Chapter 8
LAURIE
A little bit slower on Laurie’s part—a little bit tighter choice of suit—and Laurie would’ve lost Chary Wright to the coal-dusted broadness of the Bowery crowd.
Taken at a glance, the man was rail thin, spindly and awkward.
But he’d rabbited off sudden, like the wiry-muscled Olympic sprinter he’d seen at last year’s World’s Fair.
Explosive. That was the word for it. Laurie could work with that.
Never mind that working with that was possibly dangerous, especially with what he knew now. Laurie had a story now, concrete connection between four dead gaffers and a dead glass heir, a lead.
Back to the rooming house they went—on sidewalks this time—with Chary leading. Laurie watched the man’s loping gait, wondering if he’d run again, and if so, if Laurie would let him go.
He wouldn’t. At least five men connected to the glassworks were dead, if he included August Wright. Chary could be behind it all.
They weren’t followed off Bowery. But they’d gotten through the walkup of the rooming house and were three stories high and upon the stair landing before Laurie could breathe properly. He felt watched.
“Your key?” he demanded. “How does your landlady feel about visitors?”
Chary fished in his jeans. “I wouldn’t know. She’s Ukrainian.”
And the trains probably drowned out most things regardless. Laurie plucked the key from his hand and walked to the door. He could feel the taller man above him, breath falling on the strict part of his hair, hot and fast.
There came steps upon the not-so-distant stair behind them, unhurried but swift. Chary made an acute, distressed noise and pressed against him, knees, toes and elbows, long fingers in Laurie’s softer bits of shoulder; Laurie nearly yelped.
He pushed in, moved to the side so Chary could dash in beside—the room was wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder but only just—then eased the door shut behind them, threw the chain lock.
Chary ran trembling hands through his dishwater hair.
Laurie eyed him, marking ticks off in his mind. Slightly wobbly, malnourished, vulnerable. Sharp and a little mean when agitated. Silent when necessary.
A murderer?
Chary sat on the singlewide bed’s surprisingly neat matelassé. He rubbed his palms over his blue jean’d knees, down, and down, and down, the coarse denim and calluses making a quiet husky noise. Calluses, from twelve-hour midnight shifts—in a glassworks he owned soup to nuts.
Maybe not vulnerable, Laurie thought.
The steps in the stairwell moved up and along. Nobody knocked. Chary relaxed, though his expression was still hard.
“Explain, newsman,” he whispered. “What story you want from me. N-no lies. Or if you want money, we can go to Bowery Savings. Otherwise, please leave.”
Laurie didn’t even bother feeling offended. He pulled up the vanity chair—the only seating in the place besides the bed and hardly room to move it out from its place—and folded his hands together, leaned in.
“I won’t be put off with bribery; let’s start with that. I want the truth. Did you know, Chary Wright, that four blowers from your factory have gone missing since your brother inherited two years ago?”
“What? No. Lord.” He looked sincere. Sincerely horrified. “Of course I didn’t know. Since when? Missing? Who? How long ago? Do you have names? Wait—”
He does know. Laurie saw it fall onto his face: stunned revelation. “Were any of them perhaps arrested beforehand?”
Got you. Laurie nodded.
“James Delargy,” Chary said. “Last June. The police took him straight from his shift. Is he dead?”
“Suicide. Hanging. In Sing Sing.”
Chary gasped. “Samuel Border? Nine months ago? Tell me he’s alive. He swore he hadn’t stolen anything. I wrote a letter defending his character. As myself. As…” He waved. “On company letterhead.”
Laurie shook his head.
“Good Lord.” Chary covered his eyes briefly. “Umm. Other journeymen have left—not many… Brooklyn poached a few when they opened… but missing? My father—well, I had resignations from a handful… surely, that isn’t significant.”
“Any who didn’t ask for a reference?”
“I have no idea. If you can blow glass, it’s immediately obvious. We’re not unionized, so there’s no system… You do think those poor men were murdered?”
“Maybe. Did either of them know your brother personally?”
Chary frowned. “This isn’t connected to August. No, they certainly didn’t. He was very… hands-off… for what little time he had at company head.”
Hands-off. Like Tjofabier Raberding, his contemporary, supposedly had been. His lover. Had Chary known his brother was involved with him? Known he was heading for a buyout? He must have known.
“Were any of them queer?”
Chary drew back. “How would I know that? Again, I have no idea. I’m not out and open at the shop.”
That made sense. There, nobody had outed him from the age of twelve; no tongue-in-cheek articles, no whispers at parties, no infamy.
“Do you think it a possible… common denominator?” Chary asked.
“The only thing linking them so far is that they’re all blowers. And easily dispatched. Two worked for you directly.”
“With me,” Chary corrected quietly. “Worked with me. Four days a week, seven to seven, night to morning, Monday through Thursday.”
“Yeah, well, today’s Friday. What do you do Fridays?”
“Sleep. I promise you, I’m not all that interesting.”
“Sure. No reason you’d want any of them out of the way? Did they know your uninteresting secret?”
“No. Of course not. Nobody knows.”
Laurie snorted. “Most queers with double lives are merely selling out drag shows on the corner of Fifth. Hiding a lover. Not working.”
“Merely? I’m sorry if that’s what you expected from me.” Chary scowled. Laurie hated—unreasonably—that because of the beard, he couldn’t see the expressive lines, the way they shaped the man’s face. “I make you, Laurie Whomever-you-are. You’re a bully. A spy. And not the first to threaten me.”
“Oh, no? But you aren’t all that interesting, hmm?”
“Fine,” Chary snapped. “Nobody’s ever found a need to expose me, as I’m sure you well know. And there’s nothing in the glassworks worth killing for. I can assure you.”
“Not even its boss?”
“Nobody knows that!”
“Ah-ah. Somebody knows. I know how a glassworks operates. I know you’d never have been able to just walk into a furnace shop without introduction, even one not under a union. Not even your father’s. You’ll have accomplices. People who know who you really are but brought you on under the guise.”
Two little lines drew up between Chary’s brows.
Laurie stood. “Did you get rid of those men, Chary Wright? Those that knew?”
“No!” Chary cried. “For God’s sake. Why would I have?
What is the worst that would happen if anyone realized?
I might have to stop working. My boys might have to find a different shop.
And I’ve been working the same shop for years and years.
Long before, according to you, men started disappearing.
Samuel, at least, was younger than me; he apprenticed under someone else. ”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many years, exactly?”
“I— Longer than a decade. Please do stop looming.”
“Can I get a range?” Laurie taunted. “Upper and lower bounds? Or you simply forgot?”
“It’s not important! Long enough.”
“You ran from me,” Laurie said softly. “Maybe you didn’t kill anyone, but you’ve something more to hide. Something big. I’ll root it out eventually; you’ll see. I’m a very good reporter. The truth will out.”
Chary met his eyes. He was pale, but above the fake beard, the slightly squashed nose, his eyes were as hard as amber glass.
They were at a standoff.
Truly. Laurie heard the soft click of a hammer even before he saw the semi-auto pistol being plucked from beneath a pillow and swung his way.
“Shit!” Laurie backed up fast, but the chair was in the way. And the door was locked. He’d locked it himself.
“I lied,” Chary said, pushing himself into a stand. His voice shook, but his hand didn’t. “You think you’re unique, newsman? I have been threatened by reporters before. Blackmailers, too.”
Laurie should’ve expected this—really, he knew better—but he honestly hadn’t. Chary had seemed different.
He put up his hands, feeling betrayed in a way he’d never felt before.
“I s’pose you might be used to being underestimated,” he said weakly.
Chary gave a bitter laugh. “Did you forget what I am? I’ve been outed from the age of twelve. You should’ve met me on neutral ground.”
“What’s that, Bleecker Street?” Laurie tried. “Don’t shoot me here, at least. There’s no room to fall except your bed. I thought we were friends.”
“Perhaps we might have once been.” Chary twitched the gun. “In Berryfield. This is New York.”
“Look,” Laurie said, “even if you kill me, it won’t do a thing. I’ve already sent everything I’ve learned to my editor.”
“You’re lying,” Chary hissed. “If you want the truth, then tell it.”
All right. Honesty. The man liked it. Demanded it at gunpoint. Laurie tried for a smile. “Well—can you blame a man?”
Chary’s eyes went wider. His finger was pencil-straight over the trigger guard. He looked conflicted.
“You’ll ruin me and not think twice about it. You’re accusing me of murder. I should shoot you.”
“No, you shouldn’t, because that would be murder. There’s been enough of that. And no, I wouldn’t ruin you. I haven’t, in fact.”
“You haven’t?”
“I should’ve. This would’ve been a hell of a story on its own.
Not even the murders. You know the last thing my source gave me?
A bearded gaffer, in a union meeting last month.
The Local Sixty-Eight, out of Brooklyn. That’s your competition, by the way.
But a glassworks baron playing labor spy?
Outright espionage? That would’ve made my editor cry.
Set back capital twenty years against labor.
” He tried to whistle, but his mouth was too dry.
He rubbed his lips on his shoulder and realized he still had his hands in the air.