Ten Days in August (20 page)

Hank let out a breath. “Well, you do bring up an interesting point. That is, I have an idea that may seem a little crazy, but I think it might make us both happy.”

“Well, then, I'm all ears, darling.”

 

A makeshift hospital had been set up in the basement of Madison Square Garden. Why cancel an event in which illness and injury seemed a foregone conclusion, Andrew thought, when a city needed the prestige and the income? Better to pretend you cared about public health and make a show of it than to actually act in the best interest of the people.

The auditorium had already reached a nearly unbearable temperature, without anyone inside yet.

Charlie stood at Andrew's side in borrowed clothes. Andrew had gotten him a job as a runner for the evening. That was, Charlie would run information to anyone who needed it, and the police department would pay him a flat fee for his trouble. Andrew and Charlie stood now to the left of the dais that had been erected at one end of the arena. They were both looking out at the permanent seats and rows of chairs on the floor. Four policemen were set up at the corners of the auditorium, each holding a white flag with a red cross on it. The object was to hold up the flag near the ailing audience member until help could arrive, although Andrew suspected there would be more than a few of those tonight. Four flags hardly seemed adequate.

Madison Square Garden was the largest such venue in the world, and it was a mere six years old, sitting in triumph aside Madison Square Park. The nude Diana statue atop its tower scandalously aimed her arrow into the skyline. Andrew hated the whole structure; he thought it too big, too ostentatious. But here he was, overseeing his own handiwork as one of the architects of this particular event, no matter how against his will his involvement had been.

“This will be a disaster,” Andrew said.

Charlie rubbed his back, and then seemed to realize himself and jolted and withdrew his hand. “Are you always such a pessimist?”

“Probably.”

“We're ready to open the doors!” bellowed Finnegan, who was part of the security detail for the night.

The sense of foreboding that had plagued Andrew all day hit him with the force of a punch to the face.

Two of the officers stationed at the auditorium doors pulled them open, and there was an immediate rush to get inside. The riot Andrew had anticipated would pop up outside the auditorium doors was happening right here before his eyes as people pushed each other aside to get the best seats.

The officers with flags were in motion at once. It took a while to get the crowds to calm down and take their seats. Andrew knew there were nearly three hundred officers on hand, and still their combined power couldn't keep people from pushing each other at walls and climbing over each other to seats. Andrew watched with horror as one woman fainted and had to be carried out by one of the officers with a flag.

Andrew wondered if the people had brought more heat in with them.

“This is intolerable,” whispered Charlie. “It's like the inside of a furnace in here.”

Andrew nodded. He looked away from the chaos and back toward Charlie. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine. Hot, but I'll survive.” Charlie paused. “Am I really going to see Mr. Bryan speak?”

“I believe so. Provided there is no other crisis that requires either of our attentions, you should be able to watch him speak from right here.”

“I've never been to an event like this.”

Charlie's excitement was a palpable thing. Andrew supposed it must have been a novel experience to be this close to someone as famous as William Jennings Bryan, even if they were all slowly baking inside the Garden. Andrew smiled at Charlie, trying to get caught up in his enthusiasm, before turning back to the audience.

The commotion had settled and now the audience sat murmuring. Most of the men had taken their coats off and a number of people in the audience had palm-frond fans they were waving frantically at their faces. The Garden was now a sea of moving fans and white shirtsleeves.

The band started up a few minutes later, but not even the blat of a horn could grab the attention of the chattering, fan-waving crowd. Members of the Democratic National Committee filed in and took their places on the dais, just as had been preordained, but the vice presidential nominee, Arthur Sewall, did not rouse much of an interest from the crowd. But up in the stands, far from what Andrew could see, someone shouted, “Three Cheers for Bryan!” The band struck up “My Girl's a Corker,” a song Andrew did not particularly like.

Charlie started giggling. “This is a lewd song choice for a political event.”

“Indeed.”

During the part of the song when the lyric was, “She's got a pair of hips, just like two battleships,” Mrs. Bryan appeared on the dais. That sent Charlie into peels of laughter. A wave of laughter and murmurs moved throughout the audience, which Mrs. Bryan seemed to take as enthusiasm. She grinned and waved at the crowd.

There was a little more fanfare, and finally Bryan arrived on stage. There was a gaffe involving one of the other runners trying to hand Bryan a little flag, which Bryan refused to take. Andrew had never seen the man in person, although he'd seen renderings in the papers. He was strikingly handsome, a bull of a man, better looking in person than he had been in the papers. Maybe that was part of his appeal to the American public. Bryan had been traveling across the country as part of his campaign tour, and he'd been greeting the American people all over, unlike his opponent McKinley, who had mostly been waging his campaign from his home in Ohio.

Bryan walked to the podium with a large sheaf of paper in his hands. He began to speak, and as he did so, he swayed a little and kept the papers close to his face. The first ten or so minutes of the speech lacked any kind of rhetorical flourish, which was a surprise because Andrew had been hearing for weeks Bryan was a gifted orator. And yet, Andrew had trouble paying attention to the speech. So did the audience, who slowly began to leave the auditorium.

The longer the speech went on, the more people left. They left in droves, the clatter of their shoes against the floor making so much noise it drowned out some of the speech. Charlie shot Andrew an alarmed look.

“What is happening?” Charlie whispered.

“I think they're all bored.”

Andrew escorted Charlie over to a pair of abandoned seats, and they sat, prepared to weather the storm, such as it was. Bryan went on for another hot, interminable hour. Andrew had trouble following the speech; he spoke for a bit in the middle about gold and silver but his themes were so anathema to the economics of the city Andrew thought that section only served to make Bryan look more out of touch. By the time Bryan finally sat, it looked to Andrew as if two-thirds of the auditorium had emptied.

And here Andrew had been anticipating a riot of heat stroke and spectators who couldn't hear or see.

Arthur Sewall then stood to give a short speech. He kept it brief, perhaps aware he'd lost all but the most faithful of Bryan supporters.

Andrew wondered if Bryan hadn't just lost a whole nation. All those days of planning, the terrible heat, the crowds, and . . . that was it? Andrew supposed he should have been glad the riot he'd been anticipating had never materialized, but he couldn't help but feel disappointed.

Charlie seemed utterly mystified by all of this, too. “I couldn't make sense of Bryan's speech,” he said quietly as they stood after the rally ended.

“Nor I. What a disappointment. I'd heard he's a wonderful speaker, but that was dull and . . . long.”

“Yes.”

A harried Finnegan approached and said in his lilting Irish accent, “The clean-up crew is about to take over. There's no need for you to stay here and continue to cook in your suit. Go home, Mr. Ritchley. You as well, Mr. Evans.” Finnegan paused. “You're sure you've never worked in the police department before, Mr. Evans?”

Charlie laughed softly. “I believe I would have remembered.”

“You were a great help to us tonight. If you want a more permanent job, I may have one for you. That is, if Ritchley doesn't hire you first.”

Charlie's eyes went wide. “I . . . yes. I would be interested.”

Finnegan nodded. “When the heat clears, if you still aren't permanently employed, please come by my precinct. Ask for me there. Ritchley can give you directions.”

Charlie nodded. “Thank you. Sincerely.”

Andrew and Charlie watched Finnegan walk away.

“How is it I have turned from breaking the law to helping enforce it in just a few days?” Charlie asked.

“It has been a strange week,” said Andrew. He turned to Charlie. “Let's adjourn.”

Charlie nodded, still looking a little dazed. “Yes, please. I thought you'd never ask.”

 

Nicky took another sip of his drink while he waited for Hank to speak. Then a movement on the other side of the room caught his eye. He wasn't sure what had brought the man walking along the opposite wall to his attention, if it was just the brief movement of his arms or his shoulders, a familiar gesture that pulled at something in Nicky's memory, but suddenly the dip of those shoulders arrested him and could not look away. It took him a long moment to determine why. Then it hit him all at once.

Brigham Knight.

He gasped.

Hank apparently was not paying attention and, as he faced Nicky, he would not have seen the movement behind him. Instead, he said, “I have been giving some thought to our respective situations, and I can't help but think perhaps there is something to this idea we could be together, that is, you could—”

“Hank,” said Nicky.

“No, let me finish. I want to say this—”

“Hank, not now. This is not the place to have the conversation.” In his head, Nicky was practically screaming. He knew he was the sort who could attract attention, but he didn't want to attract Knight's. He knew all about how his blond hair reflected the light—something he'd discovered after playing around with the stage lights at Bulgaria while wearing a series of blond wigs—and he knew the scarf at his throat was bright enough to penetrate even the dim light, and he knew he tended to gesticulate wildly when he talked, which would catch the eye of a passerby the same way the sudden flurry of a flock of pigeons on the sidewalk could call to anyone who happened to be walking by. Maybe Knight wouldn't recognize Nicky, but he would definitely recognize Hank.

Hank's face fell. “Oh. Well, I suppose it does not matter. It was a foolish idea.”

Oh, god. Hank was about to say or do something romantic and Nicky had crushed it, hadn't he? Nicky brought his hands to Hank's cheeks and cupped his face. “Oh, no, my love, no. That is not at all the issue. I want to hear every word of what you have to say. It's just that Brigham Knight is on the other side of the room, and frankly that is my greater concern right at this moment.”

Hank's eyes went wide. “He's here?”

“Yes, I believe so. Behind you.”

Hank let out a burst of swear words.

Nicky's horror at having spotted Knight had delayed the realization that Knight seeing Hank here could create a whole new batch of trouble.

“Should we leave?” Nicky asked. That seemed the best solution. They'd need to abandon the drinks Hank had probably paid a premium for, but they were also much closer to the doorway out than Knight was. All they had to do was go back up the stairs and then quickly move to another block. Knight would never even know they were there.

But Hank hesitated. He seemed to have frozen in place.

“What are you waiting for?” Nicky asked.

“We could catch him in the act.”

“Hank.”

Hank seemed to be more in tune with what was happening on the other side of the room than with Nicky, suddenly.

“Where is he?” Hank asked.

“Almost directly behind you.”

Nicky, scandalously, was not wearing a hat, but Hank was. Nicky pulled the brim of the old dusty bowler over Hank's eyes and then hooked his hand around Hank's neck. He moved in as if he were going to kiss Hank, but instead turned slightly so Hank could see the back of the room by moving his head. Nicky watched Hank's gaze follow the man across the room.

“It's definitely Knight,” Hank whispered.

“I know.” Nicky didn't want to lose sight of the objective here, but being this close to Hank was distracting. Even as sweaty as he was, Hank smelled good, salty and musky, a bit like sex. The stubble on his chin and the hair at the edge of his mustache brushed against Nicky's bare cheeks.

“I should follow him,” Hank whispered.

“He'll see you.”

Hank put his hand on the small of Nicky's back. They swayed slightly in a strange approximation of dancing. “When will I have an opportunity like this again?” Hank clutched at Nicky pulling him close. “I could catch him in the act. Suppose he is here tonight to find another victim. If I catch him before he kills again, I could be saving that young man and any others who come after.”

“Or you could make it clear who you are and why you're here and he marches into Police Headquarters tomorrow morning and tells everyone. Then you are no longer a police inspector and can do nothing to save any of Knight's intended victims.” Nicky leaned close again and pressed his hand more firmly against Hank's neck. He hoped he portrayed the illusion they were having a quiet, intimate moment. “You said yourself, your partner is no longer interested in helping you solve these crimes. Certainly no other member of the police department has the time to bother with saving the so-called morally corrupt men of Greenwich Village. You're our great hope, Hank. Don't throw it away by getting caught.”