In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

I put my empty basket down and fished for the door key. I always felt a sense of pride when I let myself into my own house, and such a dear little house too. Now I wondered how long I'd be able to keep it. There had been no money coming in for a couple of months. Seamus O'Connor, who shared the house with me, had been laid off from his Christmas job at Macy’s Department Store. It was now May and he had yet to find other employment. His two children, Shamey and Bridie, were hearty eaters and money disappeared at an alarming rate. There was no reason why I should have been feeding children who were not even related to me, except that I owed my present life in America to their mother, who was dying in Ireland, and I had grown fond of them. By now they seemed like my own family.

I let myself in and looked around with annoyance. The remains of a meal littered the kitchen table—the bread sliced crookedly and drips of jam on the oilcloth. The children had clearly come home from school and gone out again. Well, they'd better be prepared for a good tongue-lashing when they came back. I started clearing away their mess. Seamus wasn't home, it seemed. I had to admire the way the man tramped the streets every day, looking for work. The problem was that he still wasn't strong enough to do the laboring jobs available to the newly arrived Irish—and not educated for anything better.

I sighed as I put the bread back in the bin. Something would have to be done soon if I was going to come up with the money for rent and food. Maybe the O'Connors would just have to squash into one room and I'd let out the third bedroom to a lodger. But the thought of a stranger sharing our home wasn't appealing.

I could always offer my services as an artist’s model again, of course. I had to smile as I thought of Jacob’s reaction to my posing in the nude for a strange man. For all his liberalism, I didn't think he would take kindly to that. Sweet Jacob; he was the one stable thing in my life at the moment. I had so far refused to discuss marriage with him, but I was weakening. I have to confess that the thought of being cherished and protected was occasionally appealing, even to an independent woman of commerce like myself.

Thinking of Jacob made me realize that I hadn't seen him for a few days and I needed some cherishing at this moment. It wasn't one of the evenings for his labor organization, the Hebrew Trades Association, so he should be home. He could take me to our favorite cafe, where we would have borscht and red wine. In spite of the heat that radiated up from the sidewalks, I almost ran across Washington Square, then down Broadway and into Rivington Street.

As I progressed into what was called the Lower East Side, the street became clogged with pushcarts and stalls selling everything from the lyrics of Yiddish songs to pickles, buttons or live geese. A veritable orchestra of sounds echoed back from the high tenement walls—the cry of a baby, a violin from an upper window playing a plaintive Russian melody, shrill voices arguing from window to window across the street, hawkers calling out their wares. It was a scene full of life and I savored it as I hurried past.

Jacob lived at the far end of Rivington Street, close to the East River. The pungent river smell wafted toward me on the evening breeze. He had one room on the third floor of the building, but it was big and airy, half living space and half studio for his photo-graphic business. He was a wonderful photographer and could have made a fine living, had he not chosen to dedicate himself to social justice and thus shoot scenes only of squalor.

The front door of his building stood open. Two old men sat on the stoop, long white beards wagging as they gestured in earnest discussion. They frowned at me as I went past them. I was on my way to visit a young man, unchaperoned. Such things were unheard of in the old country. I grinned and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

At the top I paused to wipe the sweat from my face and to tame my flyaway hair. I could hear the sound of voices coming from in-side his door. I tapped and waited. The door was opened.

“Jacob, I'm starving and I wasn't allowed to buy anything for dinner because …, ” I started to say, when I realized I was staring at a strange young man. He wore the black garb and long curls favored by the stricter Jewish males and he was looking at me in horrified amazement.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “I came to visit Mr. Singer.”

The eyebrows rose even higher. “Mr. Singer. Not here,” he said in broken English, the straggly beard quivering as he shook his head violently.

“Oh. When will he be back?” I asked.

He didn't seem to understand this. I had no idea what he was doing in Jacob’s room, and who else was in the room with him, but clearly he wasn't going to let me in. I was about to admit defeat and go home again when boots clattered up the stairs and Jacob’s face came into view.

“Molly!” He sounded surprised, pleased, but wary. “What are you doing here?”

“Do I need an appointment to visit you these days?” I asked, my eyes teasing.

“Of course not. It’s just that”—he paused and glanced up at the black-garbed young man watching us—“It’s rather difficult at the moment.” He turned to the newcomer and spoke quickly in Yiddish. I had come to understand a few words of that language, but not spoken at any speed. The young man nodded and retreated. Jacob closed the door, leaving us standing outside.