“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” Alice entered the heavy door he held open.
“Are you looking for a particular office? Perhaps I can direct you.”
“No. I . . . Actually I am looking for a particular person. I hadn’t expected such a vast place or quite such crowds of people.” In Chicago she had only to enter the board of trade and ascend the elevator to the cotton exchange. This place was a packed flurry of people and activity in every direction. This venture had been a mistake. She turned back toward the door, nodding to the man briefly. “Thank you, anyway. I’ll come back another day. I believe I will need more information.”
“Just a moment, ma’am. Let me see if I may be of some assistance.”
Alice could feel her mettle going soft, a paralyzing hesitation taking hold of her.
“It might be far simpler than this chaotic activity indicates. Here, ma’am. Just follow me. I know exactly where to take you.”
He apparently took for granted that she would follow. And Alice did. Through the agitating crowd, past the fountain, of which she could only see glimpses for the men thronged around it, bargaining and bidding in loud, occasionally strident and quarrelsome voices. Across the crowd, she could see the steam elevator. Then, unexpectedly, an area of relative quiet, where a handful of women, all dressed in dark indigo, sat at a line of desks.
“Miss Drake,” the gentleman said, “this lady is attempting to find someone but has little information. Perhaps one of you may be of assistance to her?” He turned to Alice, bowed slightly, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Yes, and how may I help you, please, ma’am?” said the plumpish woman.
Alice pulled in her abdomen and straightened her shoulders. Cleared her throat. “I am looking for a particular cotton broker who I believe may do business here.”
“His name?”
“Howard Butterworth.”
“Let me check our directories. Just one moment, please.”
Alice watched Miss Drake’s pudgy fingers run down the lines of names, turn pages as she studied the directory closely. Some minutes passed.
“I’m afraid I do not find that name, ma’am, at least not in any official capacity, among the offices here. That does not mean, of course, that he does not do business here. Only that he does not have an office in the building. Do you have any other pertinent information that might be helpful?”
“I have a photo.” It crinkled slightly as Alice pulled it from her pocket and showed it to Miss Drake.
“Hmm. A bit out of focus, but the face seems familiar somehow.” She turned to her neighbor. “Does this man look familiar to you?”
“No, not at all.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just not coming clear to me, but I do believe I’ve seen him somewhere. Possibly not even here. Sometimes I’m sent with messages to the wharves. It may have been there. That’s the association I seem to have. Perhaps it might be useful to inquire there. I’m sorry not to be of better help.”
Miss Drake was craning her stout neck to see around Alice, motioning to the next person to come forward. Alice murmured her thanks and backed away. Holding the crinkled photo in her fingers, she turned and, almost running, pushed her way through to escape the crowded building. The noise of the men’s voices quoting prices, calling out bids swirled around her as she searched for the door. Two heavyset men, back-to-back, turned as she slid sideways between them, her hand holding the photo stretched behind her. The space between the men narrowed and she found herself trapped as they turned to identify the disruption she had caused. She pulled herself through the viselike space. Caught between the elbows of the men, the photo ripped. Alice jerked herself free, holding only the lower corner of the photo. Around her, dozens of feet shifted. A man’s boot in spats covered the remainder of the photo. Light from the door led her to the street. Outside Alice halted, her breath coming fast and shallow. After a moment, she raised her hand to examine the fragment of photo still gripped in her fingers. There were her feet, her own feet, in the crisscrossed, buttoned strap shoes she had bought for the day she would begin a new life. That fragment of photographic history slid through her fingers and dropped to the pavement, where it was trodden beneath the hurried feet of businessmen on their way to somewhere, anywhere that was not where they were.
CHAPTER 36
The day was unusually chilly. Analee had brought in a load of wood. Constance was seated in her rose upholstered rocker by the hearth, the children on the floor at her feet as she read to them, when a knock came at the door. As always with any unannounced arrival now, her heart began to race and her breath caught in her throat.
Her hands froze on the arms of the chair, the book open in her lap. Even the most peaceful of moments was tinged with fear. Fear of the Black Hand. Fear that Pulgrum had found her out and come to arrest her. Fear of things she could not name.
Both girls jumped to their feet and scampered to see who had come. That in itself terrified Constance, and she cried out for them to stop. Which they did. In surprise and confusion. Then Constance could hear the authoritative voice of Dorothea Richard exchanging pleasantries with Analee. Her arms relaxed as she rose to greet her guest.
“Dorothea.” Constance leaned forward to receive a friendly kiss on her cheek. “I didn’t expect you. Please, come in. Have a seat. Analee will make us some tea.”
“Don’t bother, Analee. I’m stopping by only to bring some news.”
Constance felt the reassurance of Dorothea’s firm grasp on her hand.
“Good news. You will want to hear this, too, Analee. Girls, I’ve been thinking about your dolls. Could you go put them in their very best dresses and bring them down from your playroom for me to see?” Dorothea tousled Maggie’s curls, leaning sideways to half hug Delia.
As the girls scampered up the stairs, Dorothea motioned for Constance and Analee to sit, as if she were the hostess, rather than the reverse. “I came as quickly as I could to tell you. Your worries with the Black Hand are done.”
Analee clapped her long fingers over her mouth.
“Done,” said Constance. “How can you know that? Did they arrest that man? How can you be sure?”
“Slowly now, my dear. I will tell you as much as I can, though I cannot tell you the whole of it. I have certain confidences to keep.” She perched on the edge of the sofa to continue. “I told you previously that I have a bit of pull with some of the ‘powers that be’ in the city? Yes, well, it’s true. I do. And I have successfully exerted that pull to your advantage. They will not bother you or your children again. Of that you may be assured.”
“I don’t understand, Dorothea. How can you have sway over the Black Hand?”
“Not over the Black Hand, my dear. No, I have sway with some of the political powers who do have sway over the syndicate.”
“But how is that—”
“Possible? Quite possible, dear Constance. Storyville operates only under the auspices of the political powers of the city. My late husband was one of those powers. As you may have surmised, Constance, I was not simply an ornament at his elbow. With time and a sharp eye and wit, I have come to know a great deal about some of the men who run this city, a number of whom I greet at social functions and at Mass.”
“I still don’t understand!”
“Those men hold the power over Storyville. Some are its patrons. Some, like your Benton, frequent it for their need to make a bet. But ultimately that place of instituted sin remains viable at the behest of those who run the city, and every thug there knows it. If one of those in power communicates to the syndicate to withdraw their ‘persuasions’ in any given direction, that will be the end of it. Their livelihood, if you can call it that, depends on cooperation with political power.”