These Shallow Graves (21 page)

Jo knew her father and uncle could be tough negotiators and stern taskmasters. She knew, too, that in a commercial enterprise, one's partners and employees were not always happy with the terms of every deal. Sailors and captains often complained they hadn't been paid enough. Listening to Shaw now, Jo assumed the dig he'd made at her father and uncle was simply more such sniping.

Eddie poured more gin. Shaw watched the alcohol flow into his glass. “All the gin in New York couldn't drown the memory of the sounds that came from the ship,” he said.

“Sounds? What sounds?” Jo asked, puzzled. Tea and spices didn't make noise.

“I was aboard the
Albion,
a tea clipper,” Shaw continued. “This was nearly twenty years ago. We were off the coast of Mozambique. It was night, and a thick fog had come down. Out of nowhere, the
Bonaventure
came at us. Our captain was mad as hell. He hailed her but she didn't answer. She passed within yards of us, as quiet as a ghost ship. I heard it then. We all did. Some nights, I still hear it.” He passed a trembling hand over his face. “The fog closed around her again and we kept going. What else could we do?”

“Mr. Shaw, what was on that ship?” Jo pressed, anxious for an answer.

Shaw didn't reply. He looked past Jo, toward the bar, and it seemed to her as if he was working up his courage. Then suddenly his eyes widened; he jumped to his feet, startling her.

“Hey! Where are you going? We had a deal!” Eddie said.

“Sorry, son. A bottle of gin's not worth my life.”

“Mr. Shaw,
please
don't go,” Jo begged.

Shaw was about to bolt, but the desperation in Jo's voice stopped him. “Follow the
Nausett,
” he said tersely. “Follow the
Nausett
and you'll find the
Bonaventure.
God help you if you do.”

He stumbled across the room, climbed the steps to the sidewalk, and was gone. Jo, bitterly disappointed, looked toward the bar to see what had spooked him. A man was hurrying out of Walsh's, close on Shaw's heels. He shielded his face with his hat, but Jo still managed to glimpse close-cropped hair, hard eyes …

… and a cheek puckered by a long, livid scar.

“It was
him,
Eddie, I know it was!” Jo said. She was turning in a frantic circle out on the sidewalk, looking for the scar-faced man, but he was gone.

“
Who?
What are you talking about?” Eddie asked, catching up to her. She'd run out of the dive as if she were on fire.

“The man who just left Walsh's! He's the same man we saw at the museum. The one who followed us into the sculpture gallery.”

“Are you sure, Jo?”

“I'm positive. Is he following us? Who is he?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Eddie replied. “But he sure spooked Shaw.”

Eddie started back to Mulberry Street; Jo fell into step beside him.

“What was on that ship?” Eddie asked, frustration in his voice. “What did Van Houten trade besides tea and spices?”

“Coffee, quinine, and cocoa. But we're not even sure it
was
a Van Houten ship. Shaw himself wasn't sure,” Jo said.

Eddie gave her a sidelong glance. “You
still
believe no one at Van Houten is involved in any wrongdoing? Your father is murdered. A strange man shakes down Scully. A weird ghost ship carries suspicious cargo. Oh, and I almost forgot—some scar-faced tough might be following us.”

His sarcastic tone stung, and Jo—smarting from it—didn't immediately answer him. Shaw's words echoed in her mind:
If you're going to bury the past, bury it deep, girl. Shallow graves always give up their dead.
An uneasiness had descended on her, as cold and ominous as a winter night.

“I don't know what to believe,” she admitted.

Eddie applauded. “Finally!” he said.

“
Must
you be so condescending?” Jo asked, annoyed.

“Do forgive me,” Eddie said, with mock contrition. “I meant to goad, not condescend.”

Jo glared at him. Was it only a few hours ago that she so desperately wanted to kiss him? Now she felt like throttling him. She was used to polite deference from young men and kept forgetting that Eddie was not terribly polite or deferential. They started to argue more heatedly, but the sound of another voice stopped them.

“Eddie. Eddie Gallagher.”

Eddie came to a standstill. He held a hand out, staying Jo.

A girl stood on the sidewalk just ahead of them, at the corner of Bayard and Mulberry. She was wearing a striped silk dress, a velvet cape, and a plumed hat. It was an ensemble Jo herself would have been pleased to own, and the girl wore it well, but her sudden appearance had a disorienting effect on Jo. She was beautiful and so incredibly out of place, but no one seemed to notice. People passed her by without a second glance. Jo felt as if someone had dropped a magnificent jewel on the dirty street and no one could be bothered to pick it up.

“Fay,” Eddie said, looking at the girl. He didn't sound happy.

The girl nodded and Jo suddenly recognized her. She'd seen her at the waterfront with Tumbler, but the girl looked very different tonight. Not only were her clothes far better than what she'd been wearing then, her face was rouged, and her hair was auburn, not blond.

“He wants you, Newsie,” she said.

Eddie quickly glanced up Mulberry. As he did, Tumbler emerged from the shadows. Two other boys stepped out of doorways; two girls sitting on a stoop stood up. They were all beautifully dressed, just like Fay. With their pale, expressionless faces, they reminded Jo of sinister porcelain dolls, suddenly come to life.

“I wouldn't run if I were you,” Fay advised. “Tumbler and Ashcan have knives.”

Eddie swore. His hand tightened on Jo's arm. For the first time that night, Jo was not just nervous or anxious, but genuinely afraid.

“Just me, Fay,” Eddie said. “Not her. I'll go with you, but she goes home in a cab.”

Fay shook her head. “Sorry, Newsie,” she said with a regretful smile. “He wants you both.”

The alley Eddie led her down was so narrow and so dark that Jo could hardly see where she was going, but she had seen its name as she'd entered it. Someone had scrawled it on a wall:
Bandits Roost.

Eddie held her hand tightly as they walked. His steps were quick and sure; he knew his way. Fay, Tumbler, and the four other children trailed them.

“Where are we going?” Jo whispered.

“To see the Tailor. We've been summoned,” Eddie replied.

“He's the man for whom Fay works, isn't he? New York's very own Fagin?”

“The one and only,” Eddie said grimly.

“Should I be scared?”

“You should be home. Why did I let you come here? If we get out of this, I'm never taking you with me anywhere again.
Ever.
I swear to God.”

The
if
worried Jo. “What does he want with us?”

“To talk. At least, I hope that's what he wants.”

The alley opened into a rectangular yard bordered by eight rickety wooden buildings, each three stories high. Thin, hollow-cheeked men wearing little more than rags sat around the yard smoking pipes or drinking from cracked mugs. Jo glimpsed a room through an open door. Women and children lay sprawled on the floor of the small space.

“Almost there,” Eddie said, leading her toward the most decrepit house in the yard. Its ground-level windows were dark and its door was shut tight, but its second floor boasted a balcony. Eddie looked up at it. As he did, a young man who was loitering in the yard walked up to him.

“Why, if it isn't Eddie Gallagher,” he said. “Slumming tonight, are we, Newsie? Who's yer fancy lady?”

Jo stiffened. The man seemed to know Eddie, just as Mick Walsh had, but there was a menacing tone to his voice. Like the other men in the yard, he wore an old bowler hat pulled low across his brow. His left eye was covered by a patch.

“Pretty Will,” Eddie said. “It's been a long time. Sorry I can't chat, but I've got business with the Tailor.”

The young man stepped directly in front of him.

“I don't want any trouble,” said Eddie, holding his hands up.

“Doesn't mean you won't get none,” Will said. “I'll have them cuff links off you, for starters. That jacket, too. Plus whatever's in your pockets.” He looked at Jo leeringly. “And then I'll have her.”

Eddie pushed Jo behind him. He raised his fists.

“Whatcha gonna do, Newsie? There's one of you and ten of us,” Will said, gesturing to the men in the yard.

“Never mind what
he's
going to do,” Fay said. She'd pushed past Jo and Eddie and was now in Will's face. “It's what
I'm
going to do that should worry you.” She pointed at the balcony. “I'll tell
him.
When he hears you've interfered with his guests, he'll come down here with his scissors. He sharpens them every night.” She touched Will's eye patch with a gloved finger. “But I don't have to tell
you
that, do I?”

Fear flickered in Will's remaining eye. Seeing it, Tumbler grinned and made a stabbing motion with his hand.

“Watch yourself, you little shit,” Will growled, moving away from them.

Tumbler put his fingers his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Seconds later, a ladder was lowered from the balcony. He climbed it.

Fay nodded at Jo. “What were you thinking, bringing her here?” she asked Eddie.

“It's a long story,” Eddie replied.

Fay shook her head. “You're a fool, Newsie. She'll be the death of you.” She started up the ladder.

“You're next,” Eddie told Jo, keeping a watchful eye on Pretty Will.

Jo put her hands on a rung, took a deep breath, and started to climb.

Jo expected fierce-looking villains. Guns and knives. Piles of money. Bottles of gin.

She never expected lace.

As she stepped through the window into the Tailor's rookery, she nearly landed in a basket of it. Bolts of fabric leaned against the walls—delicate chintzes, watered silks, rich brocades. Coffee tins overflowed with buttons and beads. On the far side of the room stood several dressmaker's dummies. One sported a mauve gown so exquisite it could have passed for a Worth. Jo walked to it and touched a sleeve. She couldn't help herself.

“It would look divine on you, my dear,” a voice said.

She turned and saw a man sitting at a wooden worktable. He held a long pair of scissors in one hand. He was slight, with a narrow, angular face, a high forehead, and deep-set eyes. They glittered darkly in the lamplight. His hair, dark brown and streaked with gray, was pulled back and tied with a ribbon. He wore a grimy white shirt, a gray wool vest, and matching narrow-cut trousers. A pincushion was strapped to one wrist.

“Jacob Beckett, high-class tailor, at your service,” he said, dipping his head.

Something in his smile frightened Jo, but she knew better than to show it. She met his gaze and said, “Josie Jones, reporter. I'm pleased to meet you.”

Just then, a small, dirty hand came up over the top of the table and closed around a jeweled button. In one swift, fluid motion, the man stabbed his scissors into the table. Jo gasped, certain he'd driven the blades through the child's flesh, but he'd only pinned its shirt cuff. The child, a little blond boy with vacant eyes, whined as he tried to pull free.

The tailor put a hand on the boy's head. “You steal
for
me, Noggin, not
from
me, remember? If you
bring
me something, I … ,” he prompted. “I what, boy?”

“
Feed
Noggin,” the boy said.

“And if you
take
something I … what? Come now, say it. …”

“
Beat
Noggin.”

“Very good. Off you go.” The man pulled his scissors out of the table, releasing the boy's cuff, and turned back to Jo. “Simple as an apple, that one, but he has a face like an angel. He's so pretty in the sailor suit I made him, ladies stop dead in their tracks to coo over him.”

“And never feel a thing when Fay moves in,” Eddie said. He'd just crawled in through the window, after having pulled the ladder up behind them.

The Tailor ignored his remark. “Do have a seat,” the Tailor said, motioning Jo and Eddie to two empty chairs at the table. “Fay, my dear, some coffee for our guests.”

Jo's eyes followed Fay as she moved across the room to a large black stove. She saw more children—dozens of them. They were thin and wary and wouldn't meet her gaze. Some had bruises on their arms or faces. The youngest were asleep in wooden bunks. Older ones were wearily polishing silver, cleaning jewelry, or sorting coins.

It hit Jo then, how big the Tailor's operation was. All these orphans were being brought up to lead a life of crime. She was so deeply distressed by the sight of the children, she spoke without thinking.

“You're running a factory here—a factory of little thieves. The Artful Dodger would feel right at home.”

“Jo … ,” Eddie warned.

But the Tailor smiled. “I thank you for the compliment. Dickens's work is an inspiration to me, Fagin a hero.”

“I wasn't paying you a compliment, sir,” Jo retorted. “Dickens wrote
Oliver Twist
as a deterrent to crime, not a spur to it. You're exploiting innocent children. You've made criminals of them. Doesn't your conscience trouble you?”

“Life's black-and-white uptown, but here in the Bend, it's a dirty gray,” the Tailor said. He wasn't smiling anymore. “I've kept throwaway children alive—that's what I've done. See Jakes over there?” He nodded at a little boy. “I found him abandoned in the outhouse where he was born. And Muttbait”—he pointed at a tiny girl with livid scars on her face—“she was left in an alley and attacked by dogs. I found Snow”—he gestured at a girl of about ten—“freezing to death on Mott Street. Her mother turned her out. She had no choice. She has seven more at home and earns less in a year than what you spend on one bonnet. I house them and feed them, and they, in turn, must earn their keep. So no, Miss Montfort, my conscience does not trouble me. Does yours trouble you?”

Jo blinked. “How did you know my—”

“I make it my business to know who enters my home.”

Jo was taken aback but not ready to concede her point. “There are orphanages where these children could go. There are mission houses.”

“Indeed there are,” the Tailor allowed. He turned his glittering eyes on Eddie. “And most would rather starve on the streets than live in them. Isn't that right, Mr. Gallagher?”

Eddie gave him a deadly look. “Are we going to chat all night?” he said. “What do you want?”

Before the Tailor could reply, Fay, still in her elegant suit, came up behind Eddie and Jo and placed mugs of black coffee before them. Then she walked around to where the Tailor stood and dropped a handful of heavy silver buttons on the table.

His eyes lit up. “Very nice! Where'd you get them?” he asked her.

“Pastor's Theatre,” she said. “I snuck into the cloakroom and cut them off.”

As Jo watched, astounded, Fay divested herself of the evening's gleanings. Two wallets and a gold watch came out of pockets cannily stitched between the pleats of her skirt. A silver cigarette case was pulled out of one boot, a money clip from the other. Five silver dollars came out of her corset, followed by a gold ring with a diamond in it.

The Tailor gave an admiring whistle as he examined the ring, and Fay proudly related how she pretended to stumble outside the theater and took it off a man's hand as he helped her up.

“Well done,” the Tailor said, beaming at her.

“Wait,” Fay said. “There's one more thing. …”

With a taunting smile, she held out a gold ladies' watch. And a five-dollar note.

Jo recognized the watch. She felt in her skirt pocket; it was empty. “Those are mine!” she cried.

“Not anymore,” the Tailor said happily.

“Give them back,” Eddie demanded.

“I could,” the Tailor mused. “Or I could keep them, beat you both silly, and toss you off the balcony.”

Eddie rose from his chair. Immediately, a dozen children surrounded them, each brandishing some sort of weapon—scissors, kitchen knives, ice picks, a wrench.

Jo put a hand on Eddie's arm and pulled him back down. She was very scared now, but she knew she must not lose her head. The portrait of Admiral Montfort flashed before her eyes. She heard his stern voice telling her that a Montfort does what needs to be done. What needed to be done now was to figure out how to get herself and Eddie out of there. Alive.

“Why are you down here?” the Tailor asked. “I don't like reporters. I especially don't like them in my backyard.”

“We're working on a story. An exposé of living conditions in the Bend,” Eddie lied.

The Tailor shook his head. “I want the
truth,
boy,” he said. And then, in one swift, fluid motion, he arched across the table and drove his scissors into the wood—this time only inches from Jo's hand.

“God
damn
you!” Eddie shouted.

He was out of his seat again in an instant, ready to lunge at the Tailor, but Muttbait stopped him.

She'd come up from under the table, as silent as a viper. She was wedged between Eddie and the table now, still holding the ice pick she'd brandished earlier. Only now she was holding it directly under Eddie's left eye. The tip had nicked his skin. A drop of blood slowly made its way down his cheek.

“You might have left, boy, but I'm still here,” the Tailor hissed. “You forget me? Forget who I am? Some cheek, to come nosing around in the Bend,
my
Bend, without so much as a by-your-leave. Talk.
Now.
Or you'll be feeling your way home.”

It wasn't Eddie who started talking, but Jo. She was terrified. Not for herself, for him. She was so scared, she babbled like a lunatic.

“My father was murdered. I'm trying to find who did it. Eddie's helping me. That's why we're here,” she said.

The Tailor raised an eyebrow. “Keep going,” he ordered.

Jo did. Without looking at Eddie. She knew if she so much as glanced at him, she'd come apart. She told the Tailor about her trip to the morgue. About Kinch, Eleanor Owens, and the
Bonaventure.
She said they'd just come from Mick Walsh's, where they'd spoken to a man named Jackie Shaw.

“What did Shaw tell you?” the Tailor asked. “The truth, girl.”

“Not much. Shaw doesn't know who Kinch is,” Jo said, trying hard not to give in to her fear.

“What about the ship?”

“He said the
Bonaventure
docked in Zanzibar,” Jo explained. “He led us to believe that it carried some kind of mysterious cargo, but he didn't tell us what it was. I think he might've, but someone spooked him. A man. He had a scar on his face. Dark eyes. Short hair. Shaw saw him and left Walsh's as fast as he could.”

The Tailor pondered her words, then nodded. “Down, Muttbait,” he said.

The little girl lowered her ice pick and disappeared back under the table, and Jo felt her heart rate return to something approaching normal. Her fear ebbed, and anger took its place. The Tailor was a bully, and she despised bullies. He lived off the backs of children and kept them, and his visitors, in line using violence.

Eddie wiped the blood off his face with the heel of his hand. “She gave you what you want. Let us go,” he said.

“Before you do, I would like to have my watch back,” Jo said.

The Tailor sputtered laughter. “I'm sure you would,” he said.

Jo was seething, but she kept her expression calm and her voice level. The Tailor, she saw, understood two things—brute force and money. She had no access to the former, but she could leverage the latter.

“I'm afraid you don't understand,” she continued. “My mother will notice that I no longer have the watch and will want to know what became of it. I don't want to raise her suspicions. It's difficult enough as it is for me to get out of my house at night. You may keep the five dollars.”

The Tailor looked as if he simply could not believe what he was hearing. “Oh, I may, may I? How very kind of you,” he said sarcastically. “I'm tempted to follow my original idea, however, and throw you off the balcony.”

Jo frowned regretfully. “That would be an unfortunate choice.”

“Very unfortunate,” the Tailor agreed. “For you.”

“No, sir. For
you.
”

“How do you figure that?”

“If you take my things and kill me, you forfeit a lucrative business arrangement,” she explained. “The watch is only gold plate. It's from Woolworth's. Would I be foolish enough to wear anything of value to the Bend? Of course not. I've already paid for Tumbler's services. I'll pay you again for similar services, or for any information pertaining to Kinch or the
Bonaventure.
” She gestured to the room and all of its occupants. “These children go everywhere, do they not? One of them might spot Kinch. My proposal will bring you more profit than what you'd make selling a trinket.”

Eddie blinked.

The Tailor cocked his head, taking her measure. “You're a Montfort through and through,” he said. Then he gave Fay a curt nod. She handed Jo her watch back but gave the five-dollar note to him.

“How am I supposed to get her a cab home with no money?” Eddie asked.

“You're a clever lad. You'll think of something. But do be careful, my dears. It's dangerous in the Bend,” the Tailor said with a baiting smile.

Jo didn't care about a cab, or how far she had to walk. All she felt was relief that they'd survived their interview with this dangerous man. She stood, wanting only one thing: to get far away from him.

As she and Eddie rose from their seats to leave, she saw Fay—who'd removed her face paint—grasp her hair and pull it off. She'd been wearing a wig. Her real hair, coiled close to her head, was a silvery blond. They stared at each other.

Jo was angry at Fay for leading her here and picking her pocket, but at the same time, Fay intrigued her. Jo guessed they were about the same age, but that was the only similarity between them.

“You look very different now,” she said.

“That's the idea,” Fay replied.

“She's as fair as the wee people. That's why I call her Fairy Fay. She came to me as a tiny girl. She'd been left in a stairwell by her gin-fiend mother. She was starving and sick, and lucky I came along when I did. She's brilliant, my Fay. Learned the trade quick. With that face and the dresses I put her in, she can mix anywhere, but alas, she's getting known. Despite the rouge and the wigs,” he said, sighing. “Her pickpocket's career is ending and another awaits her. She has something even more valuable under her skirts than wallets or buttons.”