He helped her at the morgue Monday morning but was gone for the rest of the day, returning late and leaving as soon as breakfast was over on Tuesday. He spent both days down in the Run, wearing his old boots, a work shirt, and a pair of coveralls she’d given him, along with the checkered hat that had once belonged to poor Ready Eddie.
She had more than enough to keep her occupied but waited anxiously for him to return at the end of each day.
“What are you doing down there?” she asked, sitting across from him at the kitchen table as he inhaled the plate of food she’d set in front of him.
“Listening,” he said. “It’s what you do, isn’t it?” His eyes met hers briefly. “Two detectives walk down there with their notebooks and their shiny shoes, and nobody is going to tell them anything, whether they know it or not. It’s just not worth it.”
“Why?” she asked. “Surely the men in the shantytowns want the Butcher caught most of all.”
“As a general rule, if you want to get along in a place like the Run—or sadly, any of the neighborhoods around here—you don’t go to the police. Especially if you don’t know something for certain. Nobody likes a rat. Especially of the human variety.”
“I wish I could come with you.”
“Yeah . . . that’s not going to work,” he said with a small smile.
“I can’t wear a few layers and an old hat? Dani is a boy’s name.” She was half teasing with the hope that he might shrug and give in.
“There isn’t a man in that camp that would fall for that. But if you can spare some time tomorrow, I could use you.”
“I could get away at about four. Will that work?”
He nodded. “I also . . . had another idea.” He said the words slowly, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say them. “You ever heard of the Spring Gala at St. Alexis?”
“St. Alexis is right across the street, Michael,” she said. Of course she’d heard of it.
“I had Eliot get me two tickets.”
“Are you teasing me, Michael Malone?” she whispered.
“No, Dani Flanagan.” His lips softened in the barest of smiles. “Would you like to go?”
“The Rockefellers still go to the gala. It’s . . . swanky.”
“Do you think you can find something to wear?”
“I am a clothier, Michael,” she said with a haughty lift of her chin and a slight eastern European accent. “Of course I can find something to wear.”
“You are not just a clothier, you are a Kos, Daniela,” he said, mimicking the flavor of a true Bohemian, and making her laugh.
“You are better at that accent than I am, and I’ve been hearing it all my life,” she marveled.
She sat back in her chair, considering her options, and her excitement grew. “You must wear one of your silk suits. The one with the chalk stripe.”
“Shouldn’t I wear tails?”
“Tails are a step down from a suit like that. And I have just the dress.”
“Good. We might have to work a little . . . but I think we could squeeze in a dance and maybe some free champagne.”
“Do you like to dance, Michael?” she squeaked, hardly daring to hope.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “Does that surprise you?”
She tipped her head to the side, trying to imagine it.
“It doesn’t surprise me, no. You’re an actor, after all. But I’d like to see it.”
“I didn’t say I was good. I said I enjoyed it. At least I did, once.”
“With Irene?” She didn’t mean to sound jealous, but she did.
It didn’t appear to bother Malone. He even smirked at her a little. “Yeah. With Irene. And long before that. Molly taught me. She loves to dance, and I was her practice partner. My mother loved to dance too.”
“What was she like, your mother? I can’t picture her.”
He was quiet for a minute, his eyes distant. “You know . . . I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago. I was brokenhearted when she died. I remember that much.” He rose and rinsed his plate, like he’d made himself uncomfortable with his admission.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No need. Like I said . . . it was a long time ago. I learned how to . . . move on.” He set the plate in the rack beside the sink and shook off his hands.
He shifted his weight like he wanted to stay, and still he headed for the door.