“Hard to tell.”

The blue jay stuck out his hand. “Tim Holian. Waterbury Brass Works.”

“Jasper Smith. Schenectady Dry Goods,” replied Scully, and then he heard every detective’s nightmare.

“Schenectady? Then you sure as heck know my cousin Ed Kelleher. He’s president of the Rotary in Schenectady.”

“Not since he ran off with my wife’s niece.”

“What? No, there must be some mistake. Ed’s a married man.”

“Just thinking about it makes my blood boil. The poor girl is barely fifteen.”

Holian retreated dazedly toward Mott Street. Scully continued loitering between the opera house entrance and a bow window shielded with wire mesh. It didn’t take long for a roper to discover him.

“Say, brother, looking for a good time?”

Scully looked him over. Middle-aged, with very few teeth and ragged clothes, former Bowery Boy, no longer the violent sort but perfectly willing to deliver him to those who were if the gaze fixed on his watch chain was any clue. “What did you have in mind?”

“Want to meet girls?”

Scully pointed toward Mott Street. “Fellow that was just standing here in a straw hat. He’s looking for girls.”

“What about you? Want to see deranged addicts in an opium den?”

“Shove off.”

The roper took his expression as fair warning and headed after the man from Waterbury. Scully continued to loiter.

But so far, no go. He had not learned a damned thing more since he’d parked himself in front of the opera house. Not a sign of customers coming and going. Maybe it was too early. But these places tended to keep the drapes drawn and the game going round the clock. He hung around for another hour but got no sense that he was getting close. Ropers like the one he’d sent packing would never steer him to such a high-class joint. So he kept giving the ropers the shove while he watched to see arriving customers point the way.

An unusual sight caught his eye. Walking quickly, darting anxious glances behind her at a cop who seemed to be following, was a fair-skinned Irish girl carrying a Chinese baby. She was built as solidly as a bricklayer and had the kind of about-to-wink smile in her eye that Scully appreciated. He tipped his hat and made room on the narrow sidewalk as she hurried past toward Mott. Up close, the baby looked not entirely Chinese, not with that tuft of yellow hair crowning its head.

The cop brushed past Scully and caught up with the woman at the angle in Doyers. He peered suspiciously into her blanket. Scully ambled over, suspecting what would happen.

“I’m going have to take you in,” said the cop.

“What the bloody hell for?” asked the mother.

“It’s for your own protection. Every white woman married to a Chinese has got to show she was not kidnapped and held captive.”

“Kidnapped? I’m not kidnapped. I’m going shopping to bring supper home for my husband.”

“You’ll have to show me your marriage license before I’ll believe that.”

“I don’t carry it around with me, for God’s sake. You know I’m married. You’re just giving me a hard time. Expect me to put money in your hand.”

The cop flushed angrily. “You’re coming in,” he said, and took her by the arm.

John Scully shouldered up to him. “Officer, if we could speak in private?”

“Who are you? Get out of here.”

“Where I come from, money talks,” said Scully, passing the cop the bills he had palmed. The cop turned on his heel and lumbered back toward the Bowery.

“What did you do that for?” She had angry tears in her eyes.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Scully. “They bother you much?”

Tags: Clive Cussler Isaac Bell Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net