Page 73 of If Looks Could Kill
It was a quieter walk back to O’Flynn’s Tavern than any other time I’d spent thus far with Mike.
Had I left too soon? Given up too easily?
I’d just felt it was time to leave. That there was no more point to standing there. No more point to my futile crisscrossing of the city at all, if in fact there ever had been.
Where are you, Pearl? I had felt so sure God had urged me to keep trying to rescue her. But what more could I possibly do?
“Are you all right?” Mike asked at length.
I turned to him. “Mike,” I said, “do you believe me?”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, “about Pearl being a Medusa?”
He gave me a long look. “I believe you’re telling the truth,” he said. “If there’s a lie somewhere, some trickery, I don’t believe it’s yours.” He smiled. “I don’t deny it strains belief.”
“Thank you, Mike,” I told him, “for not thinking I’m crazy.”
He winked. “Oh, I didn’t say that.”
I gave him a shove, and he retaliated by reaching an arm around me.
“It’s hard not to feel like I’ve been the world’s most colossal fool,” I admitted.
“You’re a good friend,” Mike told me. “I admire that.”
“Your aunt said that about you, too.”
“Lord above,” he groaned. “What didn’t she say?”
I laughed. “She’s a fountain of knowledge. I have lots of questions for her.”
“How come,” he asked, “you’ll be seen walking around town with an Irish immigrant lad?”
Because you’re devastatingly handsome and utterly charming?
“Well,” I said, “I was hoping for an Irish setter, but they’re hard to come by. You seemed like the next best thing.”
He laughed out loud, which left me feeling pleased with myself for a block and a half.
The question hadn’t been serious, but then again, perhaps it had.
“My family is English,” I told him. “I know the Irish aren’t usually fond of the English.”
“Ah, but I didn’t move to England, now, did I? I’ve got no gripe with Americans.”
“That’s odd,” I told him. “I’ve got plenty of gripe with most Americans I meet. Especially on the Bowery.”
“Come to think of it,” he said, “so have I. But that’s beside the point.”
We walked on in companionable silence for another block.
“Oh, Taibít,” Mike said. “I wish you weren’t leaving.”
“Me too.”
He stopped and looked at me. “Really?”
This surprised me. “Of course really.”
“You don’t want to go home?” he asked me.
“For Christmas, I suppose,” I told him. “But not forever. If… if I could stay, I would.”
He rested his forehead against mine. “Good,” he said. “That’s all I needed to know.”
“Why?” I asked doubtfully. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just like to know what I’m up against, is all.”
“Up against?” I pressed.
“Don’t mind me,” he teased. “I’m just over here, babbling.”
O’Flynn’s was in sight, less than a block away, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Tabitha Woodward?” a voice said. “This way, please.”
We both turned around to see a pair of blue-clad police officers frowning at us.
“Jimmy,” Mike said good-naturedly, “what on earth?”
“Hands up.” It was Officer Jimmy, whom we’d met the night before. “Don’t resist.”
“Resist what?” I asked. “Is this a joke?”
I raised my arms overhead and followed toward where the officers beckoned.
I’ve never been so painfully aware of all eyes turning my way to stare at me as I felt then. A new newspaper boy on the corner. A girl out walking a mangy dog. A man having a smoke.
They steered us both, prodding our backs with their wooden clubs, toward the doorway of a rag-and-bone shop, now closed.
“You’re under arrest, Miss Woodward,” Officer Jimmy said, “for stealing a valuable firearm last night from the residence of a private citizen, Mrs. Rose Hertzfeld, on Spring Street.”
Mike and I gaped at each other.
“Jimmy,” Mike said in a much more serious tone. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“She swore out a deposition against you this afternoon,” the officer continued.
“Did this upstanding private citizen tell you,” I asked, “that I relieved her of a gun because she was trying to shoot me with another one?”
Officer Jimmy looked confused. The larger officer with the thick mustache took over.
“If you took the gun in self-defense,” he said, “you should’ve given it to the police.”
“We’ll return it,” Mike said. “I’ll take it out of my pocket right now.”
The larger officer wasn’t having that. He patted down Mike roughly and took the gun.
“Why were you carrying this stolen property with you?” he demanded.
“To protect Miss Woodward,” Mike said in clipped tones, “in case any of Mother Rosie’s men came after her, as they threatened to do yesterday.”
Officer Jimmy looked flummoxed. “How do you mean?”
“Yesterday,” Mike said, “Miss Woodward mounted a rescue operation to liberate two young women held captive as brothel workers at Mother Rosie’s place above the Lion’s Den.”
“What is she,” asked Officer Jimmy, “an idiot?”
“When Mother Rosie threatened Miss Woodward with kidnapping her into the sex trade,” Mike said pointedly, “and Miss Woodward managed to obtain this gun, I kept it to protect her from the attack Mother Rosie threatened to make in retaliation.”
The two officers exchanged more wordless looks, then stepped aside to confer. Briefly.
“Michael O’Keeffe,” Jimmy said, upon returning, “you are under arrest for willful possession of stolen property. You will come with us now, to the precinct.”
“This is outrageous,” I cried. “I stole the gun. Mike only carried it.”
The large officer twisted Mike’s arms roughly behind his back and handcuffed his wrists.
“Easy,” Mike said. “I’m coming with you. I’m not putting up a fight.”
“You’ll arrest him ,” I cried, “at the testimony of a known pimp and trafficker ? Colluding with a prostitution ring against its victims! Haven’t you any shame?”
Officer Jimmy wouldn’t look at me, but the taller officer shot me an annoyed look.
The sight of Mike in handcuffs broke my heart. He looked guilty, just by virtue of where his wrists were clamped.
“What happens to Miss Woodward?” he said.
“She’s free to go,” said Officer Jimmy.
“Tabitha,” Mike instructed me urgently, “tell my uncle what’s happened. He’ll know what to do.” He glanced diagonally across the intersection toward the family pub. “He’s there now.”
“I will.” I put on a brave face. “We’ll be there soon. We’ll get this all sorted out.”
“Come with me, Mike,” said Officer Jimmy, “and don’t try anything funny.”
“Mother of God, Jim,” barked Mike, “stop acting like you don’t have a pint at our pub on the regular.”
“Just doin’ my job,” Officer Jimmy said peevishly.
The two of them crossed the street and made their way down the Bowery. I started after them, when a hand seized my arm.
“One moment, miss,” said the taller officer. “Someone here wants to speak to you.”
I turned around to see the door to the rag-and-bone shop swing open.
“Evening, dearie,” said the voice of Mother Rosie.