Carved in Stone, page 6
Her father would have liked to have known this. For years her parents had held out hope that a miracle might happen. They used to look into the faces of children playing in the parks. They lit candles in churches. The mystery of William’s disappearance left them forever wondering what had happened to their son.
Now at least Gwen knew. The cowards dared not come forward with his body, and he had probably been buried in a pauper’s grave.
“There’s not much else new in the book,” Frederick said. “Malone claims he didn’t report what he saw in the boiler room because he feared the Italians and if he squealed, they’d know it was him. They framed him, but even after he was arrested, Mick kept quiet for fear the Italians would go after his wife in revenge. So he kept his silence and put his faith in God during his trial.”
The mental image of her brother, wheezing, pale, and dying in a grubby boiler room, gave Gwen a new mission. She didn’t merely want this memoir stopped, she intended to solve the mystery of what had happened to her brother.
And she was going to use Patrick O’Neill to make that happen.
7
Like every Saturday, Patrick served lunch at the Salvation Army soup kitchen, then cleaned up afterward. He was scouring the bottom of a stew kettle when a thick-necked man approached.
“Mrs. Kellerman would like to see you,” he growled.
Patrick looked up, surprised to see one of Gwen Kellerman’s bodyguards. He didn’t appreciate being summoned like a servant. The Salvation Army had a tiny crew of overworked employees, and he would finish his duties before darting off to see what Mrs. Kellerman wanted. She had effectively torn his conscience to shreds last week by showing him her college’s ambitious plans to cure the world’s diseases. She’d been kind, gentle, and lethally effective in the way she did it. Unlike the rest of her family, she was a thoroughly decent person. She was womanly and earthy and kind.
And alluring. She sparked a raw, primitive desire to haul her behind one of those fancy college buildings and kiss her breathless.
Patrick scowled and went back to washing the pot. “Tell her I’ll come when I’m done cleaning up.”
The thick-necked bruiser retreated, and Patrick went back to scrubbing. He shouldn’t feel guilty for noticing that Mrs. Kellerman was a looker. Any man with a pulse would notice. She was Eve bearing the apple; Delilah tempting Samson. She was surely here to tempt him with something else to scuttle Mick’s book, and he steeled himself against it.
He half expected her to be gone by the time he emerged an hour later onto the sweltering city street, but she sat alongside her two bodyguards at a sidewalk table outside the Italian deli across the street.
She didn’t belong in this neighborhood. It was gritty and loud, and the smells . . . well, the fishmonger’s shop two doors down couldn’t be expected to smell like a garden. The tannery smelled even worse, and moldering trash littered the alleys. Her gown was a soft, filmy shade of white and her hair a glorious cascade spilling down her back. She looked like a long-stemmed rose among shabby weeds.
“Back again, Mrs. Kellerman?” he teased. “I’m beginning to think you’ve got a thing for dirt-poor lawyers.” Flirting was second nature to him, and he was glad she didn’t seem offended. He yanked out a chair and helped himself to a seat. “I hope you’re not here asking for help to stop Mick’s book. I’m all set to go before a judge next Friday, and your family doesn’t have a prayer of winning an injunction.”
It was almost impossible to block a book before publication. He’d been preparing for weeks, and the law was on his side.
“The injunction is my uncle’s idea, not mine,” she replied. “None of us want Mick Malone to benefit from his crime, but what I care about more than anything is learning what happened to my brother. Did you know my father once offered a $100,000 reward to whoever could solve the mystery of William’s disappearance?”
Her voice was nonchalant, but she watched him intently. She was about to fire her first salvo.
“I did,” he admitted. “Half the people in the Five Points searched every nook and cranny for him. They quit after the police arrested Mick.”
“The reward is still available. Are you interested?”
He folded his arms across his chest as the pieces started to fit together. “What are you suggesting?”
“You have access to Mr. Malone. He trusts you, and in the process of preparing that memoir, perhaps you discovered something about how he pulled off the kidnapping. The law of double jeopardy means he can’t be prosecuted again for murder, and the statute of limitations on his other crimes expired long ago. Mick Malone could shout his guilt in the public square and the law couldn’t touch him, but I still want to know what happened to my brother. You can help. It won’t be double-crossing a client. It will be solving a mystery and bringing peace of mind to a family who still mourns.”
“And winning $100,000 dollars in the process.”
She nodded. “Precisely.”
Against his will, his heart started thudding. It was a figure so big he could scarcely get his mind around it. He and his ma could buy a proper house with four walls and a roof instead of sharing a tiny apartment. He could pay Father Doyle back for all those years of schooling he’d stiffed him on by not becoming a priest.
But he’d have to betray a client first.
Temptation was nothing new to Patrick. Girls had tempted him since he developed a healthy appreciation for anything in skirts when he was thirteen years old. He’d been tempted by a law firm in Boston that paid an actual salary instead of barter. He was tempted by rousing songs at the pub, freely flowing whiskey, and freshly baked blueberry scones. At the moment he was tempted by the alluring glint in Mrs. Kellerman’s eyes and the long, slender curve of her neck as she challenged him. Life was full of temptation, and he was used to battling it.
“No thank you, ma’am,” he said simply.
Then she hit him where it hurt.
“What if I gave the reward to your soup kitchen? I saw dozens of people get turned away. Most were mothers with hungry children. The reward money will keep this soup kitchen funded for years, and there’d be no more turning away hungry people who had the misfortune to be at the end of the line.”
What she said was true. The ladies who ran the soup kitchen liked him because he had the muscle to keep order during the occasional rumpus that happened when they ran out of food.
“Whatever you tell me will be confidential,” Mrs. Kellerman said. “All I want from you is the truth about Malone’s role in kidnapping my brother, and I think you know how he did it.”
He looked at the soup kitchen, where every Saturday he scraped the bottom of the kettle to eke out a final meal, then had to disappoint everyone else in the line. Every Saturday. He leaned forward to brace his forearms on the tops of his knees, twisting his hands and thinking.
He knew exactly how Mick had kidnapped that boy, because he’d personally scrubbed all the details out of the original manuscript, but Mick’s drunken confession still seared in Patrick’s mind. The Blackstones suffered the anguish of unanswered questions, and Mrs. Kellerman deserved to know the truth, but he couldn’t betray a client.
“I wish there was a way I could help you,” he said honestly. “I can’t.”
“Would it help if I doubled the reward?”
He shook his head. “It would only make it harder for me to turn you down. This isn’t fun for me, ma’am. You have no idea.”
She leaned across the table, her lemony perfume tempting him as she kept up the pressure. “With $100,000 you could get out of the Lower East Side,” she said. “You could put your talent to work someplace worthy. Buy yourself a better office. Take a better class of clientele; people who deserve your time and talent.”
He folded his arms across his chest in satisfaction, for she’d just made her first mistake. He wasn’t ashamed to work here. He was proud of it.
“Take a look at where I live.” He tilted away to gesture at the weeds growing in the cracked pavement, the trash collecting in the alley, and a drunkard slumped against a wall. “You look at a neighborhood like this and see a slum. I see the garden I was meant to tend.”
Mrs. Kellerman’s eyes widened. In admiration? He couldn’t imagine a low-rent lawyer like him could impress her, but the signs were unmistakable. A gleam of respect lit her eyes, but it vanished quickly, replaced by a hint of steel.
“You know something,” she said. “You know more than what Malone wrote in that book.”
He did, which was why he wanted to avoid this conversation. He gave a dismissive shrug.
“Did you know that in the years after it happened, my parents used to look into the faces of children they saw in parks and in church pews? They never gave up hoping.”
He glanced away, unable to imagine what her parents had endured. Mick was guilty down to the marrow of his bones, and his greed was about to victimize the people who loved Willy Blackstone all over again. Patrick struggled to find the words to mitigate the pain she felt.
“Both of your parents have passed on now,” he said gently. “I can’t do anything to help them, and learning the details of your brother’s kidnapping and death will only plant images in your mind that are better left in the past.”
She banged a fist on the table. “I want to know,” she said in a voice that came from deep in her gut. “I grew up haunted by my brother’s absence. I pretended that he was still alive, that he would someday come back and be the strong, protective older brother I should have had all along. That’s impossible, but I owe it to William to uncover the truth about what happened to him.”
“I can’t help you, and I’m sorry for it,” he answered honestly.
“Sorry enough to tell what you know?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be in court on Friday morning, doing my best to see that Mick Malone gets the protection the Constitution affords him. No more, no less.”
“I’ll be there in the front row, waiting for you to make a mistake so I can pry the door of this case wide open.”
It would be best if she stayed away from the hearing. The family wasn’t wrong for trying to stop Mick’s book, but they were going to lose.
“Mrs. Kellerman, this memoir is going to be published,” he said as kindly as possible. “Don’t read it. Don’t think about it. Mick’s blatherings can’t undo the honorable work you and your father created at that college. Don’t let Mick drag you down into the muck with him.”
His words didn’t make a dent in her. The steely light of determination came back into her pale green eyes. “This will never be over for me,” she said. “Even if you win your court case. Even if Mick Malone sells a million copies of that book, I will come after you again and again and again, because I think you know what happened to my brother.”
He did, and that was what made this conversation so painful. He pushed away from the table and stood, unable to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry about what’s going to happen in court. You seem like a decent woman, and I want you to know that defending Mick gives me no pleasure.”
He began walking back to his office, but the pained expression on her face haunted him the entire way.
8
Patrick wore his new suit to the meeting with Mick’s editor at the publishing company. On most days he wore simple shirtsleeves with suspenders because it made his clients feel more comfortable, but when he talked business with the publisher, it was best to look sharp.
And he’d need to look extra sharp for court tomorrow, when the hearing for Blackstone vs. Carstairs Publishing was the first case on the docket. Carstairs Publishing was not New York’s finest imprint. Raymond Carstairs published a weekly tabloid filled with society gossip and crimes of lurid interest. Their books were dime-store westerns or seedy detective stories. The Mick Malone biography was going to be their crowning glory.
Raymond had asked to meet with Patrick at seven o’clock in the evening. It was an odd time for a business meeting, so Patrick assumed they would be going out for a meal.
“You said there wasn’t anything libelous in Mick’s book,” Raymond challenged the moment Patrick walked into his office. With his slicked-back hair and thick mustache, Raymond looked like an angry bulldog.
Patrick held up his hand. “That memoir has plenty of libel in it, but it’s presented as Mick’s personal opinion and not a statement of fact. That gives him the pass he needs. We’ve got the freedom of the press on our side.”
Raymond rubbed his palms together so hard that his knuckles started cracking. It seemed he enjoyed the prospect of a trial. “This’ll be a lesson the Blackstones will never forget. They’re going to lose and be humiliated by what I’ve got planned. Actually, what Mick has planned. This is all his idea.”
The first hint of misgiving took root. “What’s Mick’s idea?”
“Follow me,” Raymond said with an enigmatic smile as he left the office. “We’re heading down to the brewery on Orange Street.”
“A brewery?” Patrick asked in confusion.
Raymond nodded. “It’s got a cellar big enough to hold everyone, and no windows. We don’t need an audience for this sort of meeting. Mick’s got a plan to whip up a little pretrial publicity.”
The brewery was in an old brick building that was locked for the evening, but a thick-necked man in a bowler hat let them in through a side door.
Noise from a dense crowd rose from the basement, and Patrick’s unease grew as he headed down a narrow, twisting staircase. Dank smells mingled with sawdust and the yeasty scent of hops. He ducked to avoid smacking into the low beams over the steps, but once he was downstairs, the space opened up to reveal a huge underground cellar. The ceiling was vaulted like the undercroft of a church, with domed archways and brick walls. Wooden barrels as large as a man covered most of the floor, but crammed in among them were hundreds of people.
“Lord have mercy,” he muttered as he got a glimpse of the crowd. Most looked like plainly dressed workingmen, but there were plenty of women with babies and a handful of children in the mix. They were packed shoulder to shoulder around the wooden barrels. The rough-looking men from Mingo County were here, clustered near the back alongside men wearing coveralls and work boots.
“Quite a turnout,” Raymond said with pleasure. “Some of these people came all the way from Ohio to join in the protest.”
“What are they protesting?” Patrick asked, a sick feeling gathering in his stomach.
“For a start, the Blackstones’ attempt to silence Mick Malone. They’ll be in court tomorrow to help balance the scales. This is your army, Mr. O’Neill!”
This wasn’t the sort of army he wanted to command. If they were angry enough to travel across the country to protest against the Blackstones, they would be hard to control. Rowdy, undisciplined, and seething with resentment, these weren’t the sort of people who could influence a court hearing in a positive manner.
Mick Malone caught his eye and angled through the crowd, his face swathed in good cheer. “Quite a gathering, isn’t it, Patrick my man! Let’s get this meeting underway.”
A pair of workers hoisted Mick onto the top of a barrel of beer. The crowd soon settled down, and Mick began speaking.
“Thank you for coming all this way to support a man’s freedom of speech,” Mick said. “A special tip of the hat to you folks from Carnegie Steel,” he said with a nod to a silent group of men nearby. “And hello to my good friends from the Baltimore rail yards. Who else have we got here tonight?”
“Boilermakers from Dayton,” someone bellowed.
“Six roustabouts from Allegheny Oil,” another said.
“Four welders from the Philadelphia shipyard,” a clarion voice called in a tone that sailed over the crowd.
Mick’s humor evaporated. He straightened to look at the welder from Philadelphia, a tough-looking man with a scar splitting one brow.
“No one invited you, Liam,” Mick said to the man, who lifted his chin at the cold welcome.
“I invited myself, Uncle Mick.”
The men locked challenging stares, but Mick broke the tension by sending a wink and a salute to the younger man. “Welcome to my nephew Liam and the other welders from Philly,” he said with a devilish gleam in his eye. Liam grinned and saluted back, and the introductions continued.
The range of workers here was astonishing: miners, ironworkers, men from shipyards, and women who worked in the woolen mills. All of them worked for companies financed by the Blackstone Bank, and all of them had a simmering resentment toward the Blackstone family. Most of them looked like they’d already been drinking.
Mick was enjoying himself as he stood atop the barrel and gave instructions to the crowd. “As my fine lawyer makes his case in court tomorrow, your job will be to voice approval when warranted and provide some good, healthy disagreement when things aren’t going my way.”
A clamor of stomping feet and a rumble of approval met Mick’s announcement.
Patrick was appalled. Preliminary court hearings rarely had spectators, and if this crowd showed up, it would be a disaster. Courtrooms weren’t the place for a labor rally.
He shouted a warning over the din. “The judge will throw you out of court if you misbehave.”
“That’s the plan,” Mick said as he rubbed his hands together. “Let the authorities try to toss out the hardworking people who toil for the Blackstones, the Carnegies, and the Rockefellers. I want people who have dirt beneath their nails and sweat on their brows to be heard. We’re the people who made America great, not Frederick Blackstone and his ilk. The people gathered in this cellar are the heart and soul and muscle of this country, and we will be heard!”
One of the boilermakers shook a bottle of beer and uncorked it, spraying foam over the crowd. Some laughed while others pushed and shoved to get out of the way.
“Settle down, now,” Patrick warned, but his voice didn’t carry over the boisterous gathering.
A gang of miners started chanting a labor song, riling up the crowd. A few of the women locked hands and began hopping in a circle dance. Spray from another bottle of beer arched over the crowd.
