Brooklyn on Fire Page 4

  McLaughlin had backed Alfred Chapin for mayor. It didn’t matter that he was sixty-three and weathered; McLaughlin was at the height of his power. Unlike Chapin, he had lived with stress his whole life. It was a constant for him, and he thrived on it.

  Both men were in Chapin’s office, along with Liam Riley, a seemingly innocuous yes-man in his midthirties who obsequiously followed McLaughlin around and whose main purpose was to support and verify every point McLaughlin made. For this reason, he had earned the nickname of “the Echo,” but no one dared call him that when McLaughlin was in earshot.

  “It shouldn’t surprise ya, Yer Honor, that New York was gonna call out the big boys,” said McLaughlin. “That’s what those Tammany fellas do when they see they’re in for a fight. Eh, Liam?”

  “Every time, Mr. McLaughlin. Never fails,” Liam answered, performing his job with the amount of enthusiasm that McLaughlin required.

  “It’s not Tammany, Hugh. It’s Andrew Green. Millionaires flock to him like—like—”

  “Like flies to shit. I can say it, but ya never will. Yer too elegant. And that’s why the public likes ya so much.” This time McLaughlin solicited his sidekick’s response with a glance instead of words.

  “They love you, Your Honor. Always have,” Liam chimed in.

  McLaughlin pointed to Liam. “That comes from a man who doesn’t lie. It’s bred in his family. He has a framed letter from Abraham Lincoln on his wall, the president who never lied.”

  Chapin knew that the legend of never lying was about George Washington and not Lincoln, but he saw no advantage in correcting McLaughlin. It would only anger him, and it was easier to endure the smoke he was blowing his way.

  “The point is, they have big money and big names on their side, all pushing for a consolidation between Brooklyn and New York. Who and what do we have?”

  “We have right on our side.”

  “Hugh—”

  “You’ve paved more streets, opened more schoolhouses, and set up more parks than any other mayor in Brooklyn’s history. Ya did all that and balanced the budget, too. The people of Brooklyn are not gonna let those damn New Yorkers in here to ruin the wholesome family lifestyle ya established for ’em with ya hard work.”

  “I’m not debating my credentials. I’m questioning our power. They’re lining up with Gatling guns and all we’ve got are peashooters.”

  “Now ya insulted me.” McLaughlin puffed up his chest. The nice talk was over. “Do ya think I would ever let any of my people go into battle unprotected? I’ve bested more blowhards, tumbled more bullies, and beaten more wealthy shites than ya can imagine! Let those downtown assholes try to come in here! They’ll crawl back bloodied if they can crawl at all!”

  In the moment of silence that followed McLaughlin’s tirade, Liam knew not to say a word. He just nodded his approval.

  “I’m sorry, Hugh. I didn’t mean to doubt you. I’m just concerned. Collis Huntington is getting very vocal, which means he’s writing a lot of checks.”

  “No worries,” McLaughlin said, calming down as quickly as he had risen to anger. He stood to go, and of course, Liam followed suit. “Don’t fret about those New York fellas. I’ll handle ’em. You just do yer job like ya have always done, helping the good people of Brooklyn.” McLaughlin stuck out his hand and Chapin shook it.

  “By the way,” Chapin said, “that other thing is almost done. There was a delay for a while, but it seems to have been rectified. It looks like clear sailing from here on.”

  McLaughlin chuckled. “Clear sailing. I like the way you talk, as if we’re all on a yacht, sippin’ cocktails.”

  “Seriously, Hugh, are you sure this is the right move?”

  “Well, ya gotta ask yerself another question, really, in order to answer that one: is this good for Brooklyn?” Before Chapin could speak, McLaughlin continued: “And the answer is: yes, of course, in the long run, in the short run, in any run. Are ya hearin’ me, Yer Honor?” His stern stare served a double purpose. It assured Chapin that he meant business and that there would be repercussions if he failed to follow through.

  Chapin felt foolish. He’d mistakenly hoped that somehow a miracle had occurred and McLaughlin had changed his mind.

  “Loud and clear, Hugh, as always.”

  “Good.” McLaughlin smiled his approval and left with Liam.

  When they were alone in McLaughlin’s carriage outside, McLaughlin turned to Liam.

  “Did ya do what we discussed?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s already in place.”

  “Excellent. We have to come in punchin’, fast and hard. I’m not sure how much longer I can prop up our pissant of a mayor before he starts blubberin’ like a little girl.”

  McLaughlin rapped the wall of the carriage twice with his fist, signaling the driver, and they drove off.

  MARY HAD BEEN to City Hall Park and checked the death certificate for John Worsham. It stated that he had died of heart failure. No doctor’s name was on the certificate, but that was not unusual. Most death certificates were filed just to verify a death for inheritance purposes. She had expected little from her trip to City Hall Park, and that’s exactly what she had gotten.

  How to proceed? She was on her own now, unlike in the Goodrich murder case, during which she had acted on behalf of the Brooklyn Police Department. Though even then her access to the privileged was limited. And Arabella Huntington certainly qualified as privileged. Mary knew she had to tread lightly. She couldn’t just knock on Arabella Huntington’s door and start asking questions about her first husband and how he came to be deceased. Instead, Mary had opted to watch the house on Park Avenue for a while in the hope that Arabella would eventually emerge, at which point Mary might be able to find a way to strike up an inconspicuous conversation in a public setting. She was aware that her plan was far from being foolproof or even clever, but it was all she had. Luckily, she had finished her business at City Hall Park early enough to arrive at the Huntington mansion late morning, avoiding having to make two separate trips from her home in Brooklyn to accomplish these tasks.

  She spent an hour or so trying to be as unnoticeable as a woman of her lower social class could be amid the homes of the elite. She had brought a notebook and a pencil and pretended to be sketching the roofs of the mansions in the area as if she were an architectural student. This allowed her to hold the pad high up as often as she could to conceal her face. Her knowledge of architecture was practically nil and her artistic ability severely wanting, but she hoped no one would ever see her drawings.

  Finally, a carriage stopped in front of the Huntington mansion and a woman emerged from her house with a young man at her side. As the driver opened the carriage door for them, he greeted her as Mrs. Huntington. From the way Emily Worsham had described Arabella Huntington, Mary had expected a svelte, sexual vixen. But, at forty, she was considerably overweight and dressed very conservatively, more like a wealthy schoolmarm than a seductress. Mary reasoned that the young man with her was probably her son, the one she’d had with John Worsham. He seemed the right age—about twenty—had dark hair and a mustache, and wore wire-rimmed glasses.

  After they entered the carriage, Mary stuffed the notebook in her pocketbook and hurried over just in time to hear Arabella Huntington’s command to the driver, “The Metropolitan Museum of Art and make it smooth for a change. I’m tired of being knocked about like a ball in a game of table tennis.”

  Mary shook her head. Arabella Huntington had presented the driver with an impossible task. Most streets in Manhattan were still cobblestone, and their journey would inevitably be “rocky.” Mary detested how the working poor would often lose their jobs over their inability to cater to the unrealistic demands of the pampered rich. In any case, she had to get to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and couldn’t afford to hire a carriage. She rushed one block over to Lexington Avenue and took the trolley to Eighty-First Street. Then she walked the three long blocks to Fifth Avenue, where the museum was located. She knew
the Huntingtons would arrive before her, but she hoped she could scour the museum and find them, which she eventually did. As she pretended to be fascinated by an Édouard Manet painting, she was actually trying to decide how she could “innocently” strike up a conversation with them.

  “I find it awful, positively tragic, that a man can spend his whole life creating such magnificent pieces of art and not be recognized as the genius that he is until after his death.”

  Mary turned to see that the man addressing her was fashionably thin and in his late twenties with pleasant, delicate features. He was dressed in expensive, bespoke clothing. The slight twirls at the ends of his mustache, almost imperceptible, were the only hint that, beneath his very conservative appearance, he might possess a bit of a rakish quality. Yet, in spite of her quick observation, she had been taken by surprise and couldn’t manage much of an immediate reply.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  “A Matador, the piece of art you’re admiring, was painted by Édouard Manet. His work is only just now becoming recognized, years after his death.”

  “Yes, poor man,” Mary said, her wits returning, “he spent the last of his inheritance exhibiting his work to no avail, shared the same mistress with his father, and died of syphilis. None of those accomplishments are fitting to write on anyone’s epitaph.”

  It was now his turn to be taken by surprise. “And I thought you had no interest in Manet.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You appear to be much more interested in Arabella Huntington. Or is it her son, Archer?”

  Mary had thought she was being discreet, but she obviously wasn’t and needed to cover. “Arabella who? What in the world ever gave you that idea?”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “I’m impressed. That line from Hamlet is often misquoted. Most people make the mistake of placing ‘methinks’ at the beginning of the sentence. Bravo, Mr….” Mary strategically paused, hoping this man would identify himself. He bowed as all gentlemen did when greeting a lady.

  “Vanderbilt. George Vanderbilt. Pleased to meet you, Miss Handley.”

  “A Vanderbilt recognizes me and yet I am oblivious to his identity. Has the world gone completely insane or have I?”

  “Please go easy on yourself. Unlike the rest of my family, when in New York, I keep a low profile, and I’ve been a big fan of yours since the Goodrich case.”

  “Really? I had thought my dubious notoriety had been forgotten by now.”

  “Hardly. I followed your exploits in the newspaper with great interest and was almost disappointed when you caught the killer. I couldn’t get enough of you.” He stopped very briefly. “That may have sounded improper. Please excuse me—”

  “You’re excused. I doubt whether that was your intention. You appear to be quite balanced.”

  “I appreciate that, though my family might disagree with you.”

  “Then the rich and the poor do have some things in common. My family is similarly inclined toward me.”

  “Now that we’ve found common ground, maybe you can divulge why you’re following Arabella Huntington. Please tell me it involves a case you’re currently working on. I so want it to be.”

  His enthusiasm was childlike but at the same time it took on a self-mocking tone. Mary found it oddly charming, but she wasn’t about to divulge everything to a man she had just met.

  “You’re right in one respect. I do want to have a conversation with her.”

  “Well then, let’s have it.” And he started walking toward the Huntingtons.

  “Wait. I can’t just walk up to them and start chatting.”

  “You can’t, but I can,” he said as he stepped back toward her. “Arabella Huntington has been pursuing a friendship with my family for years. Being the snobs that we are—not me, my kindred—every effort has been rebuffed. Believe me, she’d be more than happy to chat with me and meet my friend.” He smiled, and the glint in his eye betrayed the slight devil-may-care quality she had seen in the twirls of his mustache. What an odd pastiche of contrasts, Mary thought as she walked with him over to Arabella and Archer Huntington.

  “Mrs. Huntington, Archer,” George exclaimed as he bowed, “what a nice surprise to run into you here.”

  “Please, George, no need to be formal with me. Call me Arabella,” she cooed, her tone infinitely warmer and friendlier than the one she had taken with her driver. “And where else would we be? Archer is back from Spain, and, like you, the two of us can’t make it through the day without our requisite amount of great art.”

  “You know me well, Arabella, and it appears you’ll get to know me better. I understand you’re building a home just a stone’s throw from my brother.”

  “Yes, we’ve bought a small piece of land and—”

  “Small? From what I’m told there’s not much of Fifth Avenue left. They’re thinking of changing its name to Arabella Way.”

  She emitted a short bellow of a laugh. “Oh, George, you do have such a wonderful sense of humor.”

  “Thank you. You’re being generous as usual. Arabella and Archer, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Mary Handley.”

  “Well,” said Arabella, “I am more than pleased to meet any friend of George’s. How do you do, Miss Handley?”

  After the requisite bows and pleasantries were exchanged between Mary and the Huntingtons, George turned to Archer. “Archer, I know how fascinated you are with Hispanic culture. Have you seen the Goya the museum just acquired?”

  “Really, a Goya? Where is it?”

  “Come, I’ll show you. Please excuse us, ladies. We’ll be right back.”

  And they left, but not before George nodded his good-bye, casting an almost imperceptible sly glance at Mary. There was definitely an element of the rogue in him, and Mary liked that. She was also impressed by how smoothly he had orchestrated her being alone with Arabella Huntington—without even a hint of suspicion.

  “Well, it looks like we have an opportunity to have a little get-to-know-you chat,” Arabella remarked with a smile.

  “Yes, I’d like that very much, Mrs. Huntington.”

  “Good,” responded Arabella as the coldness she’d exhibited with her driver crept into her voice. “But first you must explain why you, a neophyte detective, were pretending to sketch houses outside my home.”

  5

  ABIGAIL CORDAY WAS an actress of little repute, her accomplishments unable to fill the smallest footnote in the annals of New York theater or any theater at all. Much to her chagrin, besides having a few small roles in some less than noteworthy melodramas, her biggest break had come a few months earlier when she was cast in a production of Sophocles’s Electra, where she was merely one of many in the chorus of the Women of Mycenae. Since a Greek chorus required a uniformity of look and movement, individual actors rarely stood out. But Abigail had managed to circumvent that.

  She had long admired the Italian actress Eleonora Duse, who was known for her naturalistic acting style and for portraying real, raw emotions. She felt only disdain for most actors of the day. Their set facial expressions and hand gestures indicating what emotion they were supposed to be feeling were superficial, phony, and almost comical to her. Abigail had worked hard on her part in the Greek chorus of Electra, making sure every word, every gesture, and every movement was completely genuine and truly felt. She had even created a detailed background for her character. It had nothing to do with the action of the play, but it had helped her to understand who she was and why she was there.

  Abigail realized early on that the director had no concept of reality, urging the actors to make one untruthful move after another. So she approached him after one of the rehearsals. She pointed out that the chorus was looking up when they should have been looking left and they were moving to the right when they obviously should have been moving forward.

  “Why would I look up? What’s my motivation?” she had asked.

  He had simply replied,
“Your job, my dear.”

  On opening night, after three weeks of rehearsal following the director’s lead and feeling like a complete fraud, she had come to the conclusion that she was going to show the American audiences what real acting was. True, she was part of a chorus, but all the Women of Mycenae were real people who had very real lives. If the director had been more receptive to her ideas, he would have understood. How could anyone contest that they were all human beings?

  When the curtain rose and the play had begun, she was a living, breathing person, and the others in the chorus were the lifeless automatons of the director’s creation. She had rationalized that the fact that she was not performing the same movements and gestures as the others was minute compared to the clear difference between being truthful and being artificial. So when the chorus looked down, she looked up. When they stepped to the right, she stepped to the left. At one point, Abigail collided with another actor.

  In a very short time and after howls of laughter, the curtain came down, only to be raised a few minutes later with one less Woman of Mycenae in the cast. Abigail wasn’t nearly as upset at being fired as she was at the audience’s reaction. She thought, How could people be so shallow? How could they fail to see what was so clearly presented in front of them? She had decided from that moment on that no one’s opinion would matter except for her own. She would not only dig deeply into each role she played and become the truthful incarnation of the playwright’s intent, but she also had no need for her art to be confined to a theater. She would no longer be Abigail Corday in everyday life but rather the characters she portrayed or wanted to portray. That way she would not only attain more insight into her roles but also give people who never went to the theater, like her local grocer in Brooklyn, the benefit of experiencing true art anywhere, anytime. One day she would be Ophelia in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, another she’d be Agnès in Molière’s The School for Wives, and yet another Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’s Agamemnon. When she got bored with portraying someone else’s creation, she would invent her own characters or portray people she knew or had casually met, making up histories for them to fill in what she didn’t know. Shakespeare had written, “All the world’s a stage,” and she would take it literally.