“So that’s Henry Ford,” Phil said. “I’ve heard a lot about him, and he wants you to work for him.”
“I did once,” Peter said. “I punched the foreman out and got fired.” He grinned rashly and winked at Jolie. “That’s when I hit the rails and ran into Jolie and Easy here. We were all hobos together, weren’t we?”
Jolie smiled and said to Phil, “You wouldn’t believe what happened. I shot a man who was trying to throw Peter and Easy out of the boxcar.”
Startled, Phil stared at the young woman who was beautiful despite the scar on her face. “Well, I’ll have to be careful and mind my manners if you tote a gun.”
“Oh, I don’t do that anymore,” Jolie said. “We’re all going to get rich with the Jolie Blonde here.” She laid her hand fondly on Peter Winslow’s arm, and he grinned down at her.
They wandered for some time through the vast selection of cars on display. They were speaking together about race cars when a young man standing close by evidently overheard their conversation.
“Excuse me. Are you in the racing-car business?”
“Trying to be,” Peter said. He gave the man his name and said, “We’re in a race next Saturday. Do you race?”
“No. I wish I did, though. My name’s Clinton Lanier.” After introductions were made, Peter asked, “What do you do, Clinton?”
“Why, I work in my father’s brokerage house.”
“Oh, a stockbroker! That sounds like a good life!” Jolie exclaimed.
“Good? It’s terrible! I go to the same old office every day.”
Jolie studied the young man, who was not over five ten but trim and well built. There was an air of money about him, something she had learned to discern long ago. “Why don’t you buy a race car and get into the swim yourself?” she asked.
“I’d like to, Miss Devorak, but my father—well, he doesn’t quite see things my way.”
“Well, that may be, but if you’d like to see the car that’s going to beat them all, you’ll have to drop in at the race next Saturday. It’s going to be a good one. People are coming from all over, but I think we can win. Don’t you reckon, Easy?”
Easy Devlin was rather gloomy as he replied, “I don’t know, Peter. It’s going to be hard—some stiff competition out there.”
Clinton was intrigued by his new acquaintances. He walked around with them at their invitation and fell into conversation with Phil. He found it fascinating that Phil was a cowboy and was going to be an artist.
“I guess I admire you a lot, Phil—giving up your family business to do what you really want to do.”
“Sometimes I think I’m the world’s biggest fool,” Phil shrugged. “But I’ve got to give it a try, or I’ll never forgive myself when I get old.”
Phil’s answer seemed to trouble Clinton, and he said little for a while. When it was time to leave, he said, “Can I give you a lift, Phil?”
“Why, sure.” They said good-bye to the others, and Phil got into Clinton’s horse-drawn buggy parked a block from Madison Square Garden. “I figured you’d have an automobile,” he said.
“Father thinks they’re a fad. He’s wrong about that.”
Phil gave directions to his boardinghouse and listened as Clinton spoke with great enthusiasm about cars. Finally, Phil said, “You know a great deal about cars. Did you ever have one?”
“No. Father wouldn’t stand for that, but I have a friend who has one. We’ve taken it apart a dozen times. It’s about the only hobby I have, and I can’t say anything at home about it. Father would burst a blood vessel.”
It was dark when they reached the old brownstone on Nassau Street, and Clinton halted the horse and pulled the buggy to a stop.
They got out and walked toward the steps, still speaking eagerly about automobiles. Both men were startled when out of the shadows a rough voice broke into their conversation.
“Hold it right there, you two! Let’s have your money and there’ll be no trouble!”
Phil turned cold and wheeled to face the three men who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Their faces were invisible in the gloom, but he saw at once that two of them carried knives, and one had a stout club about two feet long in his hand.
The leader, the largest of the trio, held out his knife, then put out his free hand. “Just put your money in there, and you gents can go on. No trouble now, is it?”
Clinton said at once, “Do as he says, Phil. We don’t need to get killed over money.”
Clinton had no qualms about forking over what money he carried to avoid trouble, for he had plenty more. But Phil’s entire bankroll was in his pocket, and he had no intention of giving it up to some roughnecks. He planted his legs firmly and held his hands slightly out from his sides, saying, “You fellows move along. You won’t get a dime from us.”
A laugh came from the three as they made a half circle around the two men. One of them, a tall man with a derby pulled down over his face, waved his club in the air and said, “I’ll bust your face in! What would that get you?”
Phil did not like to fight, but now he saw there was no way out. Without warning he suddenly moved forward, twisting his body to one side, and his right leg came up with a tremendous kick that caught the bulkiest of the men right in the face. It drove him backward, and he dropped his knife.
Clinton could scarcely believe what he had just seen. In the darkness Phil had moved swiftly and then the man with the knife had been suddenly driven back. Clinton had no time to think more because the thin man with the club suddenly leaped forward and brought it down with a thud on his head. Clinton tried to get his hands up and catch the first blow, but the second struck him on the side of the skull and knocked him to the ground, unconscious.
Phil turned to face the other two, who advanced toward him, and once again his foot lashed out and caught the man with the club in the lower part of his stomach. The man fell to the ground and curled up and screamed, holding himself in a fetal position.
The third man, shocked and astonished by seeing his two friends so easily overcome, still held the knife in his hand. Phil advanced toward him and threatened, “I’ll break your neck if you don’t get out of here! Which will it be?”
For one moment Phil thought the man might try to attack him, but the hooligan took one look at his two friends, then swirled and scurried away into the darkness. Phil retrieved the knife that lay on the ground from the first assailant, folded it, and stuck it into his pocket. Taking the club, he jerked the thin man to his feet and said, “Do you want the police to lock you up or do you want to run?” He shoved him backward, and this man, too, disappeared. The large man scrambled to his feet, a bewildered look on his face, as if he could not understand what had happened, and then he also turned and lumbered away.
Phil tossed the club down and knelt beside Clinton. “Are you all right, Clinton?” he asked with concern. He pulled the young man up and saw that his eyes were fluttering. “Come on. I’ll get you to a doctor.” He half picked up Clinton and got him in the buggy, and when Phil climbed into the driver’s seat, the injured man slumped over against him.
“What’s your address, your home?” Phil asked.
“Two . . . twenty . . . Essex Street . . . that way,” Clinton pointed with difficulty.
Phil drove the buggy at a fast clip, wondering if he should go first to a hospital, but he did not know where one was. Besides, the young man’s family needed to know. He had to ask directions from Clinton twice more, but finally he pulled up in front of an imposing and elegant townhouse. He wrapped the lines carefully, jumped out, then ran over to pull Clinton out of the buggy. The young man was unconscious again, so Phil slung him over his shoulder and walked up the steps. He rang the door and stood there fidgeting impatiently until finally a woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. Recognizing Clinton, she uttered a short scream.
“He’s been hurt,” Phil said. “I need to put him in bed.”
The young woman scurried about frantically, then ordered, “Come this way,
please!”
Phil followed the maid to a room on the second floor. By the time he had laid the young man down, the room had filled with people. There was another young man called Benjamin, a young woman called Mary Ann, and an older couple, who Phil soon learned were Clinton’s parents, Oliver and Alice Lanier. He quickly introduced himself and explained what had happened.
Oliver looked at Phil suspiciously, then demanded, “What was he doing in that part of town?”
“Mr. Lanier, I expect you’ll have to let him tell you when he comes around.”
Fifty-year-old Alice Lanier, wrapped in a soft gray robe, stood by the side of the bed where Phil had laid Clinton. Her mild blue eyes were troubled, but she did turn to Phil and say, “Thank you so much for taking care of Clinton.”
Oliver said briskly, “I’ll send for a doctor at once.”
Phil would have left, but he was detained by Benjamin, who drew him to one side. “My sister Cara would like to know about this. Do you have time to see her?”
“I suppose so.”
He followed young Lanier into another bedroom farther down the hall, where he found a woman about his own age standing in the middle of the floor. She was wearing a light blue dress with black lace trim that buttoned from the high waist seam to the hem with a narrow flared skirt.
A look of anxiety crossed her face as she listened to her brother describe what was happening. Her voice was warm as she said, “We’re very much in your debt, sir.”
“Well, I did what I could. If he hadn’t given me a lift home, it would never have happened.”
“I’m going back to see how he is,” Benjamin said and left the two of them alone.
“Please sit down,” Cara said. “I want to hear all about it.” She sat down herself and listened as Phil explained. When he was finished relating the details of the attack, she said, “Please, Mr. Winslow, we can’t thank you properly tonight. Could I have your address?”
“It’s not really necessary.” He gave it, however, and studied the woman carefully. There was something strange about her. He found her attractive, but he thought, She looks like she’s been ill. I’ll have to ask Clinton about her later. He stood up then and said, “I’ll be going, but I think Clinton will be all right. It’s just a nasty bump on the head.”
Cara came forward and put her hand out. It was unusual for her, for she did not usually offer her hand to men she had only just met. Now she whispered again, “God bless you, Mr. Winslow. I thank the Lord that you were there.”
Phil held her hand, which was warm and softer than he would have expected for someone so thin. He hesitated a moment, then nodded and said, “I hope your brother’s feeling better soon. Good night, Miss Lanier.”
After he left, Cara went and sat down on the bed. Her heart was beating fast, and she was worried about Clinton. Something about the whole event had stirred her and she wondered what the young man who had brought her brother home was really like.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Don’t Be Afraid of Life. . . .”
By the middle of May, Peter and Easy had put in many long hours working on the Jolie Blonde. Always striving to find some way to coax another mile-per-hour out of the machine, the two rose early and worked sometimes until after dark. They interrupted themselves only to roam the city looking at other automobiles for new innovations, and twice they attended races to check out the competition. Neither of them had much money, so they cut expenses in every way possible, which meant living in a rather dilapidated boardinghouse and eating bologna sandwiches until the very sight of bologna sickened them both.
Late one Thursday afternoon the two were finishing a hard day’s work when Jolie came out, her face alight with an excited smile. Her enormous powder blue eyes sparkled, and she came up and grabbed Peter and gave him a hug, then did the same to Easy. “Guess what?” she said. “I’ve got a job!”
“What kind of a job?” Peter asked, smiling down at her fondly from his lanky height. “That looks like a job-hunting outfit you’ve got on.” Jolie smiled and struck a pose, showing off her high-collared white bodice and slightly flared moss green skirt with a matching jacket, cinched in with a dark green velvet belt.
“Do you like it?” Jolie turned and gave the skirt a spin, always pleased when Peter had a compliment for her.
“Shore we like it,” Easy said. “You’re prettier than a spotted hound pup trottin’ under a wagon.”
Jolie laughed aloud. Happy and excited to tell her good friends her news, she began to speak rapidly. “I had no idea what kind of a job I was looking for, but I went down to Broadway and looked at all of the theaters, and it just came to me that maybe my experience helping to make movies might open up something. So I just decided to start in asking for work.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Peter said, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “You might even have gotten a recommendation from some of the people back at the studios.”
“I did that.” Jolie grinned triumphantly. “Before we left I got them all to write letters of recommendation. I didn’t know what good they might do, but look how it all worked out. I landed myself a fine job.”
“Which one of the shows did you get hired on with?” Peter asked.
“It’s a play called The Warrens of Virginia. It’s all about the Civil War. I’ve got to tell you all about it.”
“Well, you can’t tell us here. Come on. I’ll buy you both a hamburger,” Peter offered.
“Not this time!” Jolie exclaimed. “We’re going to eat out at a fancy restaurant. My treat!”
“We can’t spend your money like that!” Easy protested.
“Yes we can! I’ll be making a good salary, and we deserve a celebration. Remember, we’re the Three Musketeers.”
Despite their protests, Jolie pestered them until they finally agreed. They went inside the house, washed, and put on their best clothes, which didn’t amount to a great deal. As soon as they were all ready, the three of them left to go to a restaurant to hear about Jolie’s new job.
“Where are we going?” Easy demanded. “I’m right particular about what I eat.” He grinned wryly. “Bein’ in Sing Sing for five years sorta whetted my appetite for good eatin’.” Whenever Easy mentioned his time spent in prison, a gloomy cloud seemed to darken his otherwise cheery outlook.
“I’m hungry for seafood,” Jolie stated. “We’re going to an oyster house.”
Jolie had done her homework in picking out a place to eat, for she took them to the fanciest of oyster houses—the grandiose Grand Terminal. It was set underground at the Grand Central Terminal. When they arrived, they were somewhat intimidated by the graceful art ceilings decorated in an elegant herringbone pattern. When Jolie saw the doubtful looks on the faces of her companions, she said, “Come on! We’ve got the money, and we’re as good as anybody else!”
The maitre d’ approached them with a rather suspicious look, but Jolie said boldly, “We’ll have the best table in the house.”
Something about the young woman’s confidence seemed to pacify the maitre d’. “Yes, madam. Please follow me.”
The three followed him and were soon seated at a table, menus in hand. A sparkling tile ceiling arched overhead, and all the tables were covered with immaculate white linen and set with shining silverware, glittering crystal glasses, and snowy linen napkins folded in elaborate shapes. A six-piece orchestra played softly in the background.
Easy looked around and muttered, “There wasn’t anything like this in Sing Sing!”
“There isn’t anything like this anywhere!” Jolie added as she stared at the beautiful table.
The three studied the menu, trying to choose from the many tempting offerings, including several varieties of seafood, game, salads, and every sort of wine, brandy, and ale.
“I’m going to have a lobster,” Jolie announced to her friends.
“I never could figure out how to eat those things,” Peter complained.
“I’ll show you how, but you get what
you want,” Jolie said.
When a waiter came to fill their water glasses and take their orders, Easy determined to eat a lobster for once in his life. While they waited, Easy looked around the restaurant and said, “Jolie, this sure is some fancy place. We’re gonna have to win a race with the Jolie Blonde to pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it, Easy. It’s my treat. Besides, I’ve got a decent job now,” she said as she laid her napkin across her lap.
When the waiter returned with their dinners, Easy stared at the large lobster set in front of him, then up at the waiter. “Why, it looks like a big bug!”
The waiter attempted to conceal a grin, then said, “It tastes a little better than that, sir. I assure you.”
Peter said, “Do we dare ask a blessing over that bug?”
“Sure. Go right ahead. If God made it, I guess I can eat it,” Easy replied.
The three bowed their heads, and Peter offered a quick prayer of thanks, then they began at once. The food was delicious, although Easy had much difficulty with his.
“How do you get at this thing?” he asked.
“I think you crack it with those pliers. The claws, anyway,” Peter offered.
Easy struggled gamely with his lobster’s claw, finally cracking it. “I must’ve been crazy to order something you had to get out of a suit of armor to eat. What’s this?”
“I think that’s drawn butter. You dip the meat in it before you eat it,” Jolie said. She had learned this by watching the group at the next table. As Easy tasted it, she asked, “Do you like it?”
“Well, not as good as barbecued goat, but it ain’t bad. Don’t reckon it will hurt me none if I can keep it down.”
Jolie and Peter laughed at Easy’s predicament, and the three friends sat there enjoying their meal. While the musicians continued to play, Jolie began explaining how she had gotten her job. “I went inside this theater and asked to see the manager. Well, I got the manager of the theater, but he didn’t help me any—he said I’d have to talk to the producer. When I tried to find him, I couldn’t. But I did meet one of the actors. He was the nicest man. His name was Cecil B. DeMille. He told me the producer was out of the country and asked if he could help. I told him all about working in the movie business out west and that I was in New York and needed a job. He seemed to think that I wanted to be an actress, but I told him that I could help with the costumes and with the prompting and things like that.”
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