Page 85 of By Any Means

“An unoriginal one, at that,” Laurie said. “When he’s got enough money to start his own house for the insane and throw away the key.” His unshaken nonchalance was strangely soothing. “Does he speak any German, d’you know? The language of his forefathers?” He said something in German, which, like Latin, and Greek, and French—he felt a little hysterical—Chary did not speak.

“I beg your pardon? What did you say? I have no idea.”

“Nein,” August said curtly, in passing, beelining for the car. “He does not.”

Laurie laughed. “Better learn quick, if he’s to run undressed through Little Germany.”

Nowhere felt safe, not in the whole of New York. Chary had never felt his infamy or his queerness more keenly. His vulnerability.

Look for your name in the morning editions. There would be no hiding from that, would there?

August didn’t seem to want to speak about the threats, and it seemed hardly the right time for Chary to bring up the machine-made jam jars. August did offer to drive the five of them, squashed into Raberding’s hulking gold automobile, to their respective destinations: Sam Sullivan to Newspaper Row, and Chary, Laurie, Mr. Sumner, and himself to the Algonquin Hotel —infamous for turning the cheek, and his own favorite hotel besides. There, they could speak. It was as good an option as anything else. Their Fifth Avenue place was out of the question.

Before starting the auto, August paid his ruffian friends, exchanging handshakes and grateful shoulder thumps. Chary wondered if what he’d said to Raberding was true, if he had known these men professionally, once upon a time. If it mattered. What seemed to matter was that August was correct: he wasn’t alone. He didn’t need Tjofabier Raberding. He might not even need Chary.

Perhaps, Chary thought, he never had needed Chary at all.

“Is your brother in with the mob—truly?” Laurie asked. “Only curious,” he said quickly, as Chary gave him an exasperated look through the cracked partition. “I don’t give a fig. In either circumstance, I can’t write about it, y’know. He’s your brother, and, well… cooperative.”

“I don’t know,” Chary said honestly. “But… you don’t give a fig?”

Laurie looked away, caught, sheepish, but smiling. He tugged at his cap. “Aw, hell. I can’t still find him fascinating? Was he really a prostitute?”

“Leave it, L,” Sumner said, sharply.

“Well, I would be happy to see a Wright tableau,” Sam Sullivan piped up beside him. He, Mr. Sumner, and Chary shared the back seat, elbows and knees jangling. “But I suspect Mr. Raberding has us rather beat to that punch.”

Laurie hummed agreement. “Pro’ly. Or it’s more talk.”

“Ironic, if you consider it could’ve been his bounty to begin with.”

“It could’ve what?!” Laurie jerked around to stare. “Sam! You didn’t. A press bounty?”

“Five hundred dollars, yes. But no, that is only a theory, after all. It may be it isn’t his. And I didn’t take it, did I?”

“If only because I refused to write it!”

Chary realized then—once again—that Laurie had been telling the truth the whole time. Neither his editor nor his office-mate knew about the gaffer deaths or what story Laurie was really looking into. He had refused to write Chary’s story.

Sam Sullivan sighed. “I can try to put out a kill on it, boys, but… no promises. Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Raberding will have gone with the World.”

Laurie groaned. “As if I don’t owe you enough, Sam. You can’t get into it with Pulitzer!”

The engine rumbled to a start, and August hauled himself up into the car. He said nothing before throwing it into gear. Chary tried to catch his eye, to get any inkling of how his brother was feeling.

Nothing.

They dropped Sam Sullivan off at Newspaper Row, and then he and Laurie were left at the doors of the Algonquin. They booked four rooms, exchanged the numbers, and then August promised to take the auto back to Raberding’s carriage house—with Sumner’s help—and return. Chary and Laurie went off to their respective accommodations to shower and rest.

Chary bathed but couldn’t sleep. It was deathly quiet. Alone with his own mind, it felt like he was waiting for the end of the world. Or at least the telegram that would announce its coming. What would become of their lives once exposed? Would they have any peace ever? Would August remain a free man? Would he?

More than anything, he was antsy to speak to his brother.

Eventually, it was well into the afternoon; the room’s mantel clock told him he’d been trying to sleep for hours, and August hadn’t knocked. He put on a robe, went out into the hall, and himself rapped on the door of the room August was meant to be occupying. No answer.

Chary put his forehead on the door and breathed. They should’ve been back by now, surely. Why weren’t they? What was August keeping from him? Why?

He returned to his own room and there stared at the connecting door. Ostensibly, Laurie slept just past it. And why not?