All that he had done before he had done for reasons he could never quite explain, not even to himself. How could he go soft now, when the cause he served was the safety of his own family? No, Cronin had to remind himself that he was still that man, despite all of Alice’s talk about him being a changed man. Only the old Cronin could stand guard on the walls that protected the life that he and Alice had built. Isn’t that why Gavigan had come for him—because he could do things that other men could not?
Soon Francis Dempsey’s moment would come. He had eluded his pursuers in Ireland and for a few days given them the slip in New York, but he had not counted on a man like Cronin coming for him. Dempsey was either brash or stupid or simply naive enough to think that no one would catch up to him, or that going to another country meant leaving his crimes and enemies behind him. Cronin knew better, and the next time he had Dempsey in his sights he would not hesitate. He would follow Dempsey until he came to a rest and then he would swoop down on him like an owl taking a mouse. He would give Gavigan his prize, he would once again wash his hands of all of this, and then he would go home.
PEGGY ASKED HIM where he was staying and he said, “The Plaza,” like it was the obvious answer and she said, “You are not,” and he said, “Why don’t you see for yourself?” and she hesitated for only a second—she was getting married in six days—and then she said, “I’m calling your bluff, Mr. Dempsey”—she was getting married in six days!—and they were down the stairs and out the door of the Savoy and there was a cab waiting for them, just like they’d called ahead for it. It was eighty blocks to the Plaza but the ride slid by in no time at all. They talked about the music and the dancers, they looked out the window and joked about the couples they saw pressed into each other and the men slumped against walls, and they laughed at anyone who raised an arm to hail their cab. Sorry, buddy, they’d say. Next time, Mac. Francis practiced his American accent and Peggy laughed so hard her sides hurt. She gave him words and whole phrases that he would mangle with a slow drawl he had learned from watching Gable and Cagney and Astaire and Errol Flynn. She tried out her brogue and it was his turn to laugh.
Before they knew it they were passing the Metropolitan Museum and then the cab was coming to a stop in front of the broad steps of the hotel. He paid the cabbie, he held the door for her, and when the porter tipped his cap to Francis, he remembered—Angus, I’m Angus in here—and he gave the man a bob of the head and he and Peggy crossed the lobby, lights ablaze but otherwise empty, hushed for a moment by the after-midnight grandeur of a Sunday that had turned into Monday. Peggy kept expecting him to turn back and she almost laughed again when she heard him use an even funnier accent at the front desk, but the man behind it only nodded and handed over a room key with some degree of ceremony, and then they were on the elevator and in the hallway and then the key was in the lock and they were inside, alone together.
Six days. She was getting married in six days. And yet here she was, in the Plaza, long after midnight with a man she hardly knew. She’d been sparring with her parents for months about seating charts and centerpieces and wedding showers and the stupid World’s Fair. Tim had been at the DA’s office all weekend—he was always at the office—and she had begun to wonder if this was the life she was walking into. They weren’t yet married—six days!—and already Tim had stopped courting her, wooing her. He wasn’t treating her like his sweetheart anymore. He was treating her like a wife. And it wasn’t that she wanted him around all the time (who could stand that?), but every now and then she wanted a night out, a bouquet of roses, a velvet-skinned box with a jeweler’s name stamped in gold letters. There hadn’t been any of that since they’d announced their engagement, and she was beginning to feel like she was little more than the porcelain bride standing on top of the cake. She had a place to be and a role to play, but no one expected her to talk, to move, to ask, to want.
When Francis closed the door, she turned into the darkness of the room, which wasn’t just a room, but a whole suite, with a big window that looked out on the park, and at this time of night the park was an inky lake surrounded on all sides by city, or else every window and streetlight was a star and the park was a hole in the night sky, and you only had to reach out your hand and you could touch that void and disappear into it. Life as she knew it had become stretched and thin and she had slipped through some tear in the fabric and found herself here with him. Francis had a big grin on his face. She had called his bluff and he had shown her four aces, a full house, a flush—that was it. Francis held a royal flush and she didn’t want to say another word in her own voice or in a funny accent or in any language at all. She walked slowly toward him and when they were face to face she put her arms around his neck and his hands went to her hips and she drew his mouth to hers.
MIDTOWN