Page 3 of If Looks Could Kill
“I’m guessing you two haven’t been working together long,” said Mike.
My heart sank. “Is it obvious?”
He leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. “The look on your face. Like she was a rotten egg that had just burst open. Might’ve been a clue.”
“Oh.” I felt my face flood with embarrassment. “I’ll have to work on that, won’t I? Not very good for the cause, I mean.”
“P’rhaps not,” Mike agreed, “but entertaining. Pleased to meet you, Miss Tabitha.”
“And you,” I said, “Mr., er, Mike.”
“Oy,Mr. Mike,” said a young tough at the bar, “pour the ale and leave the Sallys be.”
Mike gave me a wink, then turned back to the tap and his other customers. Pearl stood at the door, watching me curiously, then exited. I hurried out after her into the twilit street.
Tabitha—Soldiers, Sallys, and Hallelujah Lasses(Friday, September 7, 1888)
“Where to now?” I asked Pearl.
She hesitated. “Downtown,” she said. “Let’s take Chrystie down as far as Canal and see what we find, then make our way back to base for supper. Preaching all the way.”
I groaned inwardly but said nothing.
Pearl invited everyone we passed on the street. She urged them to visit our Hallelujah Spree. She offered themThe War Cry. People laughed or ducked down and pretended not to see us. Some heckled and jeered. She tried the ballyman stationed in front of one of our dozens of dime museums, this one promising a preserved mermaid, but he waved her away. She even tried her luck on a teenage girl in pigtail braids who stopped to ask us for directions.
“Pardon me,” the girl said, “can you point me toward Spring Street?”
“We’re soldiers in the Lord’s army of salvation,” Pearl told her proudly. “Would you support our cause by buying a copy ofThe War Cry, our news bulletin? It’s only a penny.”
I cringed. Not now, Pearl!
The poor girl looked stricken. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I used up my money to get here, and then the fare on the Elevated…”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “There’s no need to buy a paper.”
Pearl scowled.
The girl thought the scowl was for her. She backed away. “I… can find my own way.”
“No, don’t,” I told her. “We can help.” I couldn’t direct her myself, so I cast a pointed glance at Pearl, who rolled her eyes as though this were the absolute last straw.
“Back up to Delancey,” Pearl told her tersely, gesturing up Chrystie, the way we’d come. “Take a left, then a quick right onto Bowery, and Spring Street will be your next left.”
“Thank you.” The girl took off up Chrystie with her little suitcase swinging at her side.
Pearl chafed. “What a waste of time. Think of all the passersby we didn’t invite.”
I thought of them, all right. They were the lucky ones.
It was now the hour when the last waves of working men and women tramped home, when the odor of boiled cabbage rivaled the ever-present smell of beer. A steely sky overhung the city, and not just from coal smoke. Saloons blazed with electric light, while from their upper rooms, red lampshades cast a lurid glow down upon the pavement. On side streets, kerosene lamps lit tenement windows. Everywhere except on Hester Street, where candles gleamed. This, Pearl had explained earlier, was a largely Jewish neighborhood. The sun had not quite yet set, so the Jewish Sabbath was about to start. The sense of expectancy was tangible.
Some passerby made a crack about a “pair of Sallys.” This gave Pearl a new vent for her anger. Other than me, I mean.
“?‘Sallys,’?” she muttered. “I hate it when they call us that. We’resoldiers.”
“It’s not as bad,” I reminded her, “as ‘Hallelujah Lasses.’?”
She directed a sideways glance my way. “You know, for someone so reluctant to enter that pub,” she said, “you certainly had a hard time tearing yourself away from the bar.”
