The Alienist - Caleb Carr [41]
There aren’t many women who would have ventured into one of the worst parts of the Lower East Side with such relish. But Sara’s adventurous spirit had never been much tempered by prudence. Furthermore, she had experience with the area: right after Sara’s graduation from college, her family had gotten the idea that her education might be fully balanced by some firsthand experience of life in places other than Rhinebeck (where the Howards’ country estate was located) and Gramercy Park. So she put on a starched white blouse, a dreary black skirt, and a rather ridiculous boater and spent the summer assisting a visiting nurse in the Tenth Ward. During those months she saw a great deal—most, indeed, of what the Lower East Side could throw at a person. None of it, however, was any worse than what we were bound for that day.
The Santorellis lived in a rear tenement a few blocks below Canal Street. Rear tenements had been outlawed in 1894, but there had been a grandfather clause in the bill, so that those that already existed were allowed to remain standing with minimal improvement. Suffice it to say that if a tenement building that fronted the street was dark, disease-ridden, and threatening, the smaller buildings that often stood behind them—in place of a yard that might have brought at least a bit more air and light to the block—were exponentially more so. By the look of the particular front tenement we pulled up before that day, we were in for a typical experience: huge barrels of ash and waste stood by the urine-soaked stoop of the structure, on which was gathered a group of filthy, rag-clad men, each indistinguishable from the next. They were drinking and laughing among themselves, but they stopped abruptly at the sight of the calash and Cyrus. Sara and I stepped out and onto the curb.
“Don’t wander too far, Cyrus,” I said, trying not to betray my jitters.
“No, sir,” he answered, gripping the pommel of his horse-whip tightly. With his other hand he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Perhaps you should take these, Mr. Moore.” He produced a set of brass knuckles.
“Hmm,” I noised, studying the weapon. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Then I dropped the sham. “Besides, I wouldn’t know how to use them.”
“Hurry, John,” Sara said, and then we mounted the stoop.
“Here!” One of the loitering men grabbed my arm. “D’you know there’s a coon driving your rig?”
“Is there?” I answered, guiding Sara through the almost visible stench that hovered around the men.
“Black as the ace of spades!” another of the men asserted, seemingly astonished.
“Remarkable,” I replied, as Sara got inside. Before I could follow, the first man grabbed me again.
“You’re not another cop, are you?” he asked menacingly.
“Absolutely not,” I answered. “I despise cops.”
The man nodded once but said nothing, from which I divined that I was allowed to pass.
To get to the rear building it was necessary to navigate the pitch-black hallway of the front structure: always an unsettling experience. With Sara in the lead we felt our way along the filthy walls, trying but failing to adjust to the lack of light. I started when Sara stumbled on something; and I started even more violently when that something began to wail.
“Good lord, John,” Sara said after a moment. “It’s a baby.”
I still couldn’t see a thing, but as I got closer the smell gave it away—a baby, all right, and the poor creature must have been covered in its own excrement.
“We’ve got to get it help,” Sara said, and I thought of the men on the stoop. When I looked back toward the front door, however, I saw them silhouetted against the snowfall outside, swinging sticks as they watched us, and occasionally laughing in a very unpleasant