Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“No, how many?”


He frowned, then gave that delightful smile. “I’ve forgotten. A lot. Anyway, the whole thing is too, too fascinating.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said, “but I must get going. So please, not a word to Sid and Gus unless I don’t show up tonight, promise?”

Ryan shook his head. “You need to be taken under the wing of some strong and respectable male and settle down to have babies and darn socks.”

“I’ll let you know if one presents himself,” I said, and hurried away before the conversation became too hard to handle.

I caught the trolley down Broadway to Fulton, then followed that street until the pungent odor of fish announced that I was approaching the fish market and the East River. Last time I had visited Nuala’s family, they had lived on the waterfront, in a run-down tenement between sail-making shops and ships’ chandlers. There was no guarantee that they were still there, of course. Nuala’s husband, Finbar, was better at drinking the profits than earning money at the saloon where he worked, and last time I had heard Nuala had lost her job gutting fish at the market. With income this precarious and three rambunctious boys, they had had to do a bunk in a hurry from several landlords before now.

However, this time it seemed I was in luck.

“Well, would you look what the cat’s dropped on the doorstep.” Nuala eyed me, hands on her broad hips. “And what could Miss High and Mighty possibly be wantin’ with poor folks like us?”

“Sorry to disturb your afternoon sleep, Nuala,” I said, as she looked bleary eyed and disheveled, “but I had to come—”

Suddenly her expression changed. “Sweet Mary and Jesus, it’s not bad news, is it? You haven’t come to tell me that the little one’s gone to meet to her maker?”

“The last time I heard, Bridie was well on the mend, and they’re all enjoying the fresh air and country living.”

“Of course they are,” she said, the bitter sneer returning to her face. “Out there living the life of Riley, and did they think to invite their poor, starving relatives to join them? And after the way I took them in when they came here with nothing, too. That’s gratitude for you, isn’t it?”

“They’re not in a position to invite anybody, Nuala,” I said. “Bridie’s at the camp recovering, and Seamus and son are doing odd jobs for a farmer and sleeping in his barn.”

“Then what have you come for?” she demanded. “Showing up on my doorstep, scaring the bejaysus out of me.”

“I wondered if I could have a word with your oldest son.”

“Malachy? What’s he done now?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. I need his help since he knows the area around here so well. I’m willing to pay for it.”

That made her eyes open quickly enough. “I couldn’t tell you where he is,” she said. “No good, like his father. He’s off here and there. Comes home when he feels like it, stays out when he doesn’t, and what’s more—just between you and me—he’s got himself mixed up with some gang.”

“Dear me. How terrible for you,” I said.

Apparently my sympathy was harder to take than my hostility. She eyed me as if I could be a dangerous animal that might bite. “So what’s happened to your fancy man?”

“As I told you more than once, I don’t have a fancy man. I run my own detective agency, and I need Malachy’s help in a case I’m working on.”

“Get away with you,” she said, giving a scornful chuckle. “Whoever heard of a lady detective?”

“So you’ve no idea where I might find him at this time of day?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Like I just said, he comes and goes as he pleases. There’s no reasoning with him. He’s as tall as I am now, and he tells me I’d better not lay a finger to him if I know what’s good for me. He’s got friends who will teach me a lesson. They pay him good money, too. Sometimes he gives me some of it, or he’d be out of here on his ear.”

“What about your other boys? Are they around?”

“They’ll be with their brother, if they’re not swimming in the East River,” she said. “Malachy’s set on leading them into bad ways. There’s not a one of them thinks that school is a good idea. If only they’d had a proper father and not a good-for-nothing bag of bones like himself in there.” She jerked her head toward the interior of the apartment. “Sleeps his days away and spends his nights on the drink. What kind of man is that, I ask you?”

“Not the greatest,” I said.

“But then most of them aren’t much better, are they?” She gave me a woman-to-woman knowing wink. “They only want one thing and they’re not good for much else, as I expect you’ve also found out.”

“Men are no different from women,” I said. “There are some good ones and some rotten ones.”