Inez gathered the cards and began shuffling. “I suspect the ordinance is directed at Chinatown, Mr. Haskell. And, in any case, if an occasional friendly game of penny poker provokes the attention of the local constabulary, the entire city will be in trouble.”
Isaac Pérez pulled out his pocket watch and examined the time. “Monroe must have landed a last-minute job somewhere. When we talked yesterday, he’d said he’d be here.”
Otto reached for the bottle.
Secretly blessing Pérez for mentioning Jamie, Inez pasted a look of mild interest on her face. “I was expecting Mr. Monroe today as well. Have any of you seen him?”
Pérez turned to Otto. “Herr Klein here would have heard him snoring last night, yes?”
Otto slopped some of the liquor onto the table. “Not there last night.”
Pérez grinned. “Ah! Who is the lucky lady, Klein?” At Walter Ash’s cough, Pérez turned to Inez, abashed. “Apologies, Señora Stannert, for my crude remark.”
“I was home,” said Otto gruffly, keeping his gaze on the table as he mopped up the spill with his handkerchief. “It was Jamie who was not.”
Haskell volunteered, “I saw him on Sunday at one of the sandlot meetings, talking with Frank Roney. Roney’s a real force for labor. He pulled together the Seamen’s Protective Association last year. Monroe is getting in pretty deep with Roney and his type. I gotta hand it to the kid, he really cares about the movement. And he wants to see a musician’s union succeed.” Haskell picked up his cards. “He stopped by the paper’s office last Friday, looking for information on the last merry-go-round in ’74. I gave him what I had, then pointed him to you, Welles. Didn’t he talk to you?”
Welles’ expression darkened throughout Haskell’s remarks. He picked up his cards, and with barely a glance at them, tossed them back down. “Yeah. He came by.” He opened his mouth like he was going to say something further, then stopped.
He scooped up his winnings, stood, and grabbed his hat off the hat rack. “The missus is going to have my hide if I’m not home soon. See you guys around. G’night, Mrs. Stannert.” He opened the back door. The sound of heavy rain rushed into the room on the wings of a cold, wet gust. The players pinned their cards to the table to keep them from flying into the breeze. He left, slamming the door behind him.
Mystified, Inez turned to Haskell. “What was that about?”
“No idea, Mrs. Stannert. He’s a man of many moods. And obviously under pressure.”
“So it seems.” She tried to refocus on her hand, but Welles’ anger and its possible origins lingered over the table and cast a dark shadow over her thoughts.
Chapter Thirteen
Antonia awoke with a snort, the routine clamor of bells smashing her dream. She wiped at the drool that dampened her cheek and turned one ear into the pillow, clapping a hand over the other ear. The words from a remembered poem beat along with the muffled noise: Hear the tolling of the bells—Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
What was monody, again? Then she remembered what Mrs. S had told her.
“It can refer to poem or music,” she’d said. “In music, it’s a song for a solo singer accompanied by some instrument or other. It defined a particular musical style in seventeenth century Italian song. Where did you hear that term? From Mr. Donato?”
Antonia showed Mrs. S the book she’d purloined from the public library.
Mrs. S had looked at her strangely. The Works of Edgar Allen Poe? “You’re reading this but having trouble with your Swinton’s Reader?”
Antonia had shrugged. “Swinton’s is boring. How do you know all this stuff anyway?”
“I went to school. And I listened to what my teachers said.”
Cheek against the pillow, eyes closed, Antonia sniffed experimentally. Her plugged nose gurgled. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. Maybe she could talk Mrs. S into letting her stay home today….
Her bed jiggled. Antonia’s eyes popped open. The bells were quiet, but she could hear the traffic in the street outside her window.
Mrs. S stood there, a shawl over her shoulders, dressed for the day. “Get up, Antonia. It’s already half past. I can’t understand how you slept through the racket.”
“I’m sick.” She snuffled to demonstrate.
Mrs. S moved to the side of the bed and put a hand on her brow.
“No fever.” Mrs. S gave her the once over. “You’ll be fine. Wear your flannel petticoat and your wool stockings. I’ll give you an extra handkerchief to carry.”
Antonia grumbled and swung her feet out of bed onto the braided rug, pulling off her nightcap.
“And be sure to take your umbrella.” Mrs. S moved toward the door. “It’s not raining at the moment, but who knows about later? I’ll fix your breakfast. Hurry up now.”
Antonia got dressed, feeling as if her limbs were struggling through molasses, and dragged herself to the table. Two round zeppole, white with powdered sugar, waited for her. “Carmella?” she asked, delighted.
Mrs. S nodded, busy at the small stove. “She made those yesterday. I warmed them for you this morning.” She brought over Antonia’s heated, coffee-laced milk. Antonia took it and got a good look at Mrs. S, who looked like she hadn’t slept much.
No surprise there.
Antonia lowered her gaze to the fried dough balls, picked one up and took a bite, focusing on the taste. Antonia didn’t want Mrs. S looking into her eyes and figuring out that she had heard what that man, Mr. Gallagher, had said last night, and what Mrs. S had said back.
She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop. Mrs. S would tan her hide if she found out, but Antonia took great pains to keep her sneaky doings secret. Her little bolthole was in the second-floor storage room, among the trunks and boxes and dust, where no one ever went. Even if they did, they’d never realize one of the knots in the floor planks could be pulled out. This peephole was above the
