“All I ask is that you take good care of Dani so I don’t have to keep comin’ back to Cleveland,” Darby said. “I hate Cleveland.”
Malone almost grinned. “Yeah. I felt the same way. But it’s growing on me.”
“That’s what George said too when he fell in love with Aneta. But if you want those old ladies to like you, you better stick around. They made poor George miserable.”
“I’ll stick around. And where will you be, Darby O’Shea?” he asked.
“I got business in Chicago. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone there that I saw you . . . Your secrets are safe with me. Unless, of course, you don’t treat Dani right.” Darby touched his cap and turned, but he whistled as he walked away, and Malone recognized the tune.
Beware the lads from Kilgubbin. They’ll take what isn’t movin’。 With a glint in their eyes and a glint of the knife, you can bet your life you’ll be losin’。
Epilogue
Dani watched the picture and Malone watched her. She had left her glasses at home—he couldn’t even remember the last time she’d worn them—and she’d pinned her curls behind her ears, giving him a better look at the lines of her face in the dark.
She caught him staring once and smiled and looked away. When she realized he hadn’t stopped, she raised her hand to his chin and turned his head, and he’d laughed out loud at an inopportune juncture. A few people shushed him, and Dani snickered. But then he reached for her hand, and the mirth became something sweeter as her fingers twined with his.
She had calluses on her fingertips, and her nails were smooth and short. Her palms were narrow, and her wrists were dainty like the rest of her. When she caught him examining her fingers, ignoring the picture once again, she pulled their clasped hands into her lap and rested her head on his shoulder.
“You can look at me any old time. Watch the picture, Michael.”
He could look at her any old time. What a novel thought.
He spent the rest of the film staring at the screen obediently, her head on his shoulder and her arm tucked through his, but when it was over, he still remembered nothing specific about it. He had no opinion on whether Errol Flynn was a convincing Sir Robin or whether he liked Technicolor, or even if the theater was full. He’d been focused on her.
They walked up Broadway with unhurried steps, Dani’s arm through his. Autumn was here, and Cleveland was beautiful in the fall. God, he loved Cleveland.
Just as he’d predicted, Dani had loved the movie and was caught up in recounting Errol Flynn’s impassioned speech to his Merry Men.
“When he said, ‘Are you with me?’ I wanted to kneel and take the oath with all the others.”
“Oh yes. Politicians are very good at pretty speeches,” Malone said, needling her. He liked her outrage.
“Robin Hood was not a politician,” she huffed.
“No. You’re right. He was a rabble-rouser. It’s much harder to actually lead.”
“But . . . he did lead! He was wonderful.”
“He didn’t solve the problem. He didn’t implement a better system. He didn’t create wealth or opportunity. He just took. Taking is easy.”
She gaped at him. “But he gave what he took to others.”
“And what about when all the bad guys are broke and the money runs out? Who will he take from then?”
“Oh, you! Now you’ve ruined it for me,” she grumbled, giggling. “Why do you do that?”
“I just like to rile you up.”
“Well, you’re awfully good at it.” Her blue eye gleamed and her brown eye deepened, and in the streetlight her hair was gold.
He leaned down and kissed her, not caring that the streetcar was passing and people would see. Not caring that Lenka and Zuzana might be peering out their window, which looked over the front of the house. A man had the right to kiss his wife whenever and wherever he wished, if his wife was willing.
He dearly loved how willing Dani was.
“Can we go again tomorrow?” she asked when he let her catch her breath.
He laughed and said the only thing he ever said anymore.
“Yes, Dani.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Eliot Ness died of a heart attack when he was only fifty-four. He was an interesting figure for me, a man I liked. As so often happens in these historical journeys I take, the sadness of the history often overwhelms me, and I wonder how I’m going to give my readers a happy ending—or even a sense of an ending—when history is messy and hard and often sad. The thing that stands out for me with people like Eliot Ness is that he was good. Not perfect. Not by any stretch. But good. He tried. He wanted to make things better. He wanted to do the right thing, and even though he had his flaws and his selfish ambitions, he was not ruled by them. Maybe that is what makes heroes of regular men and what makes regular men （and women） heroes.