Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

He opened the hood. “Danged fan belt has broken. Where am I going to find another one on a Sunday evening?”


A crowd gathered around us, the young men pretending expertise and offering suggestions. Since I knew nothing about motor cars, I couldn’t tell if they were helpful or not. At last one of them mentioned someone who owned an automobile and might have spare parts. Bert took off with him while we waited, feeling horribly conscious of being objects of curiosity. Some of the remaining young men tried a little flirting, but were driven off by Mrs. Goodwin’s frowns. At long last Bert reappeared, his face red and his shirt drenched with sweat. A lot more tinkering went on until finally the motor was cranked and mercifully it turned over.

We set off on our way again. Darkness had all but fallen, and Bert had to go at a snail’s pace through poorly lit streets. Then we saw a glow ahead of us, and against that glow the monstrous silhouettes of the giant wheel and the roller coaster. We had finally arrived at Coney Island. Bert left the car at a nearby stable, paying the groom to keep an eye on it. Mrs. Goodwin grimaced as she was helped from her seat.

“You weren’t wise to do this,” I said.

“I’ve never been known for being wise,” she answered briskly. “If I had been wise, I’d have married a bank clerk and stayed home to keep house. Unfortunately I grew up wanting excitement.”

“We really are kindred spirits,” I said, “but is there some way we can keep you out of the crowds and not have you walking too much?”

“I’ll survive,” she said. “I’m more interested in getting the job done.”

Bert took her arm and escorted us across Surf Avenue. We had to negotiate a throng of people, heading home after a day at the beach and on their way to the nearest railway station or trolley stop. We pushed past them to plunge into the heart of Coney Island. Sounds came to meet us—the competing music of hurdy-gurdies, organs, drums, screams. The night glowed with electric lights at the bigger establishments and hissing kerosene lamps at the more modest booths.

Bert Goodwin took out his watch from his breast pocket. “Dang it, we’re late because of that no-good fan belt,” he muttered and strode out ahead of us. “This way.”

I noted that he had guided us onto the Bowery itself. I had only seen it by day, when it had been lively enough. Now, at night, it was positively bewildering. Touts were shouting outside all kinds of entertainments from the wholesome to the bawdy. Music spilled from dance halls. From the fun house came the sound of mechanical laughter. I hardly had time to take it all in as Bert swept us forward.

“In here,” he said, and stopped outside the entrance to Inman’s Casino and Dance Hall.

There was a burly man guarding the entrance. He ignored Bert and tipped his derby to us.

“Are you ladies here for the dance?”

“Dance? I thought this was where the fight was going to take place,” Bella Goodwin said.

“Fight? What fight?” The man said innocently. “Oh, no. Fights are prohibited in New York State—didn’t you know that? What we’re having tonight is a nice little tea dance. But if the gentleman gets restless and decides to go exploring, he might come upon some entertainment more to his liking.”

He accompanied this last remark with a wink, and we all understood what he was saying. He wasn’t allowed to let anyone in to see a prizefight, but if they happened to discover one after they were inside, then it was all right with him.

“We’ll have three tickets for your—dance,” Bert said, and paid for us.