The Atmosphere's Nice
The Grand Ballroom of New York's Plaza Hotel.
For Journalists' Night, the venue swarmed with gentlemen and ladies dressed to the nines.
"See that? People are staring at me."
"When you put it that way, you're almost relentlessly optimistic."
At my words, Ida swept a glance around the room and allowed herself a faint smile.
The attention had nothing to do with "a face that completes the outfit." It was nothing more than simple curiosity and wariness directed at an East Asian face rarely seen at gatherings like this.
Their gazes, however, did not linger long on me. Ida's elegant figure seized the public eye.
In this moment, the stares and interest fixed on Ida proved her worth—enough that she could step into high society tomorrow if she chose.
"I've always wondered who the editor-in-chief of The Ledger was. I never imagined she would be so beautiful. An honor to meet you."
"I've been reading since the inaugural issue. The September number was truly fascinating—and impressive."
That a magazine not yet a year old could draw such notice was thanks to its precise predictions of the armistice and the Spanish flu.
When the resulting stock swings and shifts in the global economy fell into place, The Ledger rapidly established itself as a business magazine. That was why Ida had received an invitation.
In that sense, today was the day Ida threw her hat into the ring of high society—society that the Spanish flu had postponed.
Once the event began, various figures took the stage in turn and delivered their speeches.
Among the ceremonial, formulaic remarks, one speech pricked the ear.
"Soon we shall experience a nation free of that root of all evil—liquor. Crime in New York will diminish, and households will find peace. You gentlemen and ladies of the press gathered here have a duty to actively publicize this righteous change."
The speaker was an officer of a group that strongly supported Prohibition. He cried out for a hopeful world without alcohol and sought to turn the press into a publicity channel.
While the speech went on, Ida held conversations a short distance away. Prominent figures from well-known newspapers and magazines gathered around her as if by natural attraction.
And not far from me, in a corner of the convention space, a man watched that scene with a sharp eye.
Age roughly late thirties. Arms folded, chin propped on a hand, his gaze was locked on Ida.
From a woman it might pass as jealousy or envy; from a man it required different consideration.
Studying Ida so intently?
One of two things.
He was calculating how to make a move—or something about Ida had jogged his memory.
Judging by his manner, it reeked of the latter.
Sensing my stare, the man turned his head and our eyes met. As I approached, he slowly unfolded his arms.
"I was rather worried it being my first time—but this is fortunate, isn't it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You've been staring at Editor Ida the whole time, haven't you?"
At my words the man's mouth twitched and he tossed out a reply.
"Are you with The Ledger?"
"Deputy editor, Kieran Graves."
He looked me over as if taking my measure, then introduced himself with a meaningful expression.
"I'm James O'Malley, senior reporter at The City Record. I cover crime in the Hell's Kitchen district."
The look of a beast scenting prey.
O'Malley, who had operated in Hell's Kitchen, had seen Ida's face and recalled her past. The arrogant gaze and twisted words he aimed at me proved it.
"Putting a young Oriental in as deputy editor. Something reeks to high heaven."
"What exactly do you mean by that?"
I blinked as if I had no idea, and the sneer at O'Malley's mouth deepened. Just then the temperance official's speech ended and a man of imposing build mounted the stage.
"Thank you for inviting me to so meaningful an occasion. I am Richard Enright, Commissioner of the New York Police Department."
Applause continued as O'Malley, still wearing his sneer, spoke again.
"You have no idea what kind of past that woman you revere as your superior has, do you? Then again, a greenhorn like you wouldn't."
"Why don't you enlighten me properly while you're at it."
"Why should I?"
O'Malley sneered and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, sticking it between his lips. Then he leaned in close and whispered.
"Go tell your editor. If she wants to shut my mouth, she pays the price."
"By price you mean money?"
O'Malley snorted and, instead of answering, took out a match.
Scratch.
He struck the match and was bringing the flame to the cigarette when I reached out and plucked the cigarette from his mouth.
"!?"
O'Malley looked up at me with an expression of pure disbelief. Holding his gaze, I crushed the fallen cigarette under my shoe.
The match flame hanging awkwardly in midair died, leaving only a thin thread of smoke.
O'Malley scowled and growled low.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you out of your mind?"
"Your attitude bothers me."
"…You have any idea what happens when I write an article?"
"Article, my ass. The editor is not the person you think she is."
"Bullshit. You can't fool my eyes. Ida Goose. You think nobody knows that bitch's past?"
"It's Ida O'Connell."
"Bullshit. If I say she's Ida Goose, she's Goose."
O'Malley's face had gone brick-red. He glanced around, holding his temper in check, voice still a low snarl.
"That insolent stunt you just pulled is going to send your editor straight to hell. I'm going to make sure of it. Regret won't help you."
Reporter O'Malley treated his paper, The City Record, as a weapon.
He threatened me with turning Ida's past into a story.
I had anticipated this from the moment I decided to put Ida forward in society. Changing Ida Goose to Ida O'Connell had been for exactly that reason.
"You think a monthly business magazine not even a year old can push back?"
The City Record was a daily, not a monthly. A newspaper's influence is measured by circulation; it sold roughly fifteen thousand copies.
Small compared with the majors that printed hundreds of thousands to over a million, but not a scale one could ignore.
The Ledger, by contrast, sold only eight thousand a month. Its target audience was different and its price high, so its popular reach was weak.
Knowing that perfectly well, O'Malley placed blind faith in the power at the tip of his pen.
He sneered as he spilled Ida's past.
"Once upon a time the Gophers and the Eastman Gang spilled blood over one woman. And every citizen of Manhattan will learn that woman was Ida Goose, editor of The Ledger. By then regret will be far too late."
The mocking expression on O'Malley's face grew even more venomous.
"It's too late to settle this with money, you little shit. Who knows—if Ida gets on her knees and begs in front of me, I might reconsider."
His oily eyes fixed on one spot.
Ida was approaching us at just that moment.
"If you don't want to get fucked, make sure you pass it on, kid."
Giggling, Reporter O'Malley slipped away. From his behavior he was nothing but a two-bit reporter who latched onto any scoop and went after money.
Ida came up to me, flicked a glance at O'Malley, and said,
"Looks like he recognized me."
"You know that reporter well?"
"Yeah. Famous in Hell's Kitchen. Calls himself a journalist, but he's a real piece of work who latches onto every gang, toys with people, and fleeces them."
According to Ida, O'Malley made aggressive use of his status as a reporter.
He would lure women with the promise of interviews and sell them into brothels. Or he would interview someone who had been wronged by a gang—then sell the contents to that same gang for cash.
"Even when he got caught participating in crimes, he always wriggled free by claiming undercover reporting."
"Quite the talented fellow."
"You're not seriously thinking of bringing him onto our side, are you?"
Ida, whose expression had not shifted once, actually furrowed her brow. That was how much she loathed Reporter O'Malley.
"No chance of that. He threatened me."
"Wow. Instead of exposing my past, he demanded money?"
That, she said, was O'Malley's classic method.
"He said it's too late to settle with money. But if Ida gets on her knees and begs, he'll think about it."
"Then I suppose that's what I'll have to do."
"What?"
Suddenly Ida turned as if to go after O'Malley. I had no idea what she was thinking. When I caught her arm she came along in a little stumble.
"What are you trying to do?"
"Can't do it here. I'll take him somewhere else and get on my knees."
"Where?"
"A hotel. An inn works too."
"…"
My mind went blank for a moment—and the police commissioner's speech drove into my eardrums.
"The war is over, yet heinous crime and the activities of the gangs still threaten the safety of our citizens. Moreover, conflict continues to flare in every corner of society."
The spread of labor strikes, the Red Scare. And—
"What is still more troubling is that narrow, hate-filled ideologies that divide society and breed distrust are rearing their heads. The New York Police Department is watching carefully and will not relax its vigilance."
An idea for refining Ida's plan suddenly struck me.
"A hotel is too conspicuous. Better to lure him to an inn."
The corner of Ida's mouth lifted just as the commissioner's long-winded speech reached its close.
"On this occasion I would like to make a request of you ladies and gentlemen of the press. Please convey our police efforts accurately to the citizens. Point out the city's problems with a sharp eye, but also offer constructive directions toward solving them. Rather than fomenting division, lend strength to the voices that seek unity. Your responsible reporting will be a great force in making New York a safer and better city in which to live."
The speech ended and applause rolled through the hall. Ida clapped as well, her eyes on me. Whether it was for the commissioner or for our plan remained ambiguous.
As the noise in the hall subsided,
"Tell him the appointment is tomorrow night at nine, Bowery Rest House, room 205."
"Why?"
"Hmm?"
"Why tomorrow? Let's go today—to the inn. We're already dressed up. The atmosphere's nice, isn't it?"
"What atmosphere? We still have to prepare."
This was not a question of weapons. Alibis had to be considered, and the fallout of the incident as well.
"Besides, tonight is not the time to waste on that kind of reporter. We need to build connections far and wide."
Ida looked at me a moment, nodded, then spun on her heel.
When Ida approached, O'Malley shot me a glance and smiled the smile of a victor.
The event did not end until nine o'clock, two hours later.
Temperance groups, employers' associations trying to halt the spread of strikes, social organizations pleading for attention to the vulnerable—and so on.
The stated purpose was fellowship among journalists, but the intent of groups hoping to use them to deliver political and social messages was more than plain.
We took a taxi to the Twin Office Building. Being Saturday, the lingerie shop on the first floor had closed early.
"You worked hard today. I'll handle O'Malley, so don't give him another thought."
"He's no fool. He might not show up at the meeting place."
"I have Plans B and C. Anyway, rest well tomorrow."
Ida stepped into the darkened Twin Building. Ever since Hazel had moved into our house, Ida had been living alone on the third floor.
I took another taxi home.
At eleven at night, everyone in the family was asleep except Hazel.
"You're home."
"What, was I supposed to stay out?"
"Right. Of course you had to come home. I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow."
Hazel stretched, rose from the sofa, and went to her room. Without even changing clothes, I opened the door to Mother's workroom.
A sewing machine stood by the window. I went to the shelves that filled one wall. Skeins of thread and bolts of fabric were neatly arranged; among them I confirmed the presence of white cloth.
The next day, Sunday.
After breakfast I handed Mother and Hazel a job.
"You want this finished by afternoon? Boss, that's too much. Making us work on the Sabbath."
"My son is too much. I'm a boss too, you know."
"It's just a simple garment."
They pouted, yet set to work at once. The design was not complicated, and the clothes were finished quickly.
Around noon Roa burst out of the workroom wearing the result.
"Nobody move! I'm Ghost Roa!"
Wearing a pointed hood with two holes cut for the eyes and a gown that dragged on the floor, Roa charged at Liam.
"Hey, hey—if you go outside looking like that you're in big trouble."
"Roa is a ghost so nobody can see her!"
"You're not a ghost. Right now you're KKK Roa."
Roa stopped in her tracks and blinked through the eye holes.
"What's a KKK?"