“There are plenty of other jobs you could do. It's a big city.”
“I've tried some of them. I don't want to work in a factory. I don't want to be a servant. I'm not very good at taking orders and being humble, I'm afraid.”
“So what put this stupid idea in your head?”
“When I left Ireland, there were all these people who
wanted to know what had become of their loved ones. A woman gave me a letter, in case I should meet her boy. I thought I could trace some of those lost loved ones for them.”
“And if they didn't want to be traced?”
“It would be up to them if they got in touch again.”
“Never make any money doing that,” he said.
“Oh, so you do think I could make money doing other kinds of detective work?”
“I didn't say that. Women are bad news. They talk too much. They can't keep secrets and they let their hearts rule their heads.”
“So did you, just now,” I said. “You demonstrated your skill to me, instead of throwing me out. So you must have a soft spot in that hard heart of yours.”
“Irish blarney,” he said, but he didn't look too upset.
I got up and picked up the box and newspapers, depositing them in the can in the corner. “I could make this place look really nice for you,” I said. “I've kept house all my life. I could handle your appointments so that you wouldn't miss any clients when you were out on a job. And you could teach me what you know.”
“I knew I should never have let you in through this door,” he said.
“I'll make you a proposition.” I perched on the packing case opposite him again. “Give me a week's trial. You don't have to pay me. If you are not satisfied with me at the end of a week, you show me the door. I'll go and never trouble you again.”
“You are a persistent young woman,” he said. “What did you say your name was?”
It was dark by the time I left Paddy Riley's place. As I crossed from west to east on Eighth Street, I began to appredate the advantages of being dressed as a male. A woman out alone in the dark is constantly on guard, ready for drunken men staggering out of saloons, ribald comments from layabouts on street corners, or worse. Nobody paid any attention to a barefoot lad coming home from his day's labor. I remembered what Riley had told me and tried to think like a boy. I shoved my hands into my pockets, swaggered a little and even attempted to whistle.
By the time I was close to home my feet were really aching again and those cobblestones dug into every soft spot on my soles. I'd have to practice going barefoot more often, somehow, and thus toughen up my feet again if I wanted to make use of this disguise. I had just trodden in an unexpected pile of horse droppings when I looked up to see Daniel Sullivan coming toward me. He must have been to my house again. I was in no mood to confront him. I ignored the warm horse manure that clung to my feet, resumed the swagger and the whistle and walked toward him. He passed me within a couple of feet and didn't look at me twice. I didn't look back until I reached my front stoop. Then I stopped to clean off my feet, as best I could, on the scraper. My heart was still racing as I ran up the steps. If I could fool Daniel, then I had the feeling that I might be pretty good at this one day!
It was only when I had washed the grime from my person and stood at the open window in my camisole, letting the cool night air caress my bare arms and neck, that the negative aspect of my encounter with Daniel struck me. There would be no more visits to look forward to, no more Sunday strolls in the park, no more times when he took me in his arms and set me on fire with his kisses. I was going to have to throw myself into my work so intensely that I had no time to think or to feel.
Seven
The first week came and went and there was no mention of terminating my services; in fact, Paddy even agreed to pay me a very modest amount. But as the days went by I was no closer to finding out how a private investigator actually worked. I understood that most of his business came from divorce cases and involved standing around for long hours, watching and waiting to witness assignations with “the other woman.” If he was lucky, he'd capture the two of them together on camera. He owned one of those new Kodak Brownies—neat little contraptions, no bigger than a cigar box, that could take pictures without ever having to go under a hood. I couldn't vouch for the quality of the pictures. He kept them well away from me, as he did all the details of his cases. I didn't ask questions and bided my time. The trick would be to make myself indispensable first.