Chapter 5 #2
Celia stepped back, knowing instinctively what was happening, even before several men got out and her mind registered the
black-coated uniforms of the Society for the Suppression of Vice.
“Now what?” Mr. Kirsch said in disgust.
Three men strode inside the tobacconist, two doors up from Kirsch’s. The fourth stood outside scanning the area, as if he
thought all the booksellers would attack him with their copies of this year’s almanac.
“What’s happening?” Mr. Starling asked, the twinkle gone from his eyes in a second. He wasn’t laughing now.
“Nothing to worry about,” Mr. Kirsch assured him. “We are sometimes plagued by this fellow Comstock.”
“Ah, I know his name. How dangerous is he?”
“Well . . .” Mr. Kirsch began. “If you actually break the law, it can lead to serious sentencing, but most of the time the perpetrator is just required to pay a fine or the charges are thrown out altogether. Unfortunately, the law is forever changing, according to the man’s whim, and these days he appears to be out for revenge. ”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Starling. He turned his attention to the tobacconist shop, where the agents were already attracting a crowd
of onlookers.
The agent posted on the sidewalk merely frowned at them and told them to step back.
Another agent strode from the shop and paused on the sidewalk, surveying the area with a scowl, until the crowd dispersed.
“That isn’t Comstock,” Mr. Starling said.
Mr. Kirsch shook his head. “He hasn’t troubled himself to actually make a personal appearance in quite a while. He’s priming
us up in case he doesn’t round up his current bugaboo.”
“Margaret Sanger, the birth control advocate.”
Celia sucked in her breath. “You know about Mar—Mrs. Sanger?”
The twinkle, well, a half twinkle, was back. “You’re not the only one who keeps abreast of the news, Miss Applebaum.”
Abruptly, the second agent gestured back to the tobacconist’s, and a thinner agent stepped out balancing a stack of newspapers
and magazines that he carried to the second waiting automobile, his pockets bulging with additional contraband.
Celia squinted to see what it was. “Ugh. They’re stealing his candy bars.”
“Outrageous,” Mr. Kirsch said between clenched teeth.
“Does this happen often?” asked Mr. Starling. His smile had been replaced with an anxious frown.
Mr. Kirsch sighed. “It goes in fits and starts. This seems to be about the Sanger woman. He’s already arrested her three times. He was going for a fourth when she skipped the country. Put a bee in his drawers. Hence this nonsense.”
Only it wasn’t nonsense to those being raided, thought Celia.
“Rumor has it that he’s about to be replaced. He’s determined to make the Sanger case his lasting legacy.”
“But a tobacconist?” Starling said with an incredulous scoff. “Is he anti-smoking, too?”
“He’s just priming the pump, hoping someone will cough up the manuscript out of fear, and give up William Sanger for good
measure.”
“Then let’s just hope he finds this manuscript before he targets the dealers of Book Row.”
This earned them a sharp look from Celia. “He’ll destroy it.”
Starling’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you a women’s rights enthusiast, Miss Celia Applebaum?”
Celia tensed. He could be anyone. “I’m a woman.”
“Indeed.”
“Now, Miss Celia,” Mr. Kirsch said, “you don’t have any cause to worry.”
“I’m not worried.” And I’m not afraid, she reminded herself.
Across the street Yannis had come out, ostensibly to look over his cart but casting serious glances to where they stood on
the opposite sidewalk. No one could be seen at the Arcadia, but Celia knew that Olivia and Daphne would be watching from behind
the bow window.
Both vehicles nosed their way into traffic.
“Someone should report them,” Celia said angrily.
“Where? They’re backed by powerful politicians and some conservative, moneyed families.
The police despise them, but they’ve been ordered not to interfere.
” Seeing Celia’s surprise, he continued.
“Haven’t you noticed that O’Halloran and Sullivan are never around when there’s a raid?
They slip out of sight so they can’t be ordered to arrest the people they are sworn to protect. Those are orders from on high.”
A moment later the tobacconist poked his head out the door, saw them, and hurried over. Mr. Giuseppe was a short man, thin
with big mustachios.
“Did you see, did you see?” he demanded, clutching a piece of paper in his fist and shaking it like he had the throat of one
of the Comstock agent’s between his fingers.
“Ten dollars this time. Ten dollars.” Mr. Giuseppe fairly rumbled out the words.
“Why so much?” Mr. Kirsch asked.
Mr. Giuseppe shook the bill even harder. “Because I’m a repeat offender. And they threatened to take me to jail the next time.
And if they do, where will they satisfy their sweet tooth? Just let them come here again, then I’ll— I’ll—” He broke into
a string of vituperative Italian that made Mr. Starling blush and made Celia glad she hadn’t paid more attention to the Italian
tutor who came every Wednesday when the sisters were growing up.
“They took my whole stock of La Stampa and Corriere, any paper in Italian. Just because they couldn’t read them, they say they’re anarchist.” He broke into another string of
Italian, then pardoned himself unnecessarily to Celia, who hadn’t understood a word. “They stuff their pockets with candy,
no better than street urchins who I’d rather have steal my candy bars any day.”
Mr. Kirsch made a sympathetic noise. “Give me the summons, and I’ll have the committee deal with it.”
Mr. Giuseppe handed it over. “Perdonami, I forget my manners in my anger. But someone must do something.”
They all agreed, but who would that someone be. And how?
“I’m surprised he doesn’t retire on his accomplishments,” said Mr. Starling, and he cast a sideward glance at Celia.
Celia clamped down on her retort, warning herself that she didn’t know this man, and she’d been ordered to be wary of everyone.
“One last hurrah, perhaps?”
Celia fervently wished it would be his last and they would be free of him forever. “Well, I’d better get back to the shop.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Applebaum,” said Mr. Starling, but the fun had gone out of his eyes, and he was all business.
“I shall certainly make an appointment with your sister. Perhaps she has something my employer might be interested in.”
“I’ll tell her that you might be giving her a call. Good day, Mr. Kirsch, Mr. Giuseppe, Mr. Starling.”
As she walked away she heard Mr. Starling say, “I don’t know . . . If these raids . . .”
And Mr. Kirsch quickly replying, “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Speak for yourself, thought Celia. She had plenty to worry about, and so did Yannis and Selena and all the others who were still on the job.