Brooklyn on Fire (12 page)

M
ARY HAD SPENT
the past few weeks unsuccessfully trying to answer one question: where was John Worsham’s body? Then, in one night, her list of the unanswered had grown exponentially. She had now added: who killed Abigail Corday, why did she impersonate Emily Worsham, and why had she wanted John Worsham’s death investigated? No matter what name she used, were Abigail and John even related? Had someone hired her to act a part, and if so, who? With the current unexpected turn of events, she was confident more dilemmas would arise before she found solutions to any of these.

Mary needed information. With that pursuit in mind and in spite of Huntington’s threat the night before, she wrote a letter to Leland Stanford. It was public knowledge that there was no love lost between Huntington and Stanford even though they had been business partners for decades. Huntington had recently forced him out of the presidency of their railroad, and conversely, Stanford had double-crossed Huntington in 1885 when he had promised to support Aaron Sargent, Huntington’s candidate for the US Senate. Instead, Stanford had decided to throw his hat into the ring and had won. Considering his vast knowledge of Huntington and also their animosity toward each other, Mary thought that if Stanford had some information about the Huntingtons and Worsham, he might be willing to disclose it. But presently it was a moot point, because Stanford had yet to write her back.

Mary hadn’t slept well. Her reaction to her poor circumstances when she had returned home the night before didn’t disappear when she climbed into bed. The noise of her neighbors and the street below had kept her up for the first time in a long while. Smells that had never bothered her before—the ones emanating from the other apartments, the musty hallway, the garbage outside—were somehow magnified and made her restless. She was embarrassed that she had responded that way, but she did nevertheless.

Mary decided to return to the scene of the crime in broad daylight to see if she could find any clues that might give her answers or at least lead her toward them. George needed to assess a work of art he was considering purchasing, so Mary was on her own. She was impatient, uncomfortable, and annoyed with public transportation that day. She chided herself for it, but there was no denying that she was. She hated the thought of seeming pampered, and it made her cranky. Then the dark humor of it hit her. How pathetic her existence must have been that a few weeks of carriage rides and nice dinners made her feel spoiled! She began to laugh.

When she arrived at the Thalia Theatre, firemen were doing a last inspection of the scene as workers hired by the German owners to cart the debris away waited for them to finish. Mary already knew it would be too much of a coincidence for the fire to have accidentally started immediately after Abigail Corday stumbled onto the stage and died. She reasoned the two events must be connected in some way. She found the firemen to be very cooperative and forthcoming. Apparently, the police had scoured the theater in the early morning hours after the fire was extinguished, and Mary was right. It was arson, the fire having been started in Abigail Corday’s dressing room. She conjectured that, most likely, the dressing room was also where the stabbing took place, and since the police had already been there, she felt she wouldn’t be interfering in their investigation if she went to examine it, or rather what was left of it.

As she had expected, there wasn’t much. Most of the room was charred. The heat from the fire had even melted the mirror on the wall. After searching for a while, she had just come to the conclusion that continuing was fruitless when she spotted something through a hole in what had once been the seat of a club chair. It was a partially melted metal buckle with a small piece of burned material attached to it. The material had obviously been much longer and thicker before the fire, and Mary thought it might have been leather. It didn’t look like part of any woman’s clothing, or at least any of which she was aware. It could have been a male shoe buckle, but it didn’t look decorative enough. She wasn’t sure if it meant anything, but in case it did, she placed it in her pocketbook.

S
HORTY WAS ANNOYED.
As he sat in the store, he reviewed what had happened. He hadn’t wanted to use a blade. That wasn’t his style. He preferred strangling, especially with women. It wasn’t as messy, and it was more enjoyable. But that actress was wild. She had fought with more strength than many of his male assignments. He had scratches on his face and arms to prove it.
The crazy bitch,
he thought as he touched his bandaged right hand.

She had screamed out, “You can’t stop fate! I am the future of the American theater!” That’s when he had put his hand over her mouth and she had bitten a chunk out of it. Right then and there he’d decided to stop fooling around. Two quick thrusts with his knife, and she was on the floor, quiet as can be. It was then that he started the fire and quickly made his exit, thankful that the stage door was close to her dressing room. He was sure no one had seen him.

He had to be honest with himself. He should’ve been better prepared. Shorty knew the assignment was a woman, so he had taken it for granted that she’d be weak. As a result, he had increased his risk of being caught, had suffered wounds, and more importantly, he hadn’t enjoyed himself. He vowed never to underestimate an assignment again. At that point in his thinking, the same ten-year-old boy who had delivered his payoff in the bar several weeks back entered the store, holding an envelope.

“Here, mister, this is for you.” The boy handed Shorty the envelope. He took a quick peek at the cash inside and smiled. He liked being paid on time.

“Hey, kid,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“They call me Killer.”

“Really, huh? You’re that tough?”

Embarrassed, the boy shuffled his feet and then admitted, “Nah, wish I was. Everyone calls me Peewee.”

“Hey, nothin’ to be ashamed of, lad. Work hard and no reason why ya can’t grow up to be a killer.”

The boy shrugged, heartened by Shorty’s advice. Shorty pulled a letter out of his pocket that had been there for a while. When he had been hired for this past assignment, he had cursed himself afterward for not having a note ready for his mysterious employer. He knew he could take care of Sean Handley on his own, but he needed to know exactly what his client wanted him to do. He definitely didn’t want to upset someone who paid him so well.

“Kid, do me a favor and give this note to whoever gave ya the envelope and tell ’em to pass it up until it gets to the person this money comes from. Okay?” The boy nodded, and Shorty peeled off one of the bills in the stack he’d just gotten. “This is for yer trouble.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Sure, mister!” He grabbed the bill and ran out. Shorty was fully aware that the kid could just take off with the money, but he didn’t think it was likely. He was from the neighborhood, and he was sure the boy would be afraid he might run into Shorty again.

The owner of the store made his way to Shorty, indicating the now-absent kid. “Was that little rat botherin’ you?” he said in a thick Italian accent.

“Nah, he was fine.”

“Good ta hear. Today you don’t know what you gonna run into.” He showed Shorty the front page of the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
. “You see this?”

In big, thick letters, the headline read,
ACTRESS DIES ONSTAGE
. Below it was an artist’s drawing of Abigail Corday lying on the stage floor, surrounded by the set of
A Doll’s House
.

“Can you believe that? On opening night,” the owner continued. “The world is a crazy place, no?”

Shorty wasn’t listening. He was trying to figure out how she had gotten to the stage. He had poked her twice and set a fire. She must have somehow picked herself up after he left.
That was one determined bitch,
he thought. But he needed to find out more, and Shorty didn’t read that well. He handed the newspaper back to the owner.

“Do they say if they found the guy who did it or they know who he is?”

“They know nothin’. They don’t even know if it’s a man or woman. Stupid police!”

Shorty breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, stupid police.”

“Anyhow,” the owner said, “I got somethin’ I think’ll work.”

The owner held up a new buckle attached to a leather strap. He had been a master cobbler in Italy and had continued practicing his trade in the United States. A leg brace was a little out of his area of expertise, but not by that much. He put it up to Shorty’s leg brace, where he was missing a strap.

“Will be simple to attach.
Perfetto,
no?”

“Yeah,
perfetto,
” Shorty answered, and he smiled.

G
EORGE AND HIS
brother Cornelius were leaving an art auction. Cornelius was not happy with him.

“You’re insane, George!”

“Thank you, dear brother, and a very happy day to you, too.”

“The man’s been discredited by every major art critic around the world.” Cornelius was referring to a Paul Cézanne still life George had just purchased. He felt that George had severely overpaid for it.

“Maybe, but what about the minor critics?”

“That’s not funny!”

“My brother doesn’t find humor in something. I’m shocked, simply apoplectic.”

“You’re being irresponsible. Father’s left you a nice sum of money, and paying a ridiculous amount for a piece of…whatever from a no-name and never-will-be-a-name painter is—”

“It wasn’t that much, and besides, it pleases my eye. Can’t I just enjoy something? Must everything be an investment?”

Cornelius took a breath, trying to calm himself. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Excellent idea. I always knew my brother was a wise and intelligent man.”

Cornelius looked at George, about to respond with a retort in kind, when their eyes met. Then, in true brotherly fashion, they both burst out laughing.

“George, you are a severe pain in the ol’ derrière.”

“Well, at least it’s in a fleshy part of the anatomy.”