Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I headed toward the beach, passing the grand turrets of the Brighton Beach Hotel, sitting right beside the boardwalk. Fashionable ladies with parasols strolled the grounds beside men in straw boaters and striped blazers. It was the height of elegance and I wondered what they made of Jack Brady, lurching among them in his fighter’s training outfit. Sudden screams behind me made me turn in the other direction, just in time to see a carful of people come hurtling down from a high trestle on the roller coaster. I had once ridden that contraption with Daniel in the happy days before I knew about Arabella. The thrill of the speed, the sense of his closeness, his arm around mine, came rushing back to haunt me. I shut my eyes and marched toward the boardwalk.

It was hard to walk at any pace along the boardwalk, even though it was a wide thoroughfare. Today it was chock-a-block with people—families, mothers pushing prams, fathers with toddlers on their shoulders, old couples, sweethearts, all out for a day’s fun. I felt like a salmon, swimming upstream. And beyond the boardwalk the beach was a seething mass of humanity. The crowd spilled from the beach and into the ocean, where a sea of heads bobbed at the edge of the waves. If people did this to escape the crush of the city, I couldn’t see much point in it myself. My mind went back to the ocean at home in Ireland—deserted beaches, strands of seaweed, waves crashing, gulls circling overhead, and that salty tang that made you feel good to be alive.

I continued along the boardwalk, past one amusement after another—the giant Ferris wheel, the Flip Flap coaster that hurtled its riders in a complete loop, the waterslide with its boats rushing down a steep ramp to hit the water with a mighty splash.

Cooking smells wafted up to me.

“Get your red hots here,” a man was yelling and holding up something that looked like a sausage in a bun. The pungent smell of onions reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for a while and that disaster could strike at any moment. I stepped into one of the little shacks that were dotted along the boardwalk and downed a glass of lemonade and a cheese sandwich. Suitably fortified, I came out and resumed my quest for a casino, until suddenly I realized that I could go no farther today. I just wasn’t up to tackling the heat, the smells, and the crowds any longer. I’d come back on a working day, when I could have the place to myself.

I looked around and realized that I was near the ornate iron pier extending into the ocean. Beside it was a bathing pavilion, and squeals came from inside its walls as the bathers negotiated the waves. As I observed the structure of the pier and the pavilion, built out over the waves, I remembered that the first of the prostitutes had been found murdered at this very site. This was something else I should investigate, only not now. I’d have little luck finding prostitutes and their pimps working at this time of day. I’d have to come back at night sometime, and I was uneasy about coming out here at night and alone.

I made my way down the steps from the boardwalk, through the crowded amusement park, until I came to a busy street, stretching away to my right. It was boarded with planks and crammed full of amusement arcades, food booths, dance halls, beer halls, and God knows what kinds of vice. A sign on a post proclaimed it to be THE BOWERY, but it was not as savory as the real street with that name. My ears were assailed by the competing sounds of all kinds of music and shouting touts, luring people to their particular attraction. “Roll up, roll up. Three balls for a nickel. Have a go at Aunt Sally. Hit a coconut, win a prize. All the wonders of the Orient. Belly dancers straight from the harem of the sheik.”

I felt repelled but yet attracted at the same time. So did half the population of Manhattan by the look of it. The crowd surged down this Bowery, and I allowed myself to be swept along with them. We passed the entrance to the Streets of Cairo Pavilion, where the mysteries of the Orient would be revealed. Outside an Oriental archway, a man in a turban stood holding a real camel while a young girl, wearing precious little, gyrated to the tune of a wailing flute. A little farther and there was a fire-eater, standing outside a bunting-draped passageway. The sign proclaimed it as AMERICA’S PREMIER FREAK SHOW. The tout was a midget, dressed as a king, standing on a barrel. “Come inside, ladies and gentlemen, and see the freaks too amazing, too grotesque, even for P. T. Barnum. See the amazing snake woman. Yes, she’s half woman, half python. See the world’s smallest horse, only twenty inches high. See the horrendous human tree. Instead of limbs, he has branches; instead of skin, he has bark. And the world-famous mule boy. He was born with the face of a mule and the body of a human!”