Page 21 of City of Liars

She stamped her foot. “I’m a girl, not a chamberpot!”

“I know you’re a girl,” James said, trying to sound patient. “And he’s a man. Have you not stopped to think what he wants from you?”

“He’s no but a year older than you!”

With great difficulty, James refrained from taking his sister by the shoulders again and shaking sense into her by main force. “That man,” he said, enunciating each word, “is up to no good. I want you to quit this job.”

Maisie’s jaw set, the way it did when she was determined to have her way. “I’ll do no such thing. We need the money. If George Armstrong sometimes looks at me a little longer than he ought, that’s no a crime. Already he makes sure I have choice work to do, with none of the scrubbing and window-washing. He’s promised me more money soon.”

“George,” James said between his teeth, “is no the man of that house, and best you remember it.”

She straightened, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. “And you,” she said with equal venom, “are no the boss of me, and best you remember that.”

“I’m your brother!”

“Aye, and I’m glad of it, most of the time. But this time, you’re acting a fool.”

If one of them was acting a fool, James didn’t think it was him. Not that he was careless enough to say that to his sister, who looked one lit match short of an explosion. “I’m trying to take care of you,” he said instead. “Like I promised Mam I would.”

“And I’m telling you, I can take care of myself.”

“By trading your body for favors from that wee bastard? I won’t have it!”

Maisie snorted so hard, she sounded like one of the horses from the barn where he used to ride, back in Aberdeen. “What exactly,” she said, each syllable dropping clear and cold into the night, “do you think I’ve been doing, other than smiling back at him when he smiles at me, or giving him an extra cube of sugar with his tea?”

“That,” James said, holding up a finger to make his point, “is bad enough. He’ll think you’re willing, and then he’ll take advantage of you. Christ, Maisie, he doesn’t need to think you’re willing. He’s twice your size. If anything ever happened to you, I’d⁠—”

Unable to finish the sentence, he swiped a hand across his mouth. The thought of Armstrong forcing himself on Maisie, and her unable to resist…it was enough to make him heave up his dinner right there on the concrete. His heart lurched, taking up a sick, unsteady rhythm in his chest. Perhaps, he thought, it would conveniently stop, putting an end to his misery. That would be a stroke of luck. But it wasn’t as if James had any luck to spare.

A moment later, Maisie’s small, cold fingers closed on his own. “James,” she said, making an effort to sound conciliatory, “how is this different from all the times you used to go down into the courtyard and fight other lads for money, to win bets and such, all so we’d be able to put food on the table?”

James had done that, to make sure they’d had enough to eat, along with working every menial job he could manage, from bootblack to bricklayer, before getting the gig at The Players. But what bearing could that possibly have on their current situation? Bewildered, he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Boys,” she said, all the anger draining out of her, “men. You use your bodies for gain, too. In those fistfights, your body was your currency, don’t you see? And here, with Mr. Armstrong…my body is mine. It’s just that I’m betting on myself.”

He regarded her for a long moment. The wind had brought tears to her eyes; at least, he hoped that was the case. The alternative broke his heart. “Be that as it may,” he said at last, “my sister’s body is no a currency I’m willing to trade in. You’ll quit that job.”

Maisie had refused, and when he wouldn’t give over pestering her about it, she’d stopped speaking to him entirely. It was true he couldn’t force her to quit, unless he tied her hand and foot, and that was a length to which not even James was willing to go. He had to find a way to make enough money that she’d see her way clear to leaving the Armstrongs’ and securing other employment, while he supported them in the interim.

Desperation had driven him to the gambling tables. Betting was illegal, but the same organized crime syndicates that made sure alcohol flowed freely despite Prohibition had a corner on backroom games of craps and roulette. Once James had made up his mind to seek them out, it was a simple matter of making quiet inquiries in the right places. The next thing he knew, he was betting all of his hard-earned money on what seemed like their best chance at a way out.

At first, he thought it was a dream come true. Leaders of illicit gambling rings were still leaders, and James looked up to them, pleased when they talked to him like he was a human being rather than an automat at Horn & Hardart...which was what he often felt like at The Players, where the members only spared him a glance if their food was too cold or their drink too watery. He allowed himself to believe he’d found the answers to his and Maisie’s woes, even imagined that one day “Lucky” Luciano himself would clap James on the shoulder and single him out for a special task. That maybe he’d rake in the dough, and then rise in the ranks of the Mob, the way Lucky had with Joe Masserio.

He should have known better. His luck at the craps table was the same as it was everywhere else: terrible. Now he owed money to the Five Points Gang, on top of everything else. Far from giving him special treatment, they’d made it clear if he didn’t pay up, he’d be spending some quality time at the bottom of the East River, with a cinderblock tied to his feet.

At this point, he didn’t much care what happened to him, but Maisie was a different story. He had to find a way to pay off his debts and survive, so he could keep his promise to take care of her. Day after day, as the Gang’s threats increased, he racked his brains, trying to think of something, anything, he could do.

Every night, he carried trays of decadent food that would’ve cost him a month’s wages out to the club’s garden, complete with a flowing fountain and a pool full of live turtles. All the while, a grinding, painful envy chewed away at him. It was all he could manage to plaster a sycophantic smile on his face as he watched those popinjays lean back in their ritzy chairs and puff on their expensive cigars. They were such hypocrites, pretending to be so high and mighty while one of their own thought nothing of taking advantage of a fifteen-year-old girl.

In his darkest moments, he considered asking one of the club’s patrons for money, but dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him. They would laugh in his face, then report him to the management. Surely then he’d be fired, and even worse off than before.

The Gang gave him six nights to pay off his debt. On the third, as he circulated through the plush dining room and sitting area, he came upon a man sitting alone in front of the massive fireplace. The flickering light of the ornate crystal chandelier illuminated his dark hair, fine smoking jacket, and amiable expression. This was Charles Carter, one of the club’s more thoughtful patrons. He never snapped at James or addressed him as “boy.” Instead, he’d taken the trouble to learn James’s name, and at the end of most evenings, he’d even slip a little extra cash James’s way. If there was anyone at the club that James harbored something other than contempt for, it was Charles.

He smiled when he saw James, tray in hand, and waved him over. James went, wondering why Charles was alone; usually he was accompanied by a tableful of cronies. James wasn’t sure exactly what Charles did, but whatever it was, it was lucrative; he lived at One Lexington, a swanky building down the street, and was here almost every night.

“Hallo there, James.” Charles’s voice was plummy but not officious or snobby, the way so many of the men at the club sounded when they talked—as if they had pretensions of royalty and a mouthful of velvet. “Everything jake? I couldn’t help but notice you were looking down in the mouth. Work getting to be a bit much?”

James stiffened his spine. It was one of the rules of the club: no personal business was to be shared with members, and employees were to present a pleasant, cheerful demeanor at all times. He sucked in a deep breath, the air tinged with the aromas of lemon-basted seafood and floral tobacco smoke, and steeled himself.