Read Somebody Wonderful Online
Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody Wonderful (15 page)
He grimaced. “Why else would I agree to strip off me clothes?”
“Oh, poor Mick. Let’s hurry, shall we?”
The sunlight was strong and she found a special flood lamp in the studio. No need to use the dangerous flash powder.
She directed him to the back of the stage, not too close to the ornate sofa. “If you wouldn’t mind standing up for this one. Find a position you can hold for at least two minutes.”
Grumbling under his breath, he dropped his shirt, and then leaned his forearms against the wall and rested his head on them.
She took a step back. “I’d like to try a couple of exposures of you lying down. But I don’t think we’ll use the sofa, it will detract from what . . .” Her words died in her throat. She had seen him naked, but not from any distance or outside the dim light of his flat. The solid muscles of his shoulders, the tapering waist dipping into the rough trousers, oh, she had forgotten the sheer magnificence of the man.
She also forgot to walk to the camera.
In the silence he twisted around and looked at her. “Not good?”
“No. Very good.”
Mick squinted. “Your face is pink. You feeling well?” A second later, the squint melted into a grin. “Could the lady be embarrassed?”
She shook her head. “Turn around.”
“Timmy. I told you. Not the front.”
“Just for me.”
The grin grew wider and wicked. “Oho. That’s the way of it, then?” He pushed away from the wall and put his hands on his hips. Unashamed, swaggering, he held even more power.
She swallowed.
“C’mere,” he murmured. “Did I mention there’d be a fee for my service as a model?”
They ended up using the sofa after all.
Later on, Timona took what was to become one of her favorite photos. The picture of Mick’s back seen twisting from the side, rising from the bottom of the picture, like a powerful force of nature was unusual and rather nice. She knew many would consider it the best of the lot. Yet the one she loved most was a portrait of his face staring at the camera, his mouth and eyes set in serious lines but brimming with kindness.
Mick returned to work the next day. Soon after roll call, the captain summoned him to a cramped little office.
“Officer McCann,” Captain Johnson boomed.
Mick didn’t like the captain, who put his nose into everyone’s business, and was always on the prowl for more influence and “sugar.” Johnson knew a few Tammany Hall bosses, and considered himself a
boc mór
bromaire
. A gasbag.
boc mór
bromaire
. A gasbag.
The captain stood up and leaned across the desk at Mick, who wondered if he should worry, until he saw Johnson had his hand out for a shake. “I must congratulate you, officer. Someone in Tammany likes you. Very much.”
Uh oh. Yes, indeed, Mick should worry.
Johnson went on, “You have skipped over the usual promotion list, McCann. You’ve saved yourself thousands of dollars. Just to be promoted to roundsman is nearly a thousand, you know. Your new assignment starts tomorrow. But I assume you know all about that.”
“No. I do not have a clue what you’re talking about, sir.”
Johnson winked, clearly certain Mick played coy. “No, of course not. But I did a bit of digging for you, and I’ve heard your new job should bring in more than triple what you make now, man. And some nice benefits too, no doubt about that. Pays to cultivate friends in high places, McCann. You’ve shown some enterprise. I’m glad to count you as a pal. And I hope you won’t forget your old friends here in the station?”
Mick’s stomach lurched into the sinking sensation he was starting to associate with Griffin Calverson. What had the devil of a man done now? A busy man, that Griffin.
“And what if I don’t want this new job, whatever it is?”
“You’re an idiot, man. Of course you do. Damnation, how else are you going to keep that fancy woman I hear you’re going about with?” He leered. “News travels fast round here.”
Damn Doherty.
“I don’t keep a fancy woman, sir.”
The godawful wink again, accompanied by a leer. “Well, then maybe she is keeping you, eh? You are one smart worker then, and not just on the job, eh, McCann? Now you’re getting paid for it.”
Mick had heard enough. He’d had enough, too, come to think of it.
Time to leave.
He unstrapped his nightstick and tossed the stick and belt with a loud clunk onto the cluttered desk. He yanked off the eight-sided brass star, and threw it down too. Then the helmet. He considered plastering Johnson one, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.
He walked out of the office and slammed the door behind himself hard enough to cause the glass to shake and the busy room to grow suddenly silent. The men looked up at him.
He strode from the room, and then the station, without meeting any of his former comrades’ eyes. They’d have to rouse one of the lads in the barracks to do his shift, but they’d manage.
He hadn’t much liked being a copper, anyway.
It was not only the corruption. The job consisted of too much bashing and not enough healing. It was a dead cinch you’d turn into a domineering tyrant when you wore the uniform.
A cop depended on that stick, the stick became an extension of his hand. He sometimes hit—he had to—without thinking where the blows might land. Sure, it could be a matter of life and death when he patrolled the streets alone. But brutality became too damn matter-of-fact. Too bloody easy.
Griffin had unwittingly done Mick a favor. This provided the excuse he had been waiting for.
He’d finally use all of the money from the drawer, a considerable sum by now, he guessed. Half of it he’d send home, along with a warning to expect a dry spell. The other half, he’d use to buy a ticket to get away from New York and to liff until he found a job. Maybe find a farm that needed a hired hand.
He missed the sea.
Some crops didn’t flourish near salt water, but he’d make the trade off. Besides, he’d like to be around more beasts of the non-human variety again.
Timmy seemed to like animals, too.
A block from the station house, the thought of her stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk. He paused for a moment to catch his breath.
Timmy. No.
The
Timona Calverson.
The
Timona Calverson.
Well. She had been the highlight of his life. The best thing that he had ever encountered or was ever likely to encounter. Hard as it was to imagine her as a policeman’s wife, she was definitely not a hired farm hand’s woman.
And he was not interested in being a lover, at least, not as a way to make his way in the world.
He smiled to himself as he thought about her and her pictures of him. They were fine, but best of all were her photos of buildings. She had shown him some of the pictures she created using her hulking big camera. Long streets of tall buildings stretching away. Magnificent views of the cement city.
Weren’t a great number of tall buildings on a farm.
Timmy could make space seem huge and powerful on the small page. The woman could see places and things in a way he’d never imagined before. His smile grew broader, as he realized how, when he looked out at the world now, he frequently could see it through her vision of beauty.
Clotheslines.
That was one of the many good gifts she’d given him and one he could keep forever even after he let her go. Some of her other gifts, sheer joy and laughter—he wasn’t sure he would be allowed to keep those when she went back to her real world.
Timmy was sitting on the stoop in front of the house, reading a Buffalo Bill adventure to a group of Tuckers, Eddy, and other children from the building. Sarey held the baby. There was no sign of Jenny. She still huddled up in the flat, hiding away even from her children.
Timmy put the book down on her lap and engaged in a passionate argument with Henry. “Yes, I am certain Buffalo Bill can read, Henry. Cowboys learn to read. African guides do, too. You will just have to buckle down, and that’s that, Henry Tucker.”
Then she noticed Mick.
“Mick,” she said and stared at him curiously. “You look different. Oh, I think I see.”
He nodded. “I’m out of a job.”
She stood up, her finger wedged in the book to mark the spot she’d stopped reading. “Why?”
“They wanted me to do something I didn’t want to do. Wasn’t corrupt, mind you.”
Or, as he didn’t add, it was as corrupt a business as usual. He certainly wouldn’t tell her about his suspicions of the pestilential Griffin’s influence. He added, “ ’Twas just not to my liking.”
Her face brightened. “Splendid! Now we can go, too.”
“And where is it we are going?” he asked suspiciously.
“To Uncle Dave’s, of course.”
Of course. That very first morning, Timmy had announced she was going to help. The woman was as unrelenting as her brother. But Mick wouldn’t complain. He could be with ’What the hell else was he going to do with himself?
A great cry went up down the street at the corner. It was the holler of city children spotting a hearse, an ambulance, an ice wagon, or any form of free entertainment. This entertainment proved to be a uniformed boy on a strange bicycle.
“Look, now, that’s one of those funny machines,” said Henry. “The wheel in the front is the same size as the one in the back. Nothing like an Ordinary.”
The boy rode down the street, the bicycle’s heavy tires bouncing over the cobblestones. Straight-backed and solemn, he was marvelously indifferent to the gang of ragged children racing behind him.
“Oh no,” groaned Timmy. “Another one.”
The boy stopped in front her and handed her a pad. “Sign here.”
She tucked the book under her arm.
Then she signed the pad, took the paper, and handed him a coin as a tip.
“See ya soon,” the Western Union messenger shouted over his shoulder as he pedaled away. Timmy, opening the paper in her hand didn’t bother to answer, though she waved after him absently.
“That’s the third in the last two days,” Henry piped up.
“Fourth,” Sarey corrected. “But they keep asking for Miss Cooper by a stupid name.”
“Third.”
“Fourth.”
“Thir—”
“Hush, you.” Mick watched Timmy’s face as she read. “Bad news?” He’d never seen anyone get a telegram, but knew they were generally only used for huge occasions, such as death.
“No, no. Just Mr. Blenheim again. He has gotten hold of this address, and understands it is not a, uh, superior neighborhood. He wishes to understand what I am about.” She sighed. “He is a helpful man, but a stickler for decorum. And now he hints that Papa is upset. I find that difficult to imagine, but I suppose I should ensure Papa is well.” She crumpled up the sheet of paper and thrust it into a pocket of her gown.
Timmy held out the Buffalo Bill book and said, “Sarey, let’s trade. I can take Quinton. You take a turn at reading. Show Henry what you can do.”
Timona gingerly took the baby. Mick was amused to see she still held Quinton like he was going to shatter in her hands at any second. He plucked the baby from her arms.
“He’s a puker, this one. He’s likely to give it up any second,” Mick explained. “And ruin that pretty silky thing you’re wearing.”
He leaned against the wall absently patting the baby. “I know you told me he’s your father’s keeper. But who is Blenheim to you again? Some sort of boss of ye?”
“Really, he’s my father’s secretary. For me he is rather more of an instructor.” Timmy frowned as she considered the matter. “He is the nephew or grandson of a duke. Or is it an earl? I cannot recall. I hired him out of the London office. He had done some studies in antiquities, and when Papa’s last secretary left I thought the best thing was to find a man who might be able to talk about Papa’s digs. Mr. Blenheim has turned out to be good for me, as well.”
Mick forgot about losing his job. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this Blenheim. “Aye?”
“He knows about society manners and that sort of thing. He teaches me how to behave like a ‘good’ girl.” She grinned at him, her sly look that once gave him mortal fear, and now made him wish he were i a room alone with her. “You yourself have remarked on my deficits in that regard.”
“Timmy, you have no such faults,” he responded firmly. “Twas me who needed to learn.”
“Truly, I have great gaps in my education. I have had occasional bouts of governesses when we settled for a half a year here or there. But I preferred to be with Papa and he would not tolerate governesses—they wouldn’t tolerate our life.”
“I don’t believe it. What’s wrong with your life?” Mick summoned up the palatial hotel and the ball and felt his usual pang of desolation.
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