“There’s a pump down the hall,” Hiram said. “I’ll go fill a pitcher.” Before he could leave, an abrupt banging on the door startled them both.
“O’Neill, you in there?” a gruff voice demanded.
Gwen hurried to the door so the obnoxious knocking wouldn’t wake Patrick or his mother.
“Hush!” she scolded the gangly old man on the other side of the door. “There’s a sick woman in this apartment, and that rude pounding is entirely unnecessary.”
“Rude pounding?” the man repeated. “I’ll give you a rude pounding if you don’t tell me where O’Neill is. He missed our appointment this morning, and I’m his most important client.”
She stilled, recognizing the man from the courtroom yesterday. “Are you Mick Malone?”
“That’s me. Is O’Neill here or not? He missed our meeting.”
Gwen scrambled for a way to take advantage of this situation. Standing aside, she gestured Mick into the apartment, struggling to maintain a calm expression. “Please keep your voice low, as people are sleeping after having been up all night. I gather you have a memoir about to be released?”
Mick stood straighter and preened. “That’s right. I’m about to be famous all over again.”
A chill raced down her spine. This man had killed her brother and thrown a grenade into the center of her family from which they never fully recovered.
“Congratulations,” she managed to say without her revulsion showing. “You must be very proud. Are there any new and earth-shattering tidbits in the memoir?”
Malone loved the attention and started boasting about how he got a glimpse of “young William” in the boiler room. He sat on the sofa, spreading his legs and arms wide as he painted the picture in colorful terms. Hiram and Dr. Haas looked appalled on her behalf, but Gwen sent them a quick shake of her head, warning them to say nothing. If Mick Malone didn’t know who she was, he might slip and mention a detail she could latch on to.
“Now, mind you, I didn’t have anything to do with that boy going missing,” Malone said, wagging a skinny finger at her. “I’m as pure as the driven snow when it comes to what happened to that poor child.”
His hands trembled, and he was sweating even though it wasn’t hot in here. They were classic symptoms of an alcoholic abstaining from drink. So was irritability and difficulty thinking clearly. A better person might feel guilty for exploiting his weaknesses, but Gwen pressed forward, hoping to trip him up.
“Why did you need a lawyer? If you’re telling the truth, you’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Because I’m a smart man, miss. That’s why I need a lawyer.”
“And was Mr. O’Neill a good one? Did he catch any details he thought better for you to withhold from your book?”
Malone’s smile was devilish as he rubbed his hands together. “There were plenty of good parts he wanted scrubbed from the book. I’d bet you’d love to know what they were, wouldn’t you!”
She matched his smile and leaned forward. “I would indeed.”
“Maybe if the book sells enough, I’ll come out with a sequel. After all, they can’t prosecute me for anything anymore. I was found not guilty by a jury of my peers. I could spill everything and still get away with it.”
She clenched her fists but kept her voice calm. “A sequel won’t sell unless you’ve got a good story. What else have you got to tell?”
Mick glanced at Hiram and Dr. Haas. “What about the pair of you? Would you be willing to shell out a dollar for insight into the bottomless well of Blackstone family corruption?”
Dr. Haas still looked puzzled but answered as she hoped. “I suppose.”
Malone clapped his hands and hooted. “Exactly what I wanted to hear,” he roared.
“Shh,” Gwen soothed. If Patrick woke up, he’d come out and end this conversation. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Tell me what kind of details would be in a second book. I have a keen eye for spotting what would sell.”
“I don’t scatter my gems around for free,” he said. “What’s it worth to you?”
Before she could answer, the sound she dreaded happened. The bedroom door opened, and a bleary-eyed Patrick emerged.
“Mick? What are you doing here?”
Mick stood and took a step toward Patrick, shaking a finger. “We had a meeting this morning, and you missed it, boy-o.”
Patrick glanced around the room. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he looked exhausted but still alert enough to take stock of the situation. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stood and interrupted him.
“Mr. Malone was about to tell me an interesting story. Let him talk.”
“Don’t say anything, Mick.” Patrick took a step forward, blocking her view of the old drunkard. “This is Gwen Kellerman. She was a Blackstone before she got married. William Blackstone was her brother.”
Mick reeled back so quickly he almost toppled over. He let out a stream of curses. “You tried to trick me, woman!”
Gwen glared at Patrick. “You didn’t have to tell him that.”
“Yeah, I did.” Patrick dragged a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. K, but it’s my job to protect his legal rights.”
Anger rippled through her. After she’d saved his mother’s life, his loyalty to her only enemy in the world was infuriating.
“This is how you pay us back for what we’ve done for you?” she snapped. Patrick flinched and looked away, but she wasn’t in the mood to be kind. “Why couldn’t you have looked the other way while I pried the truth out of him? We all know he’s guilty.” She turned to confront Mick. “You did it, didn’t you?” she accused, stepping closer to him, her palms itching to slap him. “Look me in the face and tell me you had nothing to do with my brother being snatched from his own backyard.”
Mick gathered himself up, chest out, jaw thrust forward. “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he sneered. “It was the Italians who took that boy, and I paid the price for it. Now you waltz in with your fancy Blackstone manners and act like you own the place. You don’t belong here, missy. This is the Five Points. Go back to your fancy mansions and—”
“That’s enough,” Patrick said. “You’re not the victim here, Mick.”
The old drunkard wheeled toward Patrick, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s she doing here, anyway? Are you working for the enemy, boy-o?”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” Patrick answered. “I’ve had to hold my nose while working for you, and you ought to be grateful—”
“Shhh!” Hiram said. “Mrs. O’Neill needs her rest.”
It was as though a bucket of ice water was thrown over them. Patrick cast a worried glance at his mother’s closed bedroom door, but Gwen wanted to scream in frustration as her chance to get information out of Malone dwindled away.
The front door flung open. “Fried catfish and biscuits!” Lorenzo announced as he entered the apartment. The way he held the greasy paper sacks aloft made him look like a conquering hero returning from the wilds. The elation on his face faded as he scanned the grim crowd. “Is Mrs. O’Neill okay?”