For the Love of Mike (5 page)

I imagine that every sweatshop employs at least one male bully to strike fear into its female workers. This one—sallow, sagging, and with the sort of face that had a perpetual leer—was rather more repulsive than the one I had encountered before. Luckily I was in a very different situation this time. I eyed him coldly.

“I am on my way to see Mr. Mostel. Would you kindly find out if it is convenient to see me at this moment?”

“You want to see Mr. Mostel? Miss Hoity Toity, ain’t we! If it’s about a job, I’m the guy you see. The boss don’t see no stinking girls.”

“Fortunately I bathed this morning and don’t happen to be a stinking girl,” I said, hearing the titter of laughter from some of the workers who understood English. “But I received a letter from him this morning, asking me expressly to call upon him.” I was about to hand him my card, when I remembered that I should be discreet and confidential. No need to let this greasy man or any of these girls know who was calling on the boss. “If you would direct me to his office, please.”

“Follow me,” he said, “and don’t blame me if you get your head blown off.”

He led me up another flight of stairs, negotiating boxes of thread and trimmings on almost every step. He knocked on the door and opened it gingerly. “Young lady to see you, sir. Says you wrote her a letter.”

I stepped past him into a cluttered little office. There were more bolts of cloth stacked in the office and a dressmaker’s dummy displaying a frilled blouse and black skirt. Max Mostel was seated at a cluttered desk. He was a big podgy man with heavy jowls, sweating in a pinstriped three-piece suit. A cigar stuck out of one corner of his mouth.

“Yeah? What do you want?”

I handed him my card. “You wrote to me. Here I am.”

He looked at it, glanced up at his foreman. “What are you hanging around for?” he growled in heavily accented English. “Get down there again before one of those girls shoves a few yards of my ribbon into her blouse. Go on.
Raus!
And shut the door behind you.”

The foreman went, closing the door none too gently. Max Mostel continued to scowl at me. “You’re the one I wrote to?”

I nodded. “I am Miss Murphy. Junior partner. I’m sorry if you were expecting a man, but I assure you I am most efficient and do excellent work.”

“No, I wasn’t expecting a man,” he said. “It’s a woman I need for this job. I was asking around and a little bird told me that you were doing this kind of thing. Am I right?”

“What kind of thing was that, Mr. Mostel?”

“Snooping. I need someone to do some snooping for me.”

“I see. Would you care to elaborate?”

He leaned across the desk toward me, even though the door was shut and we two were alone in the room. “We’ve got a plant.”

I looked around the room, also, trying to locate this particular piece of flora.

“A plant?” I asked.

“A spy in the camp, Miss Murphy. A traitor in our midst.” He looked around the room again. “You see this design”—he handed me a page from a catalog showing a sleek, long dress with high collar and sweeping skirt.

“It’s very nice,” I said.

“And it was on the racks in all the major department stores a week before ours was finished, with the Lowenstein label on it. My design, mark you. My garment. With his filthy label on it.”

“Are you sure that it wasn’t an unhappy coincidence?”

He shook his head so that his chins quivered. “Stolen, from under my very nose. And not the first time it’s happened either. Someone in this building is a plant, Miss Murphy, secretly working for Lowenstein. Getting their hot little hands on my latest designs and running them across town for him to copy in a hurry.”

“And you would like me to discover who this person is?”

“Exactly. Have you ever been involved in the garment industry, Miss Murphy?”

“Only very briefly.”

“But would you know how to operate a sewing machine?”

“With only moderate success. I haven’t had much practice.”

“No matter. We’ll take you on here and train you, until you get up to speed. Then I want you to apply at Lowenstein’s. Keep your ear to the ground in both places and see who turns up where he or she shouldn’t.”

I nodded. “I can do that. Who has access to your designs?”

“Not many people. The cutters and finishers would see them when they are in the process of being made, but the girls at the machines—they only do piecework, whatever is put in front of them. Their only concern is a sleeve or a pocket or a collar. They never see the finished garment.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That’s not to say that a smart girl couldn’t do some snooping if she’d a mind to, but I don’t see how. I’m usually here in my office most of the day. The designs are kept in this drawer. And I lock my office when I go out.”

“Are you the only one with an office up here? What about Mr. Klein?”

“Mr. Klein?” He looked surprised. “Dead, Miss Murphy. Dropped dead two years ago—may he rest in peace.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Mostel. So who might come up to your office during the course of the workday?”

“My foreman. My two sample hands—who are completely trustworthy, by the way. The samples are made in the little back room up here, behind me, so nobody has a chance to see the garments before they are ready to be shown. Apart from that—I usually come down if there is a problem with an employee. They don’t come up here.”

“And buyers?”

“I go to them, Miss Murphy. Buyers are not going to climb up five flights of stairs.”

“Could anyone get in when everyone has gone home at night?”

“I take the designs home with me.”

“So it has to be someone who works here during the day.”

He nodded. “A nice little problem we’ve got for ourselves, eh? So will you take on the job, Miss Murphy? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“This could require several weeks of work,” I said. “Shall we say a retainer of one hundred dollars, plus the regular wages I would earn if I worked here?”

He put his hand to his chest. “One hundred dollars? Miss Murphy, I asked you to help me, not bankrupt me.”

“I assure you this is the sort of fee my clients expect to pay, Mr. Mostel. If you think you can find someone who can do the job more cheaply . . .” I got to my feet.

He shrugged. “If it will allow me to sleep soundly in my bed at night, then I suppose I have no choice—even if the children will have to live on rye bread and cabbage soup for a few months.”

“I understand cabbage soup is very healthy, if properly prepared,” I said and I saw a smile twitch his cigar up and down.

“So it’s a deal then, Miss Murphy.” He held out a meaty hand. I shook it.

“I will enjoy the challenge, Mr. Mostel.”

Five

I
came home bubbling with enthusiasm. Now this was a real case, one I could sink my teeth into with no twinges of conscience about catching illicit couples. It would be easy enough to blend in and pass as an ordinary working girl, since I was one. Not in such dire circumstances as most of them, but still struggling to earn my way in a new country. Of course learning to be an efficient seamstress was another matter. Skill with a needle has never been one of my greatest attributes.

The front door at 9 Patchin Place was open, revealing a veritable hive of enthusiasm and industry. Exotic, herby smells wafted down the hallway toward me. Gus was studying an enormous cookery book in the kitchen, while Sid was stringing paper lanterns out in the garden. The kitchen sink teemed with scrabbling lobsters. I didn’t even have time to spill the news of my new commission before Gus pounced upon me.

“Molly, you’re just in time. I need someone to slice onions.”

I was given an apron and dragged into the frantic preparations. By eight o’clock the house was ready and started to fill with writers, painters, poets, and freethinkers. There were many more people than there were lobsters, but it didn’t seem to matter. There was plenty of wine and ale, so a good time was had by all. Myself, I was content to sit back and take it all in. I was still such a newcomer to the world of artists and freethinkers that I felt a little awkward taking part in their witty badinage, but I soaked it all in like a sponge. The discussion moved from women’s rights to birth control to anarchy. Then the talk moved on to New York politics and the upcoming mayoral election.

“It really seems that Tammany might be losing its grip,” Lennie, a painter friend, said, waving an ear of sweet corn—a delicacy I had just discovered. “There’s little love for this Shepherd fellow. Everyone says Seth Low is the man to get rid of Charlie Murphy’s corruption.”

“I see little point in discussing an election in which half of us can’t participate,” Sid said angrily. “Whoever wins it will be the same—more jobs for the boys, more kickbacks under the table.”

“And what do you say, Mr. Clemens?” Gus asked an elderly gentleman with bushy white hair and a drooping mustache who had come to join the group. He looked too old to be part of Sid and Gus’s artistic set and I wondered how he had been invited.

The old man smiled. “It should be perfectly obvious what you have to do. Give women the vote. That will do away with tyrants and dictators instantly. Women will always opt for sensible and compassionate over warlike and corrupt.”

There was loud applause from the whole room. I began to think that he must be a politician of sorts. I nudged Gus who was standing beside me. “Who is that man?”

She looked at me in amazement. “You haven’t heard of Samuel Clemens?”

I shook my head.

“He’s one of our most distinguished writers. He’s just come back from Europe and he has chosen to live in our little neck of the woods. Isn’t he magnificent?”

I had to agree that he was and resolved to go out and buy one of his books forthwith. Any man who was a champion of votes for women was definitely worth reading.

As the talk went on late into the night, I found myself becoming philosophical. This group and those factory girls I had witnessed just a few short blocks away were so far removed from each other that they might have been circling two different suns. I knew that some of these people also struggled to survive. That chubby painter in the corner only ate when he sold a painting. And yet survival was not at the core of their existence. If they had to choose between paint and food, they would choose the former. Whereas those girls at the sweatshop worked their lives away in those dreary conditions to pay for food and rent and probably thought that they had no choice. But didn’t each of us have a choice in what we did? Then I decided that it was the unaccustomed wine that was making me think this way.

The last reveler didn’t leave until the wee hours of the morning. We collapsed into our beds, only to be woken at first light by a hammering on the front door. I heard Sid’s slippers flip-flopping down the stairs, a conversation, then up again, calling softly, “Molly, are you awake? A man is outside with a message for you.”

My head was throbbing from the effects of alcohol. I reached for my robe and hurried downstairs. A young boy grinned at my disheveled appearance. “Compliments of Mrs. Tomlinson,” he said and handed me a letter. I had to race upstairs again to find a dime to tip the boy, then I opened the note. I hoped it would contain her check and grateful thanks. Instead it requested that I present myself in person at the Tomlinson house as soon as possible. Obviously the good woman wanted to pay me and thank me in person.

So after breakfast, suitably businesslike in my attire, I made my way to the East Side. I was shown to an upstairs room where Mrs. Tomlinson reclined on a daybed. She looked pale and languid, but she sat up easily enough as I came in.

“Miss Murphy,” she said.

“I came as soon as I got your message, Mrs. Tomlinson.”

“You went to see my husband yesterday—”

“I thought it better for both parties. Your husband seemed like a gentleman. I didn’t feel right trying to expose him. So he agreed to do the gentlemanly thing, did he? That must be a relief for you.”

“A relief? You stupid girl! I asked you to find me facts, not to interfere. Now look what you’ve done!”

“He won’t grant you the divorce?” I was puzzled.

“Of course he’ll grant me the divorce.” She spat the words out. “He came to my room last night and told me he’d be only too happy to set me free from a restricting marriage.”

“But isn’t that what you wanted?”

She glared at me. “It is not at all what I wanted. I had no intention of actually getting a divorce. I hoped my actions would spur my husband into paying me more attention and realizing how shamefully he was neglecting me. But now—” she put her handkerchief up to her mouth and gave a little sob “—now he sees a divorce as a liberation for both of us. I’ve lost my husband, Miss Murphy, all because of you and your meddling ways!”

“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Tomlinson,” I said, “but I was instructed to find evidence for a divorce case. And if you really want to know, I came up with no blot on your husband’s character.”

This only made her cry harder.

“If you tell him your true motive, maybe there will be a hope of your reconciliation,” I suggested. She didn’t answer. I thought it best to make a retreat, and I hadn’t the heart to ask her for my fee. That’s it, I decided. The last divorce case that I shall ever tackle. I resolved to do a better job when I went spying at the factory.

A loud jangling noise woke me. I sat up in darkness, my heart thumping. Fire. It must be a fire bell ringing. I had to get out. Then my foot touched the cold oilcloth and I remembered that I had borrowed Sid’s alarm clock to make sure I woke at six A.M. I had to report to work at Mostel and Klein by seven. As I went down the stairs to the bathroom I remembered that I had been dreaming about a fire before the bell woke me.

I came back upstairs, shivering in the early morning chill and dressed with care in my old white blouse and the plaid skirt that I had worn when I fled from Ireland. I tied my hair back instead of putting it up. I had to look as if I was a newly arrived immigrant. I would have to watch my mouth too. Last time I had worked in a similar sweatshop I had told the foreman what I thought of him, which had brought me dismissal within a week. That and having sewn a whole pile of sleeves inside out.

I tiptoed down the stairs, trying not to wake Sid and Gus, and helped myself to some of yesterday’s stale bread and jam. As the reality of what I was doing hit me, I began to question yesterday’s enthusiasm. Stale bread and twelve hours of toil ahead of me instead of a leisurely breakfast of fresh hot rolls and Sid’s strong coffee—if this was what an investigator’s life was like, couldn’t I find a more civilized job?

I let myself out into cold gray dawn. The Jefferson Market was in full swing, but as I crossed Washington Square it was still deserted. Too early for students or artists! But as I followed the Bowery southward, the city came to life—trolley cars clanged as factory workers dodged past them to cross the street. Delivery wagons rumbled past, pulled by huge stocky horses. I reached Canal Street with ten minutes to spare and had time to collect my thoughts before I entered the building. Mr. Mostel had given me my instructions. Nobody was to know that I wasn’t an ordinary worker. I was to blend in and keep my eyes open. But not at the expense of my work. I couldn’t be seen to be minding other people’s business. And I’d be treated just like any other girl—not a pleasant prospect when I remembered the leering foreman. Still it was only for a few weeks. I could stick it out for that long, couldn’t I?

A parade of girls was now making its way up the stairs. I joined them, getting some odd stares. I listened to the conversation going on around me and realized I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said. The girls in front of me were speaking Yiddish, those behind me were gabbing away in Italian. It suddenly hit me that this assignment was not going to be easy. If there were any kind of conspiracy, I’d have no chance of overhearing any whispered messages. I’d just have to rely on using my eyes and my instincts.

The other girls hung up their hats and shawls on a row of hooks then took their places at their machines. I stood looking around, not knowing what to do next.

“You are new,
ya?
” one of the girls asked in broken English.

I nodded, shyly.

“You must wait until Seedy Sam gets here,” another girl said. She was tall, slim, and attractive with a smart white blouse and a cameo at her neck. “He’ll tell you where to sit.”

“Seedy Sam?” I asked innocently.

She grinned. “It’s what we call Sam Walters, the foreman. Only don’t let him hear you call him that, or you’ll be out on your ear.” She looked at me with interest. “You’re not Jewish or Italian—are you English?”

“No, I’m Irish.”

“That’s very funny.”

“What is—being Irish?” I stuck out my chin and felt my fists clench. Nobody made fun of the Irish when I was around.

“Sorry. I don’t mean funny. Strange. It is strange. The girls who speak good English don’t stay long, and they talk back to the bosses. That’s why Sam likes to hire newniks like us who can’t talk back. I’m Sadie. Sadie Blum.”

“Molly Murphy,” I said, shaking her hand politely. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. You seem to speak pretty good English,” I added.

“Yes, well I’m here two years now and I learn quick.”

Several other girls had clustered around listening to this exchange. One of them tapped my shoulder. “Weren’t you here the other day, visiting the boss?”

She was eyeing me suspiciously.

“That’s right. I was bringing him a message from an old friend in Europe. Then I decided I might as well ask him for a job while I was here.” I saw a glance pass between two of them. “Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “The boss made it very clear to me that I could expect no special treatment if I worked here, just because my great uncle knew him.”

“Whassamatter, did they declare a public holiday that I didn’t know about?” a big male voice boomed and Seedy Sam came into the room.

“If they did, we wouldn’t get it off,” Sadie muttered in my ear.

“Get to it then. It’s already one minute past seven. To your machines and no talking. You know the rules!” Then he noticed me. “And what have we here?”

“My name’s Molly Murphy. Mr. Mostel said I might start work today.”

“I remember you, all right.” Sam sneered. “All that garbage about delivering letters to the boss, when you were really after a job here!”

“That was true,” I said. “I was delivering a message from an old friend. I just decided to ask him for a job when I was talking to him.”

“Don’t think you’re going to be treated any different from the rest of these girls,” Sam said with his usual leer.

“Why would I be? I have no connection with your boss, other than delivering him a message. Now where would you like me to sit?”

“What skills do you have? You know how to sew, don’t ya?”