Malone asked if he could attend Mass with them on Sunday, which pleased Lenka and irritated Zuzana, though Dani noted Zuzana didn’t refuse the ride or the ice cream he bought them afterward. The only other time he’d attended, Lenka and Zuzana had sat between them, and he’d gone alone after that. When they entered the sanctuary at Our Lady of Lourdes, and Lenka began positioning herself to force them together and Zuzana attempted to keep them apart, Malone put his hand on Dani’s elbow and guided her into the end of a full row with enough room for only the two of them. The aunts had to move two rows down.
Malone sat through Mass with the same expressionless concentration with which he seemed to approach everything, his eyes heavy lidded and his hands clasped in his lap, but for the first time in Dani’s life, Mass was a heady experience. Things she hadn’t particularly enjoyed before became pleasurable. Repeating the prayers and hearing his voice rumble the words. Bowing her head and seeing her skirt against his thigh. Breathing deeply and smelling the soap on his skin and the mint on his tongue.
Sitting quietly with nothing to occupy her hands had always been a challenge, but it occurred to her that it was not lack of focus or a tendency to fidget that had always beset her. It was the constant, nagging worry that she wouldn’t get it all done or, even worse, that there would be no work to do. But in the church, with the drone of Father Kovak’s homily and Malone at her side, she felt nothing but a mellow hum and a blissfully empty head. He didn’t reach for her hand or run his arm along the back of the bench, but his presence was a balm beside her.
He helped her at the morgue Monday morning but was gone for the rest of the day, returning late and leaving as soon as breakfast was over on Tuesday. He spent both days down in the Run, wearing his old boots, a work shirt, and a pair of coveralls she’d given him, along with the checkered hat that had once belonged to poor Ready Eddie.
She had more than enough to keep her occupied but waited anxiously for him to return at the end of each day.
“What are you doing down there?” she asked, sitting across from him at the kitchen table as he inhaled the plate of food she’d set in front of him.
“Listening,” he said. “It’s what you do, isn’t it?” His eyes met hers briefly. “Two detectives walk down there with their notebooks and their shiny shoes, and nobody is going to tell them anything, whether they know it or not. It’s just not worth it.”
“Why?” she asked. “Surely the men in the shantytowns want the Butcher caught most of all.”
“As a general rule, if you want to get along in a place like the Run—or sadly, any of the neighborhoods around here—you don’t go to the police. Especially if you don’t know something for certain. Nobody likes a rat. Especially of the human variety.”
“I wish I could come with you.”
“Yeah . . . that’s not going to work,” he said with a small smile.
“I can’t wear a few layers and an old hat? Dani is a boy’s name.” She was half teasing with the hope that he might shrug and give in.
“There isn’t a man in that camp that would fall for that. But if you can spare some time tomorrow, I could use you.”
“I could get away at about four. Will that work?”
He nodded. “I also . . . had another idea.” He said the words slowly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say them. “You ever heard of the Spring Gala at St. Alexis?”
“St. Alexis is right across the street, Michael,” she said. Of course she’d heard of it.
“I had Eliot get me two tickets.”
“Are you teasing me, Michael Malone?” she whispered.
“No, Dani Flanagan.” His lips softened in the barest of smiles. “Would you like to go?”
“The Rockefellers still go to the gala. It’s . . . swanky.”
“Do you think you can find something to wear?”
“I am a clothier, Michael,” she said with a haughty lift of her chin and a slight eastern European accent. “Of course I can find something to wear.”
“You are not just a clothier, you are a Kos, Daniela,” he said, mimicking the flavor of a true Bohemian, and making her laugh.
“You are better at that accent than I am, and I’ve been hearing it all my life,” she marveled.
She sat back in her chair, considering her options, and her excitement grew. “You must wear one of your silk suits. The one with the chalk stripe.”
“Shouldn’t I wear tails?”
“Tails are a step down from a suit like that. And I have just the dress.”
“Good. We might have to work a little . . . but I think we could squeeze in a dance and maybe some free champagne.”
“Do you like to dance, Michael?” she squeaked, hardly daring to hope.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “Does that surprise you?”
She tipped her head to the side, trying to imagine it.
“It doesn’t surprise me, no. You’re an actor, after all. But I’d like to see it.”
“I didn’t say I was good. I said I enjoyed it. At least I did, once.”
“With Irene?” She didn’t mean to sound jealous, but she did.
It didn’t appear to bother Malone. He even smirked at her a little. “Yeah. With Irene. And long before that. Molly taught me. She loves to dance, and I was her practice partner. My mother loved to dance too.”
“What was she like, your mother? I can’t picture her.”
He was quiet for a minute, his eyes distant. “You know . . . I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago. I was brokenhearted when she died. I remember that much.” He rose and rinsed his plate, like he’d made himself uncomfortable with his admission.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No need. Like I said . . . it was a long time ago. I learned how to . . . move on.” He set the plate in the rack beside the sink and shook off his hands.
He shifted his weight like he wanted to stay, and still he headed for the door.
“Good night, Dani,” he said, not looking back.
“Good night, Michael.”
“Flo Polillo was in a rooming house on Carnegie, and Rose Wallace rented a single on Scovill,” Malone explained to Dani the following afternoon. “They aren’t far from each other. The rooms have been rented out. I checked a while back, but the landlords might still have some of their possessions. We’ll go see what we can find.”