“But you're also hurt, Molly.” Gus examined my face.
“I'm black and blue all over,” I said. “That was when they dragged us down the steps and flung us into a van.”
“Is your life always going to be like this?” Sid demanded. “Because if it is, I don't see you making thirty.”
I took a welcome sip of tea. Sid had placed a dish of fresh rolls in front of me and there was apricot jam. It was like waking up from a nightmare. “I'm going to try and be sensible from now on. I'll only take uncomplicated, non-criminal cases.”
“But you're still going to be a detective?”
“A sensible one. I'll start looking for lost relatives, as I'd planned.”
“That sounds much safer,” Gus agreed.
“Even so, I'd better start looking for a place of my own.” I looked from one friendly face to the other. “I feel so bad that I've put you through all this when you were so kind to me.”
Sid put her hands on my shoulders. “My dear stupid girl,” she said, “how many time do we have to tell you that we loved the excitement? It has woken us out of our rut. Now I'm back to writing scathing articles on unjust treatment of women and Gus is painting a major canvas on the theme of violence. We insist that you stick around.”
I smiled at them. “If you really insist—then I'd love to.”
The next day Ryan arrived back in New York and showed up on our doorstep demanding Turkish coffee and sympathy. “I have returned from the black hole of Buffalo and need tender loving care,” he said, sinking dramatically into a wicker chair.
“Poor dear Ryan. It must have been awful,” Gus said, putting a cup of coffee in front of him. “Were they horrid to you?”
“My dear, I was tortured,” he said, raising his arms in a martyrlike pose.
“What did they do to you, the swine?” Sid demanded. “For one thing, they made me drink out of a tin mug,”
Ryan said, “and they refused my request for China tea instead of coffee. You have no idea how uncivilized the country becomes the moment one steps out of New York City. I hereby swear that I'll never leave it again.”
“When did they let you go?” I asked. “Were you kept in that cell all night?”
“All night and most of the next day too. My dears, I felt like the Prisoner of Chillon. I could actually feel my hair turning gray, though not with years. Then finally a bright young lawyer turned up and managed to persuade them that I would be the last person who wanted the President dead on the very night my play was to have its triumphal opening. So, with great reluctance and many veiled threats, they let me go.”
“And the play?” Sid asked. “What will happen to your play?”
Another gesture of great drama. “Let us just pray that McKinley recovers and we can open at the Daley as planned. But in the meantime, think of all the delicious publicity, my dears. I have already agreed to give interviews to the daily paper—’My Brush with the President's Would-Be Assassin,’ by Ryan O'Hare, brilliant and witty writer of the new play Friends and Neighbors. I'll be able to dine on this for a month of Sundays.”
They were all laughing. I smiled uneasily. They seemed to have forgotten that at the center of Ryan's amusing tale lay a gravely wounded President. I realized at that moment that Greenwich Village was a small world apart. Life was a huge joke. Cynicism was their creed. And yet Sid and Gus could not have been kinder to me. I didn't quite know what to make of it.
Ryan was true to his word and his story of “My brush with the President's would-be assassin, and my role in apprehending him, by brilliant young playwright, etc.” made the front pages of all the New York dailies. These articles garnered him more publicity than the out-of-town opening of his play would have done.
And later in the week, Shamey showed up at my door with a letter for me. “A real coachman and a carriage and all came looking for you, Molly.”
I glanced at the envelope. It was from Miss Van Woekem. “I understand you were party to the infamous event. I am dying to hear all about it. Please come to lunch.”
Now that several days had passed and the President still clung to life, the mood was changing. The assassination attempt had moved from a thing of horror to a major source of fascination and discussion for most New Yorkers.
“I'll write a reply and you can take it to the lady,” I said, ruffling his hair, which was definitely in need of a wash and trim. I felt a sudden pang of guilt. “How are you, boy? How are your father and sister?”
“Not doing too good,” he said.
“Your father is worse?”
He shook his head. “He's okay. He's walking around, almost as good as before, and he said I wasn't to bother you with our problems.”
“Of course you're to bother me. Just tell me what's wrong.”
Shameyboy made a face. “The old dragon is throwing us out.”
“Mrs. O'Hallaran?”