by Rhys Bowen
I looked up at him. “I was in a store. I witnessed a pickpocket at work. Luckily I used my wits and was able to get him arrested.”
“Not so luckily for you,” Daniel said. “Do you know who the man is?”
I shrugged.
“He’s one of the Hudson Dusters, Molly. You do know who they are, don't you?”
I did know, only too well. There were three gangs that ruled lower Manhattan and the Hudson Dusters was one of them. I had experienced an encounter with arivalgang a few months previously and had no desire to repeat it.
“I don't need to remind you what they're like, do I, Molly?” Daniel went on. “And this character, Nobby Clark, is known to carry a grudge. He took a pot shot at one of our men who arrested him once before, you know.”
He continued to stare at me while I digested this. “I don't want you to testify if it comes to trial, is that clear? I want you to make yourself scarce before he is released. He doesn't know your name, does he?”
I shook my head.
His grip on my arm tightened. “Molly, when will you learn not to get yourself mixed up in police work?”
“Holy Mother of God, would you let go of me,” I exclaimed, shaking myself free of him. “I was only doing what any decent person would have done. If it had been my purse, I'd have wanted someone to alert me.”
He sighed. “I suppose so. And with most pickpockets that would have beenfine. Trust you tofindthe wrong one. Come on. Ill escort you home. Well leave Nobby to cool his heels in a cell for a while and then release him.”
“Release him? But he stole.”
“Your word against his, as he said. The gangs employ good lawyers. They'd get him off and he'd come looking for you. Don't worry. Well catch him when it matters.”
“I suppose the Hudson Dusters pay you off, like the other gangs do,” I said.
He glared at me. “Contrary to popular belief, the New York police force is not in the pay of the gangs. We just learn which battles are worthfightingand which aren't. If Nobby is charged with picking a pocket hell be away for a few months at the most. I'd rather wait to pin the big one on him.”
He attempted to steer me toward the curb.
“Wait,” I said. Tm not going home. I still have my shopping to do.”
“I don't want you going back to that store.” Daniel continued to scowl at me. “You go straight home and 111 have one of our men do your shopping for you. What was it you were buying?”
I wasn't going to let Daniel know that myfinanceswere rather precarious recently, owing to a distinct lack of work, and that I was going to buy a couple of slices of cold tongue for our evening meal.
“It’s all right. Nothing that can't be purchased in the morning, I suppose,” I said. “But I'm a big girl now. I can cross streets by myself.”
“Sometimes I wonder about that,” he said and he smiled.
The aggressive Daniel was easier to handle than the smiling one. I went to pull away from him. Hisfingersslid down my arm until he held my hand in his, examining my fingers.
“No ring yet, I see,” he said. “Not yet promised to the bearded wonder then?”
“If you are referring to Mr. Singer, we are not exactly promised but we have an understanding,” I said stiffly.
“Molly—” he began in an exasperated voice.
“And I take it you are still affianced to Miss Norton?”
“I think she tires of me at last,” Daniel said. “She told me I was boring and lacked ambition the other day. That’s a good sign, wouldn't you say?”
“Good for whom?” I asked. “Really, Daniel, my life is too busy for idle thoughts about you and Miss Norton.”
“Are you still pursuing thisridiculousnotion of being an investigator?”
I nodded. “Doing rather well at it, if you want to know. Almost as good as Paddy Riley was.”
“Paddy Riley got himself killed,” he reminded me.
“Apart from that.”
He crossed the street beside me and stopped at the entrance to Patchin Place, the small cobblestoned backwater where I lived. “I have to go back, but you'll be all right from here, won't you?” he asked.
“I was perfectly all right before,” I said. “I really can take care of myself, you know, Daniel. You need not worry about me.”
“But I do. And I think about you often. Don't tell me that you never think of me?”
“Never have time,” I said briskly “Good day to you, Captain Sullivan. Thank you for escorting me home.”
I left him standing at the entrance to Patchin Place.
TWO
I did not look back as I walked down Patchin Place. I had handled that encounter rather well, in fact, I was pleased with myself. I had shown Daniel Sullivan that he no longer had a hold over me. I had come across as a confident, successful woman. Maybe I should change my profession instantly and ask my playwright friend Ryan O'Hare for a part in his next play on the basis of that convincing performance.
Because if truth were known, I wasn't exactly flourishing at the moment. I can't say I was making a fortune as a private investigator. P. Riley and Associates still received a good number of inquiries, but when they found out the investigator was a woman, the interest often waned. The general opinion was that you couldn't trust a woman to be discreet. Women were known for not being able to hold their tongues. That had been Paddy’s opinion too, although I think he was changing his mind about me when he was killed. I still missed him. I was still angry that he had gone before he could teach me all the tricks of the trade.
I put my empty basket down and fished for the door key. I always felt a sense of pride when I let myself into my own house, and such a dear little house too. Now I wondered how long I'd be able to keep it. There had been no money coming in for a couple of months. Seamus O'Connor, who shared the house with me, had been laid off from his Christmas job at Macy’s Department Store. It was now May and he had yet to find other employment. His two children, Shamey and Bridie, were hearty eaters and money disappeared at an alarming rate. There was no reason why I should have been feeding children who were not even related to me, except that I owed my present life in America to their mother, who was dying in Ireland, and I had grown fond of them. By now they seemed like my own family.
I let myself in and looked around with annoyance. The remains of a meal littered the kitchen table—the bread sliced crookedly and drips of jam on the oilcloth. The children had clearly come home from school and gone out again. Well, they'd better be prepared for a good tongue-lashing when they came back. I started clearing away their mess. Seamus wasn't home, it seemed. I had to admire the way the man tramped the streets every day, looking for work. The problem was that he still wasn't strong enough to do the laboring jobs available to the newly arrived Irish—and not educated for anything better.
I sighed as I put the bread back in the bin. Something would have to be done soon if I was going to come up with the money for rent and food. Maybe the O'Connors would just have to squash into one room and I'd let out the third bedroom to a lodger. But the thought of a stranger sharing our home wasn't appealing.
I could always offer my services as an artist’s model again, of course. I had to smile as I thought of Jacob’s reaction to my posing in the nude for a strange man. For all his liberalism, I didn't think he would take kindly to that. Sweet Jacob; he was the one stable thing in my life at the moment. I had so far refused to discuss marriage with him, but I was weakening. I have to confess that the thought of being cherished and protected was occasionally appealing, even to an independent woman of commerce like myself.
Thinking of Jacob made me realize that I hadn't seen him for a few days and I needed some cherishing at this moment. It wasn't one of the evenings for his labor organization, the Hebrew Trades Association, so he should be home. He could take me to our favorite cafe, where we would have borscht and red wine. In spite of the heat that radiated up from the sidewalks, I almost ran across Washington Square, then down Broadway an
d into Rivington Street.
As I progressed into what was called the Lower East Side, the street became clogged with pushcarts and stalls selling everything from the lyrics of Yiddish songs to pickles, buttons or live geese. A veritable orchestra of sounds echoed back from the high tenement walls—the cry of a baby, a violin from an upper window playing a plaintive Russian melody, shrill voices arguing from window to window across the street, hawkers calling out their wares. It was a scene full of life and I savored it as I hurried past.
Jacob lived at the far end of Rivington Street, close to the East River. The pungent river smell wafted toward me on the evening breeze. He had one room on the third floor of the building, but it was big and airy, half living space and half studio for his photo-graphic business. He was a wonderful photographer and could have made a fine living, had he not chosen to dedicate himself to social justice and thus shoot scenes only of squalor.
The front door of his building stood open. Two old men sat on the stoop, long white beards wagging as they gestured in earnest discussion. They frowned at me as I went past them. I was on my way to visit a young man, unchaperoned. Such things were unheard of in the old country. I grinned and bounded up the stairs two at a time.
At the top I paused to wipe the sweat from my face and to tame my flyaway hair. I could hear the sound of voices coming from in-side his door. I tapped and waited. The door was opened.
“Jacob, I'm starving and I wasn't allowed to buy anything for dinner because …, ” I started to say, when I realized I was staring at a strange young man. He wore the black garb and long curls favored by the stricter Jewish males and he was looking at me in horrified amazement.
“Oh, hello,” I said. “I came to visit Mr. Singer.”
The eyebrows rose even higher. “Mr. Singer. Not here,” he said in broken English, the straggly beard quivering as he shook his head violently.
“Oh. When will he be back?” I asked.
He didn't seem to understand this. I had no idea what he was doing in Jacob’s room, and who else was in the room with him, but clearly he wasn't going to let me in. I was about to admit defeat and go home again when boots clattered up the stairs and Jacob’s face came into view.
“Molly!” He sounded surprised, pleased, but wary. “What are you doing here?”
“Do I need an appointment to visit you these days?” I asked, my eyes teasing.
“Of course not. It’s just that”—he paused and glanced up at the black-garbed young man watching us—“It’s rather difficult at the moment.” He turned to the newcomer and spoke quickly in Yid-dish. I had come to understand a few words of that language, but not spoken at any speed. The young man nodded and retreated. Jacob closed the door, leaving us standing outside.
“Who is that?” I asked, giving him an amused look. “Don't tell me it’s someone sent from the rabbi because you keep company with a Shiksa?”
“I'll walk you downstairs again,” he said and firmly took my arm. The afternoon seemed to be a progression of men taking my arm and walking me in directions I didn't want to go.
“What’s this all about, Jacob?” I asked.
“I'm sorry, Molly, I really am,” he said, talking under his breath even though there was nobody to hear us in the stairwell. “It’s just that—it’s awkward at the moment.”
“You've already said that once,” I reminded him. “What’s going on, Jacob?”
He glanced up die stairs again. That man, he’s my cousin, arrived out of the blue from Russia. There are three of them, actually. My cousin and two friends. They had no money and nowhere to go, so naturally I had to take them in. In other circumstances I would have introduced you, but, as you saw, they are rather rigid in their religious views. Bringing an unescorted girl—correction, an unescorted, non-Jewish girl—into my living quarters would shock them beyond belief. So just for the time being…”
“You want me to stay away.”
He looked at me with gratitude in his eyes. “I think it would be wiser. You know how I feel about all these antiquated traditions and customs, but they are newly arrived here. I can't spring too much on them, too soon.”
“So how did you explain me away?” I asked icily. “The mad-woman from the floor below? Come to borrow a cup of sugar?”
He looked embarrassed now. “I said you were one of our union workers.”
“I see.” I turned away from him, feeling the flush rising in my cheeks.
He put his hands on my shoulders and tried to turn me back to face him. “Molly, I'm sorry. It was stupid of me. I just couldn't think of a way of introducing you without upsetting them.”
“And upsetting me? That doesn't matter to you?”
“Of course it matters. I thought you'd understand.”
“And is it always going to be like this, Jacob?” I asked coldly. “If we did get married, would I have to move out of the house any time your relatives came near? Or hide under the bed? Or have to live my life pretending to be one of your union workers?”
“Of course not. Everyone who has a chance to.know you likes you. My parents like you.”
“Your parents tolerate me.”
Jacob sighed. “These things take time. When you have been raised in one culture and are suddenly thrust into another, with a completely different set of rules, it is not always easy to change. Me, I am a modern thinker. I am all for change. Many Jews are not.” His grip on my shoulders tightened. “And forgive me. I haven't even asked you why you came to visit. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”
“In your modern way of thinking is a young lady never allowed to visit her gentleman friend? Does she always have to wait for him to call upon her at his convenience?”
He laughed uneasily. “No. Of course not. On any other occasion I would have welcomed your presence.”
“On any occasion unless one of your relatives or friends was visiting.” I lifted his hands from my shoulders. “I'll leave you to your entertaining then, Jacob, and 111 see you when it is convenient to both of us.”
I pushed past the old men who were still deep in earnest discussion on the front stoop.
“It’s only for a litde while, Molly. Just until I've found them a place of their own,” he called after me.
I kept on walking. He didn't follow me. Anger was boiling inside me. I had first been attracted to Jacob because I saw him as a fellow free spirit. He was not bound by stupid rules of society. He wanted to change things for the better. Now it seemed he wasn't quite the free spirit I had thought him to be.
Three
I walked fast, pushing my way through the evening crowds along Rivington. As I came toward Broadway the street was completely blocked by a white wagon drawn by two horses. I drew level with it and saw the red cross on the side. An ambulance. You didn't see many of those on the Lower East Side. Most people here couldn't afford to be sick in a good hospital that cost money, and wouldn't want to go to a charity hospital, where they were liable to get even sicker. They stayed home and either got well or died. A couple of men in white uniforms were keeping the crowds back as a stretcher was carried out of the building.
“Another one,” I heard someone saying. “That makes three on this street alone.”
“What is it?” I asked.
The woman had a dark shawl draped over her head, in spite of the heat.
“Typhoid,” she whispered as if saying it out loud would bring bad luck. “Dropping likeflies, they are. They get taken off to the isolation hospital, but it’s too late by then, isn't it? The damage is done.”
Wailing came from the doorway as the stretcher was bundled into the back of the ambulance and the driver cracked his whip to clear the crowd blocking the street. They parted, suddenly silent, as if wanting to distance themselves as far as possible from the disease. I noticed some women had their shawls wrapped over their mouths now and others pulled the sheets up over the heads of their babies in their prams. I hurried toward more sanitary areas of the city, hoping, even though I was angry with him, th
at Jacob would be sensible enough to stay well away from those affected with typhoid.
Twilight was falling as I crossed Washington Square. The remains of a pink glow lit the sky behind the trees, and the air was sweet with the scent of jasmine growing in one of the flower beds. I didn't want to go home and face finding something in the larder to cook for three hungry mouths. The alternative was to visit my friends Augusta Walcott and Elena Goldfarb, usually known as Gus and Sid, across the street instead, which seemed like a much better idea. But I was halfway across the square when I heard shrieks of delight. I recognized those voices and turned around to see two bedraggled urchins, flicking each other with water from the fountain.
“Shamey, Bridie. Come here at once,” I called, and they came, heads down and giving me sheepish smiles.
“What do you think you're doing, out this late, and running around in that state?” I demanded. When I saw them at close quarters, they looked even more disreputable. Their hair was plastered to their heads and their clothing was sodden.
“Holy Mother of God, what have you been doing to your-selves?” I demanded.
“Just playing in the fountain a little bit,” Shamey said, not meeting my eye. “It was too hot.”
“Do you take me for a complete idjeet?” I glared at them. “You've been swimming in that river again, haven't you?”
“Only just getting our toes wet,” Shamey said.
“Getting your toes wetl Just take a look at the pair of you— soaked from head to toe. What did I tell you about swimming in the East River?”
“Aw, but Molly, it was hot today and our cousins do it all the time.”
“I am not responsible for your cousins,” I said. “And you know I don't like you visiting them. They're a bad influence. Come on. Home with you.” I grabbed their wrists and marched them across the square to the street. “And you should have known better than to take your sister,” I said to Shamey. “She doesn't even swim properly yet. She might have drowned.”
“No, she wouldn't. We keep an eye on her. She just holds onto ropes and bobs from the dock anyway. She don't jump in or nothin'.”
