Saints and Sinners (8 page)

“I’m sure you’ll think of some way.”
Another day, sweet Moira. Another day you can give me a bit of honest lovin’.
He climbed behind the wheel and retrieved her present. She accepted it with a smile.

Reilly climbed back inside the Playboy. He turned and regarded the first floor of the greengrocery. Inside the front window, a frail-appearing woman darted from his view. Such a respectable family. Not a spot of dirt anywhere on the sparkling window glass. The Monaghans were as clean as they came, but Moira’s mind held dirtier thoughts than she’d ever admit.

Reilly reached under his seat and extracted the whiskey flask stashed there. He unscrewed the cap and raised the steel container to his lips. One swallow of the bourbon brought him to his senses. He replaced the flask. No time for drunkenness. He needed to stay sober and concentrate on getting himself out from under his uncle’s influenc
e-
and getting Moira off Sullivan Street. Difficult though that might be, he’d manage.

He’d make sure Moira was right beside him afterward.

Chapter 6

“Moira? That you?” At the sound of her mother’s voice, Moira spun around. “Who’s that young man in the fancy rig?”

“A friend. Reilly Dunne. I met him the other night while working Janet’s shift at the club.”

Nola Monaghan arranged several dry-goods items on a shelf not far from where Moira stood. Her hands toiled but her mind no doubt conjured more questions for her youngest child. Even though she didn’t look at her daughter’s face, or the package Moira carried, the wise woman would no doubt continue to seek information about Reilly’s background.

“Where’s he live? You aren’t getting in with any of them liquor-lovin’ louts from down on McDougal are you?”

“No. He lives...” She had no idea where Reilly lived. Obviously not on the Lower East Side. Not from the way he dressed and the automobile he drove.

“You don’t know, do you, girl? Don’t tell me you’ve gone off and gotten yourself in with a gangster? If he isn’t a God-fearing man, then the Devil does his work inside such a body.”

Instead of lying, Moira clammed up and called out to her father as he emerged from the back room. “Hallo, Papa. Any apples today?”

“Plenty of beauties for my beauty. Come, have a look.” A smile as broad as all of Brooklyn appeared on his face. Such a special bond she shared with her father.

She placed her package on the steps and ran over to greet him properly. His plump whiskered cheek warmed her cold lips. Moira picked a shiny red fruit from the box beside him and polished it on her sleeve.

Don’t let him dwell on the package
. “We’ll have a special surprise for your supper tonight,” she promised and vanished before he got the truth from her.

“You don’t say,” he called after her. “Care to give me a hint?”

A mischievous man but still a saint in Moira’s eyes. She peered over the Newell post. How she loved the way his laughter creased the skin beside his bright-blue eyes whenever she teased him.

“Not today. Have to go upstairs to get things ready.” From the stairwell, she waved and waited until he turned his back to her. Then, with Reilly’s present clutched tightly against her chest, Moira headed for the small closet-sized space she called her own. At least she didn’t have to share it with a dozen other people like some she knew.

* * * *

Once in the room, she closed the door and sucked in a deep breath. Wrinkled sections of papering curled away from the wall. Poor Papa and Mama, they worked so hard.

She bit into the crisp apple. Sweet juice dripped from her lips and onto her sweater. Had Eve been this excited when biting the forbidden fruit for the first time? Moira pressed her lower belly. How good it felt when Reilly touched her there and tugged her curls. What might he have done had there not been that flimsy fabric separating her bareness from his hand?

A strange sensation shot through her fingers and loins. Wetness pooled in her drawers. However much she might want to dwell on shameless thoughts about Reilly Dunne, one thing prevented her—today’s sopping-wet laundry. At least with the weather being a bit warmer outside, the sheets wouldn’t be quite so stiff when she brought them in. She giggled. Reilly couldn’t claim the same. He stuck out like a hot poker.

From the hallway, she gathered the wicker basket filled with sheets and pillowcases. Water dripped down her arms as she separated the wet laundry. Floorboards creaked in protest as she reentered the room and crossed to opposite wall. With a sigh, she set the heavy basket down and plucked a splinter from her palm. Her fingers fumbled with the stubborn window catch, and she welcomed the rush of cool air as the window opened.

The family’s makeshift clothesline stretched between the greengrocery and the tenement building beside it. Several of the pins spilled from the linsey-woolsey bag, and she gave them more than a blessing in Irish.

“Hah,” came someone’s cry through the window. She straightened and stared out. Only one person laughed that way.

No one appeared at the open window directly across. Moira leaned out and looked down the airshaft. Wedged between the two buildings was a bathtub that used to belong to the Bertolucci’s. In a drunken fit, the elder Mr. Bertolucci, and one or two of his half-witted sons, tossed it out the window late one summer night last year.

Her mother disliked Italians and often worried about having to share living quarters with them. Nola Monaghan complained they were only after a good time. Moira grabbed the half-eaten apple off the windowsill and sank her teeth into its center.

“
Suchiare il mio gallo
, Moira.” Loud suckling sounds reached her ears. “Be careful or I might take a bite out of your soft bum one day.”

Curious as to the heckler’s identity, Moira looked in the direction of the tenement. Salvatore Bertolucci stood shirtless in front of his window. How she despised his crooked grin and teeth. Was he hung as well as his cousins were rumored to be? She shot him a nasty glance. As though reading her thoughts, the lusty Italian gripped his crotch.

She knew very little Italian profanity, but she’d heard that one many times from those loud mouths. What a filthy thing to say to someone. What made them think she’d want to put her mouth on their privates? Rather than encourage him by answering, Moira busied herself hanging up the linens.

“Come out in the sunshine, sweet Irish Rose and let me pluck your petals.” This voice was different. Moira looked up and noticed a taller figure. Guiseppe Bertolucci. He was her age and attended school for a short time before dropping out. Moira sniffed. She’d almost finished high school and could read better than most.

Giuseppe had a muscular build. Strong arms and broad shoulders. Those served him well in his job as an iceman. How anyone could haul those large blocks of ice up flight after flight of stairs amazed her. He thrust his hips forward just like he had on that fateful day. She shivered at the thought and with arousal of the time he’d sneaked up on her in the alleyway behind the buildings. She’d been fourteen at the time.

Wind whipped at her hair and face. She saw Guiseppe and turned to run. For some reason, her legs refused to carry her away.

Guiseppe’s greasy hair covered his collar. He stood with his back to her. At her approach, he turned to face her and fumbled with his fly.

Her stomach soured, and she tried to run. “Get back to your business. Let me alone.”

“Oh, I want to do anything but.”

Someone whistled and brought her back to reality. “Remember my Christmas present to you, Moira?” he called and began unbuttoning his drawers.

How filthy, he was. Filthy then and now. She closed her eyes to blot out the memory, but to no avail. Evidently unable to make it inside to a chamber pot that awful day, Guiseppe had pulled down his pants and watered the side of the tenement building instead. How his bare backside shone. Bare as the racks at Bainbridge’s after a sale. The coil of steam rising from the blocks. She’d lain awake all night thinking about his crudeness.

Moira opened her eyes and slammed the window down, narrowly missing her hand. How fast her heart pounded. The half-eaten apple rolled across the floorboards and landed near the toe of her shoe. In her anger, she’d split the remaining section into a ragged wedge. She picked it up, fully intent on discarding it, even though some fruit remained.

Shouts from beyond the window caught her attention. She couldn’t tolerate their teasing any longer. It was time they behaved in a civil manner.

She heaved the window open and stuck her upper body through the open space. Moira blinked in disbelief as Guiseppe’s bare backside lapped over the sill. All right, two could play this game. With all her might, Moira heaved the hunk of apple.

Splat
. The apple met with its target. Moira squealed.

Muttering what sounded like obscenities in Sicilian, Guiseppe rushed from view, rubbing his injured bottom. When she was certain they couldn’t hear her, she shouted, “
Dun do
bheal
.” Yes, may they shut their mouths today and always.

Overhead the flooring creaked. Hannah O’Brian’s baby was always colicky. Every day the young Irish woman paced back and forth upstairs while trying to silence the squalling infant. Every day she thanked Moira for helping to deliver the fairy-faced baby girl in August. That had been hottest day of the summer and sweltering to be sure. Probably a hundred degrees, or maybe more, in the shade. At this point, she surely knew how babies came into the world. What she wanted to learn more about was the connection between a man and woman that made this so.

Was it like a sweet, ripe plum on the end as Molly Brannigan claimed? Should she put it in her mouth and suck out the juice? Would the seed inside it sprout if she put the hardness between her legs?

* * * *

Moira managed only a few morsels of supper before she longed for the privacy of her room. In her haste earlier, she’d tossed the dress box on her bed and forgotten about it until now. Once the dishes were washed and dried, she headed upstairs to look at Reilly’s surprise. Her fingers tingled as she removed the lid and admired the lovely dress she’d wear to Reilly’s party. She ran her hands over chiffon fabric the color of a rabbit’s nose and shivered. How good this would feel against her bare body.

A matching pair of slippers, brocaded on the top and shot through with golden threads, rested against the corner of the box. As Moira flung the box onto the floor, something else spilled out along with the tissue wrapping.

She bent and picked up the book. Almost to the point of scalding her fingertips, the naughty item—and her naughtier notions—started a fire in her body that wouldn’t stop flaring.

Too bad it was Saturday and she wasn’t due back at The Continental Club until Tuesday night. To make matters worse, she wouldn’t see Reilly again until Monday.

Moira studied the gift. A woman lay naked on the cover, her body draped with a silken scarf like the ones used by Isadora Duncan. Her hands shook with excitement. Dare she open it up and discover the dirty secrets contained within?

Diary of a French Domestic.

Who cared about French culture? On the other hand, if the contents of this book might give her a clue as to how women attracted men, she longed to read further.

She flipped through the pages. Most of the book contained provocative pictures. Women displayed in the most scandalous poses imaginable. In one scene, a dark-looking man tickled a woman’s private folds with the corner of his handlebar moustache. In another, a harlot pressed a feather against her bare nipple.

Moira finished and returned to the picture she found most interesting. Posed on a settee, a pinch-faced woman sipped from a champagne glass while a man buried his face between her open legs.

No one must see her teasing treasure. She tucked it underneath her mattress. Despite the lack of heat in her room, her thighs clung together much as during a summer’s day. Time to take off these confining clothes.

Soon, her hand-knitted woolen sweater sailed through the air, followed by her skirt. She heaved a sigh of relief. Much better, but these skivvies have to join the rest.

Hot and bothered from the risqué romps she’d witnessed on the book’s pages, Moira shrugged the chemise’s straps down over her shoulders. Feeling wild as a gypsy, she clicked her fingers and whirled around in wild abandon.

Bare and tender to her touch, Moira’s breasts spilled over her hands. She squeezed them as Reilly might. Oh, to have his hands on her, touching her in all of those forbidden places. Nothing would feel better. Against the palms of her hands, her nipples poked. Closing her eyes, she imagined Reilly’s hot lips sucking the hard nubs.

“Yes. Suckle me, Reilly. I’ll hold you close to my heart that way.”

Only her chemise remained. Its bodice now rested against her belly and tickled every time she moved. She shucked the chemise off and twirled it over her head. As she peered through the partially opened curtains, an intense heat erupted between her legs. Her reflection caught on the window glass, and she thrilled at the sight. She wore the wild-eyed look of a petty thief caught in the act. Who cared? This was her room, and she’d run wild if she felt like it.

Sweat seeped from every pore in her body, and she walked over to the basin. Water, barely warm enough to wash with, splashed against the basin’s sides as she stirred her fingers in it. With each pass of the rough washcloth over her body, Moira imagined Reilly’s hands following the same wicked path. Frenzied by her fantasies, she spread her legs open and cupped the cloth against her tender privates. Her hand trembled, but she increased her efforts. The slick skin folds parted easily, allowing her access to the private place men supposedly loved most.