In the ruckus, Mick’s boot dragged the cloth from the crate, and Patrick’s eyes widened as he stared at it.
Ruby was hiding something “hot,” all right. It looked like a stack of incendiary broadsheets. He couldn’t read much through the slats, but the words Blackstone and Injustice printed in large, bold-faced type were easy to see.
Mick peeled himself up from the floor and grinned as he saw where Patrick was looking. He popped the lid from the crate and handed him one of the flyers. “I thought I’d stoke up a little advanced publicity for my book,” he said proudly.
It didn’t take long to scan the page. This was going to be a problem. The ghostwriter who penned the memoir had carefully avoided outright slander, but this screed was a direct assault on the Blackstones, their bank, and the businesses they funded.
“Use these flyers for kindling, not publicity,” Patrick warned Mick. “I worked with your writer to be sure the book had no outright lies that could get you convicted of libel, but this document is full of it.” He read directly from the flyer. “‘The Blackstones outlaw clocks in their coal mines so they can trick a man into thinking he’s worked only ten hours when he’s actually worked twelve.’ You know that’s not true. There is now a clock in every Blackstone mine, factory, and cafeteria. No one is being lied to about what hours they’ve worked.”
“But they used to.”
“Maybe, but not today, and this leaflet could get you convicted of libel.”
Before he could say more, a pounding on the door interrupted him.
“Mickey!” Someone banged again and shouted from the hallway. “I’ve brought reinforcements from Mingo County.”
Mick opened the door, and men started funneling inside, but Mick pushed them back. “Hey, Donahue. You’re early. I’ve got my lawyer here.”
Patrick eyed the half-dozen men standing in the hallway. Mingo County was a coal mining region in West Virginia, one of the areas that had given the Blackstones trouble over the years.
“What do you need a lawyer for?” Donahue asked. He was a wiry man with hard eyes and cheekbones like blades in his thin face.
Mick straightened his collar. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve got an important book coming out soon.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, and it didn’t look like Donahue appreciated it.
“Aye, which is why I don’t like a lawyer sniffing around. What’s in that crate?” Donahue pushed into the room and grabbed a flyer. “What are you doing with this?”
Mick gave a smirk. “Since they’re all over West Virginia, I figured I’d use some here in New York. They’ll help sell my book.”
“We’re about more than selling books,” Donahue said in a low tone. “If you think that book is going to do the trick, you’re an even stupider old drunk than we thought.”
“Who are you calling an old drunk?” Mick snarled, bumping his chest against the younger man’s.
“Pipe down,” Donahue ordered, easily brushing Mick aside. “We’ve got a lot to discuss, and it’s time for the lawyer to leave.”
Ruby grabbed Patrick by the arm. “Your ma will be waitin’ dinner for you, love,” she said, funneling him toward the door.
“Hey, Patrick,” Mick called out, “tell them no deal, okay? I’ve got too many irons in the fire to settle for the Blackstones’ scrawny deal.”
Patrick had the answer he expected and nodded to Ruby before leaving the boardinghouse, but something was wrong here. Despite the ribbing he took from folks in the neighborhood, he was no wide-eyed innocent. His job brought him into a world of prostitutes, pickpockets, and grifters. He was even willing to represent Mick Malone, possibly the shadiest man in the Five Points, because Father Doyle asked it of him.
Patrick was honor-bound by his profession to work in the best interests of his client, but that same code of ethics meant he couldn’t overlook a crime in progress, and Patrick sensed something shady. What motivated those men to come all the way from West Virginia and partner with Mick Malone against the Blackstones?
Patrick had no proof of wrongdoing, but he couldn’t look the other way. The ethical obligations of a lawyer often collided with the integrity of an upright man, and sometimes it was hard to know what to do.
In this case, Patrick would rely on the one man who had never steered him wrong, and that meant a visit to Father Doyle the following morning.
Saint Boniface College was in the heart of Brooklyn, surrounded by factories, ironworks, and tenements. Elevated trains rumbled overhead, and a dozen different languages could be heard on any given street corner. There were no walls around the college, so Patrick had a good view of the German delicatessen across the street as the owner lugged a side of beef into the shop.
Father Doyle sat on the bench beside him as Patrick recounted the previous day’s events at Mick’s place. Dressed in all black except for his clerical collar, Father Doyle still looked exactly as he did sixteen years earlier when Patrick first spotted him heading toward a trolley stop in the Five Points. He had chased the old man down to ask what it took to become a priest. It was the moment that changed Patrick’s life forever. Father Doyle had glanced at his black eye, split lip, scabbed-over knuckles, and drawn the right conclusion about how Patrick earned a living. There probably weren’t a lot of boxers who aspired to the priesthood, but Father Doyle was generous with his time that afternoon and provided Patrick with a path to a new and better life. During those early years, Patrick believed the best way to prove his devotion to God was to aim for the highest rank, and that meant the priesthood. It was the purest form of commitment and came with lifelong responsibilities and sacrifices he was eager to assume. His vows would be joyfully offered and forever carved in stone.
It hadn’t worked out that way, and he still carried the shame of bailing out on Father Doyle. The upside was that he could help the old priest by counseling people in the streets instead of in the pews. That meant venturing into the seedier side of life, and he still came to Father Doyle for advice.
“All I have is a hunch,” he told the priest. “Mick claims he’s only writing a book to earn a little money, but I think it’s part of a bigger scheme. Those men from Mingo County didn’t come all this way to help Mick sell his book.”
“And what makes you think they’re up to no good?” the priest asked. “Because of the way they look? Because the people of Mingo County have no love for the Blackstones?”
“I think they’re here to stir up trouble,” Patrick said. “I agreed to represent Mick for that book, but I didn’t sign up for anything else, and I don’t like being dragged into it.”
