Ten Days in August (19 page)

“Of course. I can walk with you on the way to the precinct house.”

“Thank you, love.”

Nicky smiled. It didn't quite go to his eyes. Hank could only imagine what he was thinking, but didn't dare ask.

And so an hour later they walked together along West Fourth Street. The morning was not exactly serene. There was a large mound near the corner of Seventh Avenue that might have been a dead horse but could have been anything. People were sitting along the edge of one building atop quilts and towels, as if they'd slept there. It smelled horrifically, like urine and decaying flesh. And it was still so hot and humid merely walking was like pushing through a pool of boiling water.

And still, a calm fell over Hank as they walked, a contentment, daresay a bit of happiness. It was so at odds with how he woke up most mornings, heat or no, he wanted more time to savor it.

Hank was reluctant to go to work, in fact, because he didn't especially want to part from Nicky. He had the sense all of this was about to come crashing down around him. The dread sat like a stone in his belly.

Nicky fiddled with his scarf as they walked east. The scarf seemed like an eccentricity in this heat, though Hank also knew the color was meant as a way for Nicky to identify himself. A red ascot or scarf was often a signifier to other inverts that they were in good company. Hank had known a lot of men who had particular eccentricities—bleached hair, for example, or a predisposition toward tight trousers—that were also signals only men in the know would be able to interpret.

A bright red scarf on a hot day, no matter how flimsy the material, seemed like a beacon now.

Hank wasn't sure how much he really cared, though. The concern for others spotting him walking with Nicky felt borne more of habit than anything tangible he felt.

“Can I see you tonight?” Hank asked.

Nicky finished fussing and dropped his arms to his sides. “Well, darling, you are in luck. Tonight is my night off. Perhaps we need a few hours in which we put all the nonsense aside. Shall we have a little night on the town?”

“I'd love to.” Hank genuinely would love to spend a night out with Nicky. He wanted an opportunity to talk with him, have a drink, bask in the energy of a saloon with like-minded men. “It has been a while since I spent nights doing anything but reading at home or police work, so I'm not sure where to go anymore.”

“I know a few places.”

They made arrangements to meet at a spot near where Nicky wanted to go once Hank got off work. Hank said, “I look forward to it.”

“I as well, love.”

 

Andrew read through various reports, both from police captains and in the newspapers, about the event at Madison Square Garden. According to one of the papers, some thirty thousand people had applied for tickets, most of whom were turned down. Madison Square Garden had a capacity of ten thousand five hundred seats but room for about seven thousand more to stand. Filling the space to capacity in the deathly persistent heat seemed like a colossally idiotic idea.

There was some concern at Police Headquarters that this would be a repeat of President Cleveland's speech in 1892, in which a woman had fainted and caused a panic. That day had been hot, too, though nothing like the last week had been. Police Chief Conlin had made it clear he wished to avoid such a calamity and had requested a police surgeon be on hand to treat anyone with illness from the heat.

Somehow the burden had fallen on Andrew to relay the various requests and reports to the correct people. Thus Wednesday morning was utter chaos.

All so William Jennings Bryan could accept his nomination as the Democratic candidate for President of the United States in style. What happened to the candidates quietly accepting at home by writing a letter? Candidates for president were not supposed to be so flashy.

Worse, it wasn't at all clear from the news media that this was a ticketed event, not a public rally. For whatever reason, Bryan's talk was a major draw for city residents. Well, Andrew thought, it wasn't every day a presidential candidate came to New York to formally accept the nomination. Grover Cleveland had done it four years before, but he was a hometown man. Why Bryan had chosen New York as the scene of his triumph, no one knew, but maybe Andrew was being too cynical. The papers had been raving about the event for two weeks, so the police department expected a large turnout. It was possible thousands of people would show up. Andrew could easily picture a riot of people who were turned away.

It was creating a mess for Andrew.

“The police are providing cots and we've got pillows and blankets on loan from several hospitals,” a captain whose name Andrew couldn't recall said as he stood beside Andrew's desk. “We're also bringing in ice and several large tubs. Dr. Nammack claims the best way to cure heat stroke is to submerge the patient in an ice bath.” Dr. Nammack was the police surgeon.

“All right,” Andrew said. “You've already got most of this in place, I hope.”

“Yes, or it will be within the hour. We want to be ready for Mr. Bryan and the crowds we anticipate. It seems very likely we will have to turn people away.”

Andrew nodded. What a mess.

George Stephens arrived at police headquarters then, which was just what Andrew needed. He didn't trust Stephens; he understood why Hank thought he was a weasel.

“Mr. Ritchley,” Stephens said. He ran a hand down the front of his perfectly crisp uniform. Stephens never had a thread out of place, even in the heat, which was enough to draw suspicion.

“I am quite busy this morning, Inspector Stephens. Preparations for the Bryan speech at Madison Square Garden. Was there something you needed?”

“I have some concerns about my acting inspector. I'd like to know who best to bring them up with. He outranks my precinct captain, so I thought coming to you to file a report would be the best course of action. Since you have the ears of the superior members of the police department, that is.”

“Concerns about Hank Brandt?” Andrew's pulse accelerated.

“I think he's behaving in a wrongheaded manner where our current cases are concerned. Spending undue time on this matter involving the fairy prostitutes on the Bowery and not on more important cases.”

“Right. He's made headway on the Bulgaria case, though. I've read his reports.”

“See, the particular issue I have is I suspect . . . no, I shouldn't say.”

Andrew rubbed his forehead. “What? What do you suspect?”

Stephens leaned close and lowered his voice. “Brandt may very well be a fairy himself.”

Andrew had to fight to suppress his reaction, though he knew he utterly failed. Stephens smiled briefly before schooling his features again. Probably he'd misinterpreted the horror on Andrew's face.

“Let us not breathe a word of this just yet,” Andrew said, trying to seem conspiratorial. “Wait for Brandt to incriminate himself. If you're right, he will. No one can keep a secret from this police commission, as you may have noticed.”

Stephens nodded. “All right. I will look into the matter a little, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.” Andrew's panic was mounting. Stephens meddling could very well blow up the whole investigation, but Andrew couldn't figure out how to make him back off without giving too much away. “Let me know if you uncover anything.”

“I will.” Then Stephens left.

Andrew watched him go. He knew he needed to talk to Hank immediately. If a lunkhead like Stephens had figured out Hank's secret, Hank wasn't safe anymore.

H
ank met Nicky near the corner of Bleecker and Mulberry Streets. Nicky wore a gray suit, the jacket open to reveal a matching waistcoat and a crisp white shirt. He'd tucked a red ascot into his collar. His blond hair was a little disheveled, likely due to sweat or whatever pomade he used melting in the heat.

They greeted each other as old friends, which Hank supposed said something about their relationship now.

“How was your day?” Hank asked.

“All right. I went to see Brigid. She is not faring too well.” Nicky sighed. “I tried once more to persuade her to move to another neighborhood. I offered my apartment again. She won't move her whole family there while I still live there, and there is also the nagging issue of my father, who disappeared for a few days but finally turned up again.” Nicky shook his head. “Father has lofty ideas of better accommodations for the lot of them, but unless he can conjure up the money to pay for it out of thin air, there's not much that can be done. And Brigid is not thinking straight and is digging in her heels because the tenements are closer to her husband's shop.”

“That is a difficult situation. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Nicky shook his head. “Until Brigid decides to be less stubborn, there's nothing for it.” He paused at Bleecker and took a moment to decide which way to walk. “Let's go this way. I trust your day was better than mine?”

“Not really. Andrew told me today my part-time partner suspects I am up to no good.”

“The properly suited Inspector Stephens, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Suspects you are a Prancing Nancy?”

Hank laughed despite himself. “Yes.”

“Well, darling, I'm afraid I have bad news.”

Hank laughed harder. The situation really was absurd. “It's not funny,” Hank said between gasps as he tried to calm down. “And yet.”

“I know.”

Hank wheezed and then managed to pull himself together enough to keep walking. “I do not know what the future holds. It seems to me if Stephens has suspicions about me, he plans to speak to my superiors. We've had enough differences of opinion, and he is just ambitious enough, he likely went to Andrew thinking he had a sympathetic ear who would pass those suspicions up the chain of command. Even though I know Andrew will keep my secrets, if Stephens is starting to make noise, my days as a police inspector are probably numbered.” Hank took a deep breath. “I love my job, I do, and I want to keep it, but my priorities have shifted this week. I decided this afternoon my main objective right now is to catch Brigham Knight and get him off the street. Once that is accomplished, who knows?”

“You would really sacrifice your career to catch this man?”

“If it means keeping you safe, yes.”

Nicky tilted his head. “Do you mean ‘you' as in the citizens of New York or ‘you' as in the boys who work on the Bowery or ‘you' as in me specifically?”

Staying on his current course was a risk. The smart thing for Hank to do would be to drop the case. But would that only postpone the inevitable if Stephens was already meddling? And what was the real answer to Nicky's question?

“All of those,” Hank said.

Nicky grimaced. “It may be foolish, what you are doing. Have you always acted this brashly?”

“Really just since meeting you.”

Hank wasn't sure if that was a problem.

The first stop on their Roosevelt-esque walkabout of Greenwich Village was the Pit, a saloon with something of a reputation for being the place the inverted men of New York descended into hell. It wasn't as bad as its reputation, which Hank knew firsthand, unless it had changed in the two years or so since he'd had to modify his habits for the sake of his job. Being here now was still a risk, though; even if everyone inside was sipping milk and knitting shawls, rumor about this place would be enough to get Hank fired for being there.

Why was he sabotaging himself in this way?

“Perhaps I should give some thought to moving on from the police force when all this is over,” Hank said.

“Is that what you want?” asked Nicky.

“What I want is to be with you.”

Nicky blushed and ducked his head. “I appreciate your hell-bent romanticism, dearest, but think about what you are saying. Carrying on like this could be a terrible idea. I want to be with you, too, but not if it means giving up your life.”

They descended the stairs to the Pit's main room. Hank paused after he stepped away from the foot of the stairs. “Make a promise to me,” he said.

“What?” asked Nicky.

“We worry about it all tomorrow. Tonight is for us. We will enjoy each other's company. We'll have a few drinks and maybe we'll dance and we'll cavort around the dark places of this city as if we were young again. Yes? The rest can wait until morning. My job, yours, the police, the city, the heat, all of it can be dealt with tomorrow. Tonight we put it all aside. All right?”

Nicky tilted his head and considered. “All right. I can make that promise.”

“Good.” Hank offered his arm. “Come with me. Let us explore what this particular road to Hell is like, yes? Have you ever been here before?”

“Once last year.” Nicky hooked his hand into the crook of Hank's elbow. “I was dressed as Paulina at the time.”

“A bold choice.”

“A Tuesday night.”

Hank guffawed. “Come. I'll buy you a drink.”

 

Nicky scanned the room. It didn't seem remarkable at first. It was dimly lit with a bar off to one side. A bartender poured drinks while a half-dozen men leaned on the bar. There were tables peppered about where groups of men were socializing or, more likely, making transactions.

Perhaps that was what made this not just any saloon. It was not the sort of place men came after a long day of work to have a few drinks before going home to their families. Nor was it the sort of place one went for a dinner party or celebration of any sort. No, it was the sort of place men went to meet similarly inclined men. Nicky therefore regarded each table with a certain amount of skepticism. How many of those flirtatious glances or soft laughs or sweet touches were genuine and how many were feigned?

Because that was how
this
world worked. The men with money and power paid the men without for their love and affection.

And yet that was not the case with Hank, who even now kept a hand on Nicky at all times. The movement was warm and possessive. Hank wanted the men gathered here to know Nicky was his. Hank's protection was a powerful thing. No money had been exchanged between them. Instead, their relationship seemed built on genuine attraction and affection.

But how long could that last?

“Would you like something to drink?” Hank asked.

“I would like a gin fizz.”

Hank's look of skepticism was so exaggerated, it made Nicky laugh.

“You want a what now?” Hank asked.

“The bartender will know. It's basically gin and fizzy water with a splash of lemon juice. I can't handle ale, you see. It's too bitter.”

Hank furrowed his brow. “All right. Wait here. I will return shortly.”

Nicky took a step back to lean on the wall behind him. It was an excellent vantage point. He felt invisible, like he blended into the shadows, which allowed him a view of some of the men in the room.

Few were expensively dressed. The men seated at the table nearest him—there were three—seemed young but weren't working boys. They were, perhaps, men out on the town for the night, friends from nearby New York University. Perhaps they had wealthy parents and this was their one bit of rebellion before they found women to marry and made proper families for themselves.

Within Nicky's earshot, two men were engaged in a clear transaction; one man, who looked barely out of short pants, caressed the chest of a much older gentleman who leaned toward him. Perhaps this was a man stepping out on his wife or one of the older inverts who sometimes frequented Paresis or Bulgaria looking to recapture his youth with a young man in his bed.

By the time Hank returned with two glasses, Nicky had made up stories about four or five of the clusters of people around the room.

“See anything interesting?” Hank asked.

Nicky took the proffered glass and took a long sip before he said, “Nothing too out of the ordinary, darling. Though it has brought to mind . . . were you ever one of the youths who got lost in places like this?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps you left home and attended college or the police academy and your fit of rebellion involved getting lost in a haze of sex and liquor at the Slide or some other even more disreputable place.”

Hank shot him a cocky half-smile. “I won't deny it.”

Nicky laughed. “Oh, you delight me, darling. You have a look about you like you just walked off the site of some monolithic new building under construction, as if you lift great metal beams or some such for a living. If I saw you on the street, I would assume you had a wife and children at home on whom you doted. And yet.”

“I continued to be a great disappointment to my mother until her death because I did not marry Amelia.”

“I imagine so. I quite like Amelia. I do believe she got the better end of the bargain, though, and not just because her husband has more money than the Queen.”

“Perhaps.”

“Which is not to say you would not make a good husband, just given what I know about your sexual predilections, I imagine you would not make a good husband to a woman.”

“Is there any other kind of husband?”

Nicky smiled. “There were these two old men who used to come to Bulgaria to hear me sing. John and James. War vets, the both of them. Quite a romantic story, actually. Met in the army. James was wounded at Gettysburg. When John realized James hadn't returned from the battle, he realized he loved his fallen friend and went back to look for him. James survived his injuries. Bullet to the hip. Spent weeks in the hospital, endured several surgeries. You could tell when you spoke to him he ached from his wound still. But the two of them loved each other deeply. They lived together in an apartment uptown. Like husbands, they said.” Nicky sighed, sounding perhaps a little dreamy, as he'd always liked that story. “So you could be that sort of husband.”

“I suppose.”

Nicky laughed softly. “The romantic and the practical man in you are often at war with each other, aren't they? Do you think you could be that kind of soft-hearted fool for another man?”

Hank shrugged. “I could be. That is, it was a sweet story. But do you really see me as the sort who would settle down in such a way?”

“You already have a house. You could move a man in there with you, call him a boarder, live together for the rest of your lives.”

Hank guffawed. “I am surprised to find you of all people so idealistic.” He shook his head. “I have given some thought to what life could be like, but let's face it, as soon as it became clear to someone at Police Headquarters who lived in my house, my job would be at an end.”

“And yet you risk your career by getting caught here with me.”

Nicky couldn't quite understand what was going through Hank's head now that they were here in the Pit. He watched Hank sip from his ale and stare out at the crowd. There might have been an ulterior motive here, or Hank had given up trying to maintain his discretion.

“Darling,” Nicky said, “
are
you indeed sabotaging your career?”

“What about you?” Hank asked, turning his head quickly and staring at Nicky. “Would you take up with another man in a house and live domestically? Give up Paulina and stop performing at Bulgaria? Find a more respectable means of employment?”

“What do you mean by respectable?” Nicky bristled. He knew full well what Hank meant but resented the word. Perhaps Nicky's chosen profession was not respectable in the eyes of most of the citizens of New York, but Hank, at least, had seemed to have some respect for it.

“Apologies. I merely meant I wondered if you might find some other means of paying your rent. Perhaps you could find work at a restaurant or a shop. Hang up your gowns and start a new phase of your life. Move in with a man and live as husbands, as you put it. Have the little romance you seem to desire.”

Nicky was offended by the whole idea that he would—or that he should have to—quit being this part of himself. He paused to give the question due thought, however. His first instinct was to blurt out that he could not give up Paulina, which was true. He loved those gowns, he loved to sing, he loved
being
Paulina, even if it was in a seedy resort for fairies. Bulgaria itself he could have done without, and Julie was an abrasive and oppressive employer, but working there gave him the opportunity to embody this part of his personality in a real way a few nights a week, and he'd always be grateful to Julie for giving him that opportunity.

“I couldn't give up Paulina, no,” Nicky said, “but I could take her elsewhere. I wouldn't necessarily be confined to Bulgaria.”

Hank tilted his head and sipped his ale for a long moment, so Nicky did the same, letting the burn of the alcohol tingle his throat.

“You want the romance, in other words,” Hank said.

“Eh, perhaps. If someone like me
could
have a romance, I'd want it. I realize no decent woman would ever have me, nor do I want to get married, but I could live with a man in some sort of companionate relationship. Spend our mornings in bed together, go out at night together, make sure we each have someone in our lives to take care of us and care for us.” Nicky paused and made a risky choice. “Kind of like we have been doing for the last week.”