The Edge of Dreams (22 page)

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ve decided that my ribs ache whether I’m sitting at home or out doing something, so I’d rather keep myself busy.”

“Well, take a hansom cab then,” she said. “It’s too far to walk and you’ll not want to risk a crowded trolley.”

I laughed, realizing how little she knew of the city. “You’d not get a cab down most of those streets,” I said. “All those pushcarts make it impossible. Besides, I think I prefer not to be jolted around over the cobbles. I’ll walk across to Ninth Street and we’ll take the Third Avenue El. There’s a stop right there at Fulton Street where Nuala works.”

“The elevated?” Her face grew wary. “My dear, are you sure you want to face that again so soon?”

“Don’t worry. There are no curves on this track,” I said, sounding more carefree than I felt. I wished she hadn’t brought that up. I wished she hadn’t reminded me that Daniel suspected I was the intended target of the crash. In which case someone could be watching me and plotting when to strike again. It made staying home and not getting involved in Daniel’s business seem like such a safe alternative. But I had pushed myself into things I didn’t want to do before. And I wanted to catch this man as much as Daniel did.

“Bring me your hairbrush and let’s do your hair, Bridie,” I said. “You need to look respectable when we meet your relatives.”

Bridie had been holding Liam and handed him to me when he started to cry. I, in turn, handed him to Daniel’s mother. “Would you mind looking after him for a little while?” I said. “I really don’t want to bring him with me to that part of the city. Too much disease always going around there.”

“Of course,” she said. “And you’re in no condition to carry him.” She looked down at him fondly. “Come on, my darling. You and I will see if there are any of those jam tarts left in the larder.”

And off he went quite happily with his grandmother, without a single look back at me.

I put on my hat and took Bridie’s hand as we stepped out into bright sunshine. It was warm for September, and I wasn’t looking forward to facing the heat and noise of the Lower East Side. But there was no going back now, even though Bridie looked about as unenthusiastic as I felt.

“I don’t like those boys, my cousins,” she said. “They are rough, and they tease me.”

“I don’t like them much either,” I said, giving a conspiratorial wink. “But we’ll do our duty and not stay long.”

“Do you think Cousin Nuala might have news of my dada?” she asked.

“I don’t know, my darling. But it’s worth seeing her, just on the off chance, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She nodded, convincing herself. “I’d do anything to know if they’re all right.”

We climbed the steps to the Third Avenue El station. As the train came rumbling in I had a moment of anxiety. Could I really get on board without worrying that something would happen to me? I looked up and down the platform, but there were only a few housewives on their way from shopping, mothers with young children, and nobody who looked furtive or threatening. I wished I had taken more notice of the man who knocked into me, making me miss that train. It might have been a complete coincidence, but as a detective I’d learned not to believe in coincidences. The train came to a halt and I ushered Bridie on board, then hauled myself up. As we moved off, I tried to picture the man. He’d been young, I was sure. Cap or hat? What kind of jacket? I closed my eyes, but all that came back to me was a blur of running feet. Dark hair. Dark jacket. But not a businessman. A student? Yes, possibly more like a student. Which of course made sense—a student, late for his next class and not even aware that he had bumped me as he dashed for an empty compartment. However, this also made me think of Simon Grossman, and a killer who was brazen enough to drop cyanide into his coffee. Could students and their activities have something to do with this crime after all? Was someone playing a cruel joke on Daniel?

The moment we disembarked from the El, I could tell where we were by the smell. As we walked down Fulton Street, the odor of the fish market wafted toward us until it grew overwhelming.

“What’s that horrible smell?” Bridie demanded. “Do we have to go this way?”

“It’s the fish market at the bottom of Fulton Street,” I said. “And this is actually where we’re heading.”

“I thought we were going to visit Cousin Nuala,” she said peevishly.

“We are. I don’t know her current address, but I do know that she works at the fish market.”

Ahead of us was the fish market, facing the piers. Not an unattractive building, with its gabled roof and cupolas to let in light, while the tower and cables of the Brooklyn Bridge soared above it, unnaturally large and out of proportion with the hovels and small ships below. I took out my handkerchief and handed it to Bridie. “Put that over your nose and mouth. I sprinkled on eau de cologne this morning.”

We negotiated the forecourt, with its barrows of fish constantly passing to and fro and crates of fish being loaded onto wagons and drays. Then we were inside, in the gloomy darkness, with the full richness of the smell of dead fish around us. Underfoot was slippery with scales and blood. I picked up my skirt and went forward cautiously. I thought I remembered where Nuala had been working before, but when I got there I couldn’t spot her.

“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?” A large man in a blood-spattered apron loomed up out of the gloom. Presumably the foreman, making sure nobody slacked off or received visitors.

“I’m looking for Nuala O’Grady. I believe she works here.”

“Used to work here,” he said. “Don’t work here no more.”

“I see. Would you happen to know where I can find her now? Her little cousin is visiting New York and wants to see her.”

He took in Bridie’s lace-trimmed dress and pink-and-white complexion. “Her cousin?” He sounded skeptical.

I was growing impatient. “Yes, her father’s cousin, actually. Could you tell me where I might find her home address?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. People move around a lot. Get kicked out of one apartment. Find another.”

“Look, it’s very important that I find her,” I said. “Did she get a job somewhere else?”

“Nah. She don’t work no more. Her boys take care of her. A lady of leisure, that’s what she is.” And he laughed.

“So you can’t actually help me?”

“Would if I could,” he said, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Well, that was a waste of time,” I said as we came out and stood breathing in the fresh breeze that came up the East River.

“Can we go home now?” Bridie asked expectantly.

“We must make an effort to find them.” I stood thinking. I remembered that they had been thrown out of their old house on Cherry Street. I knew Finbar, Nuala’s no-good husband, had lost his job as a bouncer at a tavern, on account of his drinking. But knowing Finbar, he’d still be drinking somewhere, wouldn’t he? I’d try the local taverns.

We walked up Water Street, staying away from the crazy commerce on the waterfront and stopping off at every tavern we saw. At the third one, the Irish Harp, we were rewarded. Ladies were not allowed inside but I was able to pass a message via the bouncer at the front door, and eventually someone shouted, “Finbar, get your drunk and lazy carcass out here. There’s a lady wants to speak to you.”

And Finbar emerged. Bridie shrank back and hid herself behind my skirts. Indeed he was a frightening figure—his face shrunk to a skeleton of skin and bone, eyes hollow, hair matted and unwashed, and clothes half hanging off him.

“Whatta you want?” he growled.

“Finbar, it’s Molly,” I said. “And your cousin Bridie.”

A leering smile crossed his face. “Little Bridie,” he said. “Sweet little Bridie.” And he reached out a hand to touch her. She flinched away.

A thought flashed across my mind that maybe he had tried to molest her when she lived with them. He had certainly tried it with me. Not that he’d gotten very far.

“Finbar, where are you living? Bridie’s come to see Nuala and the boys.”

“She throws me out every day,” he said, now sounding weepy. “Doesn’t want me around the house. Says I’m underfoot and a no-good bag of bones.”

“The address, Finbar,” I insisted.

“Fifty-eight James Street. Not far from the Bowery,” he managed to get out with great effort. “Top floor.”

Naturally,
I thought. People like Finbar were always given the top floor, up all those stairs nobody else wanted to climb. I thanked him, and against my better judgment I put fifty cents into his hand. He beamed, wept, and bowed. “God bless you, lady. God bless you,” he called after me as we walked away.

The tenement on James Street was, if anything, worse than the one where they had first lived on Cherry. The hallway was dark, and dank, and smelled of urine and cabbage and drains. The one sink that was the water supply for the whole building was now full of filthy water. We started to climb the stairs, one flight, then the next. By the third, my ribs were aching and it hurt me to breathe. As I stopped to catch my breath, a door opened and a woman’s face poked out. Her unkempt hair stuck out at all angles, and she looked around with wild eyes. “Brendan?” she demanded. “Is that you?”

Then she saw me and scowled. “What do you want? We don’t need no do-gooders around here.“

“I’m looking for Nuala O’Grady,” I said. “I’m told she lives on the top floor.”

“What’s she done now? Those boys of hers been getting in trouble again?”

“Just a friendly visit,” I said.

“‘Friendly’? You call that old cow friendly?” She scooped up a snotty-nosed baby that was attempting to crawl out of the door and shut it behind her.

Bridie looked at me, wide-eyed, and said nothing. I took her hand and we went up the last flights in silence. As I tapped on the door I was transported back to my first day in New York, almost five years ago, when I had stood outside Nuala’s door on the top floor of a similarly disgusting tenement. The door was flung open, and the doorway filled with Nuala’s enormous bulk. Just as she had done the first time, Nuala now looked at me with loathing. “Well, would you look what the cat’s brought in,” she said.

“And top of the morning to you too, Nuala,” I replied. “A fine greeting for your young relative whom I’ve brought to see you.”

Her face softened then. “Well, look at you, Bridie, love. My, aren’t you growing into a fine young woman. And where did you get those clothes? Fancy, aren’t they? Did herself buy them for you, now that she’s a policeman’s wife?” She jerked her head to indicate me, but refused to call me by name.

“Mrs. Sullivan made them for me,” she said. “I live with her.”

“Mrs. Sullivan?”

“My mother-in-law. She’s kindly taken Bridie in and is educating her,” I explained for her.

“Well, how about that?” she said. She stepped aside. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

The inside was as sorry as the last place they’d lived. One threadbare armchair, a scrubbed table with benches made of planks over blocks, a couple of saucepans hanging over the sink, and the smell of frying and unwashed bodies.

“Sit yourselves down then,” she said. “I’ll be making the tea.”

We sat.

“Bridie’s anxious to hear if you’ve any news of her father,” I said. “She herself has heard nothing, and naturally she’s very worried.”

“We did hear, a little while back,” she said. “Himself met a man at the tavern who had come back from the canal. Said he couldn’t stick it out. Said no amount of money was worth enduring that hellhole. He’d caught yellow fever but recovered—one of the lucky ones, I suppose. Anyway…” I held my breath and didn’t dare glance at Bridie. “Anyway, he’d come across Seamus and young Shamey.”

“And they were both alive and well?”

“At the time he saw them, yes. He said it was an out-of-the-way, godforsaken place, days by mule from anywhere.”

I turned to Bridie. “There, you see, my love. They are still all right. But they have no way to send you letters.”

She nodded, her eyes still full of hope and fear at the same time.

The kettle boiled, and Nuala squeezed her bulk around the table to pour the water into the teapot.

“I see you’re not working at the fish market any longer,” I said. “Has Finbar found a better job that you’re able to stay home?”

“Himself? That lazy, good-for-nothing bag of bones?” she half spat. “He’s no job at all and drinks any money he can lay his hands on. No, it’s my boys. They are making money, doing odd jobs for certain influential people.” She didn’t mention that the influential people was really one person—Monk Eastman, leader of one of the city’s most powerful and brutal gangs. And I wasn’t going to let on that I knew.

“How very nice,” I said. “Are any of them here? I have a little job myself that needs doing, and I could use a smart boy.”

“Malachy’s out, doing something,” she said, “and James is in school. He’s the studious one. But I sent young Thomas down to bring us some oysters for our tea. The boat comes in from the marshes about this time, but you have to be quick. He should be back anytime now.”

She handed us chipped and grubby cups, and we sipped politely.

“Last time I saw you, you were in the family way,” she said.

“That’s right. I’ve now a fine boy a year old. Liam.”

“Boys.” She sniffed. “Boys only bring you grief. Would that God had given me a girl like young Bridie here. She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Is that right, Bridie? You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Cousin Nuala,” she said. “I try to be.”

“You see. Doesn’t give you a day’s grief in her life. Boys, on the other hand, are always coming home dirty and bloody and…”

As if on cue we heard steps running up the stairs, and Thomas burst in. He was about to say something but stopped when he saw us.

“So you’re back,” Nuala said. “And where are my oysters?”

“I was too late. Some man pushed in front of me and took the last, and when I said something he threatened to punch me in the nose or push me off the dock.” I could tell now that he had been crying. Tears had streaked the dirt on his cheeks.

“You’ve got to learn to stand up for yourself like your brother Malachy,” she said. “You tell him who the man was, and no doubt someone will teach him a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry. Malachy has a real protector now, and that applies to you too.”