Darkness fell. I served the food to Seamus and Bridie but I was too sick of heart to eat it myself. At last I could stand it no longer. “I’m going looking for him,” I said. “That young scallywag has no idea of time.” And I tried not to let my face betray my worry to them.
Back down Broadway on the tram, then along Canal Street. It was poorly lit after the bright lights of Broadway and the Bowery and seemed empty and deserted. No pushcarts here, no street life going on—no movement at all except for figures who slunk through the shadows and men who emerged from corner saloons. Why hadn’t I thought of changing into boy’s clothes? I had done this once and was delighted how I could pass invisibly through the city. Now I felt horribly vulnerable and was annoyed at myself. I was no better than the helpless females I so despised. I’d be reaching for my smelling salts and wearing a corset if I wasn’t careful! I pulled out my trusty hat pin and curled my fingers around it. Now ready and armed I turned onto Orchard Street.
The front door of the Walhalla Hall was still closed, but I could see some lights on inside. I hesitated, unwilling to rap on that formidable door. I walked past, trying to find a window I could peek through, but they were all too high. I crossed the street to observe it from the other side. Nothing much seemed to be going on. I continued down the street, annoyed with myself that I had not asked Shamey the name of the saloon the Eastmans were known to frequent. I really had no idea where I was going or what I was looking for. On the corner I paused and spotted the street sign. Chrystie Street! That name rang a bell. Shamey had said that was where the Eastmans had their headquarters. I was about to take the plunge and walk in that direction when I heard footsteps behind me.
I tried to remain calm and nodded a civil good evening as a man passed me. Instead of passing, however, he stopped.
“Can I help youse, lady?” he asked in a strong Bowery accent. “Dis ain’t no neighborhood for a lady like yourself to be out alone. Youse lookin’ for someone?”
He was young and skinny, a harmless looking little chap with a fresh, clean-shaven face, dressed in a smart black suit with a jaunty derby on his head.
I felt a sigh of relief escaping. “Why, thank you, sir. Actually I’m looking for a small boy. I sent him to this neighborhood before dark to run an errand for me and he hasn’t returned. He’s nine years old—Irish like me. Skinny and dark haired. You wouldn’t have seen him by any chance, would you?”
“You know I tink I did,” he replied. “A whiles ago now.”
“Oh, thank heavens. If you could show me where you last saw him . . .”
“He was talking to some guys outside the Walhalla Hall. Come on, let’s go and see if he’s still there.”
He gave me a reassuring smile. We crossed the street together and headed back to the Walhalla. The area around the hall was still deserted.
“Dey might have gone in,” my rescuer said. “Let’s go ask inside.”
He pushed open the front door. I hesitated. “Are you sure it’s all right to go in there? I mean, isn’t it a dangerous place where gangs hang out?”
He laughed. “It’s just a neighborhood social club, miss. They hold parties here—weddings and wakes, all that kinda stuff. Even church socials. And you’ll be safe enough wid me.”
I stepped inside. He closed the door behind us. We found ourselves in a large, dimly lit room with chairs around the walls and a large expanse of floor.
“Not much happenin’ tonight, is there?” he asked. “Dead as a doornail. Let’s check the back.”
He strode across that big floor, his boots making loud tapping noises on the wood floor, his white spats flashing. Beyond the hall was a long dark hallway. Light was coming from under a door at the far end. The young man sauntered ahead and confidently rapped on the door, opened it, and went in. Emboldened by his apparent lack of fear, I followed.
“Hey, Monk,” he said. “You know that dame you wanted? I got her for you.” And he shoved me inside, slamming the door shut behind us. The man standing in front of me was no thin and harmless-looking little chap this time. He was also quite young, big-boned but not very tall, with a large pudgy round face, a lot of dark hair on top of it, and a derby a couple of sizes too small for him perched on top of the hair. Where the other fellow was neatly dressed, this one was scruffy, with suspenders over rolled-up shirtsleeves and—I started in surprise as my eyes took in the shape—a live pigeon sitting on his shoulder. His appearance verged on the comical until I noticed some kind of club sticking out of his waistband. “Who’s dis dame, Kid?” he demanded, also with a strong New York accent.