City of Promise (50 page)

“Haven’t been to bed, sir,” Ollie said, gasping out the words between noisy breaths. “I went back to the rookeries. Found a boyo down on Seventy-Eighth said he’d been sick and that’s why I didn’t see him yesterday.” Zac brought Ollie a glass of water and he stopped speaking only long enough to gulp it down. “This boyo, he says he saw the DeAngelo wagon as well. That’s what he called it, Mr. Turner. Said it was a beat-up old thing. More like a wagon than a proper van. But it had a sign hanging off the side said DeAngelo and—”

The brothers exchanged looks. “Well done, Ollie,” Zac said. “Was that what you wanted to tell us?

Ollie shook his head. “No, sir. That’s not it. It’s about the driver. The boyo said the fellow driving the van was wearing an eyepatch.” Ollie turned to Josh. “I know lots of men do, but it’s something, ain’t it? It might help us get her back, mightn’t it, Mr. Turner?”

It was the morning of the third full day of her captivity.

The wind had shifted and today she fancied the bees were more active. Buzzing loudly and, she thought, flying closer to her cage. Perhaps they were somehow aware of her sharing the rooftop with them. A bit later, when she was taken for her first visit to the bucket, she felt sunlight warm on her skin and realized that was what had stirred up the bees. It was the first time in a week there had been a break in the clouds. As for her, she might have enjoyed the warmth were she not so distracted by the pain in her feet and legs.

“Hey! You no fall down!” Her jailer grabbed her arm as Mollie stumbled.

“I can’t help it. You are keeping me in such a cramped—”

“No talk. You no talk.”

She was half-shoved and half-carried the rest of the way, then she heard the sound of the curtain being pushed aside and her hands were untied. “Here. One foot like this. The other here.” In what had become an established routine, she was set into position straddling the bucket, then—in a gesture for which she supposed she should be grateful—she heard the sound of the curtain being pulled closed.

Her hands were numb and swollen, but she could still use them to lift her skirts. Her feet were in much worse condition. The boots she’d been wearing in the garden when she was abducted were old and well worn and usually comfortable. Now they were so tight she knew her feet must be swollen as well. Perhaps she should ask to take them off. No, she would be even more helpless if she were barefoot. She leaned forward to lift her skirts and—Oh!

Her blindfold slipped down to the bridge of her nose.

Mollie caught her breath.

She had kept her word not to touch the thing because the thought of being denied the privilege of the bucket was intolerable. But now, without her having done a thing, she had been given the gift of sight.

“You done in there?”

“Not yet.”

“Hurry. I got business.”

Mollie tipped her head back. She saw a bright blue sky, but it told her nothing she did not already know, that she was being held outside on a rooftop. She looked down. The curtain didn’t quite reach the tarred surface. She could see the hem of a black skirt and the scuffed and pointed toes of a woman’s boots.

Her guard was not a man but a woman with a gruff voice.

She shivered, but this time with anticipation rather than fear. She was stronger than she’d ever been in her life. Working each day in the garden had made her so. It was conceivable she could overpower another woman.

“You hurry!”

“I am. I’m hurrying.” She lifted her skirts with one hand, fumbled the blindfold back into position with the other. It was, she realized, the tension of the knot that had slipped. The guard—the woman as she now knew her to be—had never thought to tighten it. She was unaccustomed to her role, acting on instructions. Another tiny advantage.

She pushed the blindfold back into place, but just the merest bit higher than it had been. She had a sliver of vision beneath one eye. “Almost done,” she called, dropping her skirts and yanking the knot tighter so the blindfold would stay as she’d arranged it. “All right. I’m ready.”

On the way back to her cage she was able to peek at the bees. They were in two wooden boxes side by side, hived exactly as she’d imagined. Just beyond them, of much greater interest, she spotted a door.

“There ain’t no sign nowheres of Trenton Clifford,” Frankie Miller said. “My boys have checked every one of his usual hangouts and plenty that ain’t usual. He can’t be found. You ask me, he ain’t in New York. Went back to wherever he’s from.”

“Back to Virginia. It’s possible, Josh.” Zac was stretched out in the leather armchair in Josh’s study. Like Josh, he looked as if he’d not slept for days. “The Union troops are pulling out and the rebels are ready to pick up the pieces. Plenty of Southerners are going home.”

The morning sun was streaming in the windows, already warm enough for Josh to feel a sheen of sweat covering the stubble of beard he’d not yet shaved. He was of no mind to let Clifford off the hook because Rutherford Hayes had declared an end to Reconstruction. “Tony Lupo,” he said stubbornly, “works with Clifford. That’s his only connection to me and mine. It has to have been Clifford who told him to take Mollie.”

“You can’t be sure this Lupo is the one who took her,” Zac said. It was the third time he’d made the assertion.

“Look,” Josh would not be shaken, “we already know Lupo is a chameleon, someone good at playacting. He was a white-collar worker when I first met him, and a wealthy man at that meeting where you saw him being Clifford’s foil. Now we find he got himself up to look like the driver of a delivery wagon and—”

“Josh, the only thing we know for certain about those three men is they all wore an eyepatch. There are any number of men in this city who wear an eyepatch. For all I know, hundreds.”

“He used the name Anthony Wolfe on two of those occasions,” Josh insisted. “That translates to Tony Lupo. And the eyepatch was a common thread. That’s unlikely to be a coincidence.”

“That’s the other thing I got to tell you,” Miller said. “I tried to set up a meet with Lupo. Couldn’t find him neither. He’s gone to ground.”

“Does it matter?” Zac was reading the latest ransom note. “You’re supposed to hand over the deeds tonight.” He glanced at the clock. “In twelve hours. Who you give them to doesn’t seem to me the most important element of the transaction. How do you know you’re going to get Mollie back safe and sound when you do? That’s the question.”

“Me and my boys will be there,” Miller said. “And I guarantee no one will see us unless we’re needed.”

Josh grimaced. The instructions called for him to be at Ninety-Fifth and Fourth, the northernmost of the lots he was transferring as Mollie’s ransom, at ten p.m. He was to bring the deeds and wait.

“Anything ain’t like it should be,” Miller said, “we’ll jump right in.”

And, Josh thought, God alone knew what would happen then.

It was lunchtime, just after noon, when Josh got to the oyster bar near the South Street docks. The place appeared to have changed hands—the sign read
CLANCY’S
, not Hanrihan’s as it had previously—but it was pretty much the same inside. Men stood four and five deep at the counter, behind the fortunate front row who occupied the stools. All were slurping oysters and drinking beer, accompanied by loud talk and laughter, and the occasional shout. Josh craned his neck, peering over their heads to the corner where eight years before he’d sat with DuVal Jones. The little table by the window was still there. Jones was not, but despite the crush the two chairs were empty.

He worked his way through the crowd to the bar. “What’s your pleasure?” The barman didn’t look up, just continued polishing the counter.

Josh ordered a brown ale and half a dozen bluepoints.

“Raw or roasted?”

“Raw.” He put down a gold quarter eagle.

The barman raised his head. “Don’t cost but a dollar.”

“The extra dollar and a half’s a bonus. For information. I’m trying to find Mr. DuVal Jones. I was here with him once before and—”

A hand clasped his shoulder and a voice behind him said, “Mr. Jones would like you to join him, sir.”

The barman pushed the quarter eagle back in Josh’s direction. “You go ahead, sir. I’ll bring your food in a minute. Brown ale and half a dozen slick and shinys. On the house, since you’re a friend of Mr. Jones.”

Josh turned around. DuVal Jones had materialized at the window
table and the crush of men had fallen back to open a clear path between them.

The floor was covered in sawdust, nonetheless Josh had to rely on his cane to be sure of not slipping. He was conscious of being watched, but by the time he took his seat the space he’d traversed was once more filled with bodies. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jones. I asked for you at the St. Nicholas and Mrs. Jones said I might find you here.”

“Just came over.” Jones nodded to the ferry beyond the window. “What can I do for you, Mr. Turner?”

“Does the name Tony Lupo mean anything to you?”

Someone brought a large platter of oysters to the table before he could answer, and crackers and a pot of horseradish, and two old-fashioned pewter tankards of ale. Jones waited until they were again alone before he spoke. “I know the name,” he said, “but to my knowledge the gentleman does not have any business on the other side of the river, and I have never made his acquaintance.”

“What about Trenton Clifford? Used to be a captain in the rebel army. Has his finger in various schemes here in New York now.”

“Trenton Clifford.” Jones repeated the name and for a moment Josh thought he was going to say something meaningful. In the end, he simply shook his head. “No, can’t say I know anything about him.”

Disappointment was a sour taste in his mouth. “Am I to take it,” Josh asked, “you are quite sure?”

“Positive.” Jones selected a plump bluepoint and tossed it back. “Have some oysters, Mr. Turner. I’ll warrant they’re the best and freshest in the city.”

Josh ate three in quick succession, without accompaniment, tasting their sharp briny edge, and surprised that despite everything he was hungry.

“A man,” Jones said softly. “Needs to keep up his strength in times of trouble.” He shook his head in a gesture somewhere between sadness and offense. “I disapprove of those who would intrude on the
sanctity of marriage, use a man’s wife against him . . . If I knew anything at all, Mr. Turner, you could rely on me.”

“Apparently,” Josh said, “you know a good deal.”

“In my business,” Jones said, “word gets around.”

“That’s why I came.”

Jones offered another shake of his head. “Nothing to do with Brooklyn, but . . .” He leaned forward, then paused and stood up. “I’ll walk you out, Mr. Turner.”

Once more a path was opened for them.

Outside, the Manhattan tower of the Brooklyn Bridge loomed above their heads, mirroring the one across the river. Jones led the way deep into its shadow. “A hundred and seventeen feet tall here on land,” he said, “and a hundred and thirty-five above the water. So even the tallest mast can pass beneath it.” He had his bowler in his hand and he used it to indicate the men working high above the river, on what looked to be a raft of roped-together wooden planks that swayed in the wind. “They tell us,” Jones said, “that when it’s done it will be stable. And strong enough to drive a carriage over. Hundreds of carriages and even trains. Remarkable, isn’t it?”