Carved in Stone Read online

  “I don’t know when you’ll see any money,” Patrick said. “The publisher won’t pay until the judge considers the pending injunction against the book. The Blackstones are already trying to block it, and I can’t wait on payment forever.”

  “I’ve got an entire case of cigarettes you can have,” Mick offered.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Well, I don’t have any money. You know that.”

  “You’ve had an interesting proposition,” Patrick said. “The Blackstones will pay you a thousand dollars for agreeing to drop the book permanently.”

  Mick leaned against a gritty brick wall as he drew hard on the cigarette, his eyes pensive. “I was hoping to make a lot more than that.”

  “But this is guaranteed money, payable immediately. If you gamble on the memoir, it could be years before the court lets the book go to press. I think you’ll win, but there is no guarantee.”

  Mick’s hand trembled even harder. Those tremors were a dead giveaway that Mick hadn’t drunk enough yet tonight to calm the shakes. Up close, the ravages of age and alcohol were easier to see than when he’d been holding forth in the pub.

  “The quick money is tempting,” Mick finally said. “I’d pounce on it, but Ruby won’t want to sell out. She has her heart set on buying a place in Brooklyn. A little flat with our own kitchen and maybe even a window. What would you do in my shoes?”

  “I’d ask your wife how badly she wants that place in Brooklyn. She won’t get it with a thousand dollars.”

  Mick nodded and tossed the butt of the cigarette on the ground, grinding it out with his shabby boot. “Good idea. Let’s go ask her.”

  Patrick’s hand shot out to stop him. “I was there right before I came to the pub. It didn’t seem like she wanted to be disturbed.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mick said as he started ambling down the alley. “She picked up some stuff from the printer that’s a bit hot and probably didn’t want your pious eyes seeing it.”

  Hot? That could mean any number of things, but as long as Ruby wasn’t wrapped in the arms of an illicit lover, he wouldn’t mind concluding this business today. Mrs. Kellerman’s offer carried a stink on it, and he wanted to put it behind him.

  Ruby was no more welcoming to him this time, even when Mick swaggered into the single room they shared and drew her into a hearty kiss and a tacky grope. She twisted out of her husband’s embrace and tugged her blouse back into place.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” she said to Mick. “I barely had a chance to throw a cloth over the mess I picked up from down the street.”

  The only thing with a cloth over it was a small crate at the end of a rumpled, unmade bed. The room reminded Patrick of the squalid place he’d lived when he first got off the boat. It had a table with two chairs, a chest, and a bed with a thin mattress. All washing and cooking took place in a communal room down the hall.

  Mick took a seat on the cloth-covered crate and dragged Ruby onto his lap. “It looks like we’re already making the Blackstones jumpy, love,” he said, then told her about Mrs. Kellerman’s offer.

  Ruby seemed offended by the suggestion. “A thousand dollars? When those people live in palaces? Tell her to fling it in the sea.”

  “Are you sure?” Mick asked. “We could get the money right now. Think of it, love. A thousand dollars will buy you some new clothes and restock the pantry.”

  “You mean it would restock the wine cellar,” she corrected. “We didn’t flee Ireland to be those people’s lapdogs. You did eighteen months in jail waiting for that trial. A jury found you not guilty, and those people never even said they were sorry. Tell them to take their thousand dollars and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  The words sparked something in Mick, and he stood, tossing Ruby to her feet. “That’s my girl,” he boomed and swept her up into a hug. He tried to twirl her, but his gangly frame couldn’t manage it, and they both went crashing to the floor. They howled in a combination of pain and hilarity.

  Patrick looked away. Mick and Ruby were both thoroughly disreputable, but he envied their closeness. Going through life alone was hard. He wanted what they had. He wanted a woman in his life, not the lonely existence of a bachelor still living with his mother.

  In the ruckus, Mick’s boot dragged the cloth from the crate, and Patrick’s eyes widened as he stared at it.

  Ruby was hiding something “hot,” all right. It looked like a stack of incendiary broadsheets. He couldn’t read much through the slats, but the words Blackstone and Injustice printed in large, bold-faced type were easy to see.

  Mick peeled himself up from the floor and grinned as he saw where Patrick was looking. He popped the lid from the crate and handed him one of the flyers. “I thought I’d stoke up a little advanced publicity for my book,” he said proudly.

  It didn’t take long to scan the page. This was going to be a problem. The ghostwriter who penned the memoir had carefully avoided outright slander, but this screed was a direct assault on the Blackstones, their bank, and the businesses they funded.

  “Use these flyers for kindling, not publicity,” Patrick warned Mick. “I worked with your writer to be sure the book had no outright lies that could get you convicted of libel, but this document is full of it.” He read directly from the flyer. “‘The Blackstones outlaw clocks in their coal mines so they can trick a man into thinking he’s worked only ten hours when he’s actually worked twelve.’ You know that’s not true. There is now a clock in every Blackstone mine, factory, and cafeteria. No one is being lied to about what hours they’ve worked.”

  “But they used to.”

  “Maybe, but not today, and this leaflet could get you convicted of libel.”

  Before he could say more, a pounding on the door interrupted him.

  “Mickey!” Someone banged again and shouted from the hallway. “I’ve brought reinforcements from Mingo County.”

  Mick opened the door, and men started funneling inside, but Mick pushed them back. “Hey, Donahue. You’re early. I’ve got my lawyer here.”

  Patrick eyed the half-dozen men standing in the hallway. Mingo County was a coal mining region in West Virginia, one of the areas that had given the Blackstones trouble over the years.

  “What do you need a lawyer for?” Donahue asked. He was a wiry man with hard eyes and cheekbones like blades in his thin face.

  Mick straightened his collar. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve got an important book coming out soon.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, and it didn’t look like Donahue appreciated it.

  “Aye, which is why I don’t like a lawyer sniffing around. What’s in that crate?” Donahue pushed into the room and grabbed a flyer. “What are you doing with this?”

  Mick gave a smirk. “Since they’re all over West Virginia, I figured I’d use some here in New York. They’ll help sell my book.”

  “We’re about more than selling books,” Donahue said in a low tone. “If you think that book is going to do the trick, you’re an even stupider old drunk than we thought.”

  “Who are you calling an old drunk?” Mick snarled, bumping his chest against the younger man’s.

  “Pipe down,” Donahue ordered, easily brushing Mick aside. “We’ve got a lot to discuss, and it’s time for the lawyer to leave.”

  Ruby grabbed Patrick by the arm. “Your ma will be waitin’ dinner for you, love,” she said, funneling him toward the door.

  “Hey, Patrick,” Mick called out, “tell them no deal, okay? I’ve got too many irons in the fire to settle for the Blackstones’ scrawny deal.”

  Patrick had the answer he expected and nodded to Ruby before leaving the boardinghouse, but something was wrong here. Despite the ribbing he took from folks in the neighborhood, he was no wide-eyed innocent. His job brought him into a world of prostitutes, pickpockets, and grifters. He was even willing to represent Mick Malone, possibly the shadiest man in the Five Points, because Father Doyle asked it of him.

  Patrick was honor-bound by his profession to work in the best interests of his client, but that same code of ethics meant he couldn’t overlook a crime in progress, and Patrick sensed something shady. What motivated those men to come all the way from West Virginia and partner with Mick Malone against the Blackstones?

  Patrick had no proof of wrongdoing, but he couldn’t look the other way. The ethical obligations of a lawyer often collided with the integrity of an upright man, and sometimes it was hard to know what to do.

  In this case, Patrick would rely on the one man who had never steered him wrong, and that meant a visit to Father Doyle the following morning.

  Saint Boniface College was in the heart of Brooklyn, surrounded by factories, ironworks, and tenements. Elevated trains rumbled overhead, and a dozen different languages could be heard on any given street corner. There were no walls around the college, so Patrick had a good view of the German delicatessen across the street as the owner lugged a side of beef into the shop.

  Father Doyle sat on the bench beside him as Patrick recounted the previous day’s events at Mick’s place. Dressed in all black except for his clerical collar, Father Doyle still looked exactly as he did sixteen years earlier when Patrick first spotted him heading toward a trolley stop in the Five Points. He had chased the old man down to ask what it took to become a priest. It was the moment that changed Patrick’s life forever. Father Doyle had glanced at his black eye, split lip, scabbed-over knuckles, and drawn the right conclusion about how Patrick earned a living. There probably weren’t a lot of boxers who aspired to the priesthood, but Father Doyle was generous with his time that afternoon and provided Patrick with a path to a new and better life. During those early years, Patrick believed the best way to prove his devotion to God was to aim for the highest rank, and that meant the priesthood. It was the purest form of commitment and came with lifelong responsibilities and sacrifices he was eager to assume. His vows would be joyfully offered and forever carved in stone.

  It hadn’t worked out that way, and he still carried the shame of bailing out on Father Doyle. The upside was that he could help the old priest by counseling people in the streets instead of in the pews. That meant venturing into the seedier side of life, and he still came to Father Doyle for advice.

  “All I have is a hunch,” he told the priest. “Mick claims he’s only writing a book to earn a little money, but I think it’s part of a bigger scheme. Those men from Mingo County didn’t come all this way to help Mick sell his book.”

  “And what makes you think they’re up to no good?” the priest asked. “Because of the way they look? Because the people of Mingo County have no love for the Blackstones?”

  “I think they’re here to stir up trouble,” Patrick said. “I agreed to represent Mick for that book, but I didn’t sign up for anything else, and I don’t like being dragged into it.”

  Patrick had already read the memoir to be sure it contained nothing that libeled the Blackstones. The memoir seethed with resentment, but if all it did was assert Mick’s opinions, the Blackstones had no legal cause to block its publication.

  “The memoir is foul,” he said. “Most of it is bellyaching about the indignities he’s endured at the hands of the Blackstones. Not that the Blackstones are angels, mind you. There’s something deeply tricky about that family. They sent a woman to bribe me into scuttling the book.”

  “What woman?” Father Doyle asked.

  Memory of his irrational attraction to the Blackstone woman still plagued Patrick, and he sent a cautious glance toward the old priest. “Gwen Kellerman. She claimed to know you. Does she?”

  “I’m well acquainted with Mrs. Kellerman,” Father Doyle said in a warmly approving tone. “She is the sort of quiet, gentle light that makes the world a better place.”

  It wasn’t what Patrick wanted to hear. It would be easier to dismiss his attraction if she’d been stamped in the same ruthless mold as the rest of her family. He shrugged off Mrs. Kellerman and shifted the conversation back to Malone.

  “I know Malone kidnapped that child,” he said. “If he was willing to confess and repent, I’d gladly help him make a clean breast of it. But no, he wants money so he can move to Brooklyn. He’s slime, Father. Next time you kick a case my way, try to find someone who isn’t up to his eyeballs in corruption.”

  “Already done,” Father Doyle said agreeably. “The holy sisters who run the primary school are having trouble paying their water bill, and the city is threatening to cut them off. I was hoping you might volunteer your legal services.”

  Patrick nodded. “Whatever you need. You know that.”

  Father Doyle had funded Patrick’s education, but the church rarely wanted men fresh out of school to assume the responsibilities of the priesthood. After college, Patrick began practicing law and got plenty of experience in the real world, then returned to the seminary once he was ready to proceed into the priesthood. He continued practicing law while studying theology, but two weeks before taking his final vows, he balked.

  His gaze strayed to the delicatessen across the street. The owner had a young and shapely daughter named Bettina, and Patrick’s willpower stumbled one autumn afternoon when he spent a forbidden few hours with her behind an abandoned rail station. He wasn’t cut out to be a priest; he wanted a wife. He wanted a partner and a mother for his children. He wanted a big, rollicking family along with a woman he could kiss and hold until dawn. Trying to deny that longing was like asking his heart to stop beating.

  He didn’t want a quick, shameful tryst behind a rail station. He wanted the blessing of God and his community when he stepped out with a woman by his side. Patrick had been shaking in mortification when he confessed his forbidden encounter with Bettina to Father Doyle, but his mentor didn’t seem surprised.

  “The priesthood is a calling,” he had said. “We can’t have reluctant warriors in our ranks, but there are plenty of other ways you can serve God in the world.”

  Thousands of people never set foot in a church and instinctively recoiled from priests wearing that intimidating clerical collar, but they might listen to a former boxer with scars on his body and an accent like theirs. Patrick lived among the ordinary people—rich or poor, clean or struggling in the muck—and tried to teach by example.

  As much as it hurt, turning away from the priesthood had been the right decision. He did good work on the street, helping keep kids out of the gangs and giving hope to the downtrodden . . . but he wanted a family. He even envied Mick and Ruby Malone. They were so crooked they couldn’t walk a straight line if a pot of gold was waiting at the end of it, but they loved each other. They were never lonely.

  God would send him the right woman when it was time. For now, he would seek out Mrs. Kellerman to decline her offer, and then he would forget about her.

  5

  The greatest disappointment of Gwen’s eight-year marriage was that she failed to conceive a child, but she found solace in the company of the children who made their home at Blackstone College. President Matthews’s two boys often climbed the fence separating their yards to play in Gwen’s garden. Then there was little Mimi, whose mother worked in the accounting office. Mimi was eight and suffered a number of physical disabilities that prevented her from attending a normal school, so she spent her days on campus. She was a favorite among the students, who coddled and protected her.

  This morning Gwen sat with all three children at her backyard koi pond, the centerpiece of her garden. A physics professor had installed the pump, and a group of students had helped her stack rocks to create levels within the pond so that water splashed down the tiers and attracted birds and butterflies. There was plenty of room to perch on the flat rocks surrounding the pond, and the children loved to feed the fish.

  Naturally, the boys started pelting the food at the fish, but what could one expect from six- and eight-year-old boys?

  “Be gentle,” Mimi said from where she sat on a chair next to the pond. The iron braces on her legs made it impossible for her to clamber over the rocks like the boys. Life wasn’t easy for Mimi, who already wore thick eyeglasses and depended on a rolling walker. Nevertheless, she lit up the entire campus with her bottomless good cheer, and Gwen had always been protective of her.

  “This one is fat,” the older boy said as he dangled a bit of lettuce just above the surface of the water. “I’ll bet it’s pregnant with a baby.”

  Gwen bit back a smile. “Koi don’t have babies. They lay eggs.”

  Behind her glasses, Mimi’s brown eyes grew wide. “When is she going to lay eggs? Can I watch? Will you let me name the babies?”

  Before Gwen could answer, the older boy started climbing the oak tree, reaching for a tiny plant that had taken root in one of the deep chinks in the tree bark.

  “Leave it alone,” Gwen cautioned. “I don’t know how much longer that bromeliad can survive in that spot, and I want to protect it.”

  “Why is it growing on a tree trunk instead of in the ground?” Mimi asked.

  “The wind must have carried the seed there,” Gwen answered. “They can lie dormant for years before a bit of water and heat awakens them. Seeds are hardy little things, and I admire that.”

  “I admire that too,” Mimi said, looking at the bromeliad in its precarious perch.

  “Ahem.”

  The man’s voice startled her, and Gwen shot to her feet. Good heavens, that lawyer from the Five Points was at the gate of the garden fence, watching them. How long had he been standing there?

  “My pardon,” Mr. O’Neill said. “I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. I heard voices back here and followed.”

  Her mouth went dry. He was here about that awful memoir. The suffocating fear of losing the college had been looming over her for days, and now he was here with the answer.

  “Dare I hope your client accepted my offer?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not. Malone turned it down.”