The Bone Garden: A Novel

Twenty-six

NOW, THIS IS THE WAY to make a living, thought Jack Burke as he lumbered up Water Street, wearing his best coat and his clean boots. No mucking around in the dark and dodging bullets. No coming home with his clothes muddy and reeking of cadavers. With winter setting in and the ground frozen hard as rock, all the merchandise would be coming up from the south anyway, crammed into barrels labeled PICKLES or MADEIRA or WHISKEY. What a surprise would lie in store for any thief who hankered for a drink and secretly broke into one of those barrels. Poor thirsty man, to pry off the lid, his lips tingling with anticipation, only to find, instead of whiskey, a naked corpse preserved in brine.

A man might lose his taste for drink over that.

Too many of those barrels were coming up from Virginia and the Carolinas these days. Male or female, black or white, the merchandise found a ready market in all the medical schools, whose ravenous appetite for cadavers seemed only to grow every year. He could see how the business was going. He had seen the barrels in Dr. Sewall's yard and knew they didn't contain cucumber pickles. The competition had grown fierce, and Jack had a vision of endless trains, car after car loaded with just such barrels, bringing the southern dead, at twenty-five dollars apiece, to the dissection parlors of Boston and New York and Philadelphia. How could he compete with that?

Far easier to earn it the way he was doing today, walking in broad daylight, with clean boots, up Water Street. Not the finest neighborhood, but good enough for tradesmen, who were out in this clear, chill morning, their wagons filled with bricks or lumber or dry goods. It was a workingman's street, and the shop he arrived at should certainly cater to a workingman's taste and needs. But displayed behind the dusty glass was an evening coat that no workingman could possibly make use of. It was fashioned from brilliant crimson cloth and trimmed with gold lace, a coat that forced you to stop right there on the street and dream of a better life. A coat that said: Even a man like you can look like a prince. A useless thing for a tradesman, and the tailor certainly knew it, but he had chosen to display it anyway, as if to announce that he was destined for a better neighborhood.

A bell tinkled as Jack walked into the shop. Inside, far more commonplace items were displayed: cotton shirts and pantaloons and a dark cloth roundabout coat. Even a tailor with delusions of grandeur must cater to the practical needs of his clientele. While Jack stood breathing in the smell of wool and the acrid tang of dye, a dark- haired man with a neatly trimmed mustache emerged from the back room. The man looked Jack up and down, as if mentally taking his measure for a suit. He was smartly dressed, his jacket well fitted to his trim waist, and although he was not particularly tall, he had the ramrod posture of one who has an exaggerated impression of his own stature.

— Good morning, sir. May I be of service? — the tailor inquired.

— Are you Mr. Eben Tate? — asked Jack.

— Yes, I am. —

Though Jack was wearing his good coat and a clean shirt, he had the distinct feeling that Mr. Tate had judged his clothes and found them wanting.

Eben said: — A good selection of reasonably priced woolen cloth has just come in from the Lowell mills. It would do quite nicely for a new greatcoat. —

Jack looked down at his own coat and saw no reason why he would want a new one.

— Or perhaps you're in need of a topcoat or shirt? I can offer you some quite practical styles, something that would suit your profession. Which is?? —

— I'm not in the market for anything, — growled Jack, offended that with just one look, this stranger had pegged him as a customer in need of something practical and reasonably priced. — I'm here to ask you about a certain someone. Someone you know. —

Eben's attention remained focused on Jack's barrel chest, as though he was estimating how many yards of cloth were required.

— I'm a tailor, Mr.? —

— Burke. —

— Mr. Burke. If you're interested in a shirt or pantaloons, I can certainly help you. But I make it a point to avoid needless gossip, so I doubt I'm the one you want to speak to. —

— It's about Rose Connolly. Do you know where I can find her? —

To Jack's surprise, Eben gave a laugh. — You, too, eh? —

— What? —

— Everyone seems to be interested in Rose. —

Jack was confused. How many others had been hired to find her? How much competition did he have? — Well, where is she? — he asked.

— I don't know and I don't care. —

— Wasn't she your wife's sister? —

— I still don't care. I'm embarrassed to admit she's any relation of mine. A piece of trash, that one, spreading lies about me. And a thief, too. That's what I told the Night Watch. — He paused. — You're not with the Watch, are you? —

Jack avoided the question. — How can I find her? —

— What's she done now? —

— Just tell me where to find her. —

— Last I knew, she was staying in some rathole down in Fishery Alley. —

— She's not there anymore. Hasn't been there in days. —

— Then I can't help you. Now, if you'll excuse me. — Eben turned and vanished into the back room.

Jack remained where he was, frustrated by this impasse. And worried about the possibility that some other party might track down the girl before he did. Would he still be paid the finder's fee? Or would he have to be satisfied with what he'd already received? A generous sum, to be sure, but it wasn't enough.

It was never enough.

He stared at the doorway through which that prig of a tailor had retreated. — Mr. Tate? — he called.

— I've told you what I know! — came the answer, but not the man.

— There's money in it for you. —

That was the magic word. In two heartbeats, Eben was out of the back room. — Money? —

How quickly two men can have a meeting of the minds. Their gazes met, and Jack thought: Here's a fellow who understands what's important.

— Twenty dollars, — said Jack. — Find her for me. —

— For twenty dollars, it's hardly worth my time. Anyway, I told you. I don't know where she is. —

— Does she have any friends? Anyone who might know? —

— Just that half-wit. —

— Who? —

— Skinny boy. Everyone knows him. Hangs around the West End, begging for pennies. —

— You mean Dim Billy. —

— That's the one. He was lodging with her over on Fishery Alley. Came around here looking for her. Brought her bag over, thinking she'd be with me. —

— So Billy doesn't know where she is, either? —

— No. But he's got a nose on him. — Eben laughed. — May be a half-wit, but he's good at finding things. —

And I know where to find Billy, thought Jack as he turned to leave.

— Wait, Mr. Burke! You said there was money involved. —

— For useful information. But it has to be useful. —

— What if I found her myself? —