For the Love of Mike (4 page)

A group of street urchins with dark, close cropped hair came running past me, the steel tips on their boots creating sparks on the cobbles. They leaped up at me and tugged at my long red hair. “Hey, where’s the fire, lady?” one of them shouted in accented English. He grabbed at my hair ribbon. I had grown up with brothers. I reacted instantly, caught him off guard and sent him sprawling backward. They didn’t bother me again.

There was no mistaking when I came to Fulton Street. The fish market announced its presence long before I was anywhere near it. The smell of fish was heavy in the air, making me bring out my handkerchief and hold it to my nose. There were fish scales floating in the gutters and men hurried past pushing carts piled high with boxes of fish. I passed the market itself and was glad to turn onto South Street where a good, strong breeze from the East River made it possible to breathe again. Out of all of New York City, why on earth had they chosen to live right here?

Of course, I had to grant them the view. Over our heads the Brooklyn Bridge soared majestically across to the far shore, suspended, it seemed, by the frailest of strands. The East River was dotted with sails, ranging from tall-masted ships from across the ocean to squat, square-sailed barges going upriver. It painted a charming, lively canvas and I would have lingered longer to admire, had not the whiff of the fish market caught up with me. I crossed South Street and passed open shop fronts where sail-makers and woodwrights plied their trades before I turned into a narrow side alley and found the building I was looking for.

It was another dreary tenement building, even worse, if anything, than my first home on Cherry Street. The dark, narrow staircase smelled of urine, boiled cabbage, and fish. I made my way upstairs, past landings cluttered with prams and old boxes, hearing crying babies, voices raised in anger, a woman singing. I started when something scurried across the floor in front of me. Too big for a mouse. It had to be a rat.

I was out of breath by the time I had reached the fifth floor and prayed that Seamus would be at home. How did he manage to climb so many stairs with his damaged lungs? I knocked on the door and prayed this time that Nuala might not be at home. I had no wish ever to see her again. My prayer was not answered. Nuala herself opened the door, her bloated shape blotting out any light that might have come from the room behind her.

“Saints preserve us,” she said. “Would you look what the cat dropped on our doorstep.”

“Lovely seeing you again too, Nuala.” I tried to get past her and into the apartment but she remained blocking the doorway.

“I didn’t think you’d be turning up again, like a bad penny. So your fancy man finally threw you out, did he? I knew it would happen in the end—didn’t I tell you so, Seamus? Wasn’t I saying that she’d come a cropper, for all her airs and graces? Well, it’s no use thinking you’re going to bunk here—packed like sardines, we are.”

“I have absolutely no wish to move in with you, Nuala,” I said. “I have a very comfortable apartment, which I share with two female friends and not a fancy man in sight. I came to see how Seamus was getting along.”

Grudgingly she stood aside and let me enter. It was a hellhole of a room with no windows, lit by one anemic lamp. Seamus was sitting in the one armchair and the lamplight made him look like a pale shadow of himself.

“Molly, my dear,” he said, rising awkwardly to his feet. “It’s so good to see you. How kind of you to come and visit us.”

“I was concerned about you, Seamus. I heard that you’d found a new place so I thought I’d come and pay you a call.”

“Yes, well it’s not exactly what you’d call homely, is it, but it will have to do for now, until I can get back on me feet again.”

“Why on earth did you choose to live here of all places?” I blurted out before I realized it wasn’t exactly a tactful remark.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” Nuala answered for him. “And seeing as how I’m the only breadwinner in the family and I’m working at the fish market there, I’m not risking walking home alone in the dead of night past all those drunken men. This city’s not safe for a woman.”

I thought privately that the men would have to be very drunk indeed to have intentions on Nuala, but I nodded agreement.

“So Finbar isn’t working?” I asked.

“That idle, no good bag o’ bones? Who would hire him? When he worked for the saloon he drank more than he earned. I tried to get him a job as porter at the market but he couldn’t lift the loads.” She sniffed in disgust. “He’s sleeping in the next room.”

“I heard that,” came Finbar’s voice and the person himself appeared in the doorway, looking like Marley’s ghost in a white nightshirt and nightcap, his face pale and gray as the cloth he was wearing. “And if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, woman, I’ve got meself a fine job lined up for the election.” He smiled at me, revealing a mouth of missing teeth.

“The election.” Nuala sniffed. “We’ll believe that when we see it.”

“Ask the Tammany boys yourself,” Finbar insisted. “They told me they’d pay me for every man I lead, push, or drag to the polling place—who puts his cross for Shepherd, of course.”

“Pay you in liquor,” Nuala said. “You’ll drink yourself stupid and then be out of work again.”

I shifted uncomfortably at this brewing fight. “And where are the children—in school?” I turned to Seamus.

“We haven’t got them into a school yet,” Seamus said. “Bridie’s out running errands, and the boys—well, I don’t quite know where they are.”

“Speaking of errands, I stopped off along the way and brought you a chicken and some grapes.” I found space for them on the table between dirty dishes, yesterday’s
New York Herald
and some socks that Nuala had been darning. “I thought you maybe could use some nourishment.”

“Most kind of you,” Seamus said. “You’re a good woman, Molly Murphy.”

I watched Nuala sidling up to whisk away my offering.

“Any news from Kathleen?” I asked, beating Nuala to the grapes and handing them to Seamus.

“Yes, but it’s not good. She’s fading, Molly. She keeps up a brave front, but I can tell she’s fading. If only I could be with her. It fair breaks my heart. I tell you, Molly, there are times when I’m ready to take the risk and borrow the money for a passage home.”

“It must be very hard for you,” I said, “but you know you’d be thrown in jail or even hanged if you go home. Think of the children. What good would it do to have a father in jail and a mother who’s deathly sick?”

“What good am I here to them?” he said. “Another useless bag of bones like Finbar. Not able to earn my keep at the moment.”

As he spoke I heard the sound of light feet running up the stairs. The door burst open and Bridie stood there. When she saw me, her face lit up. “Molly. You’ve come back to us. I was praying in church on Sunday that you would.”

I put my arms around her thin little body. “How have you been keeping? And how’s your brother?”

She looked up, a big smile on her face. “He’s become a junior Eastman.”

“A what?”

“He and our cousins. They’ve joined a gang. They’re called junior Eastmans, and they go around busting stuff up. And sometimes they get to do stuff for real big gang members and the big guys give them a quarter each.”

“Seamus, did you know about this?” I asked.

He shrugged. “There’s no harm in it. Just talk. Boys always run in herds, like young ponies, don’t they?”

But I couldn’t take this news so lightly. I had heard enough last night about violence and protection rackets to make me believe that there was indeed harm in young Shamey running with a gang. And I knew it was up to me to get him out of it. I’d just have to find a place of my own and bring them to live with me, at least until Seamus was on his feet again. I felt deep depression settling over me at the thought of leaving the little heaven on Patchin Place, but it had to be done. I was only alive now because the children’s mother had given me a chance to escape. Giving up a few months of my life was the least I could do in return.

Four

I
walked home with heavy steps, deep in thought. How could I afford a place of my own, big enough to take in Seamus and the children? I wouldn’t want it to be in a neighborhood like this, either. I wanted to stay in Greenwich Village, where I had made friends and where I loved the exuberance of the lifestyle. Somehow I needed to make money. I did have the means in front of my nose—I’d just have to overcome my repugnance and get on with the Tomlinson divorce case—if I wasn’t arrested every time I tried to follow Mr. T.

I gave a big sigh. I wasn’t the sort of person who liked going against her principles, which was the reason that I was not prepared to spend the tidy sum of money that I’d discovered in Paddy’s filing cabinet. It was sitting in the bank, waiting for an heir to claim it. So far no one had, which probably meant it was my money. But I still couldn’t bring myself to use it for anything but official business.

I stepped back from the curb, hastily, as a carriage went past, its wheels and the horses’ hooves spraying up muck from the gutter. I supposed I’d have to go back to spying on Mr. Tomlinson. I just prayed he didn’t have aged female relatives all over the city. Next time I’d find some excuse to check out who owned the houses he visited. It was all so complicated. Why couldn’t the wretched man just agree to give his wife a divorce and save me all this trouble? I was half tempted to go to his office and beg him to grant her wish, so that I was spared any more of this sordid business. I paused on a street corner, one foot in midair. Why not? Why did it always have to be furtive and sordid like this? We were, after all, civilized human beings.

Having made up my mind, I turned on my heels and instead of catching the trolley up Broadway, I went in the other direction, down to Wall Street. I knew where Mr. Tomlinson worked. I had stood outside waiting for him enough times now. It was right next door to the magnificent columns of the stock exchange where there was always such a hustle and bustle that I could blend nicely into the crowd. This time I didn’t lurk in the shadows. I went up the steps, through the front door, and up a flight of marble stairs. I passed an impressive mirror and glanced at myself. I was glad that I had elected to put on my one respectable garment, a beige tailored business suit which had been made for me when I decided to become a female investigator. But I wished I’d put my hair up. With it tied back in a ribbon I looked ridiculously young and most unprofessional. I stepped into a recess and attempted to twist it into a knot. If only I could learn to wear hats like other women, then I’d never be caught out like this. But I’d grown up without wearing a hat and only wore one when strictly necessary. I didn’t like the feel of my head being restricted any more than I liked the restriction of a corset on my body.

J. BAKER TOMLINSON III, STOCKBROKER, was on the second floor. A hollow-eyed young man wearing a large starched collar greeted me and tried to wheedle out of me why I wanted to see Mr. Tomlinson. I was suitably enigmatic and, shortly afterward, I was shown into a tastefully furnished office with mahogany desk and thick carpet on the floor.

“Miss Murphy?” Mr. Tomlinson waved me to a leather padded armchair. “My secretary didn’t make it clear what your manner of business was. Are you here for financial advice?” I saw him summing up the quality of my costume and the hair, which was probably already escaping from its makeshift bun.

“I’m here on a very different sort of matter, Mr. Tomlinson,” I said. “One which causes me considerable embarrassment.”

“Really?” He was looking interested, not guilty. “Please proceed. I am quite intrigued.”

I handed him my card. “My company was hired by your wife.” I met his gaze. “She wanted us to provide proof for her to file for divorce.”

Mr. Tomlinson sat back in his chair with a thump. “Good God.” He hadn’t even noticed the profanity spoken in my presence. “Lillian wants a divorce? I can’t believe it.” His eyes narrowed. “So if you are working for my wife, why exactly have you come to see me?”

“Because I don’t like it, that’s why,” I said. “I’m not the sort of person who enjoys snooping for sordid details. I’ve been watching you for a couple of weeks now, and you seem like a gentleman to me. Quite the opposite of another chap I was watching who was with a different floozie every night. So it seemed to make sense to lay it out straight in front of you. If your wife wants a divorce, why not behave like a gentleman and agree to give her one? That way we will all be spared a lot of embarrassment.”

He continued to look at me through narrowed eyes then he started laughing. “You’re a rum one all right, Miss Murphy. I have to admit you’ve caught me completely off guard. I had no idea that Lillian wanted a divorce. We haven’t had the happiest of marriages for some time, owing to her illness, of course.”

“Mrs. Tomlinson is ill?”

He sucked through his teeth before answering. “She thinks she is. She takes to her bed at the slightest excuse and we have a constant procession of doctors coming to the house. I know she thinks I’m not sympathetic enough but God knows I’ve tried. She complains I’m never home, but who’d want to stay home with a wife who spends the evening taking patent medicines and then retires for the night at eight?” He stopped suddenly, as if he realized he had said too much. “I’ve stuck it out so far because I was raised to do the right thing, but by God, if she wants a divorce, I will be happy to grant her one.”

“Is there anyone—another woman?” I couldn’t resist asking. “I’ve been following your movements and I’ve not found one yet.”

“So now you’re getting me to do your work for you?” A spasm of annoyance crossed his face, then he laughed again. “You really are delightfully refreshing, Miss Murphy. They always say your countrymen have a touch of the blarney, don’t they?” He straightened a pile of papers on his desk before he looked up again. “If you really want to know, there is one young woman I would have approached, had circumstances been different. But, as I say, I was brought up to do the right thing. I have thrown myself into my work and put thoughts of other women aside.”

I left John Baker Tomlinson’s office with a warm glow of success. Now both the Tomlinsons would get what they wanted. Lillian would be free of a husband who paid no attention to her and John would be able to court the woman he admired. I always knew that the forthright approach was best. All that time Paddy had wasted, lurking in dark alleys and trying to take incriminating pictures, while I had brought my first divorce case to a happy conclusion without any effort!

I stopped off at the post office on the way home to buy a stamp, so that I could send my advertisement to Dublin. I was about to leave when the postal clerk, a florid man with mutton chop whiskers, called me back. “Aren’t you the young woman who worked for Paddy Riley?”

“That’s right.”

“Letter just came for J. P. Riley and Associates,” he said and produced it. I thanked him and put it in my purse, although I was dying to open it. Once I was safely in the street, I ripped it open.

The letter was typewritten. “Mr. Max Mostel requests that you call on him at your earliest convenience, regarding a matter of great delicacy and confidentiality.”

The address was on Canal Street—a seedy area of commerce, factories, and saloons. Another divorce case? In which case, a strange address for a client. But he had called it a matter of some delicacy. The difference was that a man had written to me this time. And in all the other divorce cases in Paddy’s records, the clients had been women. This in itself made it appealing. More appealing was the fact that it represented the possibility of enough money to rent a place of my own.

Sid and Gus were out when I returned to Patchin Place, probably doing the morning shopping at the Jefferson Market opposite. I hurried up the stairs with a sigh of relief. I sat at my desk and wrote a letter to the
Dublin Times.
“Lost touch with your loved ones in America? Private investigator will make discreet inquiries. Reuniting families is our specialty.” I didn’t mention the sex of the private investigator, nor that I had never actually reunited a family. I asked for long-term advertising rates and promised to send payment by return of post. Then I went downstairs again and deposited the letter in the mailbox at the end of the street. I looked up to see Sid and Gus bearing down on me. Gus’s arms were full of flowers. Sid carried two over-flowing baskets.

“Look, Gus, she’s up and awake and looking so much better. We have been having such fun, Molly. Gus has been buying up the entire market.”

“I wanted oysters, but Sid wouldn’t let me, even though I told her there was an R in the month so it should be fine.”

“They didn’t look fine to me, they looked decidedly peaky,” Sid said. “I had an uncle who died after eating a bad oyster. I’m not taking any chances with you.”

“So I had to settle for lobster instead. Even Sid had to agree they were still swimming around with great vigor and positively radiated health. So I’m going to prepare a true Boston lobster feast tonight. Whom should we invite?”

“Someone who won’t mind plunging the damned things into boiling water,” Sid said, laughing.

They swept me along Patchin Place, caught up in the excitement of frivolous living. It was moments like this that reminded me how very hard it would be to leave them and move to a place of my own.

That afternoon, while Sid and Gus were in a flurry of preparation for tonight’s lobster feast, I made myself look respectable and businesslike, secured my hair in a bun with twenty or more hairpins, perched my one respectable hat on top of it, and set off to present myself to Mr. Max Mostel. As I followed the Bowery southward, and then turned onto Canal Street, my confusion and curiosity grew. This was not a respectable residential area—it was full of factories, run-down saloons, the occasional seedy boarding house. Certainly not the kind of area in which I expected my clients to live. When I came to Number 438 it wasn’t a residence at all. The bottom floor was half open to the sidewalk and I could hear the sounds of hammering and sawing going on inside. A newly made chair was being varnished just inside the doorway. I asked for Mr. Mostel and was directed up the staircase around the corner. A business then, not a home. I went up the dark and narrow stairway, one flight, two flights, then a third, until I came to a doorway with a sign on it: MOSTEL AND KLEIN, LADIES FASHIONS. I knocked and entered a packing and shipping area. Men were staggering around with large boxes and depositing them on a primitive platform outside a back window to lower to the street. I asked for Mr. Mostel.

“In his office. Up two more flights. Go through the sewing room and you’ll find the stairs at the end,” an elderly man gasped as he paused to mop his brow.

Up another flight that ended in a closed door. I knocked on this and eventually was admitted into a long gloomy room full of young women sewing, row after row of them, their heads bent low over their work. I had been in a room like this before, when I had briefly tried my hand at any job I could get. I hadn’t liked it then and I didn’t like it now. The room resounded to the clatter of the machines. A hundred pairs of feet worked the treadles while one hundred needles flew up and down. There were bolts of cloth piled along walls. It was airless and lint rose from under my feet, causing me to sneeze. This made several of the girls glance up, look at me, and then go back to their sewing again, as if they begrudged the second they had wasted. Nobody said a word as I walked the length of the room until a male voice roared out, “Hey, you—where do you think you’re going?”