broke for Charlie. “No, I suppose not.”

Charlie turned his head again to face the ceiling. “I don't think I can go back.”

“Do not return, then.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Perhaps, but . . . perhaps we can find you more respectable employment.”

“We?”

And there it was. Andrew's true intentions were in the open now. “I just meant, I'm willing to help you if you want my help.”

“I do.” Charlie turned his head again and met Andrew's gaze. Andrew suspected Charlie understood what he was saying and returned the sentiment.

“Slowly, perhaps,” Andrew said. “You'll need some time to recover.”

“I'll be forever grateful.”

Feeling daring, Andrew reached over and took Charlie's hand. He threaded their fingers together. “No need. I'm happy to do whatever you need of me.”

Charlie smiled, a true genuine smile that lit up his whole face. So Andrew smiled back. And for a few minutes that morning, the world felt perfect.

 

Hank was up early for no good reason. Nicky hadn't come back after his shift singing at Bulgaria, and being alone for the first night all week had made him feel out of sorts. Then he felt foolish for relying so much on Nicky's company, which only served to make him feel more at sea. This was not to mention that being in his house was like living inside a pot of boiling water, so he decided to head to the precinct house early. The mechanical fans might make the precinct house not completely unbearable.

A couple of weary-looking newsboys stood on the corner of Sixth Avenue. Hank gave a nickel to each of them and took the papers. He read as he walked east. “An Epidemic of Sunstrokes,” said the
Herald
. The
Tribune
's headline declared in large capital letters, “DEATHS BY THE SCORE!” It took only a cursory examination to determine both papers had dedicated several pages each to the various tragedies that had resulted from this plague of heat. Hank tucked one paper under his arm and paged through the other as he walked. Apparently the death toll had overtaxed the coroner.

There was also a long explanation of why the heat felt so oppressive—extraordinarily high humidity, according to one expert interviewed in the
Herald
—although a significant portion of the explanation made little sense to Hank. It didn't matter. The heat was terrible and had been unrelenting since August fourth. Humidity reaching 97 percent that Sunday seemed significant and perhaps explained why the temperature felt twice what the thermometers read.

Apparently, the hottest spot in the city was the patch of asphalt in front of City Hall, at which people were just keeling over left and right if the papers were to be believed. Allegedly, the thermometer on the City Hall steps had read 112 degrees.

Other parts of the paper were reporting on William Jennings Bryan's scheduled speech at Madison Square Garden in two days and how the police were being mobilized. Hank, who had only a marginal interest in national politics, wanted no part in a big speech, especially if they intended to pack the Garden in this heat. He hoped to be home Wednesday evening. Perhaps with Nicky.

When Nicky had left the night before, Hank had lodged a protest—“Even on Sunday?”—and he'd been neatly deflected—“My devoted admirers are expecting me, darling.”

Hank would see Nicky again in just a few hours, though, when they got ready to go to Amelia's charity ball, and Hank looked forward to that. Well, not so much the charity ball, which sounded dreadfully boring and stuffy and full of Amelia's over-moneyed new friends. But he looked forward to seeing Nicky again.

He dumped the papers in a trash receptacle on the way into the precinct house. His first order of business would be to update Stephens on his plans, although he hoped, as with the follow-up visit to track down Nicky at Bulgaria, Stephens would beg off.

Stephens sat at his desk, frantically scribbling on a pad of paper, oblivious to Hank's presence. Hank stopped and rapped on the desk three times. Stephens head shot up and he stared at Hank.

“Brandt. I hope you're having a pleasant morning.”

“It begs for an ‘is it hot enough for ya?' sort of joke, but I'm afraid I'm not up to the task.”

Stephens grimaced. “Well. I read your notes for the Club Bulgaria case.”

Hank couldn't decide if this was good or bad news. “And? Any insights?”

Stephens looked put out, like a child who had just had his favorite toy taken away. “I can't imagine I thought of anything you hadn't already thought of. Your notes are quite . . . thorough.”

Hank didn't like Stephens's tone. “What are you implying?”

“I just want to verify your interest in this case isn't prurient.”

“Prurient?”

Stephens held up his hands. “I don't know what you do with your spare time.”

Hank wanted to punch Stephens, but he refrained. Instead, he said, “I don't like what you're implying.”

“Good. As it should be. Now what is your plan?”

So Hank gave Stephens the briefest rundown, bringing Nicky in disguise to a society party to see if he spotted the slumming killer.

“Are you sure the killer was slumming? Could it not have also been another prostitute? A jilted lover? An intoxicated customer?”

“It could be any of those things,” Hank said, “but as we have no other leads, I thought this worth trying. If it proves fruitless, I'll have to come up with something else.”

“Or we could drop the case. There may be no solution to this one.”

Hank figured Stephens disliked the unsavory nature of the parties involved. “Perhaps,” Hank said. “If you want to rid yourself of it, that's all right. I'd like to pursue it, at least for a few more days. If I still have nothing on, say, Wednesday, I'll reconsider.”

That seemed to satisfy Stephens, who nodded. “All right. Because another homicide came in, this one on the other side of the precinct. Tenth Street, near Tompkins Square. If my hunch is correct, it's a wife killing her lover.”

Hank was a little disturbed by the amount of glee Stephens displayed. “All right. Would you like me to accompany you to the scene?”

“Yes, let's do that before the heat becomes too unbearable.”

 

Andrew supposed there was a certain inevitability to the chaos visited upon Police Headquarters Monday morning, given this was an election year and one of the candidates for President of the United States planned to give a speech in a mere two days. The heated term, as Roosevelt called it now, showed no signs of letting up.

Will MacLachlan, a reporter for the
Times,
sat on a bench outside eating an apple and shooting pointed looks at Andrew, so Andrew walked down the steps of the Headquarters building and sat beside him.

“Good morning, Andrew. A fine day isn't it?”

“Oh, yes, perfectly fine.”

Will smiled. “Aside from the obvious, I suppose. What can you tell me about arrangements for Mr. Bryan's speech?”

“Not much.”

Will sighed. “I stopped by Democratic Campaign Headquarters this morning, and there is so much scrambling, no one had time to speak with me. I suspect even they do not know what will happen when Mr. Bryan arrives.”

“All I can tell you is the police department is furnishing security, and we will need it, as they plan to fill Madison Square Garden.”

“In this heat?”

Andrew shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. He agreed it was madness to put so many people in one venue when Will's very paper reported daily death tolls from the heat now. But it was out of his hands. “Democrats from all over the country are pouring into town. Bryan himself is scheduled to arrive tomorrow. The date has been set for months.”

“The consequences of packing Madison Square Garden in such conditions can only be guessed.”

“It promises to be . . . uncomfortable,” said Andrew.

“Dangerous.”

Disastrous, Andrew thought. “I received word from Commissioner Roosevelt this morning that he intends to spend the day in Oyster Bay. Probably just as well. As ever, the Police Board is deadlocked over every issue, and anyway, Roosevelt wants nothing to do with Mr. Bryan's speech.”

“Ah, yes,” said Will. “I imagine his plan is to hope McKinley is elected and thus gives Mr. Roosevelt some appointment out of town.”

“I believe that is his intention, yes, though you didn't hear it from me. Never let it be said he neglected the police department.”

“No, indeed. My wife's family owns a saloon on William Street. I ever tell you that?”

“I had no idea.”

“Business is down, Andrew. Sunday is the day most men are most interested in libations because they have no other obligations to speak of. But Commissioner Roosevelt thinks we should honor the Lord's Day by abstaining. That makes so little business sense, it's a wonder no one has run him out of office yet.”

“Not for lack of effort. Roosevelt is stubborn.”

“Hmm. Well, anyway. I'm working on a story set to run tomorrow on Mr. Bryan's visit, so if you have anything you can share about preparations, I'd greatly appreciate it.”

“I'll write something up and have it sent to your office this afternoon.”

Will stood and tipped his hat. “Much obliged. I'll be sure to mention how accommodating the New York Police Department is acting, unlike the mayor's office.”

Andrew nodded. Mayor Strong had made not so much as a peep about the heat wave or any sort of relief effort for the elderly or the sick, and so Andrew had received piles of reports about the dead from the coroner's office and no way to fix the situation. He stood and shook hands with Will before they parted ways.

On his way back up the steps into Headquarters, Andrew was accosted by O'Hanlon, a city coroner. “Ritchley. You must do something.”

“About?”

O'Hanlon tore his hat from his head and wiped his thinning hair off his forehead. “Seventy-seven cases are on my list for review today. One of my clerks collapsed from the heat this morning. I need some more help. Can you get some sort of relief? Another worker? Just a man who can write in English would be sufficient.”