In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,57

think I’d ever have agreed if I hadn’t just been fired. But that doesn’t matter now.”

She went on to outline their short history together, giving dates and places as best she could remember. Michael Fromley had behaved the perfect gentleman their first several dates, squiring her sometimes to uptown dinners and shows, other times to downtown clubs. One evening, early on, he had been drunk and slapped her when she refused to invite him up after such an evening. She wished she had heeded that warning. But after ignoring his apologies for a week, she had agreed to see him once more; she went out with him to the Fortune Club on Saturday the twenty-first, as we had learned from Izzy. It was that same evening that Fromley had put knock-out drops in her drink, taken her to a deserted river warehouse, and brutally assaulted her. When she regained consciousness, he was gone; she made her way back home, where for the past two weeks she had subsisted more or less in the state we found her.

The man she described was mercurial. Sometimes he flashed large sums of money and was in a wonderful mood; other times he was broke and easily angered. But when he had money, he spent it on entertainment at the city’s seedier restaurants and barrooms, not its finer establishments. Large portions of each evening’s cost were for alcohol. “I knew he was too fond of the liquor,” she said mournfully, “I just didn’t know his problems went so far beyond that.”

Before we left, we obtained a list of each place she recalled Fromley had taken her in the past month. She had been under the impression he was a regular customer at three or four of the restaurants, so we would visit those first.

In parting, I let her know we would send a nurse by. “I’m telling you so you’ll know to expect her, and not be frightened,” I said. “It will be no expense to you—it is the least we can do to thank you for talking with us. And it looks like you’ve a broken arm that needs to be set.”

She continued to protest, even as we shut the door behind us.

We stayed on Twenty-eighth Street, crossing the stretch between Broadway and Sixth Avenue that was home to most music publishers. Isabella and I did not talk; it would have been impossible to hear each other, anyway, over the cacophony of sound. Each music publisher employed song pluggers to advertise their newest offerings—sometimes even on the sidewalk outside. We had just passed Paul Dresser’s Publishing when my attention was distracted by a singer and piano player performing a catchy ragtime riff. I had no warning before I was tackled, sent sprawling to the ground by a man who came at me from behind.

I landed—hard—on my bad right arm, gasping in agony as pain shot up into my shoulder.

My attacker was all hands, one moment reaching for my leather satchel, the next trying to gouge my eyes. I wrenched my head away and saw Isabella had been knocked down, but was mercifully alone. We had only one attacker—the one on my back, pinning me to the sidewalk. Then I tasted something salty I knew to be blood. Before I could succumb to my usual weakness, pure instinct kicked in. I elbowed and kicked with all my might, my bum right arm useless for anything other than maintaining an iron grip on my bag. He continued to pummel my ribs to force me to let go of it. Through gut-wrenching pain, I focused on elbowing the man, dimly aware of Isabella screaming for help as I struggled to fight against the rain of blows.

Help came in the form of the two ragtime song pluggers. The singer, a large African man, lifted my attacker from me with an ease that I envied. His partner, a wizened older man, occupied himself with helping Isabella before he joined the singer in pinning the assailant to the wall.

I got up and went over to Isabella. Apart from the dirt stains on her coat, I saw no obvious injuries. She seemed shaken, but otherwise all right. “You’re not hurt?” I asked.

With a brave smile, she answered, “I’m fine. Thank you—both of you.” The latter was directed toward our rescuers.

I took stock of my own injuries. The whole incident had lasted no more than a minute or two, but my assailant had landed several key punches. I had scratches on my