Free House of Thieves by Charles Belfoure Page B

kitchen. Tonight, Mrs. O’Shea was behind it. He knew she was listening in.
    â€œIt’s true that I have every dress and bauble I might want. But did you ever think of my feelings? That perhaps I desire affection and attention more than I do another Dupret gown?”
    â€œReally?” Cross asked, amused. “Affection? More than a Parisian gown?”
    â€œYes! You and I, sitting in the parlor by ourselves , you asking me how I’m feeling or how my day was or what I’m reading. Is that so inconceivable?”
    â€œHelen, for God’s sake. I always ask you about your day.”
    â€œNo! You ask about running the house—preparing the meals, getting your underwear washed and folded, dealing with the servants, reminding you which social functions we’re to attend. But you never ask about me .”
    â€œStop this foolishness, now. I’m in no mood,” thundered Cross, rising from his chair. “I won’t allow it.”
    Helen stared down at her empty plate. “Just a tiny gesture of affection,” she murmured.
    â€œThen find yourself a better husband.” Cross walked to the sliding doors of the dining room and opened them. “Yes, I am going out tonight. I’ll be back late.”
    â€¢ • •
    â€œHere we are, sir: 158 Hester Street. Billy McGlory’s joint.” The carriage driver opened the door and added, as Cross was stepping out, “If you’re going slumming tonight, sir, then Milligan’s Hell on Broome is the place. The waiter girls there spread their legs as wide as the mighty Mississippi. Can take you there, if you’d like.”
    A look of shock came over Cross’s face, followed by disgust. “No, thank you,” he said politely, slapping the fare down into the driver’s gloved hand.
    Although it was nine o’clock at night, Hester Street was awash with pedestrians. In his neighborhood, the sidewalks were empty by seven, except for cats and the occasional stray dog. Cross surveyed the line of buildings on the north side of the street, which were still lit by old-fashioned gaslights. Five- and six-story brick tenements crowded together, the first floors given over to stores of every description. Nearly everyone had a Hebrew-sounding name on the awnings or the windows—Liebman, Pinsky. Every open upper-story window was filled with human faces, flushed and sweaty, hoping for relief from the oppressively humid July evening. People filled the sidewalks and the street as well from gutter to gutter, stopping at the curbside pushcarts to examine their goods and haggle with the vendors over the price. Wagons and carriages had to inch their way through the crowds, the drivers cursing constantly at pedestrians to move out of the way.
    Cross looked down at the gutter and discovered he was standing in a pool of oozing, blackish-brown filth. Stepping up to the curb to scrape the mess off his shoes, he saw an unconscious drunk sprawled out no more than six feet away. His jacket and pants pockets had been turned out. The crowds of boisterous people, many of them men and women arm in arm, stepped over him as if he were a piece of litter.
    Strange that McGlory’s music hall would be such an unassuming building. Cross had expected something much fancier, a grand entry, perhaps. To his right, he heard the sound of a scuffle. Walking toward an obscured doorway, he was shocked to see a man holding a filthy handkerchief over a well-dressed fellow’s nose. In the next instant, the latter collapsed, unconscious. With the help of another man, the thief took his wallet and began to strip off his clothes. The crowds continued to swarm along the sidewalk, completely ignoring them.
    Stunned, Cross stumbled toward the dingy double doorway of 158 Hester. As he reached the door, two men burst out, dragging a third man by his armpits. They heaved his body out into the middle of Hester Street like a sack of flour and strode