Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER TWENTY
A RESPONSIBLE WOMAN WOULD NEVER GET BETWEEN A ROWDY group of drunk dockworkers and their beloved boxing. But rare was the occasion that anyone ever accused Evelyn Cross of being responsible.
Without a second thought, she barged toward the ring, stomped down on the ropes so she could enter, and snapped up the bell, smashing its hammer three times to both stop the fight and draw the attention of the room.
A wave of protests crashed against her, but Evelyn pretended she could not hear them.
“Gentlemen and ladies of ill repute, I regret to inform you that due to a scheduling conflict, your previously planned diversions of the physical arts are no longer possible!”
Boos. Someone threw a beer bottle. Evelyn deftly ducked, giving Jules a slight nudge into his corner of the ring.
“What the hell is this about?” Jules hissed, blood and spit flying. “I had him!”
Evelyn lowered her voice. “Get out of here.”
“What?”
“There’s a raid. You have to go—”
Another beer bottle joined the first one, and this time, Evelyn didn’t so much nudge Jules as she did shove him … directly into the waiting arms of Akio, who’d collected Jules’s bag and hastened him out of the doors at the far end of the warehouse.
Now she was alone, in the center of an angry crowd that threatened to foment into a mob.
Well, she’d had worse audiences.
“I know you came to see blood and destruction, but never fear! Every man needs a little culture in his life, and I’m going to give it to you.”
Whether you like it or not .
After all, it wasn’t enough for her to just get Jules and Akio out. She needed to get everyone else out, too. Protect as many folks from the undercover bulls as she could.
When she and Jules used to run this gambit, she’d gotten good at reading a crowd—sometimes, a well-placed offensive song was just the thing to turn away threatening persons. But here, tonight, she decided to take a different approach, one she hadn’t employed since the last time Jules had run out on some bad debts at the racetrack.
Swallowing back her fear, she wet her lips and sang out in a strong, clear voice a familiar song from her childhood. A direct poison for any boozer.
“I am so glad that Jesus loves me!”
The boos grew in intensity below her, but Evelyn’s courage strengthened when she saw a handful of defectors lose interest in the spectacle and start for the door.
“Jesus loves me, Jesus loves me!”
Remaining spectators lined the ropes on every side, but Evelyn paid them no mind. After all, the first escapees grew in number.
“I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Jesus loves even me!”
One hand grabbed the ropes, meaty and threatening. Evelyn knew this would not end well for her. But she forced herself to continue, forced herself to keep her breath steady …
Until shrill whistles cut across her tune.
Cop whistles.
The effects of such a sound were instantaneous. Though Evelyn kept singing as though her life depended on it, the once-angry mob scrambled into hasty terror, running each other over to escape the four coppers who’d suddenly revealed their badges and billy clubs.
“When we see Jesus, we’ll sing and shout the victory …”
Evelyn should have run too, but she knew that, as the distraction, the coppers would want her the most. Running with four flatfoots on her heels would cause Jules and Akio trouble if they happened to be outside waiting for her.
Indeed, when the crowd proved too numerous to pursue, the cops all, inevitably, turned on Evelyn at the center of the ring.
Her voice died only when the four of them joined her there—one at each corner, cutting off her escape routes.
Fighting her internal panic, she continued to play her part as the first one, Officer Push Broom Mustache himself, approached her with a wicked glint in his eyes and one gold tooth in his smile.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she crooned, though she felt as if her own voice were choking her. “Enjoyed the number? There’s more where that came from in just a few weeks when The Empire opens uptown—”
“Give me your hands.”
“Unfortunately, these are my only two. I didn’t bring enough to share—”
The rest of the quip warped into a whine of pain. Officer Push Broom snapped her up by the wrists and pinned her arms behind her back, holding her firmly in place even as she struggled.
Her fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. Her breathing grew erratic. Especially when he pulled on her cuffed wrists and molded his body to her backside.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in an illegal, immoral place like this?”
“I think the real question is why more nice girls aren’t to be found in illegal, immoral places like this.”
Not the answer he wanted to hear. With one swift motion, he knocked her legs from beneath her, sending her crashing to her knees on the unforgiving mat below. He circled until he stood in front of her. “Who organized this fight?”
“No one organizes a fight,” Evelyn snapped. “Men just can’t help themselves.”
A gloved hand slid down her face. “I really don’t want to have to bust up that pretty face of yours. Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you told me where to find someone else to throttle.”
“See?” she spit. “Men just can’t help themselves.”
Again, wrong answer. That gloved hand reared back before closing down on the side of her face.
Pain exploded between her eyes. Evelyn doubled over to the mat. Breath ragged. Thoughts scrambled. Ears ringing.
None of the coppers looked her in the eye. Of course they didn’t. She shouldn’t have expected anything from these men. Coppers protected each other, and they wouldn’t ever speak up if one of them was acting like this. None of them would be the brotherhood’s Judas. None of them would do the right thing.
Hands behind her back, Evelyn tried and failed miserably to right herself again. At the sight of her struggle, the officer gave her the helpful assistance of a swift boot to her stomach.
In her haze of hurt, she almost laughed. At least he wasn’t abusing her face too much. She’d still be fit to headline a vaudeville show.
“Your friend,” the officer said, raising his voice. “The degenerate. The lightfoot and his little Chinese friend. Where’d they go?”
“He’s Japanese, you fucking moron—”
Another kick to her stomach.
“Where’d they go?”
“Why?”
The question was both why should I have to tell you and why the hell do you want to know ? As far as she could see it, the entire affair had been supremely peaceful until the “law” had shown up.
With a grunt that came from disused limbs accustomed to sitting behind a desk, the officer crouched down in front of her, so close she could see the pretzel crumbs and tobacco still stuck in his mustache. He tapped his badge with the blunt end of his club.
“Because this badge means I get to keep the peace. And sometimes you get that only when you’re knocking some pretty little boy’s head into the concrete.”
Evelyn couldn’t help herself. Throwing her head back, she smashed her skull into the copper’s, sending him topping back in a haze of limbs and blood.
It hurt like hell, but she didn’t care. No one talked about Jules that way and got off scot-free.
If her hands weren’t tied, she might have killed him.
Once he found his feet again, the copper brought a hand to his mouth, wiping away the blood as one might wipe away the rain.
“That’s assaulting an officer,” he muttered.
“Well spotted. Want to see me do it again?”
Before he could reply, she jerked her legs, smashing into his and knocking him flat on his face.
The last thing she heard, before the billy clubs swung and knocked her lights out, was the cackle of her own laughter.
A NOTE FROM THE HISTORIAN
That particular night in Manhattan, according to records, was a busy one. While Evelyn was protecting Jules and Akio from the bastard cops, several other things were happening.
Jules and Akio were running to the Arcadia Hotel down the street. The only hotel in the vicinity that, as far as they were aware, had one of those newfangled working telephones.
Moments later, back at the Matterly Ladies’ Theatrical Bath and Boarding House, another phone rang.
And somewhere farther uptown, in a mansion on Park Avenue that smelled like cigars and oleander, Thomas Gallier was dancing with a button-nosed stranger.