Death of Riley (25 page)

I came away from Emma Goldman feeling quite reassured. She was right. Ryan's new love was his play. He wouldn't do anything that might jeopardize its success. If Paddy thought he had heard Ryan and someone called LC discussing something dangerous, then he had been mistaken. I had nothing to worry about at all.

It was with a lighter heart that I took the streetcar up Broadway to the Daley Theater where Ryan's play was being rehearsed. I hadn't been through this part of the city before and found it very exciting, with billboards advertising new plays and electric lights winking from theater marquees. “
The Belle of New York.” “
A
Doll's House,
by Mr. Ibsen.” So many plays I hadn't seen, so many exciting tilings still waiting to be done. The city was like a giant banquet spread before me, and I had only yet had a chance to nibble at the first course.

The Daley Theater looked spendid from outside, with ornate pillars and an impressive set of glass front doors, but its marquee was dark and its front doors firmly locked. I went through an alley and discovered a side entrance. I opened it and found myself in a dark, narrow passageway. I could hear voices on my left and followed the sound until I could see light. I was standing in a backstage area and could just get a glimpse of the backs of several actors on the stage. No sign of Ryan, though. As I stood there, unsure what to do next, a girl came past me, wearing a paint-daubed smock and carrying a large paint pot in her hand.

“Hey, what are you doing? You shouldn't be here,” she hissed at me.

“I'm a friend of Mr. O'Hare's. He invited me to watch a rehearsal.”

“Did he? Well, he's in a foul mood today—the cast aren't word-perfect on Act Three and they open on the road in a couple of days—so I'd stay out of his way, if I were you. If you want to watch, go down there and through the pass door. That will take you to the house.”

I hadn't any idea what house she was talking about, but I followed her directions, pushed open a heavy door and found myself in the darkened theater. The only light came from the stage. In the gloom I could make out gilttrimmed balconies and the huge chandelier in the ceiling. I felt my way back along an aisle and found myself a seat at the back of the stalls, beside an ornately decorated pillar. I had never been in a theater before and was rather overawed at the magnificence around me. The seats were soft plush, and there was a Greek mural over the stage. It would have been an entertaining place to visit even if there had been no play to watch.

The play also proved to be entertaining. Having come in halfway through the Second Act, I couldn't catch up with the whole story, but it seemed to be a satire about a small fictitious country that had locked its doors to the rest of the world and refused to admit that any world existed outside of its borders. In the behavior of the despotic emperor I noticed several references to Queen Victoria, and in the behavior of the citizens of Nowheria a wicked caricature of American isolationism. “We're all right, so damn the rest,” as one character said.

The Second Act finished, and we moved into the troubled Third Act, which Ryan had only just completed. I could see the poor actors struggling with their lines and heard Ryan's voice, offstage, “Get it right, for God's sake, Ethel. Is it too much to ask that an actress learn her lines?”

“I was prepared to learn lines back in April, Ryan,” she replied coldly, “only the lines weren't there to be learned.”

The act continued. Not quite as funny as its predecessor, but deeper. I was sitting lost in the enhancement of watching a real play for the first time, when I felt suddenly cold, as if a door behind me had been opened and let a draft come in. I turned around. The doors to the foyer were all closed, but I still felt chilled. As I turned back, I thought I saw a movement, as if someone had ducked behind another pillar. My skin prickled. Somebody was in the darkened theater with me.

“Don't be stupid,” I told myself. Any one of the cast could have popped through to take a look at the play from the audience's side. Maybe one of the set builders was taking a break. I peered into the darkness, but there was no sign of the other person. Nobody sitting in another seat. And yet I could still feel a presence. Call it my Celtic gift of second sight, if you will, but I have always had the ability to sense when danger was near. I was sensing it now.

Instantly I realized my complete isolation. The actors onstage were absorbed with their play. I was alone and far from help. What a perfect situation for anyone who wanted to silence me. He would only have to crawl along the row behind me, grab me from behind and finish me off. Nobody would find my body for days. I fought to remain calm. I could jump up and scream. Ryan and his cast would be angry, of course, but I'd have scared away my potential attacker.

Seconds passed and nothing happened. I just couldn't bring myself to run screaming to the stage. How very absurd I'd look if I had been frightened by some trick of the lighting. But with the knowledge that I could scream if necessary, I got to my feet and started to walk determinedly to that pass door. It was hidden from here, behind a half-drawn curtain and up a little flight of steps. I had a great desire to break into a run. I reached the door, tugged on it and found that it wouldn't open from this side. The actors went on with the scene, unaware that I was down here in the dark. There was a large orchestra pit between me and the stage. No way of leaping up to light and safety.

As I turned back, again I caught sight of a fleeting movement. He was closer to the exit door now, cutting off my escape. Two could play that game, I decided. I dropped to the floor and moved at a crouch through one of the front rows of seats. I came out on the far side of the theater. Then, still at a crouch, I made my way up toward the exit doors on that side. If my potential attacker was waiting to intercept me on the other side, then it would give me a few seconds to make my escape. I reached the last row of chairs, then, praying that one of the doors was unlocked and led somewhere, I rushed to the nearest door and pushed. It swung open easily and I was in a carpeted hallway. The hallway was almost as dark as the theater had been. I could make out ghostly shapes of Greek and Roman busts in alcoves as I hurried past. When I came out into the foyer, I was surprised to find it was also dark. I had been in the theater longer than I had intended and night had fallen outside.

As my feet tapped across the marble foyer, I heard the sound of a door swinging shut on the far side. I didn't hesitate a moment longer. I ran for the front doors. The first one I tried wouldn't budge. I tried the others in turn, fighting back the rising panic, until the door on the end swung open for me and I was out into the bustle of a Broadway night. But not safe yet. It would be easy to follow me through the darkness and wait for a moment when I would be alone. He could even follow me all the way home if he wanted. Patchin Place was always deserted. I considered running a block to the Sixth Avenue El, but the thought of standing, waiting, on an El platform was too alarming.

I stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk and attempted to blend into the crowd. As I glanced back, I thought I saw a dark figure emerge from the theater and scan the crowd, looking for me. A streetcar came down Broadway, its bell clanging to warn pedestrians out of its way. As it was slowed by the human tide. I made a desperate sprint to catch it. I grabbed at the handrail just as it picked up speed again and heard the conductor shout at me as it sped off, abandoning me on Broadway.

No other streetcars were in sight. I ran back to the sidewalk and weaved through the crowd as fast as was possible. An occasional glance behind me convinced me that a man was also dodging through the crowd, keeping me within sight. One block passed, then another, still no streetcar in sight and still the sense of that presence behind me. Somehow I had to lose him. I reached Madison Square Park and stood on the corner where Broadway parts from Fifth Avenue. Ahead of me the skeleton of a new skyscraper was lit by kerosene lamps and the sound of hammering announced that construction work was still proceeding in the dark. I looked up at the skinny, oddly shaped building, and a memory resurfaced. Someone had described this very building to me. I even remembered its name—the Flatiron Building. The building on which my friend Michael Larkin worked as a foreman. I sprinted across the street, dodging a motorcar which honked imperiously, and plunged into the dark skeleton half-encased in wood scaffolding. Two men were emerging, swinging their lunch pails as they headed home. I grabbed one of them by the sleeve. “Excuse me, but would you know where I might find Michael Larkin?”

The man started at the sight of a strange female on his own territory.

“You'll be in trouble if they catch you in here, miss,” he said in an Irish accent thicker than my own. “Michael Larkin you're wanting, are you? Is it urgent?”

“Very,” I said. “If he's here, I have to speak to him. I've got important news for him.”

The larger of the two men looked around him. “I don't think he's knocked off for the night yet, has he, Denny?”

“Last time I saw him, he was up on the eighteenth floor, waiting his turn to ride down,” the other man replied. “If you wait on the street outside, he'll surely be passing this way in a while.”

“Is there no way you could go and fetch him for me?” I had no wish to wait alone in the dark for a Michael who might or might not materialize, making myself a sitting duck in the meantime.

The men laughed. “You'll not get me riding up there again in the dark, even if you paid me,” one of them said with a nod of agreement from the other. “I'm done for the day, off home to my supper and my bed.”

They moved forward, ready to drive me out of the building before them. I didn't know what to do or what to say to keep them with me. It sounded so dramatic to say that I feared I was being followed by an unknown assailant. I wished now that I had taken my chances and tried to outrun him through the crowd, or even found a policeman to help me.

Then there came a shout from above. One of the men grabbed my arm and dragged me aside. “Watch yourself,” he warned.

With the squeaking and grinding of wheels, a contraption came flying down out of the darkness and landed on the concrete beside us. It was nothing more than a flimsy wooden basket on pulleys, but four men stepped out of it, nodded to my two companions and headed away. With a great flood of relief I realized that one of them was Michael Larkin. At the same time one of my companions called out, “Here's the boy himself then. The Lothario of the scaffolds. One of your lady loves come looking for you, Michael me boy.”

Michael spun around, a shocked look on his face, stared blankly for a second, then his boyish face broke into a big smile. “Well, if it isn't Molly. What in God's name are you doing here?”

“Paying you a little visit, like you said,” I replied, conscious of the smiling men around us. “Actually I have something important I need to tell you. News that couldn't wait, from the Old Country.” I took his arm and led him away.

“It's not bad news, is it?” he asked. “You've not heard something bad from home?”

We were out in the street again. I looked around, but could not pick out my assailant in the crowd. “No, no bad news,” I said. “In fact, no news at all. I'm sorry. I had to tell a little untruth to get you on my own.”

“You? An untruth? I'm shocked.” He was laughing at me, having been told the full details of my flight from Ireland and the subterfuges needed to bring me this far. I laughed with him, feeling the tension dissolving. I tried to think how best to phrase my request.

“The truth is, Michael, that I'm being followed by an unwanted suitor. I can't seem to get rid of the man, so I wondered if you'd do me the favor…”

“And pretend I'm your beau?” He was still smiling. I knew he was years too young for me, being no more than eighteen, but for a moment I wished that this wasn't such an outlandish proposition. A steady, reliable man to protect me seemed like a rather desirable thing.

“If you possibly had time to escort me safely home?” I suggested. “Or at least see me safely onto a streetcar.”

“I'll do one better than that,” he said. “It was payday today. I'll take you out for a bite of supper if you like.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“It's the least I can do,” he said. “Do you not think I owe you a favor, Molly? Thanks to you I'm living the life of Riley.” He took my hand in his.

“You don't think your lady love will object?” I asked.

He laughed merrily. “I've told her about you and she knows you're nothing more than a big sister to me. In fact, she's dying to meet you sometime. Come on, I know a good place where they serve the best boiled beef and cabbage you can imagine. Just like home.”

The food was hot and filling, I'll say that for it, but my own tastes had broadened a little, now that I knew there was more than boiled beef and cabbage in the world. We had a grand old talk, though, and I found I could relax enough to stop glancing out of the window every few seconds. And when Michael delivered me home, there was no dark shadow in sight lurking behind us.

T
wenty
–T
hree

By the time I reached Patchin Place safely, I had decided not to tell Gus or Sid about the incident in the theater. They pounced on me the moment I came in through the front door, peppering me with questions about the play. I was in the middle of telling them when Ryan himself arrived, still in a bad mood and demanding a whole pot of Turkish coffee to calm his nerves.

“Coffee is a stimulant, my sweet,” Gus told him as Sid went to make it.

“Then your divine presence will calm me down,” Ryan said, smiling from her face to mine. “Who could fail to feel serene among such beauty?”

“Irish blarney,” Gus muttered to me. “He's full of it, isn't he. Tell him how bad his play was—that will shut him up.”

Ryan's gaze swung to me. “You came to the theater today? You saw the play?” I nodded.

“Where were you? Why didn't you come to find me?” “You were otherwise occupied, yelling at an actress named Ethel for not knowing her lines.”