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By Root 1749 0

a moment to try to decide just where I was going. I was bone-weary, to be sure, but sleep was somehow out of the question. Strolling through the still streets was definitely called for; not, as I say, to make sense of all that had happened, but simply to absorb the fact that it had. John Beecham was dead: the focus of my life, however gruesome, had been removed, and with a sudden ache of dread I realized that come Monday morning I’d have to decide whether or not I was going to report for duty back at the Times. The thought, brief and passing though it was, seemed nothing short of horrible—to spend more days and nights hanging around in front of Police Headquarters, waiting for a lead or a story to materialize, and then shooting off to get the facts on some bit of domestic violence or some housebreaking on Fifth Avenue…

Without intending to, I’d come to a stop at the corner of Great Jones Street. Looking down the block, I saw that the lights of the New Brighton Dance Hall were still burning bright. Perhaps explanations were not so far off after all, I thought; and then, before I’d consciously decided to go, my feet were carrying me toward the place.

I was still several doors away when I started to hear loud music echoing out of the New Brighton (Paul Kelly employed a much larger and more professional band than the usual three-piece noise gang found in concert halls). Soon raucous laughter, a few drunken screams, and finally the resonant rattle of glasses and bottles joined the din. Not relishing the prospect of actually going inside, I was much relieved to see Kelly emerge from the joint’s frosted glass doors just as I arrived. With him was a police sergeant—in uniform—who was laughing and counting a wad of money. Kelly glanced over, caught sight of me, and then elbowed the cop, telling him with a nod of his head to get lost. The sergeant obliged, scurrying obediently away in the general direction of Mulberry Street.

“Well, Moore!” Kelly said, pulling a small snuffbox out of his silk vest and grinning in his handsome way. “You can forget you saw that,” he said, inclining his head toward the vanishing cop.

“Don’t worry, Kelly,” I answered, drawing up to him. “I figure I may owe you one.”

“Me?” Kelly chuckled. “Not likely, newshound. I see that you’re in one piece, though. From the rumors that’re floating around town, I’d say you’re damned lucky.”

“Come on, Kelly,” I said. “I saw your rig tonight—and your man McManus saved our necks.”

“Jack?” Kelly opened the snuffbox, revealing a mound of finely ground cocaine. “Why, he didn’t tell me. Doesn’t sound like Jack, though, to go around doing good deeds.” Kelly put a little cocaine on one knuckle and snorted it hard, then held the box out to me. “Care for some? I wouldn’t myself, but these late nights—”

“No,” I said. “Thanks. Listen, the best I can figure is that you made some kind of a deal with Kreizler.”

“Deal?” Kelly echoed again, his affected ignorance starting to make me testy. He took a little more cocaine, then stepped aside when a large, well-dressed man came stumbling out of the New Brighton with two homely, garishly dressed women in tow. Kelly called good night to the man amiably, then turned back to me. “Why in the world would I cut a deal with the good doctor?”

“That’s what I don’t know!” I replied, exasperated. “The only explanation I can think of is that you once said you had a lot of respect for him. That day in your carriage—you said you’d even read a monograph of his.”

Kelly chuckled again. “That’s not likely to make me go against my own interests, Moore. I’m a practical man, after all. Just like your friend Mr. Morgan.” I looked at him blankly, and his smile widened. “Oh, sure. I know all about your meeting with the Nose.”

I thought to ask him how in hell he knew, but it really was useless—he obviously wasn’t in a cooperative mood, and I was just giving him sport. “All right,” I announced, taking a few steps away. “I’ve been through entirely too much tonight to stand out here playing who-knows-what with you, Kelly. Tell Jack he’s got a favor coming.