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

Fourteen

I walked to the place they call Hell's Kitchen. It was a long way, but without money for any kind of fare, walking was my only option. The soles of my boots, none too new to start with, were starting to let in icy water and my toes felt bruised and numb. I'd have to find a job soon. I wouldn't get through the winter. I followed the waterfront, dodging around piles of merchandise, drays loading and unloading, and more than one improper suggestion.

It seemed to go on forever, block after endless block. I had never realized before how big a city could be. And all those tall buildings rising before me. And I could see that Michael had been right--wherever I looked, there were new skyscrapers being built--great steel frames towering into the sky like giant spiderwebs, sometimes with just the upper floors filled in, so that at first glance the masonry appeared to be hanging in midair, suspended by magic. At least it wasn't snowing, I told myself to keep my spirits up. Because, to tell you the truth, I was a little alarmed about what I might find in Hell's Kitchen. I had read Dickens. I knew all about the London of Fagin and that was what I was picturing now-- cutthroats, pickpockets, and worse. After all, Ballykillin had been a sheltered life. A few men got drunk and beat their wives on Saturday night, but apart from that it was a peaceful kind of place. If you don't count Justin Hartley, that is.

*

There had been few signs of life during the

last mile or so. Buildings had few windows on the ground level and many of those were closed tight with bars or shutters. No friendly, open storefronts as there were in the Lower East Side neighborhoods I had come from. When I finally saw an open saloon on a street corner, I plucked up my courage and went inside. It was dark and dingy, with a row of stools lined up at a high bar all along one side. It stank of stale beer and smoke, but at this hour it was, mercifully, almost empty.

"Hi, there, sweetie-pie," a man sitting at the bar called as he spotted me. "Come on in and let me buy you a drink, girlie." His words were slurred and he was eyeing me with blurry hope.

"Thank you but I'm not here to drink," I said. "I'm just asking for directions and nowhere else seems open around here." I looked around at the other men. "I'm looking for a district called Hell's Kitchen. Have you any idea how I get there?"

The men looked at each other, grinning. "Hell's Kitchen you're wanting?" the barman asked. "And what would a young lady like yourself be wanting there?"

"I'm looking for a man who is a guard on Ellis Island. His name is Boyle. I'm told he lives in Hell's Kitchen."

"And what's this Mr. Boyle to you?" a man sitting at a table in the far corner asked aggressively "Did he do you wrong, sweetie?"

"I am most certainly not your sweetie," I replied, making them all grin even harder. "And I think it's highly unlikely that I'll ever be your sweetie. I need to speak to Mr. Boyle about a crime he might have witnessed on Ellis Island."

"A crime?" Their eyes were wary now. "Are you working with the police or something?"

"Don't tell me they have female 'tecs now!" The man in the corner said, nudging his companion.

"Yes, I'm helping the police," I said, trying to sound convincing. "So if you could just give me directions, I'll be on my way."

"You're in it, doll," the man at the bar said, grinning at the bartender.

The bartender nodded. "That's right, miss. This

is the part of the city they call Hell's Kitchen. It used to be--well--wilder than it is now. Nowadays it's quite respectable, isn't it, boys?"

"Oh, sure. Very refined," the man at the table said. "Almost like being in church, isn't it, Paddy?"

They sniggered again. I wanted to get out of there in a hurry, but I had to keep on asking questions.

"So would it be too much to ask if any of you know Mr. Boyle?"

"Bully Boyle, you mean? Big man. Works as a watchman?" the barman asked. "Yes, he comes in here sometimes."

"Does he live around here?" I asked excitedly.

"Paddy would know. He's another of them damned Irish. Where does he live, Paddy?"

"Over on West Twenty-ninth, I think." "Does Mr. Boyle come in here often?" Maybe he had been there on the night of the murder, which would have definitely established his alibi.

"Not often. He just pops in from time to time," the barman said, looking at the others for confirmation. "I reckon he pretty much does the rounds."

"He does when he's flush," Paddy said. "One saloon after another, free drinks all around when he's flush."

"So--has he been flush recently?" "And why should we be telling you how much money he has?" Paddy demanded. "What's the betting she's his wife, come to check up on him?"

"Or she could be his fancy lady, wondering why he hasn't paid her a visit lately?" another of them suggested.

"Or his landlady, wondering why he hasn't paid the rent!"