For the Love of Mike (10 page)

“That would be the one,” I said. “Any idea where I might find him now? He left his boardinghouse a few weeks ago.”

The man shook his head. “I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Some of these gentlemen are in the bar of an evening—they might know more than me.” He raised his voice. “Young lady here is looking for her cousin. Remember that young fellow name of Mike Kelly—did a lot of talking about being a Fenian and a fighter for home rule? Whatever happened to him?”

An older man in dirty overalls looked up from the roll he was eating. “Last time I saw him, he was talking to Monk.”

“Monk?” I asked.

“Monk Eastman,” the man said, lowering his voice so that the words were barely audible.

“And who’s he?” I asked.

Some of the men looked at each other. “He’s the local gang boss, Miss,” one of them said, lowering his voice and his gaze.

“You think Michael might be involved with a gang?” I looked directly at the older man. He shrugged.

“I mind my own business, miss. I don’t get mixed up with the likes of Monk Eastman. I’m just telling ya what I saw. I saw him in front of the Walla Walla, talking with Monk.”

“He better have been in Monk’s good books, because if not he’d be floating in the East River by now,” someone else chimed in.

“What is this Walla Walla?” I asked.

“It’s the nickname for the Walhalla Hall—a local social club.”

“A social club? And where would that be?”

Again I saw the men exchange glances.

“Just around the corner on Orchard Street, just off Canal, but I wouldn’t go there yourself, miss. It’s a regular gang haunt. Not a place for nice young ladies, like yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to do anything stupid,” I said. “Thank you for your time and trouble, gentlemen.”

“Not at all, miss.” Several hats were raised. I left like departing royalty. I stood on the street corner, enjoying the sun that had appeared from between the clouds. Several men followed me out of the saloon and one of them took off at a run. I wondered if I had made him late back to work.

My, but that stew smelled good. My growling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Yet another disadvantage of being a woman was that I couldn’t get myself a nourishing lunch for the price of a beer, but would have to seek out a café. Not wanting to stop when I was now hot on a trail, I bought myself a bag of hot roasted chickpeas from a pushcart. I had never tried them before, or even heard of them, but they were salty and crunchy and satisfied the hunger pangs very nicely.

I was in a quandary about what to do next. I knew that it would, indeed, be foolish to go asking questions at a gangland haunt. I needed to tread very carefully. But what harm could there be in walking along Orchard Street in broad daylight, just to get a look at the place? Mostel’s factory was only a block or so around the corner, on Canal Street and I had never felt myself in danger when I walked from the Broadway trolley car. I picked up my skirts, stepped off the curb, and struck out along Canal Street, looking a good deal more confident than I felt.

The Walhalla Hall was a solid-looking brick building with an imposing front door and marble ornamentation. It was, unfortunately, completely deserted, closed and shuttered at this time of day. I even crossed the street and examined it. From the outside it looked respectable enough, apart from the bars over the downstairs windows. There were posters on a billboard in front, advertising coming dances and social events. A perfectly respectable community hall, by all appearances.

I wasn’t sure what to do next. Clearly there would be no activity at the building during daylight but coming here at night would be a big risk to take. I surely didn’t fancy myself coming face-to-face with Monk Eastman or one of his cronies in the dark! I walked up and down the block once more and was wondering whether I might show Michael’s picture to any of the neighbors on the street when I heard the clatter of boots on cobbles. Three small figures came hurtling down Orchard Street and dodged into an alley on the far side of the Walhalla Hall. I thought I heard a police whistle blowing in the distance. With grim determination I set off after the boys down the alleyway. And in case you think I needed my head examined, let me just say that there was more at stake here than just getting information. I had recognized one of the boys. In fact I had put that black cap on his head myself this morning.

Ten

T
he alley was dark, narrow, full of garbage, and stank. I picked up my skirts to negotiate rotting food and turned the corner with heart pounding. I heard a scurry of boots and a voice whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

“Someone’s coming all right,” I said, loudly. “Come out here this instant, Seamus O’Connor, or you won’t be able to sit down for a month.”

“It’s her,” I heard a small voice whisper and by and by three small faces appeared from out of a coal bunker. They belonged to Shamey and two of his cousins, Malachy and James. I grabbed Shamey by the neck before he could escape again. “Holy Mother of God, I thought you and I had a bargain,” I said. “I thought we agreed no more hanging around with the cousins, no more gangs. You promised you’d go and enroll yourself in school.”

“She’s not your mother,” Malachy said. “She can’t tell you what to do.”

“No, I’m not your mother,” I replied, “but we both know what your dear mother would think of the way you are behaving right now, don’t we? She’d want you to be doing the best for yourself. Do you want to make her worry if she hears that you’re getting yourself into trouble? Do you want to break her heart if she finds out you’ve got yourself killed or thrown into jail?”

Shamey’s lip quivered. “No,” he said, looking down at his boots.

“Well then, remember in the future that a promise is a promise,” I said. “You’re coming home with me right now. And these boys better run home to their own parents if they’ve any sense.”

I took him by the hand and led him away.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he whispered when we were clear of the cousins. “I came down here to deliver your letter like you said and I met them. They told me I was a sissy and they said that the men would give us a whole dollar for going to smash up a fruit stall on the Bowery. A whole dollar, Molly.”

“A whole dollar—is that a good trade for a life in jail? It’s a crime you know, breaking up someone’s property. Is it a gang member that’s telling you to do these terrible things?”

“It’s the Eastmans.” He looked proud and defiant. “They rule this part of town. They’re going to rule the whole of the city when they’ve shut down the Dusters and the Five Pointers. They’re going to take me on when I’m bigger. I’m going to be a junior Eastman. They say I’m a fast runner.”

“You are not joining any gang, Seamus, so put that out of your mind right this minute. People who join gangs wind up dead. If you really want to help your family, you go to school and study hard and better yourself. And in the meantime you can make yourself some money by being my messenger and right-hand man.”

This perked him up a little. “I delivered your letter, just like you told me,” he said. “I told them I had to hand it straight to the boss because it was important so they took me up and I gave it to him.”

“Did he say anything when he saw who it was from?”

“No, but he nodded and put the letter in his jacket pocket right away.”

“You did well, Shamey. I can use you again, if you’re going to be trustworthy. But if you think of running off with those no-good cousins, then forget it.”

“You can use me again,” he said. “Are you really a detective?”

“How did you know that?”

“Nuala said. She said you told her but she didn’t believe you. She said you had a fancy man who beat you up.”

“Like I said, Nuala talks a lot of rubbish.”

We had reached Broadway and joined the line waiting for a trolley car.

“If you’re really a detective, I could help you,” Seamus whispered. “I could go and find out things for you.”

A thought had struck me. I tried to dismiss it. I wrestled with it. Seamus knew the Eastmans. They had employed him. Would I be putting him in harm’s way if I sent him to ask a simple question of them? I pulled him back from the trolley queue into the shadow of an awning.

“Could you do a real job for me? I don’t like to ask you, but I don’t have a way of finding out myself. It’s about the Eastmans.”

His eyes lit up. “I know plenty of Eastmans.”

“Listen, I don’t want you to get yourself into any danger, but I need to know if a man called Michael Kelly is part of the Eastmans gang. Could you find out for me? Tell them it’s his cousin from Ireland who wants to know. A girl cousin. I’m trying to find him.”

“I can do that. Easy as pie. Do you want me to run down there now?”

“Is anyone around during the day? The hall was closed up.”

“I know where to find them.” Shamey looked grown up and proud. “They’re only around the hall when there’s a dance or something going on. Otherwise they’re at their headquarters.”

“Which is where?”

“On Chrystie Street, around the corner.”

“I don’t want you going to any gang headquarters,” I said. “Forget that I even asked you.”

“Some of the Eastman guys might be at the saloon,” Shamey suggested. “I’ve been there before with my cousins, delivering messages.”

“I’ll come with you then. I’m not having you going to any saloon by yourself.”

He looked horrified. “They wouldn’t tell me nothing if you came along. It’s a saloon. Full of people. I’ll be safe as houses.”

“Very well,” I said hesitantly. “Ask the question and come straight home then. Here.” I reached into my purse. “Here’s a quarter. That will take care of your trolley fare and in case you get hungry.”

“Gee. Thanks.” His eyes lit up.

“Be home before it’s dark, and no running off with your cousins again.”

“I will. Bye, Molly.” He waved and set off back in the direction we had come. I watched him go with considerable misgivings. I had just used an innocent child to do work I was afraid of doing myself. That couldn’t be right—what had I been thinking of? I started to run after him, but he had completely vanished.

I went home on the trolley and prepared a big plate of sausage and mash, which I knew was Shamey’s favorite. The dinner was ready, it got dark, and still he didn’t come.

I told myself it was early yet. He may have had to wait around until some of the gang members showed up. I told myself that he was accepted by them. He ran their errands. But none of this took away the worry that gnawed at the pit of my stomach.

“That smells good,” Seamus Senior said, looking more sprightly than I had seen him recently. “I think I’m getting my appetite back. Where’s the boy? Out running around again?”

“He’ll be back soon,” I said. “I’ll put this in the oven until he gets here.”

Darkness fell. I served the food to Seamus and Bridie but I was too sick of heart to eat it myself. At last I could stand it no longer. “I’m going looking for him,” I said. “That young scallywag has no idea of time.” And I tried not to let my face betray my worry to them.

Back down Broadway on the tram, then along Canal Street. It was poorly lit after the bright lights of Broadway and the Bowery and seemed empty and deserted. No pushcarts here, no street life going on—no movement at all except for figures who slunk through the shadows and men who emerged from corner saloons. Why hadn’t I thought of changing into boy’s clothes? I had done this once and was delighted how I could pass invisibly through the city. Now I felt horribly vulnerable and was annoyed at myself. I was no better than the helpless females I so despised. I’d be reaching for my smelling salts and wearing a corset if I wasn’t careful! I pulled out my trusty hat pin and curled my fingers around it. Now ready and armed I turned onto Orchard Street.

The front door of the Walhalla Hall was still closed, but I could see some lights on inside. I hesitated, unwilling to rap on that formidable door. I walked past, trying to find a window I could peek through, but they were all too high. I crossed the street to observe it from the other side. Nothing much seemed to be going on. I continued down the street, annoyed with myself that I had not asked Shamey the name of the saloon the Eastmans were known to frequent. I really had no idea where I was going or what I was looking for. On the corner I paused and spotted the street sign. Chrystie Street! That name rang a bell. Shamey had said that was where the Eastmans had their headquarters. I was about to take the plunge and walk in that direction when I heard footsteps behind me.

I tried to remain calm and nodded a civil good evening as a man passed me. Instead of passing, however, he stopped.

“Can I help youse, lady?” he asked in a strong Bowery accent. “Dis ain’t no neighborhood for a lady like yourself to be out alone. Youse lookin’ for someone?”

He was young and skinny, a harmless looking little chap with a fresh, clean-shaven face, dressed in a smart black suit with a jaunty derby on his head.

I felt a sigh of relief escaping. “Why, thank you, sir. Actually I’m looking for a small boy. I sent him to this neighborhood before dark to run an errand for me and he hasn’t returned. He’s nine years old—Irish like me. Skinny and dark haired. You wouldn’t have seen him by any chance, would you?”

“You know I tink I did,” he replied. “A whiles ago now.”

“Oh, thank heavens. If you could show me where you last saw him . . .”

“He was talking to some guys outside the Walhalla Hall. Come on, let’s go and see if he’s still there.”

He gave me a reassuring smile. We crossed the street together and headed back to the Walhalla. The area around the hall was still deserted.

“Dey might have gone in,” my rescuer said. “Let’s go ask inside.”

He pushed open the front door. I hesitated. “Are you sure it’s all right to go in there? I mean, isn’t it a dangerous place where gangs hang out?”

He laughed. “It’s just a neighborhood social club, miss. They hold parties here—weddings and wakes, all that kinda stuff. Even church socials. And you’ll be safe enough wid me.”

I stepped inside. He closed the door behind us. We found ourselves in a large, dimly lit room with chairs around the walls and a large expanse of floor.

“Not much happenin’ tonight, is there?” he asked. “Dead as a doornail. Let’s check the back.”

He strode across that big floor, his boots making loud tapping noises on the wood floor, his white spats flashing. Beyond the hall was a long dark hallway. Light was coming from under a door at the far end. The young man sauntered ahead and confidently rapped on the door, opened it, and went in. Emboldened by his apparent lack of fear, I followed.

“Hey, Monk,” he said. “You know that dame you wanted? I got her for you.” And he shoved me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. The man standing in front of me was no thin and harmless-looking little chap this time. He was also quite young, big-boned but not very tall, with a large pudgy round face, a lot of dark hair on top of it, and a derby a couple of sizes too small for him perched on top of the hair. Where the other fellow was neatly dressed, this one was scruffy, with suspenders over rolled-up shirtsleeves and—I started in surprise as my eyes took in the shape—a live pigeon sitting on his shoulder. His appearance verged on the comical until I noticed some kind of club sticking out of his waistband. “Who’s dis dame, Kid?” he demanded, also with a strong New York accent.

“You know how Bugsy said some redheaded dame was asking questions at O’Leary’s today and then she was poking around the hall? And you said we should bring her in. Well, I tink she’s the one what you want. I caught her snooping around again now—says she’s looking for a kid dis time.”

I had recovered from my shock just enough to realize that I was face-to-face with Monk Eastman himself. Not a pleasant thought. I just hoped he had a finer nature I could appeal to. “Yes, sir. I’m only trying to find my lost nephew, sir. Seamus O’Connor. I sent him down to this part of the city with an errand and he should have returned hours ago—but he’s very smitten with your gang and I know he’s hung around you in the past, with his cousins, that is.” I knew I was babbling, but I was watching his face for a sign that he might be softening toward me.

“And today you wanted to know about Mike Kelly, right? Doing too much snooping altogether, if you ask me.” He stepped toward me, eye to eye with me, but intimidating in his bulk. “Okay, so who sent ya? Because whoever it was is going to find out dat Monk don’t like no snoops.”

“Nobody sent me,” I said.

“Then youse don’t got nothing to worry about, have ya?” He opened the window behind him, brushed the pigeon from his shoulder, and it took off into the night with a loud flapping of wings. I saw the flash of something bright on his fingers. A lot of rings, maybe?