Yes, Frank could still find clients—downtown thugs always seemed to require legal representation—but the prestige was in representing the blue bloods. Dining in the best restaurants. Having his name in the gossip columns. Invitations to the best parties.
All that would disappear if Frank disregarded Duncan’s wishes.
Did that make him vain and shallow? Yes. He readily admitted it. He liked money, liked having a big house on Fifth Avenue. The club memberships and box at the Metropolitan Opera House. Hell would freeze before Frank returned to a life of poverty.
“I have no intention of pursuing any further contact with your daughter, Duncan. You have my word.”
Duncan dipped his chin. “Excellent. While I’m here, I want you to take care of something else for me. Livingston and I decided to push the children and set a date. Let’s get a settlement drawn up, something that puts aside money for Marion in case Chauncey bungles the whole thing. Also include a clause about infidelity. I don’t care what he does after I have some grandchildren, but he best settle down and do his duty for the first ten years.”
A sharp pain dug into Frank’s ribs, even as he nodded and wrote all this down on paper. “Not a problem.”
Duncan rose, putting an end to the meeting. He looked around at the bare walls. “Surprised you don’t have any paintings or your degree hanging up. Where did you say you went to school again?”
“Yale,” Frank replied. “Just never got around to getting the damn thing framed.”
“I understand. My paper from Harvard is in a trunk somewhere in our attic. Some of your clients might find the degree impressive, though. That way, they’ll know you didn’t attend University of Delaware or Boston College.”
God forbid. There were only three or four schools good enough for these high society types, which was why Frank would never admit his degree had been from Allegheny College. “Good point. I’ll look into having it framed,” he lied.
“Excellent.” Duncan stared hard into Frank’s eyes. “And I don’t mean to imply that you’re not worthy of Marion. However, she’s been promised to Livingston for years. His father is a close friend of mine. We’d like the two families permanently joined.”
Distaste crawled across Frank’s skin. Duncan spoke of Mamie as if she were a commodity. Something to be bartered and traded. Not uncommon in Greene’s circle but repugnant all the same. Perhaps this was what Mamie wanted as well. Who was Frank to quibble with destiny? “I understand. Don’t worry, I’ll ensure she’s well taken care of. Legally speaking, of course.”
Suspicion crawled over Duncan’s face. “Yes, legally speaking. Because any man who tries to get in the way of my daughter’s future is a dead man.” He jammed his derby on his head. “And I would really hate for that dead man to be you.”
Mulberry Street ran through some of the worst parts of the Lower East Side, with the notorious Five Points intersection at its south end. Mamie tried to avoid that area whenever possible, even in the daylight. The Sixth Ward was dangerous at all hours, which was why she kept to the northern side.
The streets here were vastly different than their spacious and clean uptown counterparts. Downtown, thoroughfares were jammed with people of all backgrounds, along with pushcarts, horses and goods for sale. Musty paper and dirty rags littered the alleys, providing makeshift pallets for those without permanent shelter. Laundry hung from windows, and in the summer it wasn’t uncommon to see fire escapes being used as beds.
When large groups began immigrating here, blocks and streets quickly turned into neighborhoods based on religious or cultural identity. English was not the chief language amongst the neighbors and shop owners in these spots; instead, one could hear German, Hebrew, Russian, Italian, Chinese and more. Skin color of every shade was represented, everyone trying to find a foothold in this new modern era. Many children ran barefoot, their faces and clothes reflecting time spent mostly outdoors. And when one lived with five or six people in a tiny one-room apartment, who could blame them for not staying inside?
Mamie visited families in five different tenement buildings in and around Mulberry Street. She had chosen each carefully. The wives tended to small children, usually while doing wash or sewing for pennies a day, and their older children worked in factories, shops or on the streets. The husbands of these particular families were either unwell, drunkards or missing. That left the women struggling to keep things together by themselves, and any little bit of money Mamie gave them made a huge difference in their monthly budgets.
She spent a long time at the first home, a Polish family’s fourth-floor apartment. The husband was recuperating from a leg injury and the wife had two sick children preventing her from completing her promised work. So, Mamie fed and soothed the children while the wife feverishly sewed. Any offers to aid in the mending were steadfastly refused; the woman wouldn’t hear of it.
The next two stops were quicker. One woman grabbed the money through a crack in the door, thanked Mamie and locked up tight. The other wife whispered that her husband was sleeping and accepted the money quietly.
Two policemen loitered outside the adjacent building. Police were not an uncommon sight in the Sixth Ward but one didn’t usually see clusters of them. They ignored Mamie as she went inside, too intent on their chatter and cigars to pay her any mind.
She carefully climbed the derelict stairs to the third floor. A bulb flickered in the ceiling, the walls coated with damp. This particular family, the Porters, had troubled Mamie for quite some time. The husband worked on the docks, but whatever money he earned mostly went to his gin habit and not the family. The wife took in laundry, but it wasn’t enough to feed their three small children. They’d rejected the Sixth Ward Advancement Committee’s efforts to convert them and therefore were unable to receive aid, so Mamie had added them to her distribution list.
What bothered Mamie most were the bruises that often appeared on Mrs. Porter’s face and neck, as if she’d been choked or punched. When Mamie asked about them—while in the same breath offering her assistance should Mrs. Porter wish to leave her husband—the wife insisted the bruises were from falls, her own clumsiness to blame.
Mamie didn’t believe it.
When she reached the third floor, the sound of wailing children greeted her. There were four apartments on this floor so crying was nothing new . . . but this was more than that. This was gut-wrenching misery, the kind that came from injury or neglect.
Mamie hurried to the Porters’ apartment. The door stood open, the cries growing louder. She knocked before peeking in to see—
Three policemen were inside, all gathered around a body on the floor. Was that Mr. Porter? Oh, God. What had happened? Was he dead?
On the far side of the room, two more policemen surrounded Mrs. Porter, who was sitting in a chair, her face as white as flour.
Mamie didn’t stop to think, she just went in. “Mrs. Porter, may I be of assistance?”
Mrs. Porter glanced up, blinking at Mamie, and it took a long second before recognition dawned on her face. Angry cuts oozed blood from her left brow and the side of her mouth, her skin swollen and red. She tried to speak but nothing came out.
The men all turned to Mamie. The oldest of the group, likely the highest-ranking officer, approached her. “And who might you be, miss?”