In Like Flynn (2 page)

I wasn't going to let Daniel know that myfinanceswere rather precarious recently, owing to a distinct lack of work, and that I was going to buy a couple of slices of cold tongue for our evening meal.

“It’s all right. Nothing that can't be purchased in the morning, I suppose,” I said. “But I'm a big girl now. I can cross streets by myself.”

“Sometimes I wonder about that,” he said and he smiled.

The aggressive Daniel was easier to handle than the smiling one. I went to pull away from him. Hisfingersslid down my arm until he held my hand in his, examining my fingers.

“No ring yet, I see,” he said. “Not yet promised to the bearded wonder then?”

“If you are referring to Mr. Singer, we are not exactly promised but we have an understanding,” I said stiffly.

“Molly—” he began in an exasperated voice.

“And I take it you are still affianced to Miss Norton?”

“I think she tires of me at last,” Daniel said. “She told me I was boring and lacked ambition the other day. That’s a good sign, wouldn't you say?”

“Good for whom?” I asked. “Really, Daniel, my life is too busy for idle thoughts about you and Miss Norton.”

“Are you still pursuing thisridiculousnotion of being an investigator?”

I nodded. “Doing rather well at it, if you want to know. Almost as good as Paddy Riley was.”

“Paddy Riley got himself killed,” he reminded me.

“Apart from that.”

He crossed the street beside me and stopped at the entrance to Patchin Place, the small cobblestoned backwater where I lived. “I have to go back, but you'll be all right from here, won't you?” he asked.

“I was perfectly all right before,” I said. “I really can take care of myself, you know, Daniel. You need not worry about me.”

“But I do. And I think about you often. Don't tell me that you never think of me?”

“Never have time,” I said briskly “Good day to you, Captain Sullivan. Thank you for escorting me home.”

I left him standing at the entrance to Patchin Place.

TWO

I
did not look back as I walked down Patchin Place. I had handled that encounter rather well, in fact, I was pleased with myself. I had shown Daniel Sullivan that he no longer had a hold over me. I had come across as a confident, successful woman. Maybe I should change my profession instantly and ask my playwright friend Ryan O'Hare for a part in his next play on the basis of that convincing performance.

Because if truth were known, I wasn't exactly flourishing at the moment. I can't say I was making a fortune as a private investigator. P. Riley and Associates still received a good number of inquiries, but when they found out the investigator was a woman, the interest often waned. The general opinion was that you couldn't trust a woman to be discreet. Women were known for not being able to hold their tongues. That had been Paddy’s opinion too, although I think he was changing his mind about me when he was killed. I still missed him. I was still angry that he had gone before he could teach me all the tricks of the trade.

I put my empty basket down and fished for the door key. I always felt a sense of pride when I let myself into my own house, and such a dear little house too. Now I wondered how long I'd be able to keep it. There had been no money coming in for a couple of months. Seamus O'Connor, who shared the house with me, had been laid off from his Christmas job at Macy’s Department Store. It was now May and he had yet to find other employment. His two children, Shamey and Bridie, were hearty eaters and money disappeared at an alarming rate. There was no reason why I should have been feeding children who were not even related to me, except that I owed my present life in America to their mother, who was dying in Ireland, and I had grown fond of them. By now they seemed like my own family.

I let myself in and looked around with annoyance. The remains of a meal littered the kitchen table—the bread sliced crookedly and drips of jam on the oilcloth. The children had clearly come home from school and gone out again. Well, they'd better be prepared for a good tongue-lashing when they came back. I started clearing away their mess. Seamus wasn't home, it seemed. I had to admire the way the man tramped the streets every day, looking for work. The problem was that he still wasn't strong enough to do the laboring jobs available to the newly arrived Irish—and not educated for anything better.

I sighed as I put the bread back in the bin. Something would have to be done soon if I was going to come up with the money for rent and food. Maybe the O'Connors would just have to squash into one room and I'd let out the third bedroom to a lodger. But the thought of a stranger sharing our home wasn't appealing.

I could always offer my services as an artist’s model again, of course. I had to smile as I thought of Jacob’s reaction to my posing in the nude for a strange man. For all his liberalism, I didn't think he would take kindly to that. Sweet Jacob; he was the one stable thing in my life at the moment. I had so far refused to discuss marriage with him, but I was weakening. I have to confess that the thought of being cherished and protected was occasionally appealing, even to an independent woman of commerce like myself.

Thinking of Jacob made me realize that I hadn't seen him for a few days and I needed some cherishing at this moment. It wasn't one of the evenings for his labor organization, the Hebrew Trades Association, so he should be home. He could take me to our favorite cafe, where we would have borscht and red wine. In spite of the heat that radiated up from the sidewalks, I almost ran across Washington Square, then down Broadway and into Rivington Street.

As I progressed into what was called the Lower East Side, the street became clogged with pushcarts and stalls selling everything from the lyrics of Yiddish songs to pickles, buttons or live geese. A veritable orchestra of sounds echoed back from the high tenement walls—the cry of a baby, a violin from an upper window playing a plaintive Russian melody, shrill voices arguing from window to window across the street, hawkers calling out their wares. It was a scene full of life and I savored it as I hurried past.

Jacob lived at the far end of Rivington Street, close to the East River. The pungent river smell wafted toward me on the evening breeze. He had one room on the third floor of the building, but it was big and airy, half living space and half studio for his photo-graphic business. He was a wonderful photographer and could have made a fine living, had he not chosen to dedicate himself to social justice and thus shoot scenes only of squalor.

The front door of his building stood open. Two old men sat on the stoop, long white beards wagging as they gestured in earnest discussion. They frowned at me as I went past them. I was on my way to visit a young man, unchaperoned. Such things were unheard of in the old country. I grinned and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

At the top I paused to wipe the sweat from my face and to tame my flyaway hair. I could hear the sound of voices coming from in-side his door. I tapped and waited. The door was opened.

“Jacob, I'm starving and I wasn't allowed to buy anything for dinner because …, ” I started to say, when I realized I was staring at a strange young man. He wore the black garb and long curls favored by the stricter Jewish males and he was looking at me in horrified amazement.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “I came to visit Mr. Singer.”

The eyebrows rose even higher. “Mr. Singer. Not here,” he said in broken English, the straggly beard quivering as he shook his head violently.

“Oh. When will he be back?” I asked.

He didn't seem to understand this. I had no idea what he was doing in Jacob’s room, and who else was in the room with him, but clearly he wasn't going to let me in. I was about to admit defeat and go home again when boots clattered up the stairs and Jacob’s face came into view.

“Molly!” He sounded surprised, pleased, but wary. “What are you doing here?”

“Do I need an appointment to visit you these days?” I asked, my eyes teasing.

“Of course not. It’s just that”—he paused and glanced up at the black-garbed young man watching us—“It’s rather difficult at the moment.” He turned to the newcomer and spoke quickly in Yid-dish. I had come to understand a few words of that language, but not spoken at any speed. The young man nodded and retreated. Jacob closed the door, leaving us standing outside.

“Who is that?” I asked, giving him an amused look. “Don't tell me it’s someone sent from the rabbi because you keep company with a Shiksa?”

“I'll walk you downstairs again,” he said and firmly took my arm. The afternoon seemed to be a progression of men taking my arm and walking me in directions I didn't want to go.

“What’s this all about, Jacob?” I asked.

“I'm sorry, Molly, I really am,” he said, talking under his breath even though there was nobody to hear us in the stairwell. “It’s just that—it’s awkward at the moment.”

“You've already said that once,” I reminded him. “What’s going on, Jacob?”

He glanced up die stairs again. That man, he’s my cousin, arrived out of the blue from Russia. There are three of them, actually. My cousin and two friends. They had no money and nowhere to go, so naturally I had to take them in. In other circumstances I would have introduced you, but, as you saw, they are rather rigid in their religious views. Bringing an unescorted girl—correction, an unescorted, non-Jewish girl—into my living quarters would shock them beyond belief. So just for the time being…”

“You want me to stay away.”

He looked at me with gratitude in his eyes. “I think it would be wiser. You know how I feel about all these antiquated traditions and customs, but they are newly arrived here. I can't spring too much on them, too soon.”

“So how did you explain me away?” I asked icily. “The mad-woman from the floor below? Come to borrow a cup of sugar?”

He looked embarrassed now. “I said you were one of our union workers.”

“I see.” I turned away from him, feeling the flush rising in my cheeks.

He put his hands on my shoulders and tried to turn me back to face him. “Molly, I'm sorry. It was stupid of me. I just couldn't think of a way of introducing you without upsetting them.”

“And upsetting me? That doesn't matter to you?”

“Of course it matters. I thought you'd understand.”

“And is it always going to be like this, Jacob?” I asked coldly. “If we did get married, would I have to move out of the house any time your relatives came near? Or hide under the bed? Or have to live my life pretending to be one of your union workers?”

“Of course not. Everyone who has a chance to.know you likes you. My parents like you.”

“Your parents tolerate me.”

Jacob sighed. “These things take time. When you have been raised in one culture and are suddenly thrust into another, with a completely different set of rules, it is not always easy to change. Me, I am a modern thinker. I am all for change. Many Jews are not.” His grip on my shoulders tightened. “And forgive me. I haven't even asked you why you came to visit. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

“In your modern way of thinking is a young lady never allowed to visit her gentleman friend? Does she always have to wait for him to call upon her at his convenience?”

He laughed uneasily. “No. Of course not. On any other occasion I would have welcomed your presence.”

“On any occasion unless one of your relatives or friends was visiting.” I lifted his hands from my shoulders. “I'll leave you to your entertaining then, Jacob, and 111 see you when it is convenient to both of us.”

I pushed past the old men who were still deep in earnest discussion on the front stoop.

“It’s only for a litde while, Molly. Just until I've found them a place of their own,” he called after me.

I kept on walking. He didn't follow me. Anger was boiling inside me. I had first been attracted to Jacob because I saw him as a fellow free spirit. He was not bound by stupid rules of society. He wanted to change things for the better. Now it seemed he wasn't quite the free spirit I had thought him to be.

Three

I
walked fast, pushing my way through the evening crowds along Rivington. As I came toward Broadway the street was completely blocked by a white wagon drawn by two horses. I drew level with it and saw the red cross on the side. An ambulance. You didn't see many of those on the Lower East Side. Most people here couldn't afford to be sick in a good hospital that cost money, and wouldn't want to go to a charity hospital, where they were liable to get even sicker. They stayed home and either got well or died. A couple of men in white uniforms were keeping the crowds back as a stretcher was carried out of the building.

“Another one,” I heard someone saying. “That makes three on this street alone.”

“What is it?” I asked.

The woman had a dark shawl draped over her head, in spite of the heat.

“Typhoid,” she whispered as if saying it out loud would bring bad luck. “Dropping likeflies, they are. They get taken off to the isolation hospital, but it’s too late by then, isn't it? The damage is done.”

Wailing came from the doorway as the stretcher was bundled into the back of the ambulance and the driver cracked his whip to clear the crowd blocking the street. They parted, suddenly silent, as if wanting to distance themselves as far as possible from the disease. I noticed some women had their shawls wrapped over their mouths now and others pulled the sheets up over the heads of their babies in their prams. I hurried toward more sanitary areas of the city, hoping, even though I was angry with him, that Jacob would be sensible enough to stay well away from those affected with typhoid.

Twilight was falling as I crossed Washington Square. The remains of a pink glow lit the sky behind the trees, and the air was sweet with the scent of jasmine growing in one of the flower beds. I didn't want to go home and face finding something in the larder to cook for three hungry mouths. The alternative was to visit my friends Augusta Walcott and Elena Goldfarb, usually known as Gus and Sid, across the street instead, which seemed like a much better idea. But I was halfway across the square when I heard shrieks of delight. I recognized those voices and turned around to see two bedraggled urchins, flicking each other with water from the fountain.

“Shamey, Bridie. Come here at once,” I called, and they came, heads down and giving me sheepish smiles.

“What do you think you're doing, out this late, and running around in that state?” I demanded. When I saw them at close quarters, they looked even more disreputable. Their hair was plastered to their heads and their clothing was sodden.

“Holy Mother of God, what have you been doing to your-selves?” I demanded.

“Just playing in the fountain a little bit,” Shamey said, not meeting my eye. “It was too hot.”

“Do you take me for a complete idjeet?” I glared at them. “You've been swimming in that river again, haven't you?”

“Only just getting our toes wet,” Shamey said.

“Getting your toes wetl Just take a look at the pair of you— soaked from head to toe. What did I tell you about swimming in the East River?”

“Aw, but Molly, it was hot today and our cousins do it all the time.”

“I am not responsible for your cousins,” I said. “And you know I don't like you visiting them. They're a bad influence. Come on. Home with you.” I grabbed their wrists and marched them across the square to the street. “And you should have known better than to take your sister,” I said to Shamey. “She doesn't even swim properly yet. She might have drowned.”

“No, she wouldn't. We keep an eye on her. She just holds onto ropes and bobs from the dock anyway. She don't jump in or nothin'.”

I sighed. In spite of all my efforts, Shamey was turning into a little New Yorker. We crossed Waverly and headed for Sixth Avenue.

“I don't jump in,” Bridie said, looking up at me apologetically. “I just stay at the edge, honest, Molly.”

“But I don't like you in that dirty water, sweetheart,” I said, stroking back her plastered, wet hair. “God knows what is in that river.”

“Sorry, Molly,” Shamey muttered.

It was almost dark as we entered Patchin Place.

“I'm putting on hot water for a bath for the pair of you,” I said. “And then it’s bread and milk and straight to bed.”

I bustled around, heating water and then filling the zinc bath for them. I was just heating up the milk when Seamus Senior came home.

“Sorry I've been out so long,” he said, pausing to wipe his red, sweat-covered face with a dirty handkerchief. “I met some of the fellows I used to work with on the subway tunnel. They treated me to a couple of beers. They think it’s shocking that I wasn't paid any compensation for getting myself buried alive. They say I should get myself a good lawyer and sue the bastards.”

He was speaking with uncustomary belligerence and I thought it was probably the beer in him talking. That’s often the way with us Irish. A couple of beers and we're ready to take on the world, single-handedly.

“Now where would youfindthe money for a lawyer?” I asked, wisely ignoring his use of a swear word in front of a lady. “You just put your energies intofindinga job.”

I realized as I said it that I was beginning to sound and act like a wife. I shut up instantly. Seamus still had a wife at home in Ireland, as far as we knew. And I wasn't about to volunteer to step into her shoes.

“I promised to stop in across the street,” I said. “There’s bread and milk for the little ones, and there’s cheese in the larder if you're still hungry after all that beer.”

Then I made my escape and rapped on the door of number nine. After a disappointing minute during which I thought they might be out, the door was thrown open and my friend Gus stood there in all her glory. She was wearing an emerald green silk kaftan with a matching band tied around her forehead and she held a cigarette in a long ebony holder in her free hand.

“Molly, my darling,” she exclaimed. “What perfect timing. I sent Sid over to fetch you but you weren't home. Come in, come in, do.”

I was half dragged inside.

“Youll never guess who is visiting and pining for you?” she asked. I thought it wiser not to guess. You never knew who might be visiting Sid and Gus. She shoved me into the front parlor, which was brightly lit with candelabras to supplement the gas brackets.

“Here she is, I've found her,” Gus announced in triumph. “You can stop sulking, Ryan.”

I looked around me in delight. Lounging on the blue velvet sofa was my good friend Ryan O'Hare, wicked and fashionable Irish playwright. Next to him was another slim and lovely young man who gazed at me silently.

Ryan got to his feet. In deference to the hot weather he was wearing an embroidered cotton peasant shirt with frilly cuffs, opened down the front in comic opera fashion.

“Molly, my angel. I have been positively pining for you,” he ex-claimed in his smooth, well-bred tones. “How long has it been?”

“At least since last week, Ryan,” I said, laughing as I accepted his peck on the cheek. “And I don't think you've missed me one bit.” My gaze moved to his silent companion and Ryan laughed delightedly.

“Perspicacious as ever, my sweet. This is Juan. He’s Spanish and speaks little English as yet. I'm educating him.”

“I'll bet you are,” Sid said dryly.

The dark young man continued to smile.

“Where on earth did you meet him, Ryan?” Gus asked.

“Waiter. Delmonico’s. Thursday last.” He patted my hand. “Juan.
Miamuja
Molly.”

Juan got to his feet and bowed. I nodded in return.

“So will you stay for dinner, Molly? We're entering a Chinese phase,” Gus said. ’Sid is experimenting with duck.”

“I'd love to,” I said. “I have just escaped from domesticity across the street.”

“Very tiring. Ryan, pour Molly some ginger wine. It should be rice wine, but we couldn'tfindany,” Sid said. “And excuse me if I have to return to my duck in the kitchen before it escapes from the pan.”

“It’s not still alive, is it?” I asked anxiously. One never knew with Sid and Gus.

Sid laughed. “Of course not, silly But I'm frying it at an awfully high temperature. I should be watching it.”

“I think I'd better come and help you, Sid,” I said.

Ryan handed me the drink, then refused to let go of my other hand. “Hurry back to me, my sweet. You know I pine when you are gone,” he said.

I laughed. “Ryan, you may not sound Irish but you know you're full of blarney. In fact you're just like other men.”

“Don't say that, for pity’s sake.” He gave an exaggerated look of horror. “You strike daggers at my heart.”

“Well, you are. Sweet and solicitous as anything when it suits them, and when it doesn't suit them, then we women don't exist.”

“There speaks a voice of bitterness, Molly Are you referring to Daniel the deceiver?” Sid paused and looked back from the doorway.

“No, to Jacob the spineless,” I snapped.

“Jacob? Good, kind, sweet Jacob who could do no wrong? That one?” Gus asked innocently.

The very same. I've changed my opinion of him.” And I re-counted the incident in Rivington Street. “I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that men are an infernal nuisance,” I concluded, “Life would progress more smoothly without them.”

“Ah, but just think how boring it would be without us around to brighten your dull little lives,” Ryan said, patting my hand.

Sid’s gaze was suddenlyrivetedto the window. “Speak of the devil, Molly,” she said.

“Don't tell me it’s Jacob come to apologize!” I pulled back the curtain to look out.

“No, it’s Daniel the deceiver, about to knock on your front door,” Sid said delightedly. “Do you think he’sfinallygiven up his betrothed and afortunefor a chance at true love?”

“I hardly think so,” I said. “I was with him only two hours ago and he was still betrothed then. Even the fastest automobile couldn't drive to Westchester County and back in that space of time. No, I ratherfearhe’s come to deliver another lecture about the dangers of getting mixed up with gangs.”

“Molly, don't tell me you've been doing foolish things again,” Gus said as I stood fascinated at the window, torn between wanting to know why Daniel was visiting me and not wishing to con-front him again.

“Not intentionally. I spotted a pickpocket and had him arrested, only he turned out to be a gang member with a rather violent nature.”

“Trust you, Molly,” Sid said, shaking her head. “Well, are you going to goover there to confront him or do you want us to hide you?”

“I suppose I'd better…,” I began.

“No need,” Gus chimed in, joining us at the window. “Those sweet children of yours are directing him over here. Really, Molly, you must train them better in the art of lying.”

I turned my back on their laughter as I went to intercept Daniel at the front door.

“If you have come to lecture me again—” I started as I opened the door before he could knock.

“I've come to invite you out to dinner with me,” he said, recoiling from my unexpected attack.

“And you know very well what my answer to that will be. I'm not going anywhere with you until you are free and unencumbered. And since I don't think you've learned toflysince I saw you this afternoon——

“This is strictly business.” He cut me off before I could finish.

“Business? What possible business could you have with me?”

“I've a proposal to put to you.” And that roguish smile crossed his lips. “A strictly business proposition. Now do you want to hear it or don't you?”

“I suppose I'd be a fool to turn down any legitimate business proposition,” I replied frostily.

“Come on then.” He reached out to take my arm. “I've a cab waiting on the street and reservations at eight.”

'You were very sure that I'd come.”

“I know you too well, Molly Murphy. I knew your curiosity would get the better of you.”

“But I need to change my clothes if we're going out to dinner.”

“You look justfineto me as you are. Say farewell to your friends and off we go.”

He smiled as he escorted me to the waiting cab.