Reform Candidate Promises Congressional Investigation. Above the caption was a grainy picture of Stanley Addison. Despite the stilted pose, the photographer had managed to capture the young lawyer's idealistic expression.
"What the--," Zeke said, snatching the paper closer.
"My story is on page five. What are you looking at?" Duffy crowded in closer. "Oh, that story Baxter did on Addison? Not bad. I mean Baxter's a nice enough fellow, but the editor always has to clean up his copy. I taught him all he knows."
Zeke ignored Duffy's chatter, concentrating on the article.
In an interview yesterday, Stanley Addison stated he has uncovered startling new facts in his investigation of slum conditions in the area known as Five Points.
"Deeds have come to light, revealing true ownership of a series of sweatshops, brothels and gambling houses on Grant Avenue," Addison informed this reporter. "I also now have definite proof that the illegal activities of these operations were financed by funds misappropriated from the City treasury and protected by payoffs to the police department."
Although Addison declined to name any names at this point, he hinted that his evidence would incriminate several government officials and some respected members of society as well. He declared that he would demand a special judicial committee be formed to examine his documents and hand down indictments.
Mr. Addison, who has declared his candidacy in the upcoming mayoral race-.
The rest of the article merely went on to discuss Addison's political aspirations and his legal background. Zeke skimmed through it and then crunched the paper in his hand.
"Why, that young jackass!"
"Who?" Duffy asked.
"Addison!" Zeke slapped the paper back down on the counter. Whatever had possessed the fool to go spouting off to a reporter before he had had his talk with Zeke? Addison was a good man, but an idealist, tending to get swept away. He hadn't yet learned that it was not wise to let your opponents see all your cards before you played them. True, he had been sensible enough to mention no names, but Charles Decker would know who was meant. Decker and his friends would have plenty of time to dive for their attorneys, start preparing a defense.
The more Zeke thought about Addison's folly, the more it angered him, and he swore.
"I don't see what was in that story to get you so mad," Duffy said. "I thought Addison was a friend of yours. You're backing his campaign, aren't you?"
"I'll be more likely to break his neck."
Duffy's eyes lit up with speculation, and his nose practically twitched, as though he were scenting a story here. Zeke could almost see the headlines chasing through Duffy's mind. Millionaire Backer Threatens Reform Candidate.
That was the last kind of press Addison needed. Zeke could see he had a problem here. The meeting between himself and Addison already promised to be heated enough without Duffy hanging about, all ears. He needed to be rid of the reporter before Addison arrived.
Yet Duffy was a shrewd fellow. Sending him off without arousing his suspicion would be difficult. Zeke attempted simply to turn a cold shoulder on the man, becoming taciturn, but Duffy was more persistent than a horsefly.
He badgered Zeke with questions about Addison and about Zeke's own background. Zeke's patience was wearing thin when help came from an unexpected corner.
Mulgrew snarled that if Duffy didn't cease pestering the hotel's customers, he'd summon a policeman. "I'll have you run in for loitering and panhandling drinks."
"Bah!" Duffy said. "If there was a law against that, half of Manhattan would be in jail."
But when Mulgrew made a menacing move to come round the bar, Duffy flung up one hand in defeat. "Ah, don't get riled. I'm going."
He tossed off the last of his beer and ambled toward the door. He paused on the threshold long enough to call back to Zeke. "See you around, Morrison. I'll get a good story out of you one of these days yet. You just see if I don't."
As the door closed behind Duffy, Mulgrew snatched up the empty mug and vigorously scrubbed the counter in front of the spot where Duffy had stood drinking.
"I always said this hotel should be more careful, only allow gentlemen into this bar," Mulgrew muttered.
"Then I wouldn't be able to come in," Zeke said.
"Oh, no, you're a gent all right, Mr. Morrison. I always say it takes more than fancy manners and blue blood to make a proper man."
Zeke looked away, pleased but a little embarrassed by the tribute. He took out his watch again. He was startled to see it was past five and still no sign of Addison. He expelled an exasperated sigh. It wouldn't surprise him in the least to discover that Addison had forgotten. When absorbed in preparing one of his legal briefs or writing a fiery speech, the man didn't even remember to eat unless that pretty wife of his took away his pen and put a fork in his hand.
Zeke resolved to give Addison another half hour and then he would wait no longer. As the minutes ticked by, he stared into his beer mug, letting the drink get warm as he became increasingly more morose.
This waiting was giving him too much time to think, and not about Addison. Much as he willed it to be otherwise, his thoughts kept returning to last night and Rory.
Like the true sprite that she was, her image popped into his mind—the fetching way her hair curled in tendrils about her cheeks, the rest forever a silken disarray, the saucy curve of her mouth, how bright her eyes were.
Was it possible to miss someone, to feel that you knew them so well after only one night? Zeke had never thought so before. But certain endearing habits of hers already seemed ingrained on his memory. The way she liked to hum with the music when she danced, her tomboyish manner of leaping down from the carriage without waiting for his arm, her obvious dislike of green peas, how she spread them about on her plate to make it look as though she had eaten more.
One minute she seemed such a girl, all wonder and delight, the next a woman, alluring him with the promise of passion. He still didn't understand about that kiss. There had been no resistance on her part. Far from it. The desire he had tasted upon her lips had all but driven him wild. It was a longing that went deeper than mere desire, some force that sent mad thoughts of "meeting his match" and "meant to be" tumbling through his brain.
He wasn't good enough at examining his own emotions to explain it any better than that. He only knew that she had wanted him as he wanted her. Then why had she run away?
Funny how much it all reminded him of an incident from his boyhood, a question that he had once asked his stepmother. He'd come home sporting a shiner. Mary Lou Grosvenor had slugged him for hugging her and stealing a kiss at the back of the school yard.
"What’d she want to go and hit me for?" he'd howled indignantly while his stepmother attempted to apply ice to his eye. "I know she likes me."
Sadie had chuckled. "Ah, Johnnie, you just can't go up to a girl and grab her like she was a sack of flour. You have to be gentle and woo her a little."
Woo her—it was a funny old-fashioned expression, but he had taken heed of Sadie's advice. He never had much luck with Mary Lou, but over the years he had learned a little more finesse with the ladies- a little dining, a little dancing, some sweet phrases whispered at just the right moment.
Then why had none of that seemed to work with Rory? Had he in the end waxed too hot with impatience, too blunt with his desires? He didn't know, but it didn’t matter. Even if he wanted to start all over again, and ‘woo’ her more gently, it wouldn't be so easy to find her. Like the fabled Cinderella, she had vanished, without leaving him so much as a slipper to track her down. Her balloon had been removed from his lawn sometime last night. He hadn't even thought to inquire what circus she had been flying for, and that newlywed couple he had put up at the Waldorf were likely already gone. No one was left even to ask about her.
Zeke expelled a heavy sigh and shoved his glass away.
"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Morrison?" Mulgrew asked,
"No, thanks." Zeke checked his watch. S
ix o'clock. He had waited for Addison long enough. Likely Zeke could track him down later on. Occasionally Addison did remember to go home to sleep.
Reaching into his coat pocket, Zeke pulled out his wallet. He drew forth enough to pay for his shot and leave a large tip for Mulgrew as well. As he did so, a slip of paper fluttered to the bar.
No, not a slip, a card. Zeke turned it over and read, Transcontinental Balloon Company.
Damnation! He was getting as forgetful as Addison. Suddenly he could see Rory so clearly handing him the card, himself tucking it away without another glance.
As Zeke left the hotel, all thoughts of calling upon Addison fled from his mind. Outside in the street, he summoned the nearest hansom and read off the warehouse address. Giving himself no time to reflect, he leaped inside the cab, astonished by the level of excitement coursing through his veins.
As the vehicle lurched forward, Zeke leaned back with a contented sigh, his lips curving into a slow grin. Maybe, just maybe the fates had offered him one more chance to lure Aurora Rose Kavanaugh back into his arms and into his bed. Cinderella hadn't left him a glass slipper, but she had gone one better.
She had left him her business card.
CHAPTER SEVEN
McCreedy Street had settled into a state of late Sunday afternoon somnolence. By the time Rory trudged down the steps from her second-story flat, shadows were already lengthening along the narrow street threading through rows of tightly packed brownstone buildings.
Nothing stirred on this quiet side street except an ancient buggy that creaked past and Miss Flanagan's overfed bulldog from across the way. When Rory opened the screen door, the cur set up a fearsome barking, and when Rory wheeled out her bicycle from where she stored it in the corridor, the dog went into an absolute frenzy, tugging on the chain keeping it affixed to a wrought-iron rail.
"Oh, be quiet, Finn MacCool," Rory muttered, maneuvering her bicycle down the stone steps to the pavement. Her head still throbbed from her revels of the night before, and the dog's yapping tore right through her.
Finn was Miss Flanagan's eyes and ears, alerting the nosy spinster to any movement in the neighborhood, so that she could peer past the lacy curtains adorning the tall windows of her first-story apartment. Not that it was necessary in this instance. The gangly woman was already perched on her front stoop, her long nose poked in Rory's direction.
"You missed mass this morning, Aurora Rose Kavanaugh," Miss Flanagan called out. "And you be preparing to ride that contraption of a Sunday. You’re paving the way to hell, me girl, that's certain sure."
"So I am," Rory shouted back over Finn's barking. "I went dancing with the devil last night."
The old lady gasped and crossed herself. Hiking up her skirts, Rory swung up onto her bike, her lips pursed in a grim smile. What would Miss Flanagan say if she told her the devil did not have horns and a pitchfork either? Only eyes as black as night, a grin as wicked as sin and a kiss that could fire a woman's blood hotter than any flames.
All that was best to keep that to herself. She had already shocked Miss Flanagan enough. The spinster huffed to her feet and stomped back into her house. Rory pedaled off, the sound of the bulldog's continued displeasure fading as she got farther down the street. She felt a little ashamed of herself. She usually made an effort to be polite to Miss Flanagan no matter how tiresome the woman could be.
But at the moment, Rory just wished the whole world would go away and leave her alone. She had danced all night and paid the price all day. By the time she had made her way home, the excitement of her escape from Zeke had faded, the miseries setting in. Queasy all afternoon, she had spent her day dozing on the sofa. Only an hour ago she had managed to choke down a little toast and some weak tea. A half hour later she had been able to dress. She had finally stirred herself to face the light of day, but the sun would be setting soon.
Disgraceful! She was never going to touch champagne again. Or Zeke Morrison either.
The thought caused Rory to pedal faster, as though the man were still in pursuit of her. She turned up Second Avenue, heading northward toward that part of the city where the warehouse of her balloon company was located.
As she cycled along, last night's events took on the aura of unreality. It was like some sort of strange dream. Had she really dined at Delmonico's, swayed to the music in the arms of a handsome stranger, been asked to become the mistress of a Fifth Avenue tycoon? She, Rory Kavanaugh, the hoyden of McCreedy Street?
It all seemed incredible in the light of day, back in her own part of New York. The streets she traversed were by no means part of Manhattan's notorious slum district, but it was a very workaday world all the same. Wash was strung along lines running between fire escapes; children played stickball on the pavement; plump housewives lingered on their front stoops, shelling peas for Sunday dinner; men with their hair slicked back into a holiday shine, wandered into the local corner saloon.
In such familiar, simple surroundings, it should have been easy to dismiss all thought of Zeke Morrison, to imagine the entire episode had never happened. Easy and utterly impossible.
Her mind kept replaying that moment when he had breathed kisses and promises against her hair. Anything you want, Aurora Rose, anything. It had not been the words themselves that had moved her, so much as the raw sincerity in his voice, the yearning that had touched some answering chord deep within her.
That combined with the headiness of his kiss, and Rory was ashamed to admit that she had been just the wee bit tempted to yield to his desires. It was fortunate that Zeke had also been impossibly arrogant, dismissing her balloon company as though it were a child's plaything. Otherwise she might have had more than missing mass to offer penance for at her next confession.
The best thing that she could do was just forget the man as surely as he must have forgotten her. Her fear that he would seek her out again now seemed absurd. A rich man like that, so handsome, so important. Lik¬ly he was already off on some other round of pleasure with his wealthy friends, such as that elegant Mrs. Van Hallsburg.
Instead of being relieved, the thought left her feeling as though her world had suddenly been deprived of all color and excitement. She tried to concentrate on her cycling instead, picking up the pace, steering round some horse droppings and taking care to avoid the path of an oncoming hansom cab.
She didn't usually cycle to the warehouse, which was many blocks away, the distance from her flat a little over two miles. But after being cooped up indoors for the better part of the day, she was grateful for the exercise. A soft breeze fanned her cheeks, and she could feel her color being restored.
The farther north she headed, the less pleasant became her surroundings. Snug brownstones disappeared, dilapidated tenements with broken windows taking their place. Between the close-packed buildings, Rory caught glimpses of the East River, its dank smell assaulting her nostrils like the odor of stale fish. Overhead the El thundered, the rushing trains spewing ashes and sparks, the tracks casting sinister shadows on the street below.
The warehouse was not located in the best of places, dockside areas not being the gentler side of New York. But it was safe enough to travel there in the daytime. Rory had learned to turn a blind eye to the increasing number of cheap saloons or those other tawdry establishments with heavy curtains at the window, frowsy young women lingering about the stoop.
"Er, boarding houses for seamstresses," her Da had always told her, rolling his eyes heavenward.
"Ha! Boarding houses for night chippies," Tony had whispered under his breath.
Whatever the case, Rory was prudent enough to suppress her curiosity about those brazen females. She always made purposefully for her warehouse and had never been bothered by any of the local denizens, except for a few occasional remarks.
Some of the lads who hung out at the billiard parlor across the street could never seem to resist shouting at her. Even on Sunday, there always were one or two who appeared to have nothing better to do than lean up again
st the lamppost, smoking and whistling at the girls.
As Rory wheeled her bicycle to a halt on the pavement and dismounted, one called across to her, "Hey, Rory! Purty ankles. Woo! Woo!"
Rory realized that she had forgotten to wear her gaiters again and had revealed too much when her skirts swirled upward. Her usual response would have been to shout back, "Aw, go chase yourself," but she felt in no mood for such banter today.
To the boy's obvious disappointment and confusion, she ignored him, groping in her pocket for the key to the side door. A large, weather-beaten structure, her warehouse was sandwiched in between a shoe factory and a textile merchant's receiving dock., The Transcontinental Balloon Company's wood frame showed evidence of rot. The sign her father had erected so proudly years before was chipped and faded, just like all of Da's dreams would be, if she didn't find a backer soon.
Rory thrust that depressing thought aside as she unlocked the door and wheeled her bicycle into the warehouse's gloomy interior. It was one vast chamber, three stories high, large enough to inflate a balloon inside to test it if need be. The small, grimy windows far overhead let in little light, so that the bales of silk, the boxes of iron filings and coils of rope were all little more than mysterious shadows.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Rory could make out the form of the wagon and hydrogen generator where Tony must have returned it the night before. The bag of the Katie Moira had been spread out to dry.
The sight of the deflated balloon weighed upon Rory's spirits. That and the unnatural silence of the vast, empty warehouse. It had been far different on other Sundays, when her Da had been alive. Then the warehouse had been all life and bustle, filled with her father's booming presence, readying the balloon, packing the wagon. That had always been their day on which they had bundled up the Katie Moira and taken her out into the country, launched the great balloon for no other reason than that the skies were blue, the clouds beckoning like distant white-capped mountains waiting to be conquered.
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