Bowery Girl

by Kim Taylor

  Hugh waddled to the top step and sat down. “Don’t know why you’re so hot. It was fun.”

  “Yeah, Mollie, it was fun.” Seamus looked at the curl and tossed it into the gutter.

  THE JOB

  “So, I’M TELLING ANNABELLE about how this Do-Gooder nearly caught my game. You know what she does? Yells at me. Tells me I’m taking money from people who is trying to improve themselves.” She walked over to Seamus, who sat smoking on his bed, and turned so he could unhook the skirt.

  “Then last week, she gets up when she hears the Italians stoking their stove—which is a god-awful time of morning—puts on her dress, her wig, and says, ‘I’m going today.’ That’s it. And off she goes. Comes home at dinner and reads to me from this primer they gave her. A is for Apple. B is for Bull-shit . Gives me this look like she’s better than me ’cause she’s learning. Improving herself.” Mollie pulled on a pair of moleskin trousers. She transferred her knife from her skirt to the back pocket of her trousers. “Don’t talk to me at all besides that. Just reads and reads all morning. Tells me to shut up if you can believe that. Then she puts on her paint and goes out on the street for about fifteen minutes. Comes back in saying there ain’t any johns worth her while. Goddamn stubborn—”

  “That Do-Gooder’s gotta be paying off a lot of people. Fucking Protestant. Somebody should have burned the place down by now.”

  “And you know what else she says? ‘I’ll teach people to dream.’”

  “Annabelle?”

  “The Do-Gooder.”

  “Dreams, huh? I got plenty of those. Don’t need someone to teach me how to do it.”

  “Like what?”

  Seamus shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “I dunno. I’d like my own dancehall. Better than Lefty’s. With girls who can actually dance. What about you?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.”

  Mollie yanked back her hair and knotted it into a bun. “What time is it?”

  “I dunno. I got my watch nipped yesterday,” Seamus said.

  “Idiot.”

  “Maybe you took it.”

  “I ain’t seen ya in a week.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Guess it wasn’t you. Maybe another pretty girl got it.”

  She sat beside him, unbuttoning her blouse. He slid the fabric down her shoulders and gave her that cockeyed smile that had always made her heart thump and flutter. “Not now. I gotta focus.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “And you ain’t listening. I’m telling you about Annabelle. Give me that shirt.”

  He handed her a soft white shirt that lay folded on the bed; she pulled it quickly over her head. “What’s the plan?”

  Seamus snuffed his cigarette. “All you gotta know is your part. We’re gonna hoist you through the transom window at the back door. Watchman’ll be sitting at a little table nearby. Get the keys, walk straight forward to the front door. Unlock it, step out, whistle diddly-dee-dee and move along on your way. I’ll have your dress in the alley two doors over, near the Anchor.”

  “What’s the rest? What’s the take?”

  “Never you mind, Mollie. Let’s just say payday’s tomorrow and there’s a load of cash in the safe. Maybe you and me can go take a carriage round the park next week.”

  “How much is the take, Seamus?”

  “Tommy didn’t say. Just said it’s a lot.”

  “That’s so he can take a bigger cut without you being the wiser.”

  “It’s so’s if one of us gets caught, no one else is the wiser. You know that.”

  Mollie stood and stared at herself in the mirror above Seamus’s chest of drawers. In the tight trousers and shirt, she looked very much like a boy, like any of the thousands of boys who roamed the streets. “Thank God you got a brother who’s got clothes that fit me. Imagine me crawling through a transom window in petticoats.”

  Buttery soft fingers. Buttery soft shoes. A foot in Mugs’s thick hand, a boost to the window. She placed her hands on his shoulders and maneuvered so her feet entered through the window first.

  “Good luck, Moll.”

  “See you at your ma’s for a late dinner?” she whispered.

  “Corned beef and beer.”

  She let go a hand, felt for the top frame of the door, and held on. Let go the other. Dropped to the floor inside. Crossed herself. Breathed. Waited for the sounds of the rigging warehouse, the creaks of tarred rope, the echoes and sighs of the high ceiling, to become as familiar as her own breath. Let her eyes adjust, for there was only a single gaslight spitting near the middle of the room. One small square table below it. One man with his head in his arms, snoring.

  Damn. Too bad he wasn’t a drunk who sprawled, leaving his pockets open for God and all to see.

  She stepped into the shadows, moving slowly toward him. Where would he keep the key? A front pocket near the thigh would be obvious. A good watchman, even a drunk good watch-man, would tuck the key in a pocket near his chest. Near a chest, Mollie saw, that bore the weight of him.

  A is for Apple. B is for Burglary. C is for Caught. No—Cat. Shit.

  She watched the edge of the man’s gray mustache flip up and settle down. He was nowhere near close to changing position. And by the empty brown bottle on the table, he was also very drunk.

  Who are you stealing from, Mollie Flynn? Thought you had some morals. Stealing the pay from those who don’t make much more than you and me.

  Annabelle’s words, in the voice of the Do-Gooder.

  Mollie shook her head. Why in the hell did she hear Emmeline DuPre? Where was the hum, the flattening of sound?

  This man, whose cheeks were scarred with the hard veins of drink, would—once the robbery was complete—most certainly lose his job. This man, whose heavy, thick hands showed him too old for much other employment, might have babies at home or at least a wife.

  Mollie stepped closer, into the circle of gaslight now. Well, if he wasn’t a low drunk, this wouldn’t happen at all.

  Yes, that thought worked.

  And it wasn’t her concern what happened to him, was it? Her concern was paying off the debt. Her concern was getting enough money for her and Annabelle to cross the bridge to Brooklyn and trees and sky and being good for once in their goddamn lives.

  Too bad for him. There were consequences to everything.

  She stood behind him. She reached across his chest. Slid a buttery soft finger under the rough wool. There was the edge of the pocket. The warm heat of a key ring.

  Then it happened. A roll and rumble in her stomach, a gurgle of hunger that echoed between the rolls of rope. Something that had no place in here. He might have slept to the crack and blister of tarred ropes, to his own snores, but not this. Not this sound that was only a hungry stomach, and not his own.

  The watchman jerked his head back, and Mollie came face-to-face with his gray lips and wine-red veins. Her fingers still touched the ring of keys.

  If I’m still, he’ll think I’m a dream.

  He reached up a hand, clamping down on her wrist. Twisted round to see her better. With his free hand, he fumbled toward his coat pocket. Looking for a knife or slungshot, or worse, a gun. Holding her, holding her right near him and damn if his fingers did not dig deep.

  Mollie pulled her eyes from him long enough to spy the front door. Fifty feet if not more. And even there, she’d have no way out, not without the key still teasing at her grasp.

  Damn Tommy. Damn him for this.

  One hand fishing out the key ring. The other loose and searching. Then the bottle was in her hand (how had it got there?) and a thunk as it hit bone. Gray skin blossomed crimson.

  She was loose, now, for the watchman put his palms to his forehead. He bellowed and rocked in his seat. She ran across the space, feeling the keys, hoping she could find the one that fit the lock, turned the tumblers, and released her to the night.

  His steps were behind her, not clipping
, but sagging and drunk and slightly off course.

  Which key, which key? Look at the lock, Mollie, you’ve done this plenty of times before. She opened her palm, checked the shapes of the keys. Matched them to the lock, and felt the tumble and release.

  He was behind her, now. She dropped the keys, put both hands on the doorknob, and pulled.

  Straight to the street then, though the whistle the watchman blew rang in her ears and the bell he clanged echoed against her back. The fish were in; the air smelled fuggy. She took a breath anyway, and knew not to run. Walk like a boy looking for his girl or a prostitute. Put your hands in your pockets and never mind there’s blood that sticks.

  Where were the boys? They’d be in alleyways, behind barrels, in doorways. She needed them now. Before the bell and the whistle roused the waterfront police.

  A dark shape drew from a row of barrels, a head bare of a hat, a flapping collar. Thank God. Seamus. Maybe he’d jump the watchman and shut him up.

  But then came a pop, dry, hot, and savage.

  The pop of a gun. No more bell, just the tripping clink of a metal whistle against stone. She turned her head. The watchman lay dead on the street.

  And the white collar flapped as Seamus darted away.

  Another alley and she’d find her skirt and blouse and no one would blame her for anything.

  The cobblestones were slick with drizzle. Ships on the left, buildings on the right. Find the alley, don’t get blinded by the saloon doorway light. Laughter rolled from cracked windows and tripped her.

  Other footsteps, heavy and hard, came near, slowing at the body, then loping forward.

  One step, two steps, three to the alley and her own clothes.

  She slid through the narrow gap of the buildings, dropping to her knees and fumbling for the bundle that would make her once again innocent.

  There. She ripped off the shirt, grabbing her own. God, her hands couldn’t catch the buttons. It didn’t matter. Pull off the trousers and pull up the skirts, fasten the waist. Breathe. Her fingers tore at her hair, setting it free from the tight bun. She shook her head. She needed to leave the alley looking like nothing more than a prostitute.

  One step, two steps, three to gain the street. She noticed two blues bending over the watchman’s body. A sleek figure sauntered slowly by them, unhurried and not a bit curious. He continued to walk, a cigarette between his perfect lips. As he passed her, he slowed, shook his head, and flicked the cigarette near her feet. Then he brushed the lapels of his jacket, pulled the sleeves to lose the wrinkles, and continued on. He didn’t catch her gaze. When Tommy McCormack was disappointed in someone, he ignored them. And left them to swing whichever way the wind decided to blow.

  If only she could focus. Should she walk toward the body, as if she’d just come upon it? Or away, like she hadn’t noticed? Jesus, the watchman probably had a wife. It’s not human anymore—nothing you can do about it. You didn’t ask Seamus to pull a trigger. You didn’t want to hear the dry pop of a bullet. You only wanted to run.

  Away. Get away. Put your back to it all and go home. Help Annabelle with her lessons. Sit in the glow of candlelight and pretend.

  RAIN

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, Mollie Flynn?

  Move your feet. It’s raining. The raindrops bounce off the cobblestones like so many tears. Can’t see the river for the ships. The masts sway. They look like crosses, or grave markers. So thin and naked they might break in two. Don’t stand in the rain—you’re a daft bitch to do so. Look, you’re soaked through.

  Step into the shadows, Mollie. There’s sailors coming by. No one notices you; you’re a good little thief.

  Mollie can’t feel her feet and hands; she waits for the rest of her to go numb, too.

  The rain is thick like frosted glass. The water slides in sheets to the river. Steam rises from the decks of the ships.

  Go home, Mollie, someone’s waiting for you. There’s a stove and heat. You can lock the door and never come out. You can tell Annabelle Lee she was right to be superstitious.

  It’s gray now, on the river. It’s night still, on the street. Watch the sky lighten and the shadow darken the doorway you stand in. Stop shaking—you didn’t shoot the gun.

  Look, Mollie, beyond the ships. Look at the stones, look at the arches and cables, look how the top of the tower is hidden in fog. So much bigger than the pictures. Taller than anything you’ve ever seen. Look at the stevedores, coming to work. They walk past the bridge; they ignore it. They’re here to load the ships and send them coursing. They walk past you, Mollie. Hold your breath and pray they ignore you, too.

  “Get out of the doorway, miss.”

  The rain is sharp, but it does not clean.

  There’s people before you, Mollie. Don’t bump into them. There are carts coming toward you. The stevedore with the broad-brimmed hat says something; his mouth opens and closes like a fish. His eyes are kind. What’s he saying? There’s nothing to hear but the rain. What’s he saying? He’s asking her a question. He’s set his cart down. He’s waiting for an answer.

  Mollie opens her mouth and screams. Mollie walks past him and keeps screaming. It’s the only thing blocking the roar of the rain and there’s too many drops to count now. One block, two blocks. There’s the Elevated, leaving the station. She sees the lights inside and the dark figures of people pushing in. When it leaves, the ground shudders beneath her; the train itself is swallowed by water and all the people inside will drown.

  Look how no one stops you, Mollie Flynn. You can scream your head off and no one does a thing about it. But then the water parts like a curtain, and out comes a long blue coat and a badge. He wants you to stop screaming, Mollie. He’ll take you to the station house if you don’t shut up.

  Run, Mollie. If you don’t, you’ll drown.

  The mud sucked and pulled at Mollie’s feet as she crossed the yard. The rain coursed down, each heavy drop reflecting the orange glow of the tenement windows. She stepped into the rookery’s hallway, which smelled already of mold.

  “Yer wet.” Little Ian played marbles on the floor. A yellow light slashed from the partially open door to his apartment. Behind it, Mollie saw his mother. She held a pot. “Mam says you can die if yer out in the rain when you shouldn’t be.” Ian flicked a marble that passed near Mollie’s shoe. “Maybe yer dead now.”

  She tried to fit the key in the lock, but her hand shook too much. She knocked. The door flew open. Annabelle stood in front of her; Annabelle crushed her in her arms.

  “Oh, Mollie.”

  There was someone else, then, pushing past Annabelle. Seamus? Yes, Seamus. He pulled her against him, kissing the top of her head.

  “Don’t touch me.” She scratched at his face and hit him in the chest. He let her go.

  She saw the boys, then. They all stood smashed together in the tiny room: Hugh and Mugs on the bed, Tommy standing by the table.

  Annabelle slowly raised a hand to Mollie’s cheek. “You’re so cold.” She turned and yanked the blanket from the mattress, pulling it out from under Hugh and Mugs. “Get off the bed.”

  Mollie felt the weight of wool, but did not find its heat.

  It was very bright. The kerosene lamp they used on special occasions burned white. There was something else on the table, something she’d never seen there before: guns. She counted them, because she could not take the looks in the boys’ eyes—the questioning and silence. One, two, three, four. One, two, three—

  “We looked for you at the police station, Mollie.” Seamus put out a hand to touch her, then thought better of it. “Mugs and Hugh went up to the Tombs for six-o’clock court. Me and Tommy checked the streets, we checked every alley we could think of, and we couldn’t find you.” His voice broke. He dabbed his handkerchief against the scratch Mollie’d made on his cheek.

  “We thought you’d been tapped,” Hugh said. “The police, they was everywhere last night.”

  One, two, three steps—

  “Go get some whiskey fro
m across the street.” Tommy peeled off bills from a roll and handed them to Mugs.

  “Get out.” Mollie’s voice was no more than a breath. “Get—” Mollie’s eyes caught Seamus’s. His lips were white. He had pulled the trigger that shot the bullet that killed a man. All because of her. There are consequences to everything. “—out.”

  Tommy nodded. The boys each picked up a gun: one, two, three, four.

  Annabelle unbuttoned Mollie’s shirt and peeled it from her shoulders. She laid it over the table to dry. She lifted Mollie’s arms, pulled off her chemise. She dipped a rag in water warmed on the stove and ran it across Mollie’s back, down her legs, and up the inside. She braided Mollie’s hair. Over and over, Annabelle dipped the rag in the water and washed Mollie’s skin clean. An arm, a foot, a cheek.

  Annabelle did not talk because there was no need for it. She did not talk, and Mollie was grateful.

  She gave Mollie her nightdress. She sat her on the edge of the bed and handed her a plate with two biscuits.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat.” Annabelle broke off a piece of the biscuit and held it to Mollie’s lips. “Please.”

  The bread caught in her throat, and she coughed, sending crumbs flying. Annabelle poured her a glass of gin. She took a swallow. She asked for another glass. She waited for the numbness.

  “What happened?”

  “Got a man killed. Seamus tell you that?”

  “Oh, Moll.”

  “I steal. I don’t want no part of killing,” Mollie said. The room looked as if it were underwater: The stove floated, the table bobbed up and down, Annabelle’s dresses swam like beautiful fish.

  “I’ve never seen you cry,” Annabelle said.

  “That what I’m doing?”