North River by Pete Hamill

pedaled the bike to the pier. In a dark corner Knocko had placed some longshoremen around the woman, holding blankets to shield her from the inspection of strangers. She was young, pale, beautiful, and semiconscious. She had just arrived alone in steerage from Ireland and was having a miscarriage. Molly.
    “A guy named Jackie Spillane called,” Monique said. “About steam heat.”
    Knocko had made the call. Again.
    “I’ll call him later,” Delaney said. Then: “Where’s the boy?”
    “Rose took him with her, food shopping.”
    He held up the paper sack.
    “I brought him a few things.” He passed the sack to her, and Monique peered inside and smiled.
    “Aw, that’s great. He needs something to play with, that boy.” She handed the sack back to him. “I found those American Express addresses for you too. Barcelona, Madrid, Paris.”
    “Just address the envelopes, and I’ll mail them later. I still have to write the notes.”
    He paused again, then nodded toward the door to the waiting room.
    “Is that child alive out there?” he whispered.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “The baby started bleeding from the nose and mouth last night. I tried to get the mother to go to the hospital. She said, ‘Absolutely not. I want this girl to live.’ ”
    “Send her in first. Get the quinine ready for Brannigan, no charge. And what’s ailing Princess Wilson?”
    “She wants her husband back.”
    “I can’t help her with that. He’s been dead six years now.”
    “She thinks you can bring him back.”
    Delaney sighed. He noticed that Monique was chewing the inside of her mouth.
    “You okay?”
    “Yeah. No. Ah, hell, Doc, it’s the usual. We got bills here, a slew of them, and when Rose gets back with the kid, they’ll be worse.”
    “Hold on.”
    He went into his office and closed the door behind him. He turned the dial on the small safe, found the envelope, and removed a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He creased it and then went out and handed it to Monique.
    “Change this somewhere. Not the bank. Pay some of the bills. And send in the woman with the baby.”
    Monique stared at the hundred-dollar bill.
    “You rob a bank?”
    “Sort of.”
    The woman’s name was Bridget Smyth, “with a
y.
” She was nineteen, unmarried, and her baby girl was seven weeks old. She was also dead. He looked at the dead girl on his examination table, and his eyes wandered to the browning photograph of John McGraw and Big Jim. The woman sobbed.
Touch her, for Chrissakes. Her baby is dead.
    He gently touched her bony forearm but didn’t speak. She did.
    “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
    “Yes,” Delaney said. “Pneumonia.”
    She lifted the dead infant and hugged her close and began to bawl. No words came from her, just the wracking wail of grief.
    Delaney put an arm around her and held her tight and the door opened and Monique came in. He nodded at her, and Monique came over and eased him aside. She put an arm on her shoulder, whispering, trying to move her to the outer room.
    Bridget Smyth snapped.
    “Don’t give me that effin’ rubbish! She’s dead! And there’s no effin’ food at me room and no effin’ water, ’cause the pipes is froze, and no effin’ heat, and her father is an effin’ eejit, gone off some effin’ place!” She bawled wordlessly, Monique holding her tight, Delaney caressing her bony arm. With his right hand.
    “I’ll call someone at Sacred Heart,” Monique whispered. “Get a priest to help —”
    “A
priest?
Never! I went to them and they turned me away. I
sinned,
I must
pay!
”
    Her eyes were wide now, and mad. She looked at them and held the child fiercely and then rushed the door. Delaney moved in front of her.
    “Out of me way!”
    “I won’t let you go this way,” Delaney said, trying to sound both gentle and commanding. “We’ve got to arrange a proper burial. Wait. Just wait. We’ll —”
    “I know where to have the proper effin’ burial! The two of us, together! In the