I stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk and attempted to blend into the crowd. As I glanced back, I thought I saw a dark figure emerge from the theater and scan the crowd, looking for me. A streetcar came down Broadway, its bell clanging to warn pedestrians out of its way. As it was slowed by the human tide. I made a desperate sprint to catch it. I grabbed at the handrail just as it picked up speed again and heard the conductor shout at me as it sped off, abandoning me on Broadway.
No other streetcars were in sight. I ran back to the sidewalk and weaved through the crowd as fast as was possible. An occasional glance behind me convinced me that a man was also dodging through the crowd, keeping me within sight. One block passed, then another, still no streetcar in sight and still the sense of that presence behind me. Somehow I had to lose him. I reached Madison Square Park and stood on the corner where Broadway parts from Fifth Avenue. Ahead of me the skeleton of a new skyscraper was lit by kerosene lamps and the sound of hammering announced that construction work was still proceeding in the dark. I looked up at the skinny, oddly shaped building, and a memory resurfaced. Someone had described this very building to me. I even remembered its name—the Flatiron Building. The building on which my friend Michael Larkin worked as a foreman. I sprinted across the street, dodging a motorcar which honked imperiously, and plunged into the dark skeleton half-encased in wood scaffolding. Two men were emerging, swinging their lunch pails as they headed home. I grabbed one of them by the sleeve. “Excuse me, but would you know where I might find Michael Larkin?”
The man started at the sight of a strange female on his own territory.
“You'll be in trouble if they catch you in here, miss,” he said in an Irish accent thicker than my own. “Michael Larkin you're wanting, are you? Is it urgent?”
“Very,” I said. “If he's here, I have to speak to him. I've got important news for him.”
The larger of the two men looked around him. “I don't think he's knocked off for the night yet, has he, Denny?”
“Last time I saw him, he was up on the eighteenth floor, waiting his turn to ride down,” the other man replied. “If you wait on the street outside, he'll surely be passing this way in a while.”
“Is there no way you could go and fetch him for me?” I had no wish to wait alone in the dark for a Michael who might or might not materialize, making myself a sitting duck in the meantime.
The men laughed. “You'll not get me riding up there again in the dark, even if you paid me,” one of them said with a nod of agreement from the other. “I'm done for the day, off home to my supper and my bed.”
They moved forward, ready to drive me out of the building before them. I didn't know what to do or what to say to keep them with me. It sounded so dramatic to say that I feared I was being followed by an unknown assailant. I wished now that I had taken my chances and tried to outrun him through the crowd, or even found a policeman to help me.
Then there came a shout from above. One of the men grabbed my arm and dragged me aside. “Watch yourself,” he warned.
With the squeaking and grinding of wheels, a contraption came flying down out of the darkness and landed on the concrete beside us. It was nothing more than a flimsy wooden basket on pulleys, but four men stepped out of it, nodded to my two companions and headed away. With a great flood of relief I realized that one of them was Michael Larkin. At the same time one of my companions called out, “Here's the boy himself then. The Lothario of the scaffolds. One of your lady loves come looking for you, Michael me boy.”
Michael spun around, a shocked look on his face, stared blankly for a second, then his boyish face broke into a big smile. “Well, if it isn't Molly. What in God's name are you doing here?”
“Paying you a little visit, like you said,” I replied, conscious of the smiling men around us. “Actually I have something important I need to tell you. News that couldn't wait, from the Old Country.” I took his arm and led him away.
“It's not bad news, is it?” he asked. “You've not heard something bad from home?”
We were out in the street again. I looked around, but could not pick out my assailant in the crowd. “No, no bad news,” I said. “In fact, no news at all. I'm sorry. I had to tell a little untruth to get you on my own.”
“You? An untruth? I'm shocked.” He was laughing at me, having been told the full details of my flight from Ireland and the subterfuges needed to bring me this far. I laughed with him, feeling the tension dissolving. I tried to think how best to phrase my request.
“The truth is, Michael, that I'm being followed by an unwanted suitor. I can't seem to get rid of the man, so I wondered if you'd do me the favor…”
“And pretend I'm your beau?” He was still smiling. I knew he was years too young for me, being no more than eighteen, but for a moment I wished that this wasn't such an outlandish proposition. A steady, reliable man to protect me seemed like a rather desirable thing.
“If you possibly had time to escort me safely home?” I suggested. “Or at least see me safely onto a streetcar.”
“I'll do one better than that,” he said. “It was payday today. I'll take you out for a bite of supper if you like.”