“I’ll be seeing Seamus Doyle tonight, Marty. We have some business to finish. My guess is he’ll be wondering what went wrong. He could be curious about how you let Trumpeter Swan win that race. It cost him the whole Fitzroy stable and a bundle of money besides. It could put him out of sorts. And it wouldn’t be hard to drop the suggestion that you double-crossed him.”
It could have been a mistake for me to talk to him alone. He could look down on the top of my head, and it gave him enough confidence to get arrogant. He whispered words that came out like venom.
“It’ll be a cold day in hell when a little punk like you does business with Seamus Doyle. You’re all bluff, you little bum.”
I stepped in close to him and dropped my voice.
“You ever been in Seamus Doyle’s office, Marty?”
He looked a little blank, but he recovered. “Yeah, I have, but you haven’t.”
I dropped my voice another notch. “Don’t you love that picture behind his desk?”
He had a protective grin on now and was right in my face. “Nice try, kid. I’m calling your bluff. What’s in the picture?”
I just stood there for seven or eight seconds while his grin grew into a smirk. “I knew it, you little bum. You can’t bluff a bluffer. I’ll tell you something. You’re dead.”
I eased up next to his ear and whispered, “It’s a picture of John L. Sullivan. Full body in trunks, bare-fisted. The inscription reads, ‘John L. Sullivan. Heavyweight Champ. September 23, 1910.’ ”
I watched the smirk fall away in stages that went from shock to terror.
“I’ll paint you a picture, Marty. The D.A.’s got plenty to indict you. There’s no bail for murder one. You’ll be sitting in a cell looking at every other prisoner wondering which one was sent by Seamus Doyle.”
If sweat is any indication of what’s going on inside, Marty was a volcano about to erupt. I gave him one last nudge.
“I’d love to continue this chat, Marty, but I’ve got an appointment with Doyle. You know how he is when you’re late.”
I headed back to the jockeys’ room for an overdue shower. By the time I made it to the door, I heard Marty pleading for protective custody with a promise to rat on everyone from Seamus Doyle to Walt Disney.
The day after Mr. Fitz was released, he sent for me. I heard from Mike that Mr. Devlin had told him, probably in exaggerated terms, what I had done.
When I walked into Mr. Fitz’s office, the first thing that caught my eye was a framed blow-up of a news picture that occupied the whole space behind his desk. One of the newsies had snapped a shot just after we crossed the finish line. There was the Swan, driving like he could run the whole race again. And there I am, straight up in the irons, whip hand in the air, mouth open like a screaming idiot.
He waved me in and came around the desk to meet me. We both stood there staring at that enormous print. I think we were both trying to take in all that it meant to us.
Mr. Fitz started to speak. I could feel a speech coming, but something in his throat seemed to choke it off. I started to tell him that nothing I could ever do for him would bring us even, but that throat problem was contagious. So we both just stood there drinking all the good thoughts that were leaping off of that picture — for a long time.
The Maidservant’s Letter
by Gigi Vernon
Paris, April 2, 1741
“You’re Monsieur de l’Amour?” the young maidservant asked uncertainly, stepping up to the small, flimsy table that served as his desk.
At his usual spot in the covered, arched passageway among the other hawkers of goods and services, Vincent nodded and smiled encouragingly.
She pulled a sheet of paper out of her apron pocket and handed it to him.
Vincent nodded, inspecting her over the top of his spectacles. Illiterate servants were his best customers and droves of them sought out his stall for his professional letter-writing and reading services. For a small fee, he kept them linked to family and lovers in the provinces. His advice and comfort he gave for free.
“Please. I’d like a letter read to me,” the girl said.
He hadn’t seen this particular maidservant before. She was prettily slender with small, sharp features set off by dark curls under a white, lace-edged cap. He had an uncanny memory for faces, even those he’d only glimpsed. What else had he to do now, spending his days and nights among the living and the dead in the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents?
The most popular in Paris, the cemetery was half a dozen city blocks wide and long, enclosed on all sides by tall houses perched atop arched passageways. A city within a city. On this sunny April day, the brisk wind made the faint odor of decay from the graves hardly noticeable to the residents, merchants, shoppers, and mourners who were going about their daily business.
As he did dozens of times a day, Vincent glanced across the cemetery beyond the spire of the Chapel of the Virgin toward the tomb of his fifteen-year-old daughter, and drew strength from her presence. He touched the crucifix he wore around his neck.
“Monsieur?” The girl recalled him to the present.
He turned brisk and efficient. “You have a letter you want me to read?”
“Yes, monsieur. A love letter,” she said with a bold, saucy glint in her dark eyes, as she pushed the letter toward him across his desk’s rough wood.
He took the letter, untied the blue ribbon around it, and asked, “You haven’t come to me before, have you?”
“No, monsieur. You were recommended to me by a friend,” she replied, her gaze steady under his scrutiny.
“Oh yes? Who would that be?” he asked, always pleased to hear about recommendations.
“Catherine?” she said uncertainly.
“Catherine Pousse?”
She nodded.
“Delightful girl.” He smiled with approval.
“She said you were the very best at reading and writing love letters. That’s why you’re known as Vincent de l’Amour. If she hadn’t said you were the best, I would never have come here.” She put a cheap bunch of wilted violets to her nose. “I don’t care for cemeteries myself.”
“No doubt that is because you haven’t known tragedy yet,” he said kindly.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, with a mixture of suspicion and pity, as if she thought he might be senile. Though Vincent’s hair and mustache may have been streaked with gray and his face etched with lines, his heart and soul were still young, younger than this girl whose scorn thinly disguised her fears.
A nearby funeral party fought the eddies of swirling dust kicked up by the gusts of wind, the priest bellowing his prayer at the grave’s edge, the men holding onto their black tricornes, and the women clutching their long black veils as they wept loudly.
Turning back to the girl, Vincent gave her a reassuring smile. “Let me see what you have here.”
The seal of the letter had already been broken. With a glance at the seal’s red wax imprinted with the image of a bird, he unfolded the letter. The blue paper was heavy and expensive, with a lustrous sheen to it. The young man must be wealthy and educated. Vincent hoped for the girl’s sake he was also of a good character, but he frowned when he saw that the note was addressed and signed with mere initials. Certain signs of a clandestine romance. He sighed with disapproval. But then, what did it really matter? The only thing that really mattered was life. And love.
He began to read aloud.
March 6, 1741
Dearest M.,