When we returned to Sid and Gus’s house, I was itching to seek out the mysterious Mr. Lee, but had to mask my impatience a little longer while Sid and Gus took me up to my room, fussed around making sure that the pillows were to my liking and I had sufficient drawer space, then swept me downstairs to prepare luncheon. In truth I enjoyed eating with them, especially because the meal consisted of crusty French bread and what Sid described as her four-P meal: paté, Port Salut cheese, pears, and peaches. After Mrs. Sullivan’s stodgy and filling meals it was delightfully informal, but that business card was burning a hole in my dress pocket. Fortunately as soon as the meal was over, Sid was anxious to finish her article, so I took the opportunity to escape, making my way southward to the office on the Bowery.
The street number indicated that it would be at the bottom part of the street, where it joined Chatham Square, not at the more respectable northern end after all. So my curiosity was aroused even further. What very important man would have offices in an unsavory neighborhood south of Canal Street?
The day had now become uncomfortably hot and humid, with the threat of a thunderstorm later in the afternoon. I had no wish to walk a step further than necessary and tried to evaluate whether I’d be better off taking the trolley down Broadway and then cutting across Canal Street, or walking from my house to the Third Avenue El and not having to walk at the end of the trip. I decided on the latter and walked in the sedate quiet of Eighth Street, past Astor Place and the Cooper Union building to the nearest El station. I regretted this decision instantly as the train arrived already crammed full, and I was forced to stand between a large Italian woman who reeked of garlic and an equally large laborer who smelled as if he hadn’t taken a bath for weeks. All I could think was thank heavens the line was now electrified or we would have had smoke blowing in through the open windows to add to the mixture of unpleasantness.
I can’t tell you how glad I was to fight my way to the carriage door at Chatham Square. I came down the iron stairs into that teeming mass of humanity that is the lower Bowery. Trolley cars inched their way up the middle of the street, bells clanging impatiently to force delivery wagons, hansom cabs, and the occasional carriage out of their way. A constable stood on the corner, swinging his billy club in what he hoped was a threatening manner, as crime was rife around here.
I was already familiar with this area and unexpected memories resurfaced. I had stayed in a tenement on nearby Cherry Street when I first arrived from Ellis Island. That introduction to the city had not been the most pleasant of experiences—especially since I was accused of murder at the time and fighting for my very life. Then later I had worked undercover in a sweatshop on Canal Street. And when I was fighting to prove Daniel’s innocence after his arrest on trumped-up charges of taking bribes, I had rubbed shoulders with Monk Eastman and his gang, who ruled this part of the city. As I recalled the disturbing memories, a voice in my head warned me that it might not be wise to be entering this dangerous world again. But I pushed the images to the back of my mind, as that was all behind me now. Daniel was back safely on the police force. I had a bright future with him, and nothing to worry about at all. And if I didn’t like the sound of the assignment Mr. Lee was offering me, I simply wouldn’t take it.
Having sorted that out, I strode out with confidence. Even in daylight it was not the most desirable of streets. For one thing, the elevated railway ran along one side so that all the businesses beneath it were in perpetual shadow. Those businesses ranged from butchers and grocer shops to flophouses (advertising beds by the week—strictly no drinking allowed) to barbers with their striped poles (offering a hot shave and a haircut for ten cents). And then, of course, there were the saloons in abundance, not to mention houses of ill repute. Scantily dressed girls stood in doorways, their eyes scanning the crowd for likely customers. Their gazes passed me over as if I was invisible.