Eddie wrinkled his brow, confused.
“I should be dead. That’s why I see her ghost.”
“That’s not the way it works,” Eddie assured her.
Ella managed a laugh despite her sorrow. “You know how it works? God discussed it with you?”
“Let’s discuss your sister, and leave God to other business. Did you see her that morning?”
They had walked to Greene Street arm in arm, as they did each day.
“And she seemed the same as always? No worries?”
“The same.”
“You went in the building together, and up the stairs?”
Ella’s expression darkened. “She told me to go on, she would follow. Some mornings she ran and bought an apple from a cart in Washington Square Park. She would sneak it in, even though we weren’t allowed to eat while we worked. She said otherwise her stomach would growl.”
“Did she buy an apple?”
“I don’t know. I went inside the doorway and never saw her again. Only her ghost.”
Eddie gazed at the girl, pity shining in his eyes.
“I can tell you think I’m foolish. But I know she’s gone. I dream of water, not of fire. She’s trying to tell me something.” Ella gazed straight at him, defiant. “Maybe you think I’m a lunatic.”
Eddie understood it was possible to dream so deeply you saw what you wished to believe. His own father had searched out his beloved wife in his dreams and had spoken to her on a nightly basis, conversations so intimate Eddie always turned to the wall so he wouldn’t overhear.
“I think you worry for your sister, as I’m sure she would have worried for you.”
“We both know what you’ll find. She’s gone. Please, don’t tell my father. The least we can do is let him dream awhile longer.”
On his way up toward Cooper Square in the falling dusk, Eddie realized he was being followed. It was Mitts who alerted him, for the dog seemed uneasy, glancing behind them, a worried expression crossing his usually easygoing countenance. Eddie took a moment to pause in a doorway. There he feigned gazing at his watch, all the while scanning the street with a sidelong glance. Indeed there was a large man dressed in a heavy black overcoat stopping nearby so that he might study Eddie from beneath the brim of his bowler hat. Eddie set his watch back into his pocket and moved on, but so did the burly stranger, lumbering after him. This was why Hochman preferred to hire boys who were light on their feet and could easily go unnoticed in a crowd. Eddie looked over his shoulder to steal another look. For an instant his eyes locked with his pursuer’s. He observed something dark peering back at him, the sort of malevolent spark he often captured on film when recording criminal subjects.
Eddie whistled for Mitts to stay close, then headed off briskly. The stranger continued to gain on them, his strut more focused now. He carried a roughly made club Eddie didn’t like the looks of. The hair on the back of Eddie’s neck rose in pinpricks, and he noticed that the hair on Mitts’s back bristled as well.
Eddie turned down Seventh Street, hoping to lose his shadow, but the street was nearly deserted in the dusk, and it appeared he’d chosen a perfect place for an assault. Without thinking, he slipped into the first doorway he came upon, McSorley’s Ale House, an establishment that had opened nearly sixty years earlier. This Irish tavern, where only men were allowed, was known for its workingman clientele. Mitts followed Eddie inside, treading softly over the sawdust scattered on the floor to mop up spilled drinks. The pit bull made for a good companion in taverns, for his breed was known for rat fighting, a form of amusement that often took place in the cellars below the alehouses and sporting houses throughout the city. In dogfights, pit bulls were champions, so ferocious many were unwilling to let go of an opponent they were pitted against. Their jaws occasionally had to be pried open with a metal bar before they would release the loser, if the other dog were still alive. Due to Mitts, space was made at the bar when Eddie approached. He asked for dark ale, keeping his eye on the door. He waited for his fare, but the fellow tending bar continued to clean glasses with a rag rather than see to his order.
“Is there a problem?” Eddie wished to know.
“No dogs,” he was told.
Two tabby cats lay beside a table in the back room where several men played cards.
“He won’t bother a cat. He’s well behaved.” In fact, Mitts had curled up on the floor at Eddie’s feet, his nose in the sawdust.
“But how do I know you are?” was the response. “Maybe you’re looking for trouble.” The barkeep was broadly built and heavily muscled, his strength put to use if there were unruly customers. His pale eyes were difficult to read, but he pointed out a sign that declared