"Nope, just said I was to guard your interests. Said they were the same as his. I'll look over the uptown location, put as many on it as is called for. But it's a far ways to go. I'll have to charge you extra for that." Miller paused while he calculated his costs and profit. "A hundred and a half a week," he said finally. "Four weeks in advance to start."

Josh was prepared. He counted six hundred-dollar bills from a roll in his pocket and pa.s.sed them over. "When will you start?"

Miller smiled. "We already started. I got my men in place down at the foundry right now. Mr. Devrey told me what was needed and that I was to do for you exactly like I would for him. When can I see the Ninety-First Street location?"

"Whenever you like," Josh said. "We're to move some steel up there a couple of nights from now."

They spent another few minutes discussing how to find the shed Josh had built on his mother's lot, and Miller's suggestion that he also provide two guards on the boat that would carry the beams and girders upriver. "The numbers you're talking about," Josh said, "two to guard the shipment, four at the foundry. Two on the boat. It doesn't sound like enough."

"My men carry pistols, Mr. Turner. Latest-model Colts. Some of 'em got rifles. And they're all sharpshooters. We're a match for anything that's out there. Fists or knives or billies or broken bottles, even sharpened teeth . . . none of it can compete with bullets."

Jesus G.o.d Almighty. A corrupt police force against hoodlums with firearms and some new form of organized Sicilian criminals who published a price list. The town would soon be under permanent martial law. Not his lookout. If they posted Seventh Regiment pickets on every d.a.m.ned corner, people still needed somewhere to live. Unless, of course, he'd actually added the bad apple to his own bushel. "Does the name DuVal Jones mean anything to you?"

The answer was immediate. "Sure it does. Jones works for the Brooklyn mayor."

"What?"

"Not the real mayor. That's what they call the man runs the Brooklyn lottery offices. Jones organizes his collections. Oversees the boyos who go to each office and collect the money coming to the mayor."

Only quasi criminal in that case. The lotteries were legal and hugely popular, particularly with those who could least afford to gamble. But dealing in that much cash-reportedly the business generated millions each year-invited every kind of leech to suck his share of blood. "I take it the man you call the mayor is being paid protection money?"

Miller nodded.

"And have you any idea, Mr. Miller, why a man working for this so-called mayor would want to live on Sixty-Third Street. Uptown Manhattan is a good ways from Brooklyn."

The other man's face lit up. "I get it. Jones is taking one of your flats, right?" And without waiting for a reply, "It makes perfect sense. Word is, Jones got married a while back. Pretty little young thing from some place out of town. That's what he's after, Mr. Turner. A place to stash his wife. Keep her tucked away, so to speak."

Confirming pretty much what Jones himself said. "Mr. Miller, you are a genius." Josh got up to show his visitor out, then, just before he closed the door, "My brother told me you're the best there is at this sort of thing. It seems he was right."

Frankie Miller smiled. "Appreciate the compliment, Mr. Turner. Happens your brother gave me my start when I was just a lad. Made me what I am today, Mr. Devrey did."

14.

EVEN SIX MONTHS with child and her belly sailing ahead of her like an inflated balloon-or so it seemed to her-Mollie could still wear most of her regular clothes. Her bosom was fuller and her middle thickened, but there was so much fabric in the skirts of her fashionable suits that once she let out their waists and moved the b.u.t.tons of the short fitted jackets that had always flattered her, the sort Harper's Bazaar referred to as a cuira.s.s basque, she was still presentable. This despite the fact that Dr. Thomas had made a point about not lacing her corsets too tightly, even suggested she dispense with the garment entirely until after the child was delivered.

He discussed such things through a woman called Miss Palmer, a nurse who was always present when Mollie went to his office. Miss Palmer, please tell Mrs. Turner about not wearing restrictive clothing whilst expecting. Looking at the nurse all the while, though Mollie was right there in the room with the two of them. Miss Palmer duly repeated the instructions after the doctor left the room. As if, Mollie thought, she herself had been stricken with temporary deafness while he was present.

Mollie was quite willing to forgo her corset, but she had not expected to be getting herself up in party finery when that final three months was just beginning. Josh, however, had invited her to accompany him to a special event. "Ebenezer Tickle is marrying an extraordinary little woman named Maude Pattycake. She's half his size if you can believe it. Maude herself invited me, and she specially asked that you come as well."

"But it's not, you say, a wedding in a church?"

"No. It's being held in what's known as Mama Jack's Cave. Frankly, it's a tavern of sorts. With a clientele who are . . . I guess distinctive's the word. All happy in each other's company and making merry as if they were any regular a.s.sortment of New Yorkers. Not a place I'd consider taking you in the ordinary way of things, but this isn't ordinary. I'll understand if you think it impossible in your condition. But if you're feeling well enough, I'd like to show Ebenezer the respect he deserves. Nothing would make that more apparent than the pair of us attending his wedding."

She knew he was right on both counts. The dwarf was responsible for much of the success that was lately coming their way, and the presence of his employer and his employer's wife would do Mr. Tickle honor. Besides, she was curious. A wedding of dwarves in a disreputable cave that sounded like a bawdy house was the sort of occasion she'd expect to read about in Mr. Leslie's Ill.u.s.trated Newspaper, not see for herself. She was also gratified. It had been a great many weeks since Josh actually expressed any desire to be in her company. "I'll be delighted to accompany you, Josh. Dr. Thomas says women can do many of the things they're accustomed to doing until a few weeks before the child arrives."

Including some things she'd not had the nerve to tell him were permitted. Like all the rest, that instruction came from the doctor through his nurse. He'd kept his eyes on Miss Palmer while he poked and probed at Mollie's nether regions with the unspeakable instruments she glimpsed on entering the examining room. And it was during those sessions that he issued his peculiar third-party advisories and admonitions.

"According to Dr. Thomas," she told Auntie Eileen, "women need not be locked away for months on end. And their husbands need not be banished to a separate bedroom."

Eileen snorted in derision. "Well, that won't please many women. Is that truly what he says?"

"It is." Mollie imitated the doctor's sonorous tones, "Miss Palmer, please tell Mrs. Turner she may perform all the duties of her marriage until one month prior to the delivery. It is a privilege I extend to all my patients."

"Ha! A privilege given to the men who are paying the bills more like. Mind you, the women are the real fools. I've taught you better than that, surely. You haven't sent Josh to sleep down the hall, have you?"

"Of course not." It was true after a fashion. Josh had changed bedrooms of his own accord.

This business of the dwarves' wedding, coinciding as it did with the start of her being unable to wear a corset, was an opportunity Mollie recognized entirely on her own. Helped along by a sketch she happened on when looking at one of Auntie Eileen's books of fashion. The whole thing came together in her mind as a chance to see if she could remind Joshua Turner how it used to be between them. She had wounded his pride. Very well, she would give it back to him.

"Prepare yourself for a series of surprises," Josh said when they approached Eighth Street. "And don't be alarmed, I promise you're entirely safe."

She smiled up at him. "I'm with my handsome husband. I know I'm safe."

Auntie Eileen would be proud of her. But it did take some doing to keep the smile in place when Josh ushered her through not just a taproom, but the storage s.p.a.ce behind it, then down a stone pa.s.sage into what had to be a low-lying cellar of some sort. Mama Jack's Cave, Mollie reminded herself. Where would it be but belowground?

Her eyes adjusted to the long dark pa.s.sage, and by the time they entered Mama Jack's she was able to see quite well. Her glance fastened first on a woman whose arms stopped at her elbows. Then she spotted a black giant with a bra.s.s trumpet who stood so tall he had to stoop, and at least a dozen dwarves. Another creature, a woman judging from her dress and her voluptuous bosom and handspan waist, had a full beard. She was speaking with a man whose face was . . . mixed up was the only way Mollie knew to think of it. His nose was off to one side, his mouth to the other, and he had only one eye that seemed to be placed close to the middle of his forehead. "Oh dear."

She barely breathed the words, but Josh tightened his grip on her arm. "Steady."

"I'm fine," she managed, meanwhile opening the purple lace fan that hung from her wrist and waving it vigorously.

"It's warm in here," he said. "Shall you take off your coat?"

Now or never. She could say she preferred to keep it on. Josh wouldn't find that particularly odd. No, she wouldn't back down. "I shall," she said, lifting the hem of the long garment known as a polonaise and beginning to unb.u.t.ton it. Josh waited patiently behind her. Until the job was done and he slipped the coat from her shoulders and she was revealed.

Perhaps, she told herself, she was imagining the murmur of surprise.

Mollie had made the frock herself, copying a fashion that had not been stylish for sixty years. During the War of 1812, when a British blockade made it difficult to bring in the woven silks and satins and taffetas that in those days were mostly imported from Europe, American dressmakers had copied a provocative look popular at the time in Paris. La mode Directoire it was called, and the great advantage of dresses so fashioned was that they required a third as much fabric as other styles. For a brief time the Directoire look totally captivated the women of New York City, though it was far too daring for the rest of the nation. Even New York ladies dropped it as soon as the war ended and they could get sufficient quant.i.ties of cloth to again make elaborately bustled suits and dresses. The thing that so attracted Mollie when she first saw the plate in Auntie Eileen's book was the freedom. Only after that did she think of how the style would suit her purpose. A woman wearing a Directoire gown was celebrating her natural shape.

The dress Mollie wore to the wedding of Ebenezer Tickle and Maude Pattycake was a rich and shimmering purple that seemed to change hue when she moved. The neck was scooped low front and back, and the sleeves were short and puffed. There was a strip of olive green silk just below Mollie's b.r.e.a.s.t.s-so much fuller now that she was expecting-and it was embroidered with silver leaves and purple flowers. Below that a scant few yards of chiffon simply fell loose, emphasizing every aspect of her form. The gown ended in a series of ruffles, but before any eye could be drawn to that flourish it had to stop at her rounded and very obvious belly.

The legless woman Josh saw the first time he visited Mama Jack's rolled up to them on her board and looked Mollie up and down. "h.e.l.lo, dearie. Looks like you've a bun in the oven." She laughed raucously and turned toward Josh. "So you're to have a prince or a princess for them beehives you're building uptown, are you? And this looks to be your queen bee. Well, what's it to be, bride or groom?"

Josh was still trying to accept that his wife was standing there in what looked to be a sort of nightdress, and a very daring one at that. "Groom," he mumbled.

"Follow me."

The woman swiveled her contraption around and wheeled herself off to the right side of the room. Mollie followed her, chin high. Josh went behind them, carrying Mollie's coat. And somewhere to the side of him someone said, quite loud enough for everyone to hear, "Well, he may have only one leg, but looks like he can get it over."

Mollie glanced back at him. Josh hesitated. He should challenge the fellow, defend his wife's honor. But . . .

For the briefest possible moment of time, no more than a heartbeat, he would have sworn Mollie had winked at him.

Jesus G.o.d Almighty. She didn't mind. She was cool as you please. She could have kept the d.a.m.ned coat on, he realized. h.e.l.l, she could have worn something more concealing to begin with. But . . . she wanted everyone to know. She might never speak the word, certainly not to him, but he'd made her pregnant and she wasn't hiding it the way women were taught to do. She was proud of it. Proud of him. Only one leg, but he could get it over . . .

Holy d.a.m.n but you're a wonder, Mollie Popandropolos Brannigan Turner.

They were seated close to a bar that ran the length of the room, though no drinkers stood at it just then. "Look," Josh whispered, raising his chin toward the ceiling.

Mollie glanced up and saw the dark silhouette of what appeared to be a larger than life statue. No, it was a live woman and she was sitting on a sort of throne suspended in midair. Mollie didn't get a chance to ask who she was because a trumpet fanfare called the room to silence and what light there was dimmed further. "Ladies and gentleman, your attention please." It was the black giant, and he was speaking from just to Mollie's right. "Welcome to the wedding of Mama Jack's adopted daughter, Maude Pattycake, and her groom, our own Ebenezer Tickle."

At precisely that moment a series of rope pulleys were activated and four lanterns rose behind the oaken bar, illuminating its full length. "Trained by Barnum many of them," Josh whispered in his wife's ear. "They're showmen to the core." The point was underlined by the appearance of a dwarf atop the bar at the far end, fiddling madly as he danced toward them down the narrow strip of wood.

"Groom's next," the giant announced. "With his best man." He sounded another fanfare and Ebenezer appeared, walking the length of the bar with his cousin Henry beside him. But the dwarf walked on the bar and his over-six-foot cousin beside it. The effect was to make Ebenezer the taller.

The giant blew a few notes on his trumpet. A voice somewhere in the rear sang "Swing Low Sweet Chariot . . ." Just the opening words, then the singer fell silent and so did the trumpet. "Ceremony," the giant said into the hush, "will be done by the preacher, Willie Sykes." A hunchbacked man dressed entirely in black and carrying a prayer book rose from the back of the audience and walked forward to take his place beside the Tickle cousins.

"And the maid of honor is none other than Mama Jack herself." Another lantern rose to the ceiling and swung across the room to illuminate the woman seated on the dais above the heads of Mollie and Josh. She was draped in baby blue lace. Yards of it-acres of it, Mollie thought-fell over and around and below her. A crown of tiny pink rosebuds topped her huge head, and she held a matching posy, dwarfed by her enormous hands.

The trumpeter raised his horn yet again and blew the notes familiar to most everyone in the room, "Tom Tiddler's Song," the announcement that Maude Pattycake was going to dance, but she didn't immediately appear. Instead the fiddler took over and Mollie heard what people now called "Here Comes the Bride," the same music she'd chosen for her own appearance at the head of the aisle of majestic Grace Church. It was from a German opera by the composer Richard Wagner. "Faithfully guided, draw now near," the aria began, and brides everywhere had begun using that melody to accompany their walk toward the most fateful moment of their lives.

A lantern moved slowly to the far end of the bar and created a pool of light. Maude stepped into it. She wore white silk, tight-waisted and drawn back into a bustle from which flowed a white lace train. Her veil fell from a circlet of white roses, these full blown, and she carried a spray of them in her tiny hands. The beam of light from the lantern followed her slow and deliberate walk along the top of the bar, and when she drew level with the Turners Mollie saw the tips of silver slippers peeking from below the hem of her gown.

"Dearly beloved," the preacher began.

A man's head appeared between Mollie and Josh. He was behind them, leaning over so he could whisper something in Josh's ear. She heard Josh say "now" in an incredulous tone, and the man say "Yes, right now."

"But the ceremony's just starting," Josh protested.

"Right now," the man repeated. "Or they're going to shut you down and confiscate the lot."

". . . holy estate," the preacher was saying, "not to be entered into . . ."

Josh got to his feet, pulling Mollie up beside him. "My wife will need an escort home."

"Thought of that," the man said. "Follow me."

Mollie heard the preacher ask Maude Pattycake if she would take Ebenezer Tickle to be her husband, but nothing more. Josh was pulling her along beside him and in seconds they had left the cave, not, however, by the way they'd come in. Their exit was through a different and steeper tunnel. It avoided the taproom on Eighth Street, Mollie realized. "Josh, what is it, what's happened?"

"I'm not quite sure. Something to do with the police."

"But who is this man? How do you-"

"Name's Frankie Miller, Mrs. Turner. I work for your husband. Watch yourself, ma'am. Pretty narrow going here."

She had to turn sideways to fit through an opening in what looked like a solid rock wall, then Josh guided her up a set of stone stairs and into a narrow alley. She had no idea where they were, and for a moment it seemed Josh was equally puzzled. He looked around, getting his bearings, then said, "Washington Square Mews?"

Miller nodded. "Secret way in and out of Mama Jack's. Saves a bit of trouble." He was hurrying them to a small rig, a buggy, drawn by a single horse and driven by a slim, freckle-faced boy who looked no more than twelve. "This here's Eddie the Babyface, Mrs. Turner. He'll see you safe home. I guarantee it."

Mollie spied two horses a bit further down the alley. Each was saddled and ready to ride. "Josh, I-"

"Please, Mollie. I'm told this is an emergency and I accept that it is." He wrapped her coat around her as he spoke, and lifted her into the rig. It had only a single bench, so she had to sit beside the driver. Close up, she thought he might be older than she'd first thought, a speculation that faded in importance when she saw a rifle lying lengthwise at her feet. "Josh . . ."

"Later. I'll explain. I promise."

Eddie the Babyface jerked the reins and they moved off down the alley. Mollie turned and looked between the metal struts that held a gaily fringed leather canopy above their heads. Josh was already astride one of the horses. Frankie Miller was mounting the other. The buggy made a sharp turn to the left and she lost sight of both.

They were on lower Fifth Avenue, the road lined either side with substantial brownstones, many of them sold when ultra fashionable New York moved north. Miraculously there was not a great deal of traffic and they flew past the Hotel Brevoort and Miss Lucy Green's, the school Mollie had once attended. Eddie kept turning his head and craning his neck to look back the way they came, urging the horse to go faster all the while. "Mr. Babyface, why are we in such a great rush?"

"My job's to get you home safe," he said as they entered Washington Square Park. "It's what I mean to do."

The buggy was lurching from side to side meanwhile, and Mollie started to protest that there was greater safety with less speed when she saw the pistol in his hand. "Dear G.o.d! What-"

"Here, take the reins. And scrunch down as low as you can."

"I've never-"

"Take the reins."

She had to, otherwise he'd have dropped them and the horse would be without any control at all. Mollie had never driven any kind of vehicle. Josh had promised to one day teach her to guide the phaeton, but so far he'd not done so. She had no idea what she was supposed to be doing and she simply held on as tight as she could, astonished at the weight and power she felt pulling against her. The horse seemed to realize it had virtually been given its head and surged forward.

She heard the crack of a shot and saw Eddie hanging over the side of the buggy, clinging on with one hand while he aimed with another. "Mr. Babyface, you are surely going to-"

"Get down. As low as you can. Like I told you."

There were two more shots in quick succession. One seemed to whistle past her cheek. A bit of the canopy's fringe landed in her lap and the peac.o.c.k feathers of her coiffure floated by and drifted away. Impossible unless . . . Eddie the Babyface, Mollie realized, was not the only one shooting. "Who is following us? Why?"

He was fully back in the buggy for the moment, bending down to get the rifle. "It's the Eye-ties. Tony Lupo himself. It's you they're after, not me." He reached over while he spoke and gave the reins a sharp jerk, almost but not quite pulling them out of her hand. The horse neighed loudly, rose for a moment on its hind legs, then dropped back and swerved. The buggy went up on its left wheel. She'd never put the polonaise on properly and it slipped off her shoulders and fell into the street. "Hang on," Eddie shouted. "Don't let us tip over." He was on one knee now, facing backwards and aiming the rifle out the struts.

Mollie gripped the reins, bracing both feet against the front lip of the rig, wishing to heaven she had on proper boots, not patent-leather slippers with silk rosettes. The buggy righted itself with a thud that bounced her six inches off her seat and back down again.

"Down," Eddie shouted. "Scrunch down."

She tried to do what he said and control the buggy at the same time. It was nearly impossible, and the horse was definitely stronger than she. "Mr. Babyface, I can't-"

He reached over and took the reins from her hands. "It's all right now. Too much traffic down here. He's backed off."

The horse slowed some in response to the return of a firm hand. Mollie sat up straighter. She reached up and touched her coiffure, a silver band decorated with iridescent bird feathers that had been the outfit's crowning glory. The feathers were gone. Shot off her head by someone of whom she'd never heard, much less met. "Who is Tony Lupo?" she demanded.

"Head of the Sicilian gang. You must be important, missus, for him to come himself."

Mollie turned her head. She was just in time to see a rig not unlike the one she was in slow and start the turn into Spring Street. The man driving it, she saw, was well dressed and had an eyepatch. Nothing else to identify him and on any given day she pa.s.sed a dozen men who looked exactly the same.

Moments later they were on Grand Street and Tess came to the door in response to Eddie's knock. "Mrs. Turner . . . What's happened? Well, I never . . ."

Mollie walked through the open door and headed for the stairs, looking neither right nor left and not pausing to say h.e.l.lo to Tess or goodbye to Eddie. Tess stared after her for a long few seconds, then realized the man was gone and closed the door. "Are you all right, love? What's happened? I don't-"

Tess stopped speaking. There was a trail of something behind her mistress. At first it seemed to be bits of purple chiffon dropping from the extraordinary gown the girl was wearing. Then Tess realized she was looking at splatterings of blood. They grew larger and closer together as they progressed. By the time Mollie reached the top of the stairs, blood was puddling in her wake.

There was a police cordon stretched across the entrance to the foundry, seven coppers standing elbow-to-elbow, all holding their billies at the ready. Josh pulled the horse up in front of them. "Just what are you doing here? I'm a businessman and these are my premises. I've broken no law."