When Stanley got home, Seamus was sitting on the couch, a glass of deep, amber colored whiskey on the coffee table in front of him and cigarette smoke floating around his head in a bluish haze.
“Hey, boyo, where ya been?”
“Had to go for a walk. Clear my head. A bit too full,” Stanley said as he sat down in the chair next to the couch.
“Sure, ya needed it. I’d offer you one of these, but you’re too young.”
Stanley nodded. “I’d be tempted.”
They sat in silence for a while, and Seamus reached for a paper bag beside the couch.
“I didn’t know if you would still want these. But you worked hard for them. I’m guessing Vinnie wouldn’t want you to throw them away.”
His uncle reached into the bag and pulled out the Post-Dispatch shoes. Stanley stared at them, not sure if he wanted to touch them or burn them.
“Vinnie’s family gave them to me. Wanted you to have them back. The funeral mass is in two days, boyo. They want you to serve, if you’d be willin’ and able.”
Stanley tried to prevent his hands from shaking. “I don’t know if I can, Seamus. I don’t even think I could stand the funeral.”
Seamus nodded, set the shoes down on the floor, got up, and went into the kitchen. When he returned, he had another whiskey glass and the bottle. He set the glass on the coffee table, poured some more for himself, and then poured one for Stanley.
“Ya know, when my pa died, your da and I had to plan the funeral. I was a mess and drunk, per usual, I guess. But William stepped up, planned the wake, a good Irish one to be sure, and helped Father with the mass. He was the strong one, Stanley, your da. And a good man. My hero.”
Stanley looked up at his uncle and understood. “Seamus, you’ve raised me and done the best you could. I’m not a street thug or anything.”
His uncle smiled and sat back down on the couch with a grunt. “To be sure, I thought you’d go that way when you were younger. That temper of yours. Only thing I can fault you for is your skirt chasing. But the Lass of Lindell is gonna put an end to that, I’m guessing.”
Stanley nodded but didn’t say anything. He didn’t bother correcting Seamus. He’d resolved to stop all the trouble with girls even before he met Hazel and didn’t know where he stood with Hazel anyway. The last exchange with her was complicated. He couldn’t figure out what to do with her. One thing at a time.
“Did ya take the stick to Father?” Seamus asked.
“I was gonna go upstairs to get it. Any leads on the Rookery?”
Seamus shook his head. “Nah, and I can’t ask, at least not directly. Not my case anymore. But I’m tryin’ to see what I can find out.”
Stanley glanced down at where Seamus had put the shoes Vinnie had died in. “Someone has to answer for that.” He stood up, and Seamus reached up to touch his arm.
“Before you go, lad, let’s toast Vinnie on his journey.” He slid the glass of whiskey across the table to Stanley, and they both held up their glasses.
Seamus stood, closed his eyes, and raised his glass.
“Vinnie is not lost, our dearest love.
Nor has he traveled far.
Just stepped inside home’s loveliest room,
and left the door ajar.
May Vinnie see the face of Our Lord, Our Lady, and all the blessed saints,” he recited, his voice husky with emotion.
Stanley and his uncle clinked glasses and drank. Seamus downed his in one gulp, grimaced, and put down the glass. Stanley took a sip and coughed and sputtered. The liquid burned his throat, and the fumes filled his nose. “Ugh. No.” He opened his mouth to let the hot tingle on the roof of his mouth cool down.
His uncle laughed. “‘Tis good you can’t handle your liquor. May it never handle you.”
Stanley made a face. “Well, I’ll offer up that moment of pain for Vinnie’s sake.”
Seamus nodded and sat back down, lighting up another cigarette. “The VP ball is in a few days, ya know that, yeah?”
“Yeah, of course. How could I forget? I have to break out the peashooter for the parade.”
“Ha, to be sure. Wouldn’t mind being there myself. But I’m on duty. And for the ball. The chief wants me there.”
Frowning, Stanley said, “Why would he want that? You’re a detective, not a street cop.”
“Dunno. But I’m doing it to keep him happy. I seem to be in himself’s good graces lately, and that’s good for …” Seamus paused.
“Good for what?” Stanley said.
“Never you mind, boyo,” Seamus said, waving the cigarette. “Just go get that cursed branch like the good padre told ya. There’s a good lad.”
Stanley knew there were things that Seamus wouldn’t tell him. Something was fishy about the cops in town. He went upstairs and grabbed the black stick from the top of his dresser. The feel of the wood made his skin crawl, and he decided to wrap it up in one of his old scarves.
When he got back downstairs, he heard Seamus’s voice from the back porch. From the sound of it, his uncle was chatting up the widow O’Malley who lived across the alley. Stanley could never be sure, but he guessed they had a thing for each other. He never pried about his uncle’s personal life. It seemed the tough cop never had much time for women. Stanley wasn’t sure how Seamus could live lonely all these years. But with so much unknown in Stanley’s own life, it was a mystery that could move to the bottom of the list.
He walked back to St. James and found Father Timothy still in his study.
“Ah, Stanley, excellent timing. I just finished meeting with the ladies who plant flowers around the church; a fearsome bunch.” The priest grinned.
Stanley gave a light chuckle and then held up his bundle.
“I have it, Father. This is the stick.”
Father nodded and motioned toward the desk. “Put it there, and let’s see what secrets it holds.”
He put the branch down on the desk and unwrapped the scarf. The priest inhaled and said, “That’s no ordinary branch.”
Grabbing for a vial of holy water on his desk, he sprinkled it over the stick, making the sign of the cross. He and Stanley crossed themselves. And then Father Timothy bent down to examine the stick, while he took out a pocket knife. He scratched at the paint, exposing the wood beneath.
“It is blackthorn wood, often used in occult ritual. It’s meant as a conduit to target darkness, I guess you could say.”
The hair on the back of Stanley’s neck prickled. He blurted out, “How in the world do you know that?”
“I’ve told you before, Stanley. I have a unique set of skills that involve a series of experiences that I cannot share with you. I’m sorry.”
Stanley looked down and furrowed his brow as he examined the spiny, black branch again. “Guess you won’t sing.”
The priest chuckled. “I know, you hate not getting an answer, inquisitive man. But I do have my vows of obedience.”
“Yeah, I know, but …”
Father Timothy held up his hand. “I can tell you that I’ve spent years studying the occult and curses. Do you have headaches or nosebleeds? Anything unusual?”
Stanley shook his head. “No, nothing like that, but I had a terrible dream the night they put it on my pillow.”
The priest nodded. “Yes. I’m not surprised. These sort of curses are designed to invade the mind, but it looks different for everyone.”
Nosebleeds. Headaches.
“Father, could this sort of thing, I dunno, change someone’s personality?”
“Yes, especially if they are not closing their minds, as you’ve seemed to do. They underestimated you.” The priest smiled.
“But, Hazel, Father. I think there’s one in Hazel’s room. I’m almost sure of it.”
He described Hazel’s recent behavior. Her unusual confusion and snootiness, along with her headaches.
The priest nodded. “Yes, it sounds as if she is under a dark influence. But as she is not aware of the branch, it’s seeping into her mind. Brother Martin said they use these sort of diabolical tactics.”
At the mention of the monk, Stanley said, “Yeah, what’s the story on him? Why is he not here, helping us?”
The priest furrowed his brow. “His Abbot fears for Brother Martin’s soul, and he is afraid of putting everyone’s lives in danger, but he will come if he has to.”
“How can he help?”
“He knows what it is like from inside Legion and the whole history of the Veiled Prophet, why it was founded and their connections through the city. They have secret oaths and rituals that bind them together in secrecy, so that they can more easily manipulate, plunder, and murder without being caught or held accountable, gaining power with a dark brotherhood to back them. I’m sorry to say, they even extend into Holy Mother church.” Father Timothy frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“The Veiled Prophet’s history goes way beyond the riots of 1877 and their aftermath. It goes back to the civil war, when many in this city wanted to keep blacks in slavery and wanted Missouri to join the Confederacy. So they formed secret societies to gain power. They have always terrorized those people in the city they considered unworthy. But, I suspect these groups went back even further in Missouri politics. Look what they’ve done in the past to Catholics, Negroes, Jews, Orientals, and Mormons. No group is safe that they have decided is inferior or insubordinate.”
Stanley leaned back in his chair. “Sounds like the Klan.”
The priest nodded. “They were certainly very much like them, and many of those people joined the Klan when it came into existence. You see, Stanley, people think that history is full of eras with concrete walls. When in reality, history is like an ocean with the same currents underwater, shifting to and fro. It is fluid, and when an evil disappears in one era, it reappears in another. If you look close enough, you find the connections. And in America, there has always been a group of people determined to create the perfect place full of perfect people; a city on the hill, if you will. The Veiled Prophet is just an incarnation of what has always been.”
Stanley couldn’t move. The enormity of this group and their power overwhelmed him, and he felt helpless. As if reading his mind, Father Timothy said, “But, you know our consolation? The Lord looks over us. Evil never wins completely, not really. Goodness always raises up people to fight. There are always those who give their lives to keep the light burning.”
“So, I guess I better get writing then,” Stanley said, standing up.
The priest chuckled. “As your editor, your deadline is in two days. Give me a good article on The Winnowing. Make it part one of a series.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, Father.”
Stanley walked outside, feeling better than he had in days. He knew how to fix Hazel. The paper would be out in a week or so. And the tide would start turning once the light started showing in the rat hole. Probably some people wouldn’t believe it. But enough might.
Occupied by his thoughts, he almost ran straight into Arthur.
“Watch it, boss, I’m standing here.”
“Artie, sorry, what gives?”
“Ain’t gonna tell you until we get there. You smell too holy right now.”
Stanley chuckled. “Whatever you say, man.”
They walked in silence for a while, and Stanley glanced at Arthur. The kid was smoking like a chimney, drawing in fast and letting out smoke like a steamboat on the Mississippi. His face looked drawn, as if he hadn’t eaten in a while.
“Artie, are you okay?”
“What are you, my mother?” Arthur said, lighting another cigarette.
“No, thank God. I’d kill myself if I had such an ugly mug for a baby.”
Arthur didn’t even crack a smile. Not that he did much anyway, but sometimes Stanley could get a laugh out of him.
“What’s with you, meathead?”
Throwing away a cigarette, Arthur turned to face him. “I ain’t in a laughing mood. Pigeons are going missing. My pops ain’t doing so hot. And neither is my mom. And the swells are dancing in a few days, as if the whole country ain’t starving.”
Stanley was going to agree, but he stopped himself. Arthur didn’t need gasoline thrown on the fire. The kid was on the edge. They walked until they reached Forest Park, and he realized that Artie was taking him to the boxcar. When they got there, all the Knights had assembled, and there stood Frisky Jones in all her redheaded glory.
“Well, well, look at what the cat dragged in, King Arthur his own self,” she said, giving them a mock bow.
Stanley gave her a half smile. “Hey, Frisky, what’s the word?”
She’d always acted tough and gave him lip. Of all the girls he’d met, only Frisky seemed immune to his charms, telling him once, “Back off, St. Stanley, I’m too much of a woman for you. I don’t want you confessing me to the good Father.”
But now, she played with her long, red hair, almost pulling it out of her head. The rest of the Knights looked grim. Even Shuffles’ good cheer seemed to have vanished, as he fidgeted with his baseball cap.
“Teeth. My little Teeth. He’s gone,” Frisky blurted out.
“What? What are you talking about?” Stanley said, taking off his hat.
“It’s true,” Arthur said.
“He ain’t been home for a few days. His mother is in fits, and that’s a fact.” Frisky shoved her hands into her trouser pockets and paced.
“How do you know Teeth?” Jakob asked, adjusting his yarmulke.
“What is this, a shakedown? Was just letting you know. He’s gone,” Frisky said, jumping off the boxcar and starting to walk away.
“Wait, Frisky, please, we need information,” Stanley said, catching her by the arm.
“St. Stanley, if you don’t take your masher mitts off me, I’ll get you but good, got me?”
He let go of her and put up his hands. “Sorry, but we need to know information if we are going to find him.”
Arthur lit a cigarette and gave it to Frisky. She took a pull and said, “You okay, Artie? You don’t look so good.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fine. Tell Stanny what you know.”
She took a deep drag. “Well, I used to babysit Teeth. Just about everyone on the block, really. I fuss over him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like join you fools. He pretends not to like it, but I can tell you, he don’t run home to momma when he needs some boobs to cry on.”
Anino sniggered and then covered his mouth. Shuffles turned away and pretended to cough.
“If you’re done talking about your boobs, Frisky, can we get on with it?” Stanley said, pacing the ground.
“I remember a time when you wanted to do more than talk,” she said, taking a slow drag.
Stanley sighed. “Frisky, please.”
She nodded, looking away. “I’m sorry. You’re right. He’s gone. His momma doesn’t know where he is, and everyone is looking for him.”
“I have an idea where,” Arthur said, going over to Frisky and putting his arm around her. “It’s that clinic, Stanley, the one where your rich princess helps us poor folks.”
“Oh, yeah, the one run by Dr. Galton. I met him at Haze’s party.”
“What did you think?” Jakob asked, jumping off the boxcar.
“I dunno. He was a rich snob who thought he was better than me. But what else is new? I was mostly focused on …” He stopped, and he could feel the heat rising in his face.
Frisky smirked. “Boy, he’s dizzy for her, ain’t he? You were spot on, Artie.”
“So, what about the clinic?” Shuffles said before Stanley lost his mind.
“That’s the last place anyone saw Teeth, boyo. And that maid who was found shot in the head,” Arthur said.
Stanley felt like throwing up. “We need info. Fast. Everyone needs to spread out and see what they can find. I’ll join you in a few hours.”
“Where you goin’, to do some smooching?” Frisky said, stomping her cigarette in the ground. They all looked at him for a response, and then he realized. He hadn’t told them about the newspaper business.
“Look, you mugs, this thing might be bigger than we think.”
Arthur shook his head. “That ain’t so. I already know.”
“Maybe not everything. There’s a group putting together a newspaper. I’m writing for it.” He told them about the meeting and what they wanted the Knights to do.
Anino smiled. “So, while we sell our papers, we pass out the rag you’re writing for, is that it?”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah. We know they don’t print the full truth in the papers. We gotta spread the word up and down the city.”
Anino nodded. “I’m in.”
Shuffles put on his hat and said, “Count this Mormon in, time to go Porter Rockwell.”
Jakob smiled. “And just call me Maccabee the Hammer.”
Stanley could have hugged them all, but he said, “Look, once this gets out, well … You all know about the Rookery. I don’t know if I can ask you to do that.”
Arthur said, “We know the risks, Lord Stanley. We ain’t just takin’ them for you. This is for all of us.”
Frisky ran a hand through her wild hair. “Yeah, pretty boy. The whole world don’t revolve around your majesty.”
Stanley rolled his eyes. “Good. I’ll meet you all back here in a few hours after I write the article. Let’s see what rats we can scare out of their holes.”
All of the Knights departed except for Frisky. She was twisting her hair, tying it in small knots.
“You will find him, won’t you Stanny?”
“I promise to do what I can. I love that kid, you know.”
She nodded, wiping away tears. “He showed me the baseball stuff you got him. You don’t even know …”
Stanley went to hug her, and Frisky said, “Whoa, there, Stanny boy, that wasn’t an invitation for a free grope. Just get to work.”
And then she walked away, her red hair disappearing into the dark.
Stanley stood there for a moment and then leapt into the boxcar. He found the case where he hid his typewriter and scrolled a piece of paper into place. With a deep breath, he started to type, the clacking echoing in the boxcar.