I shoved the briefcase back under my bed, but I slipped the snapshot inside Riley's little black book and put that back in my purse. Ryan O'Hare was friends with Angus MacDonald. Ryan O'Hare frequented O'Connor's Saloon. And the last cryptic message in Riley's black book had read, “Saw RO with LC at O'CS.” Clearly I would have to investigate the dashing Mr. O'Hare.
I spent the afternoon at the public library, reading back issues of The New York Times. Ryan O'Hare was proving to be an interesting—and very flamboyant—man. From the snippets I read, I could gather that he had been the darling of the English stage, and of English society, too, until he blotted his copybook by writing a satirical comedy about the Queen and her beloved dead Prince Albert. He hadn't called them by their names, of course. He had made them archduke and archduchess of a fictitious Central European country, but they were still easily identifiable. I mean, when you have a Central European archduchess who insists on sleeping between plaid sheets and says, “We are not amused,” even the slowest brain among theatergoers could put two and two together. The fact that the play was hysterically funny made it even worse. Ryan had had to flee from England in a hurry and was no longer welcome there.
Since then he had made quite a name for himself in New York. His experience in England hadn't taught him to play it safe. His new plays were bitingly witty and he was learning just enough about his new country to hit hard with his satire.
Frankly I couldn't wait to meet him. I wasn't sure how I was going to accomplish that, but I did have a place to start from. I knew he frequented O'Connor's; I would just have to start frequenting the saloon for myself. I felt hot all over at the daring nature of my thought. In the eyes of society, women who went into saloons alone were no better than they should be, and asking for trouble. And yet I had sensed that somehow in the neighborhood of Greenwich Village the rules were different. I had seen respectable-looking women drinking there. I'd just have to make sure I looked like a bluestocking, so that nobody got the wrong idea about me.
There was no point in waiting. I would go to O'Connor's that very evening. However, I was in a dilemma about what to wear. If I was to turn the head of Mr. O'Hare, then presumably I should look my prettiest and most feminine. And yet if I wanted to blend in with the women who I had seen at the saloon, I should have to resemble a frump. I decided to steer a middle course between the two. Unfortunately I owned no black garment. I had no wish to own a black garment since I had had to wear black for a year following my mother's funeral. And yet those women were all dressed mannishly in somber colors. The most mannish and somber I could look would be in my new business suit—already a little the worse for wear after its encounter with a puddle—and the white shirt I had appropriated from the pile of cast-offs meant for Shameyboy. I also sneaked a tie from the same pile. I couldn't see young Seamus needing a tie for a while yet, and the shirt was far too big for him. If I left either of them lying around, no doubt Nuala would help herself to them for her own sons.
When it came to my hair, I decided that the severe bun did me no justice, and left it curling around my shoulders, tied back with a green ribbon. There was, after all, a difference between looking serious and frumpish.
I set off for O'Connor's around seven, still a little apprehensive about what might befall me there. At least the landlord knew me and I could presumably seek his protection if needed. With this reassuring thought I strode out along Fourth Street, then got lost yet again in the bewildering maze of backstreets before I came out to the broad thoroughfare of Greenwich Street and located O'Connor's. The place was still half empty and quiet. I realized that the hour might be too early for the artistic set, but I wasn't going to risk walking home across Broadway too late at night. This was merely a foray, to spy out the lay of the land.