4

“I HOPE YOU’VE got a good excuse,” Tom said as he opened the front door for Mike. Brooklyn Heights were quiet in the evening. Tom had heard Mike’s shoes tapping out a double-time pace from half a block away. Tom closed the oak door behind them. He was half a head taller than Mike, broader across the shoulders, too. Though he was now sixty, he still sported a full head of hair, mostly gray except on top. His mustache was gray too, though his eyebrows were still a shade darker. Mike wasn’t fooled by the gray. There was no stoop to Tom’s shoulders, no paunch straining his belt. He still lifted weights twice a week at a German Turnhalle on the East Side and spent nearly an hour a day practicing the kung fu he’d learned from Master Kwan many years before. He’d taught Mike all he’d learned and they often sparred in the back courtyard or in the basement on rainy days. Though Mike was quicker and more agile, Tom was far more powerful. Despite his age, he could still take everything Mike could throw.

“Had to see that patrolman,” Mike said, taking off his jacket. “The doctors say he might not walk. They got him in a cast like an Egyptian mummy or something. Poor bastard never really knew what hit him.”

“Pretty good story. I’d stick with it if I was you, but only after I wiped the lipstick off my neck,” Tom said with a frown that had a tinge of mirth in it.

Mike gave a quick swipe. “I get it?” he asked, his color rising a little.

“More to the left,” Tom said. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Mike shrugged and gave his father a guilty grin.

“Glad to see that the other night’s activities haven’t gotten you down,” Tom said. “A good thing taking a couple o’ days off. That kind of action can get a man’s head all in knots.”

Mike didn’t really want to get into that with Tom, didn’t want to admit that he was anything less than stoic and as strong as he imagined Tom would be. “I guess so,” he admitted. “I want to follow up on that lead though and the longer I have to wait, the colder it’s likely to get.”

Tom was about to reply when Mary called from the back of the house. “You two going to come in or do I have to set up a table in the foyer?”

“Keep your stockings on, Ma! We’re coming,” Tom called back. Mike had noticed that Tom had started calling Mary Ma from time to time lately. It was cute, he thought. Still he had a hard time matching it to his vision of his parents.

They walked down the wide center hall with its white marble floor and mahogany staircase. They passed the parlor on the left, the library with its pocket doors on the right. The place was almost a mansion and much more than a captain’s pay alone could support. The carpets were thick, the wallpaper expensive, the furniture, draperies, lamps, and paintings spoke of money and the taste to spend it well. For the last year Mary had developed an infatuation for the new electric lamps made by Tiffany. There were three in the parlor, one in the library, and more in the bedrooms. They filled the house with splashes of color like little electric gardens.

Mary appeared through the swinging kitchen doors just as Tom and Mike entered the dining room. She shook her head at Mike as she put down a tureen of soup.

“Mike, I swear I can never decide whether to kick you or hug you. Where have you been?” Mike gave her the official story, which Mary seemed to accept.

“And how are you?” she asked, looking at him closely, noticing the dirt and dried blood on his jacket, but holding a scolding tongue. “You look tired,” was all she said.

Mike shrugged. “Haven’t slept all that well.”

“You keep thinking of all the things you should have done differently,” Tom broke in. “All the mistakes you think you made. Doesn’t matter if you did or not. You always think it could’ve gone better.”

“Yeah. And maybe it could have and maybe not.” Mary gave him a hug. “But the reports say it was a success and that’s what people will remember. You try and remember that too. Okay?”

Mike smiled at her, appreciative as always of her concern and common sense. It suddenly came to him that Ginny had told him almost the same thing.

Mary was still a beautiful woman. Like Tom she had aged well. Although the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth were deeper now, they took nothing away. In fact, they added a certain gravity to her face. She still had those high cheekbones, full lips, and long, black hair, though that was now streaked with gray. She wore it up in a chignon with a silk ribbon for good measure. She’d always been beautiful, but now Mike thought he’d have to add “dignified” to her description.

“So, what’s this lead you were talking about?” Tom asked.

Mike told him about Smilin’ Jack’s last word.

“Hmm. Bottle Alley’s the first thing comes to mind, of course,” Tom said. “But I guess it did to you, too.”

Mike nodded. “But that’s way out of the Hookers’ territory.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s the Five Pointers’ stomping ground. You’ve considered all the dance halls and bars with bottle in their name? There’s a few I can think of on the East Side. That’s where to start.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. Concentrate on the East Side. Try and poke around a bit, ask a few questions an’ see what I can flush out.”

“Take somebody to watch your back,” Tom said. It was good advice and something Mike hadn’t given a lot of thought to. He was considering that when Mary returned with a big platter of ham in a mist of brown sugar and cloves. Although they had a cook, Mary liked to set and serve. She sat and Tom took up a big knife with a stag handle and started to carve.

“How’s Becca?” Mike asked. He hadn’t seen his sister in weeks. Their schedules had them both working nights.

“She’s having the time of her life,” Mary said. “She’s up for a leading role for the fall season. She says this time she thinks she’ll get it.”

Rebecca had been acting and dancing for two years professionally and her efforts were starting to bring her some recognition. She’d played in the Bowery theaters early on as most everyone did, working as a chorus girl for about twenty dollars a week. But she’d moved up quickly to places like Pastor’s, where the crowd was a bit more refined and less inclined to throw things at performers they didn’t like.

“That David Belasco fellow is planning a new production,” Mary went on. “If Becca gets the role, she’ll actually be on Broadway.”

“I’ve been meaning to catch her show,” Mike said, “but it’s been tough to break away.” She’d been doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Academy of Arts, next door to Tammany Hall lately, playing two minor roles and about a dozen lines per show. Mike wasn’t much of a fan of the Bard. He didn’t like to admit that he didn’t understand most of it. The language never appealed to him, although he did like the murders. Shakespeare’s plays seemed to have plenty of them.

“Well, at least phone her,” Mary said. “She tells me you two haven’t talked in ages.” Mike was about to make excuses, but a glance from Tom shut him up.

“Guilty,” Mike said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll call.” He looked from Tom to Mary. Neither seemed convinced. “Really,” he said. “Promise.”

“Good,” Tom said with finality. “Let’s eat.” Mary passed the platter of ham, followed by sweet potatoes and corn. Mike and Tom dug in. “Got something to show you later,” Tom said around a mouthful of ham.

“Yeah? What is it? A new pistol?” Mike guessed. Tom had bought many over the years.

“Nope,” Tom said with a conspiratorial look at Mary, who let just a flicker of a smile play across her mouth before shrugging her shoulders. She wasn’t about to spill the secret, which made Mike all the more intrigued.

“Okay, youse got me goin’,” Mike said, letting a bit of the Bowery slip across his tongue. It was hard not to. Half the city spoke in “dese, dems’, and dose,” and it was the half that he had to deal with every day.

“Speaking of pistols,” Tom said, “How’d that new Colt work out?”

“Saved my skin. It’s damn fast! Gotta do more rapid-fire practice though. Recoil has it jumping all over. Can’t hold on target if you’re in a hurry.”

Tom nodded. “That’s what I heard about those automatic pistols. Takes some getting used to. We can go tomorrow if you want, shoot up some targets.”

“Sure,” Mike said, doing a quick mental calculation of the time he’d have to allow to meet Ginny and get to Pastor’s. Tom must have sensed Mike’s hesitation. “Got something goin’?”

“Just going to Pastor’s,” Mike said, knowing as soon as he said it that he shouldn’t have. He hadn’t intended to tell them about Ginny. He liked to keep that side of his life quiet. It was a lot easier that way. He knew that neither Tom nor Mary approved. They had no right to actively disapprove, considering how Mary had made her fortune all those years. Tom had been no saint either, so mostly they held their tongues when it came to Mike’s peccadilloes.

“Who are you taking?” Mary asked, knowing that Mike would never go to Pastor’s with any of his male friends.

“Just a girl. You wouldn’t know her.”

Tom and Mary exchanged looks. “It’s Ginny Caldwell, isn’t it?” Mary said. Mike’s mouth fell open, but he closed it quickly enough. He didn’t ask how they knew. It would only extend a discussion he didn’t want to have. They’d been over this ground before, had trodden it down until their arguments were packed beneath their feet, solid as bedrock.

“Yeah,” was all he said. If anybody was going to say more it wasn’t going to be him. Mary smiled, but sighed. “I know a little about her,” she said. “From Long Island, right?” He nodded.

“Listen,” Tom said. “Nobody knows the, ah … temptations of this city better than me. Being a bachelor in New York is like being a kid in a candy shop.” This drew a frown from Mary, but she couldn’t disagree. Hers had been one of the biggest candy shops in the city. “But to find the woman of your dreams that way, like I did,” he admitted with a warm smile to Mary. “Well, that’s a rare thing. Very rare.”

Mike knew Tom was right, but he’d never admit it. Still, when he spoke it was to say, “People find each other in all sorts of way, Dad. Who’s to say a factory girl is better, or a shop girl, or a chorus girl. They’re just girls. My way’s a lot less complicated. I know what I’m getting and what I’m not. This way I can know a girl better than I probably ever would before we got married. And what if then I didn’t like it, or she didn’t? Suppose we didn’t get along … in that way? You know I may be paying for companionship,” he almost used the word whoring but had always avoided the word in Mary’s company, “but when I do stick with one girl, that’ll be it.” He wondered if he could actually fulfill that pledge if it ever came to it.

Mary smiled, but her eyes still held a tinge of worry. “Good. I’m glad to hear you say that,” she said with a nod to Tom. “We just want the best for you.”

“Always have,” Tom added. He smiled at Mary. This was the first time Mike had expressed interest in a woman in years. Tom felt like he should propose a toast, break out some cigars or something. Instead he grinned into his soup bowl, watching Mike from the corner of his eye.

*   *   *

An hour passed. Dinner was done, dessert served. The three of them sat back while the cook cleared the remains of the meal. Tom poured some port for Mary and himself, but Mike begged off. “It’ll put me to sleep,” he said.

“Which reminds me,” Tom said, putting down his glass. “I’ve got that surprise. Ought to keep you from nodding off.”

Mike glanced at Mary for any clues, but she said nothing. A cryptic smile was all he got.

“Lead on, Captain!” Mike said, hauling himself to his feet. “I’m all on fire to see this, whatever it is. Ma sitting there like the sphinx. Lotta help she is.”

Mary put up her hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Exactly,” he groused.

Mike followed Tom out the front door. They took a left toward Montague Street. After going half a block Mike said, “Guess it’s not a new pistol.”

Tom smiled. “Nope. Not a new pistol.”

They continued past Montague, angling down the Heights toward the harbor. Another two blocks went by before Tom stopped in front of the large, double doors of a stable.

“Oh. You got that new trap you were talking about, didn’t you?”

Tom shrugged. “You’ll see.”

“New horse, too?” Mike said, sensing there was more. Tom said nothing. He went to the office door off to one side of the building and walked in. A stableman sat behind a well-worn desk, his feet propped on top and his chair leaning back at a precarious angle. He roused when he heard the door, but didn’t change position. “Evenin’, Mista Braddock,” the man said. “Come to show her off?” He seemed about to say more, but a warning look from Tom shut him up. “Oh, I get it. A surprise, huh?”

“Right, Nick. She back where I left her?” Tom asked.

“Sure thing, Mista Braddock. I don’ let nobody so much as breathe on that baby.”

Tom and Mike walked into the semidarkness of the stable. The pungent smells of leather, horseflesh, and manure enveloping them like a fog. There were only two lights in the place, big, bare bulbs hanging on long wires from the ceiling. They walked past carriages parked on the left and horse stalls on the right. There were rigs of all descriptions, tall, open shays, black barouches, gleaming with varnish, a buckboard or two, and finally a little red Oldsmobile. Tom stopped before it. He looked at Mike with a wolfish grin. “Like it?”

“Whoa! I can’t believe you got one. When’d you get it?” Mike said as he looked the car over.

“They delivered it yesterday. Man came out from the factory, all the way from Lansing, Michigan, to show me how to drive it, do the maintenance, that sort of thing. Nice fella.”

The Olds gleamed. It was bright red with yellow pinstriping. Oldsmobile was painted in gold script on the side. The tires were white and the wheels were wire, like a bicycle’s, only wider. The seat was high and good for two, three in a real pinch. In front there was a curved dashboard, much like a sleigh’s except a bit lower. For steering there was a curved brass tiller, gleaming in the electric light. “Motor’s under the seat,” Tom said. “Single cylinder, seven horsepower.”

“Seven horsepower! For this little car. Must go like the devil.”

“Factory says to break it in a bit,” Tom replied while climbing up onto the leather bench seat. “I haven’t driven it much yet, but they’re supposed to do a good thirty miles per hour once you get ’er up to speed.”

Ever since the year before when two men in an ’03 Marmon had driven across the country, Tom had dreamt about owning an automobile. He couldn’t justify spending more than $2,000 for one of the big Packards or Marmons, a sum only a wealthy man or a true spendthrift would consider. But when an Oldsmobile made the trip from San Francisco to New York just a few weeks after the Marmon, Tom figured that was the car for him. Much smaller than the Packards, Marmons, or Stanleys, the Oldsmobile was also only $650 dollars, expensive enough, but not extravagant. It was perfect for him and Mary, as stylish in its way as any coach-and-four and far more modern.

“How d’you start the thing?” Mike asked as he looked over the various levers. “Crank start, right?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “Over on the side. You give it a couple of good turns and it starts right up. Of course, the driver has to set the clutch and spark and activate the speeder. It’s a little complicated.” Tom showed Mike how the crank was inserted and the starting sequence. “Only takes about twenty seconds once you get the hang of it, leastwise that’s what the factory fella said. Takes me more like a minute or so.”

“Let’s give ’er a go! Whadya say?”

Tom shook his head with a wry twist of his mouth. “Can’t start her up in here. Scares the horses. I gotta have them push it out.”

“That’s okay. We can push it. What’s it weigh? Not much I’d guess.”

“’Bout seven hundred pounds,” Tom said. “But I think we should be getting back anyway. Ma’ll start to worry.”

“Nah,” Mike said, checking his watch. “We’ve only been gone a half hour.” He was dying to get behind the tiller.

“Really?” Tom kicked one of the tires. “Truth is, I’m a little leery of taking her out at night. Don’t feel sure enough at the tiller. Hell, I only drove the thing once yesterday. Give me a week to practice, really get the hang of it. Then we’ll go for a good long ride, out to Prospect Park or something, race the El up Second Avenue, have some fun.”

Mike hesitated. He’d wanted to go roaring off into the night. He looked at his father in the dim light of the overhead bulbs, suddenly noticing how the shadows made his eyes seem hollow, the creases in his face like a road map. His hair in that light looked thin and wispy and entirely gray. There had been a time when Tom wouldn’t have given it a second thought either, would have been like a boy with a new puppy. It was as if he’d aged years in the space of an evening.

Tom picked up on Mike’s look, but then gave him a wicked grin and the old Tom was back, the man who’d stood his ground at Gettysburg and the Wilderness, and still had a hard reputation on the force.

“I hear the ladies like a man in a sporty automobile,” he said.

Mike smiled. “That so?”

“That’s what I hear.” Tom put his arm around Mike’s shoulder. Mike could feel the strength in it as they turned to go. “Maybe I’ll give you some lessons, let you take that Ginny Caldwell out for a drive.”

Mike had a sudden image of Ginny, the salty breeze of Coney Island pulling bright strands of hair from under her bonnet, the glow of the summer sun on her skin.

“Don’t sound bad,” Mike said, trying not to sound like a kid on Christmas Eve.