Page 68 of If Looks Could Kill

Mike and I wended our way toward Chinatown. All New York, it seemed, had the same idea. Cabs, wagons, streetcars, and carriages lurched along the Bowery in a futile hurry, voicing their frustrations as only New Yorkers can.

“At this rate, we’ll never get there.” Mike pulled up his collar and lowered his head. “I don’t like being this visible on the Bowery. Mother Rosie’s guys may still be on the prowl.”

I considered telling him about the three statues at Miss Stella’s, but decided against it. He was still right. Even with three men down, Mother Rosie’s syndicate was still a danger.

“I know another way there,” Mike continued. “Longer, but less crowded.”

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll take the long way around to Chinatown.”

“We’ll head down toward the Brooklyn Bridge,” Mike proposed, “and cross under it.”

We headed toward the colossal bridge. As a cold wind whipped up from the East River, I folded the flaps of my coat over my throat as best I could.

“The long way around to Chinatown,” Mike echoed. “That sounds like the title to a dance hall ditty.” He sang, “Take the long way round to Chinatown to get your gal chop suey. The bowl of rice is awf’ly nice, and the vegetables are chewy….”

“I’m speechless,” I told him.

“Liar,” said he.

“I’m speechless,” I insisted, “because I can’t decide which to say first. Three things. One: Did you just make that up?”

“I should hope so.” Mike laughed. “If that song exists, then shame on whoever wrote it.”

“?‘And the vegetables are chewy’?” I said. “That’s pure poetry.”

“Har har. Very funny.”

“Thing two,” I said, “where did you learn to sing like that?”

He looked perplexed. “At my mother’s knee, I suppose.”

“No, really,” I told him. “Your voice is”—I realized there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t sound like gushing flattery—“quite something.”

“Only one I’ve got.”

“Is your family musical?”

He considered. “Not more musical than other families.” He shrugged. “More people play instruments in Ireland, even if just a tambourine or whacking a pair of spoons together.”

“Do you play anything?” I asked. “I’ve always wished I played an instrument.”

“I expect I can blow a tune on the mouth of a jug,” he teased.

“If I’d been born in Ireland,” I said, “I’d have been politely asked to just listen, please.”

“If you were born in Ireland,” he said, “your name would be Taibít.”

“That’s very pretty,” I said.

He took a long look at my face—my scratched face—and smiled, as if to say, So are you .

A young Chinese man acted as our server and brought us each heaping bowls of chop suey. We dug in, me with a fork and Mike with wooden chopsticks. A warm, savory dish like this was just what I needed after a long walk in the cold and a long day of worry.

“I would’ve eaten here every day if Pearl would’ve let me,” I told Mike between bites.

“Nothing’s good every day,” he said. “Miss Pearl doesn’t like Chinese food?”

I caught myself before telling the truth: Pearl couldn’t afford it. She’d put up other protests. Too salty. Too many flavors at once. Not enough rice. Too much sauce. “Too many pennies” was what it was. That time I insisted on treating us both, she ate every last bean sprout.

I had missed so much with Pearl. Failed to see what she needed. I was too busy being annoyed and vexed by what she said to realize what she meant.

“You mentioned three things earlier,” Mike said between bites, “and I only heard two. Thing one: my poetic lyrics.” He made a playful bow. “Thing two: my singing.” He bowed again. “Now, what was thing three?”

I busied myself with my fork. “Oh. That was nothing.”

He wasn’t having this. “Out with it.”

Never. The third thing was one specific word in his ditty: To get your gal chop suey.

To get your gal…?

I shoved a big bite into my mouth so I couldn’t possibly be expected to speak. After I’d swallowed, I changed the subject.

“Mike,” I said, “what will you do when you grow up?”

He patted down his trunk as if puzzled. “I guess I’m not already grown up?”

I smiled. “These mysterious mathematics classes. What’s it all for?”

“For the pure love of math,” he said seriously.

“Oh,” I said. “I see.”

He grinned. “I’m kidding. I do enjoy it, but… I’d like to be an engineer.”

“Oh?” This woke me up somewhat. “You’d operate a train?”

His lips twitched. “I’d design and build trains. And ships. And machines for factories.”

“I suppose such things do need inventors,” I mused. “I assumed they just appeared.”

He grinned. “No, you didn’t.”

“But do you get to wear the striped overalls, is the real question.”

He made a face at me. “Only if I want to.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Did you know,” he said, “some chaps in Europe have been designing carriages that can go on their own, with an engine inside? No horses needed.” He took another bite. “The future will be driven by machines powered by engines. Steam engines. Combustion engines.”

It sounded like a future that would be loud, smoky, and smelly, but I kept that to myself.

“We won’t be so tied to”—he gestured with his chopsticks—“mills powered by streams, nor labor from the muscles of immigrants and horses. I want to be a part of that.”

“To machines.” I held up my glass and clinked it with his. “When I first met you, you were washing glasses in your uncle’s pub. I couldn’t have guessed you had such grand plans.”

“I’ll design a machine,” he said, “that washes and dries glasses for you.”

“If you do,” I told him, “and if it can do plates and silver, you’ll be my aunt’s hero.”

The last bell pepper was gone, the last mushroom devoured. There was no way to stretch this dinner out any further. Mike paid the bill, and we pulled our coats back on, headed for the door, and stepped back out into the bitter cold.

“Now where?” Mike asked me. “The night is young.”

“I think I need to look for Pearl.”

He nodded. “Would you welcome some company?”

“If it’s you,” I told him, then wanted to disappear, I was so embarrassed.

We headed back uptown, back toward the Bowery. Where are you, Pearl? I thought. I can’t stay much longer. I’m running out of time.

But my only reply was the lonely whistle of the Third Avenue El.

“Mike,” I said, feeling some apprehension, “may I stay at your home again? Relegate you to the couch for one more night?”

He turned to me, concerned, and I wondered immediately if I’d presumed too much.

“Or… you know what, I’ll just get my suitcase and go to a boardinghouse—”

“Why just one more night?” he asked. “What’s your hurry?”

I was speechless. “I can’t just impose.”

“Stay as long as you can,” Mike urged. “I like the couch.”

“I doubt your aunt and uncle like having you there,” I protested. “I can’t just move in.”

Mike’s mouth twisted into a puzzled scowl. “I don’t see why not.”

He couldn’t possibly mean that.

“Mike,” I said, “I thank you for your hospitality. But surely you see I can’t stay much longer?

I have no job. No position with the Salvation Army anymore.

No real reason to be here. By tomorrow,” I said, “if I haven’t found some sign of Pearl, I’ll need to head home.

” The words put a lump in my throat. “I’ll leave her suitcase at the Salvation Army base. ”

He was quiet after that. We wove through people and horses, and around icy puddles.

“Mike,” I asked, “have I said something wrong?”

He squeezed my arm tighter with his own. “I’m glad I found you at the bakery.”

“Me too.”

“I’m glad you waltzed into O’Flynn’s this fall,” he said, “selling your War Cry s.”

He glanced around and made a decision, apparently, pulling me off the thoroughfare and under the awning arch of a marble-columned bank. The wind whistled through the tunnel made by the covered walkway, and Mike stood close in front of me to shield me from the cold.

“Why,” I asked him, feeling brazen, “are you glad of that?”

He looked over my head and out to the crowded street, then turned back to me.

“You’re easy to talk to.” He smiled.

Something in me swooped and swelled, like a bird on the wing. And something in me could not accept this thought.

“Aren’t most girls?” I asked him.

“I like how I feel,” he said, “when I talk to you.”

Oh, me too, me too, me too. Mike, here’s my heart; me too, me too.

“I feel like what matters most,” he said, “is to keep on talking with this girl. Telling her whatever keeps her interested in talking, so I can keep on hearing what she has to say.” He smiled. “And watching her face while she says it.”

I don’t think I know how to receive compliments, not, mind you, that I have had frequent opportunity to practice. Humor, in such times as these, is my trusty friend.

“Even,” I said, “if that means chasing down monsters and being chased by every gangster and outlaw in the city?”

There was that smile, like a sunrise, crinkling his eyes.

“All the better.”

I suppose I was smiling too. Smiling like a fool who can’t stop. But every bliss subsides eventually, and I found a question needing to be asked.

“Mike,” I said, “is that enough?”

He cocked his head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Is that enough,” I repeated. “Liking talking with someone. Is that enough?”

“That’s everything,” he said quietly. “Everything to me.”

He seemed perplexed, worried, and, maybe, a bit hurt.

I hurried to explain. “I’ve lived with Pearl these last few months.”

He pulled back an inch or two.

“I see what men see,” I said, “when they look at us both.”

He frowned.

“It’s all the time, Mike,” I told him. “Every day. Everywhere.”

He watched me for a while. His eyes were kind, and sad.

Finally, he spoke. “There must be more to Pearl than meets the eye,” he said, “or she wouldn’t mean so much to you.”

This caught me completely off guard.

“There is,” I said. “There’s much more to Pearl than I first saw. Would let myself see.”

He nodded and waited.

“Pearl drives me to distraction,” I admitted.

He grinned.

“And I love her.” Here came the tears again, this time, like Niagara Falls. “I need her to be all right, Mike. I need her to come home and be all right.”

Mike wrapped his arms around me and held me close. “I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “We’re going to find her.”

I sobbed onto his chest, leaving my tears in the scratchy wool of his coat.

“Come on,” Mike said. “Let’s go find your lost Pearl.”