Murphy’s Law

by Rhys Bowen

  He lunged at me again. “Steady on, Finbar.” I was almost laughing. It was almost a comical scene. He was such a thin little person that I wasn’t too afraid. “Just think what Nuala would do if she found you’d been bothering me.”

  “She wouldn’t care. She’d be glad that I’d found someone so that I stopped pestering her.”

  “You’re not going to be pestering me, either,” I said. “What’s wrong with men that they have to keep grabbing at us all the time? Get a hold on yourself, man. When I give myself to a fellow it will be my choice.”

  “You mean you’re still untouched? Nuala said—”

  “I don’t care what Nuala said.”

  All the time we were talking we were still in a fencing match, dodging around the furniture, lunging and parrying. Suddenly he spun and, with a speed I would never have expected of him, thrust me against the wall. I could feel his beer-sodden breath in my face, his bony body pressing into mine.

  “Let go of me this minute,” I said, trying to struggle free. He was amazingly strong for one so skinny. Well, I suppose he had worked for years in construction until his accident. I should have remembered that. “Finbar, take your hands off me this instant or I’ll scream the place down.”

  “Go ahead. Scream away. No one will care.”

  “Get away from me or you’ll be very sorry.” I was trying to maneuver my knee for an upward kick and cursed my stupid petticoats. Our clothing must surely have been designed by men to make sure we were hindered in matters of self-defense.

  He was trying to kiss me, trying to grope at my bosoms. I was trying to make sure he did neither. Suddenly the door burst open and Nuala stood there, her vast shape blocking the doorway like an avenging angel.

  “I knew it,” she boomed. “I knew that girl was no better than she should be. I’m away five minutes and already she’s leading my husband into temptation.”

  Finbar had dropped me like a hot iron at the sound of her voice. “I’m so sorry, my dear. I never meant any harm. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “Of course, you didn’t. She egged you on with her loose ways. I could tell it the moment I saw her.”

  “Just a minute,” I interrupted, attempting to straighten my attire. “I did nothing to encourage his advances. I was fighting him off.”

  But Nuala was obviously not listening. She strode across the room, picked up my bundle, and thrust it at me. “Out of my house this instant, you hussy. Go on, get out with you and don’t let me see you again you—you husband stealer, you home wrecker!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going!” I yelled back. “I wouldn’t stay in this hovel another second if you paid me. It’s a wonder I haven’t already caught the plague from this pigsty of a place. You should be locked up for trying to raise children in this filth. And I don’t wonder your husband turns to other women for solace, either, when he’s stuck with a bullying dragon like you for a wife!”

  I grabbed my bundle and dodged as she swung a broomstick at me. “And that’s about the only time that broom will be used in the next ten years!” I shouted up the stairs.

  It was only as I opened the front door and was met by an icy blast of wind that I fully realized what had just happened. I was alone, in New York, at night, with no money and nowhere to go.

  I thought of hanging around, waiting for Seamus to return from his work. At least maybe he could lend me enough money to find a room and something to eat. But my pride wouldn’t let me. That was close to begging and Molly Murphy would never sink to that. I struck out into the darkness. There was a market in full swing on Hester Street—a Jewish market by the look of things. I lingered by the baked potato stand, enjoying the warmth of the brazier until the stall owner demanded, “Veil—you goin’ to buy something or not?”

  I moved among the crowd. The combined warmth of other people made it somehow less lonely. I had no idea where I was going next. Before long the market would end, the people would all go home, and I’d have to find somewhere to spend the night. The plush parlor at the brothel somehow didn’t seem like such a bad proposition, after all. I made my way to the Bowery and visited each of the eating and drinking establishments in turn, asking if they needed any extra help in the kitchens. Nobody did. One of them made a suggestion that was not unlike Madame Angelique’s. I moved on. Was there no employment in this town except for fish gutting and prostitution? If I could survive the night, I’d have to swallow my pride and go to the fish market in the morning, although probably that job was closed to me also, if Nuala was there to spread her poison.

  I walked until I couldn’t walk any more. One by one the gas lamps in the stores were extinguished. The last customers hurried home, wrapping scarves around their faces against the cold wind. The well heeled among them climbed into cabs and clattered away to unknown warm living rooms and roaring fires. At last I was the only person on the street. I tried a couple of churches, in the hope that they remained open all night, but they were firmly locked. I thought back to Ellis Island and it hovered in my memory as a haven of warmth and security. I was just trying a last church, for good luck, when I heard a voice behind me.

  “It’s no good trying to get in there, miss. They have to lock churches at night in a godforsaken city like this. You’d better come with me.” It was a policeman, a chubby, middle-aged man with a round, innocent Irish face.

  “I didn’t mean any harm,” I said as he took my arm and started to lead me away. “I wasn’t trying to steal anything. I was just trying to find a place out of the wind.”

  “Just arrived, have you?”

  “Yes, a couple of days ago. I thought I had somewhere to stay, but I wasn’t wanted there.”

  We turned the corner and I recognized where he was taking me. “Not the Tombs,” I exclaimed. “Look, I haven’t done anything. Captain Sullivan himself made sure I wasn’t sent to the Tombs.”

  “Captain Sullivan?” he looked interested. “What’s this about Captain Sullivan?”

  “He questioned me about that murder on Ellis Island,” I said. “But now he knows I had nothing to do with it, I’m sure. Ask him. He can tell you about me.”

  “Hold your horses, young woman,” the policeman said, gripping my arm more firmly. “Nobody said anything about the Tombs and I’m sure I don’t think you’re New York’s most wanted criminal. ‘Tis the shelter next door where I’m taking you. The police shelter. You can spend the night there, if you’ve nowhere else to go. Stay out on the streets and you’ll freeze, if you don’t get your throat cut first.”

  We crossed the street and went down a flight of steps next to the jail entrance. There was an unwholesome smell of stale breath and unwashed bodies and the murmur of voices.

  “Another one for ya, me darlin’,” the policeman called and a large woman in a nurse’s uniform and apron motioned for me to follow her. Well, it wasn’t much better than a jail cell. There was a row of iron bunk beds, rather like the dormitory at Ellis Island, and a rough blanket on each. Heaven knows who had slept on it before me and what lurked in that mattress, but it was better than freezing. I lay down on the bed indicated by the fierce looking matron. The blanket did little to ward off the cold; I tried wrapping my shawl around me.

  I jumped as I felt a tap on my shoulder. A woman who looked as if she had been one of the witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth was grinning at me—wild, unkempt hair, several missing teeth. “Here,” she growled in a hoarse voice and thrust an old newspaper at me. “Go on,” she insisted as I shrank away. “Take it. I’ve got enough. Wrap it around you under the blanket. It’ll help keep the cold away.”

  “Oh . . . , thank you,” I stammered.

  “And if you’ve anything worth stealing in that bundle, I’d use it as a pillow if I were you,” she muttered. “There’s too many is light-fingered around here. They’d rob their old blind grandmother for two cents.”

  I nodded my thanks, made a pillow of my belongings, and wrapped my feet and legs in the newspaper. Then I fell into a grateful sle
ep.

  We were awakened by the matron at first light. There was a big pot of porridge on the table and mugs of hot coffee. I ate and drank as much as I could, then got ready to go out into the city. I decided to take the newspapers with me. I didn’t know if they might come in useful again. As I straightened them out a headline caught my eye: MAYOR PAYS VISIT TO NEWLY BUILT ELLIS ISLAND. PARTY OF DIGNITARIES GET ISLAND TOUR. NEWLY ARRIVED IMMIGRANTS GET SURPRISE CONCERT. “His Honor, Mr. Van Wyck, mayor of New York, accompanied by aldermen and dignitaries of the city, made his first official visit to the newly opened Ellis Island facility. . . .”

  I sat on my bunk, staring at the article. How could I have been so shortsighted? The immigrants and officials were not the only people on Ellis Island while I was there. The mayor’s party had been there, too. Of course, they had paid an afternoon visit and then departed, so I had not thought to include them before. But what if one of them had spotted O’Malley sitting on a bench down below? What if one of them had something to hide and knew that O’Malley was a dangerous man who must not be allowed to enter New York City? I felt excitement surge through me. The paper was the New York Herald and the article had a byline. Reported by your correspondent, Jamie McPherson.

  I got directions to the newspaper office and set off with a new spring in my step. I felt sure I was onto something that would finally make Daniel Sullivan sit up and take notice. Something that might free Michael. I asked the matron if I could leave my bundle with her for an hour or so and she reluctantly agreed. The many blocks of Broadway seemed to flash by without effort. I got to Herald Square without incident and had to wait around until the newspaper staff arrived for the day shift. I had to convince the young man at the front desk that I was there on police business before I was sent up the stairs to a big room full of clattering typewriting machines. Jamie McPherson was a young Scot with an accent so broad I wondered how he ever managed to ask questions that New Yorkers could understand.

  “Ach yes, I was there with the mayor and his party,” he said. “What did you want to know?”

  “The names of that party,” I said.

  “I didnae bother with them all, but I’ve got the most important ones written down here somewhere.” He fished in a desk drawer for a notebook. “Let me see. Ah—here we are. Beside the mayor, there were two aldermen, McCormack and Dailey, and they had several Tammany men with them, too—you could get all the names from Tammany Hall if you wanted.” He looked up, puzzled. “What was this about again?”

  I couldn’t let him know the truth. He was a newspaperman, after all, and this would be headline news. “I can’t tell you at the moment,” I said, “but if it works out the way I think it will, it could be big news and I promise I’ll give you the scoop.”

  “Sounds suitably mysterious,” he said with a grin. “You could get the names of the complete party from the mayor’s office, I’m sure. I’d say it was a good representation of who’s who in the city. Or a who’s who at Tammany Hall, which amounts to the same thing.”

  “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure what to ask next. He was a young reporter who obviously thought that covering the mayor’s visit was a boring assignment. I wished I could come up with a tidbit of information that would pique his interest, but lack of food and sleep had dulled my wits, and the terrible clatter of those typewriting machines made it impossible to think, anyway. How they managed to write stories in that room, I’ll never know.

  “So how did they get to the island?” I asked. “Did they come on a ferry?”

  “Ach no. They traveled over in the government launch.”

  The government launch! If I’d only known I could have questioned the bad-tempered old captain. Now I’d have to seek him sut again. “So you must have crossed with them.”

  “That’s right. There were several of us pressmen.”

  “I suppose you couldn’t tell if the whole party came back on the government launch. Nobody stayed behind, did they?”

  “I didnae count them. It was so damnty cold, I was just waiting to get back to the city. They were all crowded into the cabin, swilling whisky, and they didnae offer any to us poor lads, either. We were left to freeze on the deck.”

  “Someone was taking photographs,” I said. “They took a picture of my little girl with the mayor.”

  “Ach, so that’s what’s behind all this.” He looked up with a knowing smile. “You want a copy of the photo of your wee bairn with the mayor!”

  I smiled coyly and didn’t deny it. It made an excellent excuse. I wish I’d thought of it first.

  “Do you know who the photographers were? Were they with your newspaper, too?”

  “Ach nae. They’re all freelancers. They show up at events like this, hoping to sell their pictures to the weekly pictorials, or maybe to the mayor himself—he’s vain enough to want to stick pictures of himself all over the walls.”

  “Would you happen to know the names of these photographers, and where I might find them?”

  He shrugged and glanced down at his typewriting machine, wanting to get back to work. “I’m trying to remember who was there that day. I didnae pay particular attention. I know Simon Levy was one of them. Has a studio on the Lower East Side, in the Jewish quarter.”

  “That was the one who took the picture of Bridie,” I said. ‘An old man with a beard. Thank you. I’ll go and look for him then. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Good luck ta yae.” He gave me a half wave and the typewriting machine was clattering again the moment I turned my back.

  Seventeen

  The long trek back to the Lower East Side seemed to take forever. I had lost that initial burst of energy that drove me up Broadway with wings on my feet. As I walked back I noticed the big stores with elegantly decorated windows full of mannequins and flowers. One day, I told myself, I’d be that lady who climbed out of her carriage and went to shop there. Although on a fish gutter’s pay, it was going to take quite a while.

  The thought of fish gutting brought me up with a jolt. Poor little Bridie—what had they told her when I hadn’t come home last night? I hated the thought of leaving the children in that place, with that terrible aunt, but, being homeless and penniless, there wasn’t much I could do about it at the moment. Besides, I reminded myself, they weren’t my children. I had delivered them to their father, which was what I had promised to do. All the same, the picture of those little faces haunted me all the way down Broadway. One day, I told myself again. Whatever happened I wasn’t going to forget them.

  My feet were dragging and the sole of my left boot was starting to flap as I came into the now familiar Lower East Side neighborhoods. The market on Hester Street was in full swing again. I looked longingly at the braided breads, the big pots of soup, the stall where a man was frying what looked like little pancakes. How was I going to get money to buy food for myself? How was I going to find a job if I spent my days chasing after photographers? I should go to Daniel Sullivan and let him follow up on my lead. That’s what I should do. Then I could get on with my life.

  But what if he didn’t bother to follow up? My greatest fear was that I’d show up at his office one day only to find that Michael had been shipped off to Ireland. Of course, it was also possible that I could find myself dragged back and shipped home with him, if overzealous feds took over the case.

  I stopped to ask a couple of street merchants if they knew Simon Levy. They did, and told me where I’d find his studio. I found it without difficulty, but it was shut with the blinds down. Out on Assignment. Back Later, the sign on the door said, in English and a couple of other languages I couldn’t read. At least I knew where it was.

  Hunger was becoming a problem again. It was lunchtime and the effects of this morning’s porridge were wearing off. This is stupid, I thought. I’ll be no use to Michael or myself if I die of hunger. I must find a job today. Which meant I should hand over my information to Daniel Sullivan and let him to his work. It made more sense, didn’t it? He could go to the mayor’s
office and ask for an official list of everyone present that day. He could ask to see photos and nobody could deny him.

  Reluctantly I made my way back to the police station. Captain Sullivan was out on a case, I was told, but I could leave him a note. I took the paper and pen offered and scribbled my hunch about the mayor’s party and the name of the photographer who might have taken a group shot. I left it on Daniel’s desk, lingered as long as I dared, then went down the stairs feeling dejected. I was unprepared for the disappointment I felt at not seeing him again.

  As I passed city hall, I paused at the great hole in the ground they were digging to put in an underground train system. Steam and dust were belching out and it looked like the very gateway to hell itself. I stood there, warming my hands at a steam vent, until I found that the steam was also making me wet. As I went to move on, a whistle sounded. Men started to emerge from the depths, wiping the dust and grime from sweat-covered faces. I started to walk away, then heard a voice yelling, “Molly! Molly, wait!”

  Seamus O’Connor clambered out of the diggings and ran to catch up with me. “Molly, I’ve been worried out of my mind about you,” he said. “I got home to find you gone and Nuala wouldn’t say where you were.”

  “That’s because she drove me out with the broomstick,” I said.

  “She was ranting on about catching you with Finbar.”

  “She caught me fighting off Finbar, if you want the truth. I did nothing to encourage him. Believe me, when I want to encourage a man, he won’t be a poor, sorry specimen like Finbar.” And a picture of Daniel Sullivan flashed, unbidden, into my head.

  Seamus touched my arm. “I’m so sorry, Molly. After all that you did for us, too. Please come back. I’ll make it all right with Nuala, I promise.”

  “Oh no thank you, Seamus. Not in a million years would I set foot inside that place again.”

  “But the children—they need you.”

  “I know. I feel bad about walking out on Bridie, but they’ve got to get used to living without me,” I said. “I’m not a relative, Seamus.”