Wicked, Wicked Women by Gardner Fox - Chapter 02

1961 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Historical Fiction

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

Men like Mike Gannon and Black John Bennett made their living off the Erie Canal, forever battling one another for control of canal shipping.

Women like Moira Kennally—the wanton widow turned Madam -- and the Egyptian, owner of the notorious pleasure parlor, The Golden Tassel - made their living off men like Mike and Black John, offering their passionate embraces in return for the hard-earned dollars the canalers wrested from "The Big Ditch."

Together and apart they lived and loved in a mad search for power and pleasure during one of the most turbulent eras in the mainstream of American life.

You can download the whole story from the Fox Library.

CHAPTER TWO

White clouds raced across a blue sky as the Lucky Penny sliced its watery way past Rochester and headed for the long run to Rome. Mike Gannon stood at the tiller of his hundred-foot barge, eyes moving along the taut towlines where two mules dug iron hooves into the dirt towpath, urged along by his driver.

His consignment stop was the city of Rome, New York, where he was to pick up and transport to Buffalo a load of iron ingots refined by the Creegan Iron Works. Richard Creegan owned those foundries. His wife was Moira Kennally Creegan. 

The Creegan Iron Works would pay well. In one sense it was a stroke of luck, his getting the business. He could not avoid the thought that Moira might be responsible for it. To handle all Richard Creegan's consignments would make him a rich man in eight or nine years. He wondered if Moira would be in the foundry offices when he appeared for his cargo. 

He wanted her to be there, with all his heart. 

Another part of him understood that it would be foolish for her to appear just so he could feast his eyes on her face once again. It would only reopen old wounds, even after five long years. He might as well face the fact. He would never get that black-haired beauty out of his system. Not even The Egyptian could help him do that. 

Oh, she had been wild and wanton after their session on the couch, just the way he liked a woman to be, parading around the bedroom in her black corselet above which her breasts had jumped and jiggled, rich thighs banded by black garters—letting him see all he wanted of her, commanding him to remain glued to the spot where he stood after helping her off with her undergarments, making him watch as she touched a perfume dropper to her armpits, to the straining brown buds of her big breasts. 

Until he was roused to madness by the sight of her nakedness, until he tore the wrapper with which she sought to cover herself from her hands and threw her down on the counterpane. Laughing, she had fought him until the frenzy worked in her own blood and then she had opened herself to him with a sob and a high, shrill cry... 

A passing barge almost grazed his stern. Captain Gannon snapped awake, veering his tiller slightly. Be smarter to keep his mind on his business than to go remembering those hectic hours last night. The new barge responded instantly, as if a giant hand had reached out to thrust it off to starboard. 

Quite a contrast between his new Lucky Penny and the old barge which his father had named Luck o' the Irish. In those days he had walked the towpaths behind a brace of gray mules, switch in hand and bare toes digging into the soft loam of the towpath, trailing the hooves of the mules as the long chains and frayed leather harness tightened to their drag. 

It had been his job to guide the mules—those fifteen years before—while his father stayed on the barge. He often thought his feet had worn a rut all across New York State, from Albany to Buffalo. He could still see the shiny flanks of Mouse and Graybeard as the muscles bunched and shifted under their glossy hides. Time was, he had been sick of the sight and smell of mule-flesh. Now he breathed in clean fresh air while a helper walked with the towlines. 

His hand touched the side pocket of his pea jacket. A crackle of paper sounded—his consignment sheet for the iron he was to take aboard at the Rome docks. And Moira Creegan lived in Rome. 

He ought to go see her, just for old times' sake. Rich Mister Creegan could hardly object if he paid his wife a friendly visit. She ought to know he was alive and well and doing nicely, thank you. 

Mike Gannon began to whistle a merry tune. 

Moira Creegan straightened abruptly and let the heavy window drape slide into place with a faint rustle of damask. She put her hands to her cheeks and drew a deep breath, feeling strangely excited. Could she believe her eyes? For an instant she shook her head and told herself she should not have taken that glass of blackberry brandy after lunch. 

Her hand went out to the drapes and pushed them back a second time. Her gaze fastened on the figure of the tall man walking so confidently up the tree-lined avenue toward the house. There could be no doubt now. It was Mike—big Mike Gannon! 

"Oh, Mike—you silly fool," she whispered. "I thought I'd seen the last of you five years ago when I married Richard." 

She felt elation surge through her, and a tiny touch of fear. Mike had never forgotten her. He was still in love with her. Now he was defying all rules and coming to see her. What would Richard say to that? 

Moira ran to the hat-rack in the lower front hall, lifting trembling fingers to her thick black hair, primping a little, seeing a pale white face with wide and long-lashed eyes, an overfull mouth that seemed perpetually red, and carefully plucked brows. Her girlhood beauty had matured and ripened in the past five years. 

Her palms slid down her sides to her hips. In the pale blue foulard afternoon dress she looked the part of a pretty young matron, the mother of a girl four years old. No one would ever guess she was not the happy wife she seemed. The foulard was only one of many gowns and dresses that crowded her upstairs closets, for Richard insisted that she dress in the very latest fashions. But it took more than new dresses to make a woman bubble with delight, as she was bubbling now, with just one glimpse of big Mike coming up the sidewalk. 

A bell tinkled far back in the kitchen.

“I'm here, Bertha,” she called. “I'll take it.” 

Her heart was slamming under the squared bodice as she forced herself to walk slowly to the front door. Through the lacework covering the big glass panel she could see Mike standing with his face turned half away as he stared down Depeyster Street. Her hand closed almost convulsively on the doorknob. 

"Mike," she cried, “Mike Gannon!” 

"Hello, Moira." His eyes touched her face and she could read the hungry wanting in them. She opened the door wider. 

“Come in. This certainly is a surprise." 

He brought a touch of the outdoors. His broad shoulders and long legs moving gracefully, hinting at the powerfully muscled body under the blue pea jacket and turtle-neck sweater. His captain's cap was in one hand and the afternoon sunlight formed a golden halo around his head before the door closed to shut it out. 

“They told me at the basin I might find your husband here," he said slowly. "I have a consignment of iron ingots to ship to Buffalo for him. There's some confusion over how many are to go.” 

"I've been expecting him all afternoon. We were supposed to attend a tea at two o'clock. It's after three now. He still hasn't come home. Come into the parlor, Mike. I'll ask Bertha to bring some tea and cake. Or would you like something stronger?” 

"Tea and cake is fine," he nodded. 

They were strangers, ill at ease with one another. Mike sat on the edge of an ornate, overstuffed wing chair with his cap half crushed in long fingers. Moira moved to and from the heavily draped windows. Her legs were weak and trembling. She told herself not to be a fool. Once she and Mike Gannon had been in love. Their love affair had broken up long ago. 

"Still got the Lucky Charm?” she asked suddenly.

"Sure. Bought nine more barges since those days."

"You're doing well, then. I'm glad, Mike." 

His hand made a vague gesture. "I'll never do as well as this. Guess you knew that when you married Creegan." He asked as casually as he could. "You happy with him, Moira? I mean, has it been all you wanted it to be?” 

Her lips quivered and for a moment she was afraid she was going to cry; then some of her old toughness came into her voice. "Now what do you think, Mike Gannon? Was I raised to live in a place like this, with people who look down their noses at me for not being one of their own kind? Could any girl be happy?” 

He was staring at her, eyes wide, his jaw fallen open. She said harshly, "I'm not good enough for his sisters and his cousins—oh, the whole kit and kaboodle of them. Maybe I could stomach them if Richard weren't so much the businessman and more the—you know what I mean," she finished lamely. 

"Jesus, I never thought—” 

"I had to go back to school, mind you. To learn to speak correctly, to learn something about history and books and how to eat properly and conduct myself as a lady. A lady! My father was a dock-walloper off a Great Lakes steamer. My mother was a cook in a Fly Street restaurant." 

She drew a deep breath and crossed the room, yanking at a pull cord. Moments later a slim woman in maid's uniform entered and curtseyed. 

"Bertha, this is Captain Gannon. Would you make a pot of tea? And are there any of those gingerbread cookies left?” 

"I'll see, mum."

When the maid was gone and they were alone the silence of the room seemed to close in around them, broken only by the faint ticking of the upright clock in a corner of the hall. The parlor was stiffly formal with overstuffed sofa and ottoman and a marble-topped table on which rested a glass dome encasing an arrangement of wax flowers. The formality of the room transferred itself to its uneasy occupants. Twice Moira surprised his quick, almost furtive glances at her. 

Mike muttered, "Maybe I ought to run along. I can see your husband tomorrow at the foundry.” 

"Not yet," she countered suddenly, dreading to see him walk out of her life a second time. Her hand lifted as if she would hold him in the chair by sheer force. Her tongue moistened her lips. "Bertha's bringing tea, Mike. I—I've never seen a bargeman drinking tea.” 

He grinned and she laughed, and suddenly they felt more at ease. Mike dropped his cap to the floor at his feet while his hand indicated his heavy woolen sweater and jacket. "I feel mighty out of place here. Guess you know that." 

"You think I don't? Richard's sisters make me feel completely unwanted. At first it wasn't too bad, with Richard a bridegroom, but now it's getting worse every day. Sometimes I feel just like packing up and running away from everything. Maybe I would, too, if it weren't for my little 

"It isn't all you thought it'd be then, is it?” he asked harshly, unable to resist the taunt. Seeing her in the crisp day gown with her thick black hair done up so neatly in a low chignon was a powerful reminder that he'd never get another chance with Moira Kennally. "If you'd been content to start small—” 

"Ah, must you remind me of it?" she flashed, cheeks flushed. “And what about yourself, Mike Gannon? I turned you down and no sooner were the words cold on my lips than you had that doxy off Canal Street snug in your barge cabin, half undressed and almost drunk.” 

“That's what's eating in your craw, is it? Just because I'm a man with a man's hungers, you throw it up to me." 

"Mike Gannon, you're a black gossoon. It wasn't over the doxy we quarreled and well you know it. All I ever asked of you was to get off the canal. To go into an office and wear decent clothes when you came home nights to dinner.” 

“The canal is all I know," he growled.

“All you want to know!” 

They were standing almost nose to nose, with big Mike bending down and Moira on tiptoe, the better to snap at him. Forgotten was the front parlor with its overstuffed furniture, its heavy window draperies and gold-framed oil paintings. During a pause in their harsh breathing they heard the maid approaching, pushing a tea cart ahead of her; they drew apart, Gannon walking toward a window to stare blindly out at the street, Moira to pour Bohea from the sterling silver teapot into delicate Wedgewood cups. The maid went down the hall and to the kitchen. 

"Mike, the tea is ready," she said. 

“Tea," he snorted. "I'd rather have a thimble of Irish whiskey.” 

"I'd expect nothing else of you,” she snapped. There was a quaver in her voice and tears in her eyes. 

“Ah, now, acushla—"

"I can't help it, Mike. I'm just—miserable." 

He came to put his arms about her, drawing her against him, letting her sob on his chest. "The night we quarreled—when you went off to find that blond tart and I followed you—was the night I said yes to Richard. I was furious at you, Mike—simply furious.” 

She wept a little, remembering. "I thought it would all be roses and moonlight, being a rich man's wife. I didn't realize that a rich man would have a family—and that he might have a mistress or two." 

"Mistresses? When he's got you?" 

She smiled through her tears. Her hand came up to caress his cheek. "Why were we always fighting? Why couldn't I have been happy with you the way you were?" 

"Sure, I was only an overgrown yahoo—” 

"We'd have been happy. I know that now. But it's too late. Too late, Mike." 

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware that he was holding this woman so tight in his arms he could feel the solid thrust of her firm breasts and the softness of her hips where they pressed into him. It took a definite effort of will to push her back and away. "I'd best be going before I forget myself," he chuckled. 

"Mike, I—" 

What Moira Creegan might have said was forgotten before the sound of the front door opening and the patter of running feet. 

"Mommy, Mommy!” a child's voice yelled. 

A little girl in cambric dress and black stockings ran from the hall into the parlor. Mike stood up and the child halted while her eyes grew round as she glanced from the strange man to her mother. 

“This is Captain Gannon, darling. Mike, this is my daughter, Kathleen." 

Mike smiled and held out a huge hand. “Sure, it's a pleasure, Kathleen. You're as pretty as your mother." 

"You think my mommy's pretty?” "I sure do. Don't you? 

Kathleen nodded solemnly and put up her hand for Mike to hold a moment, before going behind her mother and peering up at him past the full skirt which so effectively shielded her. 

Mike said, “As long as I'm standing, I'll keep right on walking, Moira.” 

Moira Creegan accompanied him to the front door, with little Kathleen trailing after her. Standing with her left hand on the door and her eyes following the swing of his shoulders as he went down Depeyster Street and so on out of her life, Moira heard her heart cry out, Come back again, Mike! Come back to me! She bit down hard on her lip to still the aroused pounding of her blood. After a moment she was able to let the door close very gently. 

An hour later she learned her husband had died. 

Richard Ames Creegan was buried in a driving rainstorm on the first day of May, 1885. His widow stood with bowed head as the mahogany casket' was being lowered into the grave in fashionable Mount Olive Cemetery, heedless of the water drumming on the umbrella held over her head by a sobbing Bertha. 

From time to time, Aunt Martha Creegan let her eyes slide sideways at this woman who had been the wife of her wealthy brother. Her thin, lined face was filled with vindictive hate and resentment. Fortune hunter! Adventuress! Now the fabulously successful iron works belonged, not to the Creegan family, but to this woman Richard had lifted from the gutter. 

Beside Martha Creegan, her two nephews stood with bowed heads. The older, Jason Evans Tomkins, was general manager of the Creegan Iron Works. Short and running to flesh, he could only think, There goes my security, my job. Moira will run the foundry into the ground now. Still, might be I could salvage something by going to her, asking to be made president in Uncle Richard's place. If she knows anything at all about business, she'll be only too happy to let me run things for her. 

The younger nephew, Mark Tomkins, was still a student at Cornell University. He had been promised that upon graduation he would have a good job in the foundry. Now he supposed that job was up the flue, buried the way Uncle Richard was being buried. 

"It's time to go, Mum,” said Bertha, nudging Moira with an elbow. 

“What? Oh. Oh, yes.” 

Reality came back to Moira Creegan slowly. She could feel the water seeping into her thin kid shoes and running down her heavy dolman cape. Her face lifted and she noticed the hatred in the faces of Aunt Martha and cousins Jason and Mark. The boy's mother, Elvira Martin Tomkins, was clinging tearfully to her husband's arm, shaking her head back and forth, not bothering to show her hate as visibly as the others. 

They expect me to fire the boys and throw Aunt Martha out of her fine home on Washington Street, and pull Frederick Tomkins' job out from under his feet. They've always feared and hated me, ever since Richard announced that he was going to marry me. I never did one thing to make them dislike me. Now that everything belongs to me they seem to feel I've turned into some kind of monster. They ought to come buttering me up, instead of showing their resentment so plainly. 

A hand was under her elbow. “Dear Aunt Moira," said young Mark. "Let me help you over the puddles.” 

So it was beginning. She fought back the ironic smile and said softly. "Thank you, Mark. It's good to have a strong arm on which to lean." 

"You can lean on all of us," Mark said quickly. "We want to help you, now Uncle's gone so suddenly." 

"I'd like to believe that,” she said slowly. Hesitantly she went on. “Mark, I don't want anything to change at the ironworks, I mean. Nobody will lose jobs. You can look forward to finishing at Cornell and after that, making the foundry your career. It was the way Richard wanted it. I want it that way, too. Will you tell the others?” 

"You bet I will, Aunt Moira,” he exclaimed boyishly, too naive to hide his delighted relief. “To tell the truth, we were all a little worried." 

"There's no need to be, no need at all.” 

A thin little man in blue serge lounge suit with a wing collar and polka dot bow tie was standing under an umbrella beside the funeral coach. As Moira Creegan approached he gave a little bob with his head, tipping the brim of his black felt hat respectfully. 

"Mister Davies would like you down at the office, Mrs. Creegan. For the will-reading. It's to be taken from the vault and opened before you all. Will you come? Good. I'll inform the others." 

Moira stepped up into the coach and sank back grate fully against the upholstered seat. The past few days had been a real ordeal, sitting for hour after hour beside the casket, greeting all the friends of her dead husband, fighting the cold glances and resentful looks of the entire family. She had placed little Kathy with friends, thinking her too young to attend services. The family had objected to that, too. 

No matter what she did or did not do, the 'family' always objected; not silently as it had while Richard was alive but with scarcely hidden sneers and rebuffs, or with words spoken just loud enough for her to overhear. She was too tired to fight them right now. In her own way she had loved Richard Ames Creegan and had made him a good wife. She regretted his dying quite sincerely. 

The coach lurched as the horses began to move. Her head went back and forth on the seat cushion. Four days ago Mike Gannon had come to see Richard. She rather imagined he might still be in Rome. The consignment of iron ingots had been delayed by the period of mourning when the foundry and warehouses shut down. He had not come to the funeral services, though. Afraid that tongues might start to wag? A thin smile touched her mouth, bitter and resentful. 

I wonder if I'll go back to seeing Mike, now that Richard's gone? Or will I let the family sway me-make me over into what it thinks Richard's widow should be? They might even try and arrange a match between cousin Jason and me—

Moira shuddered. Not Jason! She could not stand that. Perhaps she ought to take little Kathleen and go to Europe for a few months, give everyone a chance to forget, to dull the edge of their resentments. When they saw that by dying, Richard had not interfered with the even tenor of their lives, they might be better disposed toward her. 

The matched bays were clop-clopping along Lynch Avenue, moving toward the center of town. The will-reading. Richard had told her often enough that she was to get everything: the foundry, the warehouses, the farms in the hills, the stores along Main Street. She would be a very wealthy woman, she supposed. The old, old story of rags to riches. She would own a third of the city of Rome, just about. Hundreds of people would look to her for their livelihood. 

Only five years ago she had been penniless. 

She squirmed deeper into the coach upholstery, feeling warmth flood her veins. She ought not to feel such satisfaction, she supposed, but a body was human and it was the living who counted now, not the dead. There was little Kathleen to consider, too. She must be brought up properly, sent away to a fashionable girls' academy and then to a finishing school. The family would never look down its collective nose at the daughter the way it did at the mother. 

The coach slowed beside the curb. The coachman sprang down to open her door. Moira inclined her head and smiled as she stepped out under the upraised umbrella. The coachman escorted her across the sidewalk. A law clerk was at the front door, holding it open. 

Aunt Martha and the Tomkinses arrived almost on her heels. The young clerk walked ahead of them, opening a glass-paned door that entered a large room lined from floor to ceiling by bookshelves filled with legal tomes. 

A long refectory table, its oak top polished almost to the brightness of a mirror, a dozen straight-backed chairs set about it, a thick maroon carpet and three standing ash trays, completed the furnishings of the library. Moira seated herself close to the tilt chair where Phineas Davies would read the will. There was a rustling of starched petticoats as Martha and Elvira joined her. 

The clerk went into an adjoining office. Moments later Phineas Davies came rushing in, carrying a manila portfolio wrapped with faded red ribbon and fastened by a large wax seal. 

“This is our dear Richard's last will and testament, as you may have guessed,” he said hurriedly, adjusting the ribboned pince-nez across the bridge of his nose. His fingers worked under the portfolio flap, breaking the wax seal. He drew it out and spread it flat with the palm of a hand as his eyes went around the room. 

"This is not a new will," he said slowly. "Many times I warned Richard but he—hrummmph!" He cleared his throat, staring down at the neatly handwritten document.

"I shall read. I quote—” 

" 'I, Richard Ames Creegan, residing now in Rome, Oneida County, New York, do hereby revoke all wills and codicils, as well as all other instruments of a testamentary nature heretofore made by me, and do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my last will and testament, in manner and form following: 

"'First: I give, devise and bequeath all of my stock in Creegan Iron Works Corporation, together with such bonds as may or may not also appear in my name, to my sister Martha Creegan and to my sister Elvira Tomkins, in equal and joint ownership ..."

Moira heard a triumphant gasp from Aunt Martha. 

A sibilant voice whispered, "It's all right, I tell you. We're safe—safe! She doesn't get a penny!” 

Moira paid little or no attention to the interruptions. Instead, she sat in a daze, staring at the bald lawyer and his pince-nez which bobbled crazily at almost every word. 

“... give, devise and bequeath to my nephew Jason Evans Tomkins the sum of ten thousand dollars to be ...!” 

Oh, no-no!

“...in witness hereof I have on this fifteenth day of June, 1878, signed, sealed, published and declared this to be my last will and—" 

Moira sat up straight, understanding coming to her in a flood of sickness. The will was dated June, 1878—two full years before their marriage! Even before Richard had met her! Oh, my God! Why, that meant she did not share in the estate! She got nothing—not a penny—neither she nor little Kathleen. 

They were paupers! 

The room was silent as Phineas Davies, without lifting his eyes, said, "Richard always intended to make a new will, Mrs. Creegan. He just never got around to it. He was a busy man. I warned him often enough that he might be jeopardizing your interests, as well as those of your daughter, Kathleen. He always agreed. He told me it was his intention to make a new will, leaving everything to you." 

The lawyer shrugged his narrow shoulders. "There will come a day when a man will not be permitted, either by oversight as is the case here, or by willful and deliberate intent, to disinherit his wife. Unfortunately, that day is not yet here.” 

Aunt Martha was standing. "Phineas Davies, there is no need to apologize to Mrs. Creegan. I'm sure you mean well, but spare your concern. Little Kathleen will be well cared for, I assure you. After all, she is Richard's daughter.” 

Moira gasped and whirled, crying out. "Kathleen? You wouldn't dare! Kathleen is mine. I'm her mother.” 

Aunt Elvira hissed, "A fine mother you are! No court in the land would let you keep her!” 

"How dare you! Richard said you were vicious but—" 

Moira came to her feet, eyes staring down at the bitter features of the woman, at the troubled, uneasy faces of the men. Phineas Davies lifted his hands, saying, "Please ladies!” 

Elvira snapped, “Richard left his holdings to Martha and me. That means you're our lawyer, Phineas. I want you to prepare legal proceedings so that Martha and I may adopt Kathleen immediately.” 

Aunt Martha sniffed and nodded, smiling coldly. To one side, Frederick Tomkins pursed his lips thoughtfully, toying with the heavy gold watch chain that crossed his vested belly. Mark stared down at his hands. Jason was looking up at the ceiling, head back and stretched out comfortably in his armchair, lips curved in a triumphant grin. 

The lawyer said gently, “May I point out that you could take Kathleen away from Mrs. Creegan only if she were an unfit mother, or unable to support the child?” 

"She's both!” snapped Aunt Martha. 

"I have the house on Depeyster Street and my jewels," exclaimed Moira. "And—and I'll find employment of some sort." 

"Not in Rome, you won't,” said Elvira, folding her hands in her lap. "Phineas, I want you to draw up papers to prevent this woman from taking Kathleen—whatever they call it,” 

"A writ of injunction,” murmured her husband. 

“Thank you, Frederick. A writ of injunction to prevent Mrs. Creegan from taking the child out of Rome. This very afternoon. I want her served with these papers by sundown. That way she won't be able to run off behind our backs. Jason!” 

Jason leaped upright. "Yes, Mother?”

“Get a constable and take him out to your poor, dear departed Uncle Richard's house on Depeyster Street—which now belongs to all of us and station him there to prevent Mrs. Creegan from entering and taking any of our property.”

"Right away, Mother!” 

Moira felt her legs weakening under her. A flood of tears seemed poised to burst from her eyelids, but she'd be damned if she'd give these vultures the satisfaction! Adventuress, was she? And fortune hunter? Her right hand balled into a fist. 

"You won't get away with it,” she cried fiercely. "I'll fight you through every court in the land!” 

"Court fights cost money," sniffed Aunt Martha. "According to what I heard just now, you don't have a blessed penny to your name." 

"I'll find the money somewhere." 

Aunt Elvira smiled coldly. "By selling yourself to some other deluded man, Mrs. Creegan? I've no doubt you could do that. But would he want Richard's child? It's a point to consider.” 

Her hands came up to her cheeks as Moira reeled. This was a fantastic nightmare. Oh, she'd known they'd never liked her, this family, but to find them so vindictive, so filled with hate and resentment! The tears were coming. She could fight them no longer. 

Even as the sob burst in her throat, she stumbled around the edge of the table and ran for the hall door. There was no law clerk to open it for her now that she was penniless. Her gloved hand fumbled for the knob, turning it. The tears were stinging her eyes, blinding her. 

The door opened. She was in the hall and running ...