Tide and Tempest (Edge of Freedom Book #3) by Ludwig Elizabeth

Author:Ludwig, Elizabeth [Ludwig, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: New York (N.Y.)—History—19th century—Fiction, FIC027050, Irish Americans—Fiction, FIC042030, Young women—Fiction, FIC042040
ISBN: 9781441263582
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2014-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

26

Monday morning, Morgan departed the boardinghouse early and made for the dock. After speaking with Bozey, he left the noise of the shipyard and veered left toward a crowded part of town. Crowded, and far more dangerous.

Reaching inside his coat, he adjusted the harness over his shoulder so that the pistol fit snugly against his side. At least Bozey knew where he was going, or where to look if he disappeared.

He quickened his pace. Some twenty minutes later he arrived at Cherry Street, which Bozey insisted was the best place to ask the kinds of questions for which Morgan needed answers.

Cutting straight through the Lower East Side, Cherry Street was home to hundreds of immigrants, many of them Irish. They lived and worked in the bricked tenements and shops packed side by side and stretching in all directions. Metal fire escapes snaked up the walls, their barred landings forming ready-made clotheslines on every floor. On the street level, people teemed around businesses of every sort. One brightly painted window boasted butter and eggs. Next to it, a ragged awning fluttered over a sign touting custom-made

coffins. Farther down, women dressed in suggestive silk dresses lounged around the entrance to a dimly lit pub.

Easing into the flow of human traffic, Morgan wandered until he spotted a run-down hotel with a battered door that swung from rusty hinges. Inside, the lobby swarmed with men and women of all ages, many of them still looking inebriated from the night before.

“We’re full up,” the proprietor grunted from behind the counter. Hefting a basket stuffed with soiled linens, he propped it on his hip and circled the counter.

“Not looking for a room,” Morgan replied, crossing to him.

The proprietor lifted a snowy eyebrow. “What’re you doing here, then?”

“Hoping you can help me.” Morgan reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture he’d begged off James Finch from among Donal’s things. “Have you seen this man?”

The proprietor spared only a cursory glance. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Shifting the basket higher on his hip, he squinted up at Morgan. “Who is he?”

“One of my crewmen.”

“Jumped ship, did he?”

Morgan returned the picture to his pocket. “No, he died. Someone killed him.”

“Sorry to hear that. Can’t help you, though.”

He scurried away with clipped, mincing steps. Morgan followed. “Can you tell me where I might ask—?”

“Nope.”

Pushing through a swinging door, the proprietor ducked his head and disappeared.

Morgan caught the door as it swung back. Even had the man known something, he wouldn’t have been willing to help, a conclusion Morgan drew from having made several such visits yesterday. Disgusted, he turned and left the hotel.

Two more stops yielded similar results. The third place—a noisy restaurant catering to a distinctly Irish crowd—was only slightly more hopeful, with a waitress who claimed she thought she remembered seeing Donal but who was unable to pinpoint how long ago or who he’d been with.

His frustration growing, Morgan thanked the woman and returned to the street. He’d gone only a few steps when he felt something prod him from behind.

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