Oh Danny Boy

by Rhys Bowen

  “I’m impressed, Ryan.”

  “And between you and me, I’ve heard that the play is so dreadful, it won’t even run a week. It probably won’t even make it through the tryouts in Philadelphia.” He gave a wicked smile. “And I’ve also met a fascinating new friend.”

  “Also a Buddhist?”

  “No. He’s a doctor. A European doctor. Very erudite.”

  “Doesn’t sound at all your type.”

  “You underestimate me, Molly. I can be intellectual if I wish. I have been learning all about the workings of the human brain. Do you know how many circuits there are operating within the brain?”

  “No, how many?”

  He frowned, then gave that delightful smile. “I’ve forgotten. A lot. Anyway, the whole thing is too, too fascinating.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I said, “but I must get going. So please, not a word to Sid and Gus unless I don’t show up tonight, promise?”

  Ryan shook his head. “You need to be taken under the wing of some strong and respectable male and settle down to have babies and darn socks.”

  “I’ll let you know if one presents himself,” I said, and hurried away before the conversation became too hard to handle.

  I caught the trolley down Broadway to Fulton, then followed that street until the pungent odor of fish announced that I was approaching the fish market and the East River. Last time I had visited Nuala’s family, they had lived on the waterfront, in a run-down tenement between sail-making shops and ships’ chandlers. There was no guarantee that they were still there, of course. Nuala’s husband, Finbar, was better at drinking the profits than earning money at the saloon where he worked, and last time I had heard Nuala had lost her job gutting fish at the market. With income this precarious and three rambunctious boys, they had had to do a bunk in a hurry from several landlords before now.

  However, this time it seemed I was in luck.

  “Well, would you look what the cat’s dropped on the doorstep.” Nuala eyed me, hands on her broad hips. “And what could Miss High and Mighty possibly be wantin’ with poor folks like us?”

  “Sorry to disturb your afternoon sleep, Nuala,” I said, as she looked bleary eyed and disheveled, “but I had to come—”

  Suddenly her expression changed. “Sweet Mary and Jesus, it’s not bad news, is it? You haven’t come to tell me that the little one’s gone to meet to her maker?”

  “The last time I heard, Bridie was well on the mend, and they’re all enjoying the fresh air and country living.”

  “Of course they are,” she said, the bitter sneer returning to her face. “Out there living the life of Riley, and did they think to invite their poor, starving relatives to join them? And after the way I took them in when they came here with nothing, too. That’s gratitude for you, isn’t it?”

  “They’re not in a position to invite anybody, Nuala,” I said. “Bridie’s at the camp recovering, and Seamus and son are doing odd jobs for a farmer and sleeping in his barn.”

  “Then what have you come for?” she demanded. “Showing up on my doorstep, scaring the bejaysus out of me.”

  “I wondered if I could have a word with your oldest son.”

  “Malachy? What’s he done now?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. I need his help since he knows the area around here so well. I’m willing to pay for it.”

  That made her eyes open quickly enough. “I couldn’t tell you where he is,” she said. “No good, like his father. He’s off here and there. Comes home when he feels like it, stays out when he doesn’t, and what’s more—just between you and me—he’s got himself mixed up with some gang.”

  “Dear me. How terrible for you,” I said.

  Apparently my sympathy was harder to take than my hostility. She eyed me as if I could be a dangerous animal that might bite. “So what’s happened to your fancy man?”

  “As I told you more than once, I don’t have a fancy man. I run my own detective agency, and I need Malachy’s help in a case I’m working on.”

  “Get away with you,” she said, giving a scornful chuckle. “Whoever heard of a lady detective?”

  “So you’ve no idea where I might find him at this time of day?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Like I just said, he comes and goes as he pleases. There’s no reasoning with him. He’s as tall as I am now, and he tells me I’d better not lay a finger to him if I know what’s good for me. He’s got friends who will teach me a lesson. They pay him good money, too. Sometimes he gives me some of it, or he’d be out of here on his ear.”

  “What about your other boys? Are they around?”

  “They’ll be with their brother, if they’re not swimming in the East River,” she said. “Malachy’s set on leading them into bad ways. There’s not a one of them thinks that school is a good idea. If only they’d had a proper father and not a good-for-nothing bag of bones like himself in there.” She jerked her head toward the interior of the apartment. “Sleeps his days away and spends his nights on the drink. What kind of man is that, I ask you?”

  “Not the greatest,” I said.

  “But then most of them aren’t much better, are they?” She gave me a woman-to-woman knowing wink. “They only want one thing and they’re not good for much else, as I expect you’ve also found out.”

  “Men are no different from women,” I said. “There are some good ones and some rotten ones.”

  “About time you settled down yourself,” she said. “You’re not getting any younger, and I can’t say this life is doing much for your looks. Positively peeky you’re lookin’.”

  “I’m on an undercover assignment, Nuala. I have to make myself look as drab as possible.”

  “Ah,” she said. Then she paused and added thoughtfully, “About how much money would there be in this job you’ve got for Malachy?”

  “Depends how helpful he can be to me,” I said.

  I could see her considering how worth her while it might be to do some active searching for her son. Evidently not worthwhile enough. “You can try O’Leary’s Tavern,” she said. “I’ve caught him hanging around there before now. Or ask his brothers. You’ll probably find them swimming in the river.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And if he does come home and I haven’t managed to contact him, he knows where I live.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said, and closed the door in my face, friendly as ever.

  I saw no sign of the boys on the docks, so I made for O’Leary’s Tavern. I had been there before once, when I first stumbled blindly into contact with the Eastman gang. It was on the corner of Division and Market, not far from Monk’s headquarters on Orchard Street. I was glad to get the smell of fish out of my nostrils and stopped at a candy store to buy some peppermints to ease my queasiness. Then I continued up James Street and onto Madison, keeping to the shade of the tall buildings until I reached the tavern.

  It was now midafternoon. The lunchtime rush was over. The men who had been served a plate of Irish stew for the price of a beer had now gone back to work. As I peered into the deep gloom from the bright sunlight outside, I noticed only one or two motionless figures slumped at the bar. No sign of a lively young’un. At least the scene appeared to be drowsy and not threatening. I plucked up my courage and stepped into the deep shadow of the bar.

  One of the figures was instantly awake. “No women,” he growled. “She shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Unless she’s one of Monk’s girls come to offer you her favors for free,” the other man at the counter quipped with a silly, half-drunk laugh.

  “Even I can focus well enough to know that she ain’t one of Monk’s ladies,” the first man said. “Go on, girlie. Get yourself out of here. Yer old man’s not here; and if he had his wage packet, he’s already drunk it.”

  “I only want to ask a question,” I said. “I’m looking for a boy. Young Malachy O’Connor. His family says he hangs around here a lot. Do you have an idea where I might find him?”

  “He�
��s out on a job.” The bartender’s head rose from behind the counter. He stared at me long and hard. “I’ve seen you before somewhere,” he said.

  “I imagine that most Irish faces look alike,” I said, giving him my sweet, girlish smile and not admitting that I had been asking questions in this very saloon a few months ago. “So you don’t know when Malachy O’Connor might show his face again?”

  “When he’s done with the job, I’d say,” the bartender said, and the two men at the bar grinned.

  “Could you give him a message from me when you see him?” I asked.

  “What kind of message?”

  “Tell him Molly could use his help. He knows where I live. Tell him I’ll make it worth his while if he helps me.”

  One of the men roused himself from the bar and moved in my direction. “I’d even help you myself if you make it worth my while, darlin’.” That stupid grin was still on his face, and he was blowing beery breath at me.

  “Thanks all the same, but I’ll wait for young Malachy,” I said, backing hastily out of reach. “You will tell him?”

  “I might,” the bartender said. “Of course I might very well forget unless you give me a little something to remind me.”

  It seemed the whole world was in on bribery and corruption except for Daniel.

  “And what is it she’s wanting Malachy for in the first place, I’d like to know?” The less drunk of the two men at the bar had turned around on his stool to examine me. “She looks like one of those settlement ladies to me. Likely as not she’s going to have him carted off to a reform school.”

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “I need his help to meet—certain people who operate around here. People I might not want to meet without…”

  I stopped talking as the sunlight was blotted from the doorway. Two large bruisers were coming into the saloon.

  “What’s a dame doin’ in here?” one of them asked.

  “She’s looking for young Malachy.”

  “What does she want with one of my boys?” another, higher, squeakier voice asked. The two thugs stepped aside and a third figure was silhouetted against the sunlight. I couldn’t see his face—but I recognized the shape of the shadow—round head, little derby perched on top of it a couple of sizes too small for him. As he came into the saloon I recognized the rolled-up shirtsleeves on pudgy arms, the bright red suspenders, and the open-necked shirt. A comical figure at first glance until you noticed that the bright metal on his fingers were not rings. I had wanted Malachy to escort me to Monk Eastman. Now I was meeting with Monk himself, here and now, whether I wanted to or not.

  TWELVE

  Okay, lady. What does youse want with my boy?” Monk sauntered up to me. I noticed there was no live pigeon on his shoulder today, but instead he carried a kitten cradled in the crook of his pudgy arm. The kitten was blissfully asleep. It presented a charming picture, and I had to remind myself that this was a man who routinely ended lives with a snap of his fingers.

  At least I was in a public saloon with the street a few feet away. I took a deep breath to make myself at least sound confident. “I wanted to have the chance to speak with you, Mr. Eastman. I thought that Malachy would know where to find you.”

  “Hey, I’m flattered,” he said, his beady little eyes not leaving my face for a second. “It ain’t often a young lady comes chasing after me, is it, boys?”

  All the men in the bar chuckled dutifully.

  “So what does a nice young lady like youse want with Monk?” he asked.

  I wondered if he remembered meeting me before. On that occasion his tone hadn’t been anything like as friendly; in fact I had been lucky to escape with my life, my honor, or both. No sooner had this thought passed through my head than I saw him frown momentarily.

  “I know youse,” he said. “Sullivan’s bit o’ skirt. Right?”

  “I’m Captain Sullivan’s friend, yes,” I said. “It’s because of him that I’ve come to you. He’s in bad trouble, Monk.”

  “Yeah, I heard about dat. Geeze, dat’s too bad.” He was grinning. “Don’t you just hate it when bad things happen to coppers?”

  More chuckling from the ranks.

  “I thought you and he were supposed to be working on something together,” I said. “You were supposed to be setting up a prizefight for his friend Gentleman Jack Brady.”

  “Maybe I was.”

  “And you sent a man to meet Captain Sullivan with a list of names. Well, somebody put money in that envelope of names to make it seem he was accepting a bribe. Somebody arranged it so that the commissioner of police just happened to witness this transaction.” I paused before I dared to say the next words. Even so I had trouble keeping my voice even. “So I need to know, Monk—was that on your orders? Did you arrange for Daniel to be caught? I need to know because if you didn’t, then someone else is out to get him.”

  “Me?” He put a pudgy hand to his breast. “Why it’s generally known that I love Daniel Sullivan like a brother.”

  “Cut the blarney,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “I know you and Daniel hate each other’s guts, but you were working together. I thought it would be in everyone’s interest to set up this fight and make money out of it. I sent Jack Brady to find you and now he’s disappeared.”

  “Gee, dat’s too bad,” Monk said, his face still in a relaxed grin. “But you don’t have to worry yourself about him, girlie. He’s been taken care of.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Didn’t no one ever tell you dat curiosity killed the cat?”

  “Look, Mr. Eastman—Monk. Daniel Sullivan is in big trouble. It’s not just accepting a bribe. They think he’s working for you. They’re saying he tipped off your people to a police raid where one of the officers was killed. If I don’t help him, he’s not going to get out of prison alive. So I’m asking you—I’m begging you to be straight with me. All I need to know from you is one thing—did you order the money put in that envelope? Did you tip off the commissioner as to where he’d catch Daniel? If you tell me yes, I’ll just get out of here and leave you alone because there’s nothing I can do. But at least I’ll know.”

  Monk stepped closer to me until his paunch was a few inches from my own stomach. “Listen, girlie,” he said. “Sullivan and I—we shook hands over dis prizefight deal. Monk don’t never double-cross no one once he’s shook hands.”

  “So one of your men wouldn’t have put the money in that envelope?”

  “Let’s put it this way.” He looked around the room for confirmation of what he was about to say. “If any of my guys went against my wishes, he’d be feeding fishes in the East River by now.” He flexed the hand with the brass knuckles on it.

  “So which of your men actually delivered the envelope?”

  “Bugsy did. I gave the list to him and told him where he’d meet Sullivan. And Bugsy would never double-cross me. I’d swear on dat with my life.”

  “But somehow money got in the envelope.”

  Monk shrugged. “It don’t make no sense.”

  “I’m thinking it might be the commissioner himself who was out to get Daniel,” I said. “And maybe after your gang, too.”

  This made Monk chuckle. “In dat case he’s wasting his time, ain’t he? Don’t you know that commissioners are appointed for two years, max? We’ll be around long after he’s gone.”

  “He wants to reform the police force and stamp out vice and corruption in the city,” I said.

  This made all the men in the bar laugh loudly. “Good luck to him, I say,” one of the men at the bar commented.

  Monk stopped smiling. “If he wanted to reform the police, it wouldn’t be Sullivan he went after. Everyone knows Sullivan ain’t crooked like some of dem.”

  “Do you think I could talk to your man Bugsy and find out if anyone had a chance to tamper with that envelope?”

  Monk shook his big head. “My boy Bugsy is temporarily out of town, on a visit to his sainted mother, I believe.”

 
I understood this, of course. He’d be wanted for Daniel’s trial so had conveniently vanished.

  “If you had a chance to ask him yourself, I’d be most grateful,” I said. “When he’s done visiting his sainted mother, of course.”

  Monk looked at me and burst out laughing. “I like you.” he said. He made a mock gesture with the brass knuckles in the direction of my face. “You ain’t like most dames, all tremblin’ and twittering when I talks to dem. You got spunk, girlie. Listen, I’ll get my boys to keep their ears to the ground. If I hear who might have set up Sullivan, I’ll let you know.”

  “Young Malachy knows where to find me,” I said. “I really appreciate this, Monk.”

  He lifted the sleeping kitten close to his face and rubbed it on his cheek. “Hey, everyone around here will tell you dat Monk Eastman is known for his philanthropy and his kindness to widows and orphans.”

  His men grinned, but looked away when they did so.

  “Thank you again,” I said, noticing that I had a straight shot at the door and the sunlight beyond. I didn’t wait around, but I took my chance and walked steadily toward the open door. I half expected to feel big hands grabbing my shoulders, but I made it down the steps and out into the sunlight. Then I kept on walking until I had put a block or two between me and the Eastmans. As I walked I was taken over with euphoria. How about that? I had met Monk Eastman and talked with him, person to person, and I had survived.

  I made my way home, and this time I was relieved to find a letter from Daniel waiting for me, written on what must be his attorney’s stationery as it was headed “J. P. Atkinson, 412 Wall Street, sixth floor, New York.” The writing, however, was definitely Daniel’s. So were the sentiments.

  Molly, I thought I made it perfectly clear to you that you were to keep out of any actual investigation. Jack knows enough to ask the right questions, and he’s not going to come to any harm with the gang. You are absolutely forbidden to go to the Eastmans yourself. You should remember what they are like. Monk doesn’t take kindly to people poking their noses into his business, especially not women.