Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #1)

It would be a cold day in hell before I'd be asking for old Kilty, I thought grimly. After making Seamus promise that he'd look after his little sister until I came back, I kissed Bridie and told her that I'd return before it got dark. Then I made my way cautiously down those stairs and out into the chill of morning. No snow today but what had fallen yesterday had turned to sheets of ice, making walking treacherous. I was beginning to get an idea of the layout of the town by now. Luckily the city seemed to be built on a thin strip of land, with water on both sides, so that if you walked long enough in any direction, you'd come to the shoreline. That was a comforting thought when it came to getting lost.

Of course at that time I was so naive that I didn't realize there were parts of the city where a woman just didn't go alone. As I cut inland and walked through the neighborhood back streets, workers were hurrying to early-morning shifts. I saw a group of young girls, arm in arm, dancing down the street and into a square brick building. They were laughing and joking with each other--they obviously worked somewhere that didn't fill them with dread, I decided and ran to catch up with them.

"Excuse me." I tapped the nearest girl on the shoulder. They turned around in surprise. They had darker skins than mine, impressive amounts of dark hair piled high under their hats and scarves and liquid brown eyes.

"Are you going to work?"

Most of them looked at me blankly, but one nodded. "S@i. Work."

"What kind of work do you do?"

She indicated the brick building ahead of us, "Shirt--we make shirt." Then she mimed working

at a sewing machine. I had never used one, but I picked things up quickly and I might be able to bluff my way through for a while. And it would certainly beat gutting fish. "Do you think there are any jobs going? Could I come with you to meet your manager?"

She didn't quite understand this, but pointed up the stairs. I went up ahead of them. A large balding man with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a pencil stuck behind his ear was coming out of a glass cubicle at the top of the stairs. He looked at me in surprise.

"Hello," I said. "I was wondering if you needed any more workers? I'm hardworking and honest."





He was still staring at me in surprise. "You no Italiano," he said. "This Italiano place. Se non parla Italiano

...," And he spread his hands expressively. "Italiano girl work 'ere," he finished as the girls arrived at the top of the stairs and walked past me, giving me curious stares.

"You're saying you only take Italian girls?"

He nodded. "Italiano girl make shirt 'ere."

"So what do the Irish make, then?" I demanded, feeling annoyed that I wasn't even going to be given a chance.

"Trouble," he countered.

He turned his back on me and walked away down the passage. I walked around some more and tried several other factories and shops. It didn't take long to realize one thing. New York was not an American city. It was a collection of small Italian, Jewish, German, and God knows what else villages, all slapped down next to each other. And Germans only hired other Germans, Jews other Jews. So the sensible thing would be to find out what the Irish did and get them to hire me. I already knew about the fish market, but the idea was not appealing. I passed the vaudeville theater with its banner proclaiming, ""When Irish Eyes Are Smiling"--straight from their phenomenal success in the Old Country." But the theater was shut tight at this hour of the morning and I couldn't think of anything I could do there, anyway. I neither sang, danced, nor told jokes well enough to do so in public. There were saloons and eating houses around the theater, but they, too, were closed tight at

this hour. So I'd do my investigating first and look into a job there later.

I made my way, with more than one wrong turn and dead end and even a close call when a drunk lunged at me from a gutter, to the docks and the pier where we had landed from Ellis Island. I could see the island now, its redbrick towers floating improbably across the harbor, not too far from that other improbable sight, the Statue of Liberty. A group of longshoremen told me where the government launch departed from, along with some crude suggestions about how I could entertain myself and them until it arrived from the island. I told them what they could do with their suggestions, making them roar with laughter, and walked past, my nose in the air.

A little while later the launch pulled into the dock. It was almost empty, apart from a couple of young men in neat uniforms--inspectors probably. No use in asking them if they knew anything about an island guard. I waited around until the crew came ashore--a surly-looking captain and a young boy whose cheeks were red from the bitter wind.

They looked at me warily as I asked my question. were they the crew on the night the man was murdered on the island?

"What do you mean, were we the crew?" the older man almost spat at me. "We're the only damned crew they've got. I'm the master of the ship."

"Wonderful." I gave what I hoped was an impressed smile, although the ship was nothing to shout about--a small cabin behind the wheelhouse and a strip of open deck all around. "Then you might remember which of the guards you ferried across the night before. I'm asking about the guard called Boyle-- a big man, lots of whiskers. Did he ride across with you either the night before or the first boat next morning?"

"How in blazes do you think I know or care who rides across with me?" he snapped. "It's hard enough work piloting my ship past all the traffic in this harbor. I don't notice who gets on and who gets off."