I left Ma Kelly’s unsure what to do next. Katherine and Michael had been living there until recently. Then they had left in a hurry. Had they found a better place to live—a room of their own? If Katherine was working, then it was entirely possible. But how would I ever trace them in a city this size? Paddy’s words came back to me—always start from what you know, however unimportant you think it is. What did I know? I knew that Katherine had found a job, and that Ma Kelly had suggested it might be a job suiting her refined airs and graces. A shop maybe? I knew that ladies sometimes worked in hat or dress shops, but how many of them would there be in the city? Too many for me to check out all of them.
I knew that Michael lounged around most of the day and came back at night smelling of beer. So the next step would be to find out where he did his drinking. If his step had been not too steady, then the saloon wouldn’t be far away. I’d start with the saloon on the corner and work outward.
I knew I’d be asking for trouble if I went into saloons, but I had to follow up on my only lead at this point. I’d just have to put on my most haughty expression and keep a hat pin ready. I slipped it out of my hat, held it between my fingers, and made my way to O’Leary’s Tavern on the corner of Division and Market. It was now around one thirty and the lunchtime trade was in full swing. Through the open door I could see men lined up at the bar, each with a bowl of hot food and a roll in front of him—all for the price of a beer. These free saloon lunches were most popular, especially with single workingmen. At least this looked like an honest workingman’s bar and I thought I’d be fairly safe.
I had scarcely passed in through the open door when one of the wags at the bar called out, “Careful, boys, here comes someone’s old woman, wanting to get her hands on his wage packet.”
The bartender came hastily around the bar to me. “Sorry, Miss. No women allowed.”
“I’m not intending to stay, sir,” I said. “I’m trying to locate a missing cousin of mine and I understand he might frequent this saloon. I wonder if you might have seen him.”
“Lady, I get a hundred men a day in here. Unless they get rowdy and smash up the furniture, I couldn’t tell them one from another and that’s the truth.”
“I just thought you might have noticed this young man. He lived just down the street, until a couple of weeks ago. His name was Michael Kelly—tall, dark haired, good looking, straight from Ireland, had the gift of the blarney, so they say.”
The barman shook his head, then I saw his expression change. “There was one fella used to come in here for a while. Liked to talk big. Boasted about blowing up things and escaping from under the noses of the English police.”
“That would be the one,” I said. “Any idea where I might find him now? He left his boardinghouse a few weeks ago.”
The man shook his head. “I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Some of these gentlemen are in the bar of an evening—they might know more than me.” He raised his voice. “Young lady here is looking for her cousin. Remember that young fellow name of Mike Kelly—did a lot of talking about being a Fenian and a fighter for home rule? Whatever happened to him?”
An older man in dirty overalls looked up from the roll he was eating. “Last time I saw him, he was talking to Monk.”
“Monk?” I asked.
“Monk Eastman,” the man said, lowering his voice so that the words were barely audible.
“And who’s he?” I asked.
Some of the men looked at each other. “He’s the local gang boss, Miss,” one of them said, lowering his voice and his gaze.
“You think Michael might be involved with a gang?” I looked directly at the older man. He shrugged.
“I mind my own business, miss. I don’t get mixed up with the likes of Monk Eastman. I’m just telling ya what I saw. I saw him in front of the Walla Walla, talking with Monk.”
“He better have been in Monk’s good books, because if not he’d be floating in the East River by now,” someone else chimed in.
“What is this Walla Walla?” I asked.
“It’s the nickname for the Walhalla Hall—a local social club.”
“A social club? And where would that be?”
Again I saw the men exchange glances.
“Just around the corner on Orchard Street, just off Canal, but I wouldn’t go there yourself, miss. It’s a regular gang haunt. Not a place for nice young ladies, like yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to do anything stupid,” I said. “Thank you for your time and trouble, gentlemen.”