Ten Days in August (10 page)

Nicky was surprised to have been so easily deciphered. “All right,” he said softly. “My brother George owns a horse stable up in Longacre Square. That is the extent of the glamour in my family.”

Hank looked at Nicky and met his gaze. “To get back to my point, you told me you would know the man you saw with Edward if you saw him again. If our theory is correct that he's of the uptown elite and he was slumming downtown, he might be at Amelia's charity ball. It is set for this Monday evening.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow.”

“You could come with me to the charity ball and perhaps see the man there. Most of the Four Hundred are off at their summer homes, but anyone who is anyone and still in the city will very likely be there.”

Of all things, a charity ball. Nicky had never been to anything like that, and he wasn't sure how well he could blend in. “Are you sure?”

“I think it is the best idea I've had for breaking this case open. I believe if we put you in some sort of disguise, you could act well enough to blend in. All I would need you to do is point out the man in question should you see him.”

Nicky could picture himself strolling into a ball like that on Hank's arm, so to speak, mingling with high society, dressed to the nines. He liked the image, even if he was not entirely convinced he was that good of an actor. “All right, I will think on it.”

“Naturally. No need to decide right at this moment.”

Nicky polished off the last of the cheese and felt a great deal better than he had just minutes before. “Well, darling, just as you did not come to my apartment this morning with the intention of ending up in my bed, I did not come here with the intention of eating dinner. Not that I do not appreciate the gesture immensely.”

“Perhaps I should show you the rest of my home.”

“Perhaps.”

Hank took the plates away and put them in a basin. Then he doused the light and helped Nicky stand. Hank took Nicky's hand and led him to the staircase. Hank put his foot on the first step, but Nicky stopped him.

“Hank?”

“What is it?”

“I just want to say thank you.”

Nicky leaned up and pressed a kiss to Hank's lips. When he pulled away, Hank smiled.

“If no other good comes of this wretched week,” Hank said, “I will always have these memories of you.”

How could it be a man as gruff as Hank could be this sweet? “Take me to bed, darling.”

 

The large mechanical fan over Hank's bed ineffectively blew hot air around, but at least they were naked as Hank took Nicky's cock into his mouth.

Nicky writhed beneath Hank. This intimacy was surprising. There had been a few dalliances over the years, mostly with the aging working boys who worked at Bulgaria looking for reminders their customers were not the beginning and the end, but nothing quite like this. Hank was enthusiastic, his lips moving up and down the shaft of Nicky's cock, his mouth hot and wet, the groan in the back of his throat genuine and not a performance. Hank's mustachioed upper lip sliding over Nicky's cock made for a scene that was unmistakably masculine and unbelievably arousing. Hank wrapped his hand around the base of Nicky's cock and stroked it as he licked the tip, and every now and then he'd look up toward Nicky and meet his gaze. Every time Nicky saw those big eyes, greenish in the dim light of the bedroom, a part of him melted.

This was not a quick fumble in the dark to relieve stress and pressure or to be reminded he was a man and not an object. There was something genuine here.

Nicky arched off the bed, thrusting his hips up so his cock slid into Hank's waiting mouth and he went hot and flush everywhere as pleasure and arousal coursed through him.

Hank sucked and licked and then pulled away slowly. He crawled up Nicky's body and kissed him hard. Nicky kissed him back, happy for the touch, the intimacy, the way this moment made him feel like himself in his own body. He'd gotten into the habit of floating out somewhere else when someone he didn't truly desire was all over him, but he wanted Hank. Hank was rugged and handsome and gruff and sweet and a whole pile of tiny contradictions. Nicky would have chosen him over and over again.

He thrust his fingers into the skin of Hank's bottom and pulled him close so that their hips lined up, so that their cocks slid together. Hank groaned into Nicky's mouth, and Nicky moved his hands up to tug on Hank's hair. Hank broke the kiss to sigh and then plunged back in, moving his hips rhythmically against Nicky's.

“God,” Hank said. “You will be my undoing.”

“Spend against me, Hank. Come apart for me. I want you to be desperate for me.”

“I am. I am so desperate for you. I want you all the time. I've been thinking about you ceaselessly for two days. And now you're under me and you're so . . .” Hank pressed his lips against Nicky's and thrust again, perhaps finding purchase, because he groaned again.

Nicky felt the tingles, the boiling inside, and he knew it was just a matter of moments before the crash.

Hank's obvious hunger made something wake up inside of Nicky, flipping on like an electric light bulb. When he fetched, it was like the pop of that bulb exploding. He clung onto Hank, throwing his arms around Hank's shoulders, and he pumped his hips up as Hank bit his earlobe, and he felt himself fly to pieces. Hank murmured something incomprehensible and then spent as well. Their sticky spend spread on Nicky's belly. When Hank dipped his head to lick some of it up, Nicky thought he would die from the fierce pleasure of it.

Hank rolled over and lay on his back, panting. “There may come a time when we simply concede to the fact we are attracted to each other.”

Nicky laughed breathlessly. “Oh, darling, that moment passed for me half an hour ago.”

“I'm glad.” Hank stretched, his long body taut as he threw his arms up. “Seemed silly to argue otherwise.”

Nicky wanted to ask Hank what he intended to happen here, but he was afraid to make more of this than it was. Perhaps this was just two men who found mutual pleasure in each other and nothing more. Nicky certainly couldn't afford to take more than that. He still had a career to think of, his own apartment, a life that needed to be away from the curious eyes of the police or the prying intentions of other spectators.

Though if anyone understood the need for privacy, it was Hank.

Nicky let his body relax, melting into the mattress. He was sweaty and sticky and a little uncomfortable, but he didn't have the wherewithal to move. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to decide if he should leave or talk Hank into letting him stay the night. He was not particularly eager to walk back across town in the wee hours of the morning—Nicky had no delusions he was the picture of masculinity, and as such, he tended to get harassed by drunken toughs when he was out late, which was not to mention the killer apparently on the loose—nor did he want to overstay his welcome.

But then Hank said, “Please stay with me tonight.”

And Nicky couldn't say no.

Day 4

Saturday, August 8
Temperature: 103 °F

H
ank woke up sweaty and overheated and thought at first he'd somehow pulled his quilt over his body despite the heat. Then he realized the “quilt” in question was actually Nicky, draped over his chest and snoozing softly.

That was . . . lovely.

It was also far too hot.

Hank tried to nudge Nicky toward the other side of the bed, but Nicky woke up with a start. He jerked up into a sitting position and then looked around. “Hank.”

“You're all right,” Hank said, cupping his hand over Nicky's shoulder and easing him back down on the bed. “Sorry to wake you, but you were lying on top of me like a down quilt. On a winter night, I would have left you, but as I believe the temperature in this room is already well above eighty degrees . . .”

Nicky lay on his back beside Hank and pressed a hand to his forehead. “I apologize.”

“Don't. To be clear, I only minded because it is so hot this morning. Otherwise, I quite liked you on top of me.”

“I should not have stayed this late. I did not intend to.”

“You were tired.”

“Your bed is comfortable.” Nicky yawned.

Hank reached over and trailed a finger from Nicky's Adam's apple to his navel. Nicky had yards of skin that now glistened with sweat and sparkled in the sunlight. The effect was quite magical, as if there were something otherworldly about him.

“Pardon me for a moment.” Nicky got out of bed and left the room.

The washroom was down the hall, so Hank figured that was where Nicky was headed. Hank lay back on the mattress and kicked the bedding onto the floor. He was naked but it was too hot not to be. He was starting to drift back to sleep when Nicky returned, also naked. He still had lines near his eyes from last night's makeup, still had rouge on his cheeks.

“I like your house,” Nicky said.

“Thanks. My parents bought it just after I was born. My father's pension. He was in the war.”

“Ah.” Nicky settled beside Hank, though they stayed about an inch apart on the mattress. That was a shame, but just as well. Holding each other probably would have cause them both to melt.

“Took a minie ball to the leg,” Hank said. “His shin was shattered and had to be amputated. As a kid, I thought it was amazing to have a father with a peg leg, but I didn't appreciate until I was much older how much pain he must have been in all the time. My parents actually lived in the room on the first floor for a time because he could not climb the stairs.”

“So your father was a war hero.” Nicky rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows.

“I suppose. I never knew him well. I was about twelve when he passed.”

Nicky nodded. “Well, darling, my father is still among the living, at least when he deems it reasonable to climb out of his bottle. When he is not intoxicated, he lives with my sister Brigid.”

Nicky was doing the nickname thing again, so this was a topic with which he was uncomfortable. Hank reached over and cupped Nicky's face with his palm. Nicky's gaze met his. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Hank imagined some silent communication passed between them. They understood each other despite their differences. Hank certainly had a clearer picture of what Nicky was about now.

Or that was his imagination.

“I should be leaving,” Nicky said, rolling away. “Things to do today.”

Deliberately flippant, Hank said, “What does a singer who works nights have to do so early in the morning?”

Nicky began to gather his clothes. He stopped to aim a sardonic look at Hank before he pulled them on. “Well, you know, darling, I have many things to attend to. You'll just have to use your imagination. Maybe I'll fritter away the day on frilly things at the department stores on Ladies' Mile. Or I've got another lover to see to.”

A deflection. Which meant Nicky didn't want Hank to know where he planned to go. That Hank cared so much was problematic, but he said, “I'll bet I made you shoot more last night than your other lover could in a month.”

Nicky let out a surprised laugh. “You think a great deal of yourself, love.”

Hank got out of bed and walked to his own wardrobe. He stood there, pretending to be indecisive about what to wear, probably longer than was necessary, but he felt Nicky's gaze on him. Nicky was attracted, all right. That was all to the good, since Hank intended to have him again.

“Have you given any thought to my proposition about the charity ball?”

Nicky walked to Hank's mirror and tied his tie. He pilfered a handkerchief from the little stack Hank kept on the dresser and wiped at his face, removing the last vestiges of the makeup. “Lord almighty, but I look a fright in the morning.”

“You're beautiful,” Hank said. “One of the most striking men I have ever laid eyes on.”

Nicky turned around. Were his cheeks pink from the rouge, from the exertion of removing the rouge, or from embarrassment at the compliment? Nicky said, “I believe I have just the disguise for your charity ball. Two days hence?”

“Monday evening, yes.” Hank started pulling on his clothes, an idea forming in his mind.

“Come to my apartment an hour prior to when you'd like to arrive.” Nicky glanced at the clock. “I really must be going, but if you need to find me, leave word for me at Bulgaria. Presumably you could use the pretense of your investigation to do so.”

“All right. I believe I can manage that.” He made a show of buttoning his shirt and pulling on his suspenders. “I should leave as well. Criminals to catch and all.”

“Of course, darling. Crime does not take off for the Sabbath, I imagine.”

“Usually not, no.”

Nicky smiled and walked over to Hank. He gave Hank a slow kiss, sexy and drawn out, but more affectionate than a prelude to anything.

“I will see you Monday,” Hank said.

“If not sooner,” said Nicky.

Hank quite liked the sound of that.

He gave Nicky a moment's lead and then locked up and bounded down the front steps. He saw Nicky round the corner onto Sixth Avenue, so he followed at a distance. He was good at keeping to shadows and dark places, even on sunny days, and it was not difficult as Nicky seemed to be following the elevated train path.

This decision was foolish, perhaps, but Hank's nagging sense Nicky was up to something and hiding an important element of the case would not let go. So Hank followed Nicky east along Houston Street and then, somewhat to Hank's chagrin, Nicky turned into the Tenth Ward.

At first Hank suspected Nicky knew he was following and had deliberately turned into a crowded neighborhood teeming with people in order to lose the tail, but Hank stuck with him and soon realized Nicky walked with the determination of someone with a specific destination. Indeed, Nicky walked up to a tenement on Hester Street, but rather than going inside, he paused to talk to the children gathered on the stoop.

“Where is your sister?” Nicky asked a boy who was maybe five or six.

“Mama can't work, so Lucy went in her place.”

From Hank's current vantage point behind a pushcart—he'd pulled his hat over his eyes and pretended to browse the fruit on display with the intention of purchasing it, even though most of it was already spoiling in the hot sun—he couldn't see Nicky's face, but there was displeasure in his body language.

“Why can't your mother work?”

“Edith is sick,” the boy said.

Nicky's shoulders rose and fell. “Is your grandfather home?”

“Yes. He's sleeping.”

Nicky put his hands on his hips and looked around him. Hank ducked behind the vendor selling the rotting fruit. Nicky didn't seem to see him.

Hank felt guilty suddenly. Nicky knew these children clearly, and Hank couldn't imagine how they'd be tied to his case. That Nicky had business outside Club Bulgaria was obvious, and, given Hank and Nicky had only known each other for four days, there was no reason for Nicky to confide in Hank. Hank was now witnessing what was probably a family moment.

But just as Hank was about to sneak away and leave Nicky to his family, Nicky said, “Is Edith improved?”

“No, Uncle Nicky,” the boy said.

Nicky immediately went into the building. Hank considered following to be sure everything was all right, but suddenly his feet were lead. He waited instead, keeping to the shadows, watching the Lower East Side come to life around him. People moved about on the sidewalks, pushcart vendors fought for land ownership, and conversations bloomed in a dozen different languages.

The kids sitting on the stoop of the building Nicky had gone into were half-heartedly playing, tossing a small ball back and forth. Hank felt a pang as he realized there wasn't really anyone to watch out for these children. He walked up the sidewalk, past them, hoping to get a better look. Their clothes were stained and their hair was damp with sweat. Hank walked to the end of the block, trying to decide what to do. Really, he should leave. He should let Nicky have his privacy and he should walk uptown to his precinct house. Instead, before he was even conscious he was doing anything, he turned and walked back toward the building in question.

The boy Nicky had spoken with now sat on the top step. He pushed his hair away from his face with the palms of his hands.

“Do you live here?” Hank asked.

The boy nodded but eyed Hank warily.

Hank fished his police badge from his pocket and showed it to the boy. “I'm a police officer. I just want to make sure everything here is all right.”

“My sister's sick.”

“What is your name?”

“Anthony.”

Hank was about to ask more when a blood-curdling scream sounded through the building.

“Mama!” Anthony said, turning back toward the open door.

“How many floors up is your apartment?” Hank asked.

Anthony held up three fingers but said, “Four.”

Delightful.

Hank bounded up the first flight of stairs and glanced in the open doors on the second floor. An old woman wearing an alarmed expression looked back at him. He ran up the third floor . . . and there was Nicky on the landing.

Nicky's eyes went wide and his face white. Hank knew his presence would not be a welcome surprise, but he wanted to dispense with the awkwardness.

“What in the name of the devil are you doing here?” Nicky hissed.

“I followed you, all right? I wanted to know what you were up to.”

“It is none of your concern.” Nicky's shoulders went tense.

“I realize that now, but I heard someone scream, and in my capacity as an officer of the law, I am investigating.”

The fight seemed to go out of Nicky then. “All right. We shall discuss it later. Come with me.”

Hank followed Nicky into an apartment, if it could be called that. It seemed to be two crowded rooms. In one of them, a woman sat weeping on the edge of a bed. A young girl lay in the bed.

Nicky said softly, “My niece is quite ill. She's having trouble breathing and her fever is beyond anything I've ever seen before. I told Brigid she should prepare herself for the inevitable, and she screamed.”

“Will you allow me to check on your niece?”

“Yes, all right.”

Nicky walked toward the woman. This must have been Brigid. Her hair looked reddish in the poor lighting, but her facial features were a softened version of Nicky's. She wore a stained shirtwaist tucked into an unadorned black skirt. There was no pretense here, nothing fanciful, just a family in a bad situation struggling to get by.

“Brigid,” Nicky said. “This is Inspector Brandt. He's a police officer who was in the neighborhood. He's offered to see to little Edith.”

Brigid sat up straight and looked Hank over. She seemed unconvinced, but nodded once. Hank went to the bed and saw a tiny blond girl laying there. She slept, but there was nothing peaceful here. The girl's breathing was heavy and labored and her skin flush.

“I got ice for them two days ago,” Nicky said, “and that seemed to help, but there's no more available anywhere nearby. I fear she's too sick to move now.”

“I thought she would get better, but instead, she just pants and wheezes,” said Brigid. “I've tried the herbs my mother always gave us, and I tried putting cool cloths on her head, but this heat persists. I thought maybe if it broke, she would improve, but it goes on. The other children have been able to go outside, but Edith cannot.”

Hank felt the girl's forehead with the back of his hand. She felt as though she were on fire. Her breath rattled as she exhaled. Hank realized suddenly this girl's breaths were numbered, that she was about to become a victim of the heat like so many before her.

Nicky knelt next to the bed and pressed a hand to Edith's forehead.

“My baby,” Brigid said. “My sweet baby girl.” Then she started to weep.

Hank looked at Nicky, who was staring at the little girl. Her breaths were coming few and far between. The three adults watched her for several long moments. Hank wanted to do something, though there was nothing to be done. He wanted to take the girl to a hospital, but they'd never make it in time. He wanted to hold Nicky, but of course, that was impossible with his sister there. So instead he sat and waited.

He could tell the moment life left little Edith's body. She went slack and serene quite suddenly. Brigid's weeping became an anguished wail, so she must have noticed it, too. Nicky put a hand on Brigid's back as he silently cried for the little girl who did not deserve death anymore than she deserved to be born into such poverty.