The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

Ahead of us was the fish market, facing the piers. Not an unattractive building, with its gabled roof and cupolas to let in light, while the tower and cables of the Brooklyn Bridge soared above it, unnaturally large and out of proportion with the hovels and small ships below. I took out my handkerchief and handed it to Bridie. “Put that over your nose and mouth. I sprinkled on eau de cologne this morning.”


We negotiated the forecourt, with its barrows of fish constantly passing to and fro and crates of fish being loaded onto wagons and drays. Then we were inside, in the gloomy darkness, with the full richness of the smell of dead fish around us. Underfoot was slippery with scales and blood. I picked up my skirt and went forward cautiously. I thought I remembered where Nuala had been working before, but when I got there I couldn’t spot her.

“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?” A large man in a blood-spattered apron loomed up out of the gloom. Presumably the foreman, making sure nobody slacked off or received visitors.

“I’m looking for Nuala O’Grady. I believe she works here.”

“Used to work here,” he said. “Don’t work here no more.”

“I see. Would you happen to know where I can find her now? Her little cousin is visiting New York and wants to see her.”

He took in Bridie’s lace-trimmed dress and pink-and-white complexion. “Her cousin?” He sounded skeptical.

I was growing impatient. “Yes, her father’s cousin, actually. Could you tell me where I might find her home address?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. People move around a lot. Get kicked out of one apartment. Find another.”

“Look, it’s very important that I find her,” I said. “Did she get a job somewhere else?”

“Nah. She don’t work no more. Her boys take care of her. A lady of leisure, that’s what she is.” And he laughed.

“So you can’t actually help me?”

“Would if I could,” he said, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Well, that was a waste of time,” I said as we came out and stood breathing in the fresh breeze that came up the East River.

“Can we go home now?” Bridie asked expectantly.

“We must make an effort to find them.” I stood thinking. I remembered that they had been thrown out of their old house on Cherry Street. I knew Finbar, Nuala’s no-good husband, had lost his job as a bouncer at a tavern, on account of his drinking. But knowing Finbar, he’d still be drinking somewhere, wouldn’t he? I’d try the local taverns.

We walked up Water Street, staying away from the crazy commerce on the waterfront and stopping off at every tavern we saw. At the third one, the Irish Harp, we were rewarded. Ladies were not allowed inside but I was able to pass a message via the bouncer at the front door, and eventually someone shouted, “Finbar, get your drunk and lazy carcass out here. There’s a lady wants to speak to you.”

And Finbar emerged. Bridie shrank back and hid herself behind my skirts. Indeed he was a frightening figure—his face shrunk to a skeleton of skin and bone, eyes hollow, hair matted and unwashed, and clothes half hanging off him.

“Whatta you want?” he growled.

“Finbar, it’s Molly,” I said. “And your cousin Bridie.”

A leering smile crossed his face. “Little Bridie,” he said. “Sweet little Bridie.” And he reached out a hand to touch her. She flinched away.

A thought flashed across my mind that maybe he had tried to molest her when she lived with them. He had certainly tried it with me. Not that he’d gotten very far.

“Finbar, where are you living? Bridie’s come to see Nuala and the boys.”

“She throws me out every day,” he said, now sounding weepy. “Doesn’t want me around the house. Says I’m underfoot and a no-good bag of bones.”

“The address, Finbar,” I insisted.

“Fifty-eight James Street. Not far from the Bowery,” he managed to get out with great effort. “Top floor.”

Naturally, I thought. People like Finbar were always given the top floor, up all those stairs nobody else wanted to climb. I thanked him, and against my better judgment I put fifty cents into his hand. He beamed, wept, and bowed. “God bless you, lady. God bless you,” he called after me as we walked away.

The tenement on James Street was, if anything, worse than the one where they had first lived on Cherry. The hallway was dark, and dank, and smelled of urine and cabbage and drains. The one sink that was the water supply for the whole building was now full of filthy water. We started to climb the stairs, one flight, then the next. By the third, my ribs were aching and it hurt me to breathe. As I stopped to catch my breath, a door opened and a woman’s face poked out. Her unkempt hair stuck out at all angles, and she looked around with wild eyes. “Brendan?” she demanded. “Is that you?”

Then she saw me and scowled. “What do you want? We don’t need no do-gooders around here.“

“I’m looking for Nuala O’Grady,” I said. “I’m told she lives on the top floor.”

“What’s she done now? Those boys of hers been getting in trouble again?”

“Just a friendly visit,” I said.