Molly Murphy 01 - Murphy's law by Rhys Bowen

Author:Rhys Bowen [Rhys, Bowen,]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

I walked to the place they call Hell's Kitchen. It was a long way, but without money for any kind of fare, walking was my only option. The soles of my boots, none too new to start with, were starting to let in icy water and my toes felt bruised and numb. I'd have to find a job soon. I wouldn't get through the winter. I followed the waterfront, dodging around piles of merchandise, drays loading and unloading, and more than one improper suggestion.

It seemed to go on forever, block after endless block. I had never realized before how big a city could be. And all those tall buildings rising before me. And I could see that Michael had been right--wherever I looked, there were new skyscrapers being built--great steel frames towering into the sky like giant spiderwebs, sometimes with just the upper floors filled in, so that at first glance the masonry appeared to be hanging in midair, suspended by magic. At least it wasn't snowing, I told myself to keep my spirits up. Because, to tell you the truth, I was a little alarmed about what I might find in Hell's Kitchen. I had read Dickens. I knew all about the London of Fagin and that was what I was picturing now-- cutthroats, pickpockets, and worse. After all, Ballykillin had been a sheltered life. A few men got drunk and beat their wives on Saturday night, but apart from that it was a peaceful kind of place. If you don't count Justin Hartley, that is.

* * *

There had been few signs of life during the

last mile or so. Buildings had few windows on the ground level and many of those were closed tight with bars or shutters. No friendly, open storefronts as there were in the Lower East Side neighborhoods I had come from. When I finally saw an open saloon on a street corner, I plucked up my courage and went inside. It was dark and dingy, with a row of stools lined up at a high bar all along one side. It stank of stale beer and smoke, but at this hour it was, mercifully, almost empty.

"Hi, there, sweetie-pie," a man sitting at the bar called as he spotted me. "Come on in and let me buy you a drink, girlie." His words were slurred and he was eyeing me with blurry hope.

"Thank you but I'm not here to drink," I said. "I'm just asking for directions and nowhere else seems open around here." I looked around at the other men. "I'm looking for a district called Hell's Kitchen. Have you any idea how I get there?"

The men looked at each other, grinning. "Hell's Kitchen you're wanting?" the barman asked. "And what would a young lady like yourself be wanting there?"

"I'm looking for a man who is a guard on Ellis Island. His name is Boyle. I'm told he lives in Hell's Kitchen."

"And what's this Mr. Boyle to you?" a man sitting at a table in

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