The second swallow from the new pint went down cool and quick. "You're a wicked girl, Sally."
She rubbed her full breasts against his arm, giving him an easy view of deep cleavage. "Wouldn't you like to know just how wicked, Max?" she said. "I'm off in another hour. Why don't you and me go over to your place? I think I can make you forget the red-haired hen."
He patted her work-worn hand that had suddenly found its way to his thigh. "You probably could, Sal, you probably could. And you're generous to offer, but I'm afraid tonight's not the night." He gently removed her hand. "I'm too much in my cups to do you justice, and you deserve much better. Maybe another time we'll have a go at it."
She slid out of the booth and gave him one last bold look that should have made him change his mind, but then, Max was not himself right now. "I'll hold you to that, Maxie," she said. "And I hope it's me you dream of tonight."
He watched the swing of her rounded derriere as she sauntered back to the bar. "You're even a bigger fool than I thought you were, Max Cassidy," he said. He looked down into the heavy glass mug in front of him and swirled the dark amber liquid against the sides. But it wasn't Irish ale he saw sparkling in the lantern light. It was a pair of bright emerald eyes. He tried to banish the image with another draw from the mug, but all he saw in his mind’s eye was the pretty fair face of Betsy Sheridan, and he knew who it was he'd dream of tonight.
Chapter Six
Cirillo's Funeral Parlor was still open at nearly midnight. To get to the elaborate gilded entrance, Ross had to maneuver around a variety of conveyances and dozens of citizens of all ages congregating in groups under the street lamps of Little Italy.
"What is it with the Italians?" Ross muttered to himself. "Don't they know they're supposed to be home in bed instead of out here chattering like magpies in the middle of the night?" The congested street was a sharp contrast to the subdued elegance of East Fifty-eighth Street and Park Avenue, where the Sheridan home was located.
Ross looked around nervously, trying to judge if he fit in the noisy crowd. He was dressed too nicely for this part of town and stuck out like a bleached stocking on a tenement clothesline. Any one of the rough-looking Italians was capable of filching his wallet, or worse, and he would be powerless to stop him.
He could even be killed, he supposed, and no one in his family would know to look for him here since he'd sneaked out without leaving word where he was going. At the time he'd been grateful his sister and father had been sleeping. Now he wasn't so sure. He'd have much preferred it if his appointment was on the more familiar Delancey Street. There, at least, Ross knew his way.
His confidence spiraled downward when he opened the door of the funeral parlor and stepped inside its oppressive black and red interior. While he waited for his eyes to adjust to light from the gas jets in the brass chandelier, he felt an eerie tingling in his spine. The only sounds he heard were mournful moans and pitiful weeping coming from a room to his left. He preferred the boisterous noise in the street.
He looked in a doorway where a corpse was plainly visible in a bronze and gilt coffin. The poor stiff must have been a popular fellow since he was attended by several women all wearing black and trying to outdo each other with groaning and wailing.
"Criminy," Ross mumbled. "I thought the Irish knew how to throw a wake. These Italians put the Irish to shame."
"S'cusa me, sir."
Ross spun around at the sound of the low voice and stared into the pale, mirthless face of a tall, rail-thin gentleman whose bearing and ramrod posture proclaimed him to be the funeral director. The man gestured to a spot some feet away from the viewing room. "I must ask you to leave this area, sir. We must not disturb the people in this room."
Ross cooperated, though he resisted the urge to point out that it would be impossible to disturb the guest of honor. Still, he had no desire to interfere with the dead man's send-off.
"Are you Ross Sheridan?" the funeral director asked once they were in a secluded alcove.
"Yes, that's right."
"Follow me, please. He's expecting you."
Ross hadn't thought the place could get any creepier, but he was wrong. He followed his spectral leader through a storeroom filled with an array of coffins ranging from simple pine boxes to caskets ornamented with elaborate brass ormolus. Ross swallowed the lump in his throat and prayed he wouldn’t need a box of his own by the end of his errand.
What a strange place for Mr. Galbotto to have an office, he thought, and then realized with a shudder that the thug might supply Cirillo’s with a lot of business. If that were the case, Ross supposed that the funeral parlor was actually a fitting location after all.
The director rapped on a heavy oaken door and was instructed to enter. He allowed Ross to precede him inside and then quickly retired, closing the door behind him. Ross was left in a dimly lit, but obviously well-appointed room with Frankie Galbotto and two other men. Mr. Galbotto was seated in a high-backed, heavily carved chair that looked like it had been imported from a medieval castle. He rested his large arms on top of a dark wood desk which could have served as a fortress for a smaller man.
The two olive-skinned guards, both muscle-bound and cemented to their places, flanked their boss. Their faces were expressionless. Their necks were so thick they weren't even visible in their starched collars.
Ross attempted to smile, producing only a lopsided facsimile of the real thing. "H...hello, Mr. Galbotto," he stammered, and inclined his head toward the other two men. "Got yourself a couple of contenders for the fight ring, eh?"
Frankie's thick dark moustache twitched under his broad nose. "As a matter of fact, I do, Sheridan. Nickie here's the heavy-weight champ of the Burroughs and Paulie is his sparring partner. Good fighters both of them."
"Must make you feel safe having these guys around."
Frankie tapped a stiletto style letter opener against the tooled leather desk top. "Especially when I'm called out for meetings late at night, Sheridan. I got a family, you know? I don't like meeting with business contacts on Friday night."
Galbotto hadn't offered Ross a seat, so he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I’m sorry about that, sir, and I appreciate you coming here. I'm going to make it worth your while, I promise you that."
"So talk."
Ross cleared his throat and swallowed the bile that had risen to the back of his mouth. "About that mess over at Dixie Lee's," he began. "You know I took the fall for that. I didn't tell anybody your name, and I never will. You can trust me."
Galbotto shrugged one shoulder, dismissing Ross' gallantry like he would scraps from his table.
"And I don't want anything for doing that," Ross added.
“You’re a true gentleman, Ross.” Galbotto started to stand. “Now I think I’ll leave my boys to entertain you so I can go home.”
Ross chuckled at what he hoped was a joke, but the sound was tinny. "Anyway, here’s the thing, Mr. G. If you feel like you owe me a favor, I know what you can do that will make us both a lot of money."
Galbotto settled back in his chair. The letter opener rested in his palm. "What's that, Ross?"
"I met this guy, and he knows about this mine. It's a sure thing..."
Once he'd gotten started, the story of the silver mine on Devil's Fork Mountain burst out of Ross's mouth like horses from the starting gate. He was careful not to give any names, knowing that even if he got Galbotto to believe in him, he still couldn't trust him. A man like Frankie could steal a silver mine as easily as he could rig a crap game and not think twice about it. Ross wasn't about to let the crook steal Dooley Blue.
When he was finished, Ross took a deep breath. "Well, what do you think, Mr. Galbotto? Will you back me on this? I'll give you fifty percent of my take."
Frankie leaned forward and placed both elbows on the desk. He regarded Ross with a piercing glare that caused the hairs on Ross's neck to stand on end. "First of all, Sheridan, I gotta know...do you really believe I owe you
a favor for that little mishap on Delancey?"
"Well, I spent a night in jail, and I've still got to face charges, and you're clean. Nobody's ever going to connect you with what happened..."
Galbotto slammed his fist onto the desk. The floor boards beneath Ross's feet began to quake. "I owe you nothing, you lousy punk!"
Ross shot back a step and was lucky to land upright. "I didn't mean..."
"You still owe me, you spineless maggot, or have you forgotten a little poker game from six weeks ago in which you plunked down a very serious IOU?"
"No, I haven't forgotten. That's why I did those jobs for you at Dixie's. Most of that debt's paid off."
"Yeah, and you still have two good arms and legs, don’t you? I say that makes us even."
The room had grown hot and sticky, which must have explained why Ross’s insides had suddenly turned to jelly. "Sure, we're square, Mr. Galbotto. And I appreciate it. That's why I'm cutting you in on this deal."
Frankie's eyes bored into Ross’s face, but he leaned back in his chair and at least pretended a pose of relaxation.
Ross took a normal breath. "I just need a little cash," he continued, "and I can go to Colorado and turn this deal into something really big."
Galbotto looked at first one, then the other of his two roughs. "Do you believe this guy?” Galbotto asked. The statues didn’t move. “How much is a little cash, Ross?" Galbotto asked.
"Ten thousand, maybe. No more than that. I have to pay a couple of fares out there and then we'll need supplies. Blasting powder, muckers maybe, dynamite. I won't know for sure until I get there. But I guarantee..."
“You can’t guarantee squat, Ross, but I kinda like the idea of investing in a silver mine.” Again he looked at his boys. “What do you think Paulie, Nick?”
One of the granite figures actually shrugged.
“That’s what I think, too,” Galbotto said.
Ross came toward the desk. “Great. Ten thousand. That’s all. I’ll leave...”
"Shut up. I'll give you three."
"But Mr. Galbotto..."
"Three thousand, punk, and only because I like you so much...and 'cause I know you won't cheat me. You'll bring me an assayer's report, won’t you, Ross? And I'll need to know just exactly how much tonnage you take out of that hill."
"Sure thing. No problem."
“And I want to know where you are, kid. I want telegrams, reports. There’s no hiding from me, you understand that?”
“Oh, sure. I know. Regular telegrams.”
Frankie jerked his head toward a door behind him. "Paulie, get the kid here three thousand dollars."
Ross took the cash Paulie offered him and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Galbotto," he said. "You won't be sorry."
"I'm never sorry, kid. No matter how things turn out, I always get some satisfaction. Even when people disappoint me, I find a way. Everybody always pays Frankie Galbotto, one way or the other." There was no mistaking the implied threat in Galbotto's words before his tone turned casual again. "When did you say you were leaving, kid?"
"Right away. I'll take tomorrow morning's Penn Central headed west."
"Good. Now go on, get out of here."
Ross did as he was told and snaked his way through the people still milling around the streets of Little Italy. That wasn't so bad, he told himself when he was safely in a cab taking him back uptown. He patted the lump in his breast pocket. Not bad at all.
In the storeroom behind Cirillo's Funeral Parlor, Paulie Borelli slid the toothpick he'd been chewing on from one side of his mouth to the other and looked down at his employer. "I don't get it, boss," he said. "Why'd you trust that two-bit hustler?"
Galbotto acknowledged Paulie’s question with a slight nod of his head. "What if he's just dumb lucky enough to be onto something? Those geniuses running the country in Washington are paying through the nose for silver right now. I'd like to see them stuff a few grand in my pocket.
“And think about this. If Ross Sheridan is as big a failure as I think he is, he's still worth a hell of a lot to us. His papa would pay more than any lousy three grand to get his only son back...if it comes to that." Frankie smiled. "Go pack your bags, boys. You're taking a little trip west. It never hurts to watch where the money goes. Don't get too close, though, understand? Don't let Sheridan see you. Keep me posted on the punk’s activities. I’ll let you know what to do when the time is right.
Elizabeth was wide awake at seven thirty Saturday morning. She didn't know why she was so restless, but the urge to escape the stuffy atmosphere of her house was overwhelming. Maybe a walk in the park was just what she needed. And if she promised to buy breakfast later, she figured Ross would go with her. Not wanting to wake the rest of the household, she tiptoed to Ross's door and tapped lightly.
Nothing.
She knocked a little louder. "Ross! Are you in here?" She turned the knob and peeked inside. His bed had been slept in, but Ross wasn’t in it. Where could he be at this hour? she wondered, knowing it was not like her brother to open his eyes before mid-morning.
She stepped into the room and looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until she saw the envelope on his pillow. It was addressed to her. "Now what have you done?" she said, while raising the flap and pulling out the message.
Dear Lizzie,
I know you'll understand why I've gone, since there is
as much adventure in your soul as in mine (well, almost
anyway!) I'm off to Colorado, with Dooley.
We're taking the Saturday morning train west. I found a sponsor who's willing to finance the expedition, so you don't have to worry that I've robbed a bank...ha, ha.
Do me a favor and smooth things over with Father. I know
you can do it. My exploits don't sound nearly so wicked
coming from your sweet lips.
Wish me luck, dear Liz. I'll come home a rich man. I wish you were with us.
Love, Ross
He wouldn’t do this! Elizabeth dropped her hand to her side and crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Why didn't he tell me? She had no reason to doubt that Ross had left, but because she felt a need to do something, she flung open the doors to his wardrobe. His suitcase was missing from the top shelf, and several articles of clothing were gone from the rod.
There wasn't time to analyze all her feelings. She was disappointed. She felt left out, discarded. But one emotion stood out above all others. She was angry. Ross was having the adventure they had planned together, well, almost planned, and he hadn't even bothered to tell her he was leaving. Well, he wasn't going to get away with it. An idea formulated in Elizabeth's mind. There was no time to waste.
She sat at Ross's desk and pulled paper and pen from the drawer. She wrote hastily. Dearest Papa...It seems that your children are about to disappoint you once again. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive us...
She stuffed the short note into an envelope and carried it to her room, then dragged her bags from her cupboard and tossed clothes into them. Donning a forest green traveling suit in record time, she gave her hair a quick brushing and pinned on a hat. She grimaced into the mirror at the less than satisfactory results of her grooming, then picked up her bags and crept silently down the stairs.
After leaving the message for her father over the fireplace, Elizabeth left by the front door. Her first stop was the bank. She needed part of her trust fund to pay her fare west. If she were lucky finding a cab, she'd be at a teller’s window in a few minutes, and from there it was just a short walk to the train station.
The incessant knocking seemed to be coming from far away. Max groaned and rolled over, taking his pillow with him. Still the sound penetrated the goosedown, slicing through his muddled brain cells with sharp stabs. He opened one eye and peered at the clock by his bed. Little hand on the seven, big hand on the six. Holy Mother. What manner of torturer bangs on a man's door at seven thirty on a Saturday morning?
"Go away!" he barke
d.
"Cassidy, open this door!"
He made a halfhearted attempt to recognize the voice, but the shape he was in, he'd be lucky to recognize his own. He squinted at the door as if it would give him a clue as to who was on the other side.
"Open up, Max!" There was the voice again, shrill, insistent, male, and now vaguely familiar.
His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his eyes refused to bring any object in his room into focus. What the hell was wrong with him? He tossed the pillow to the floor and placed his palm against his forehead. "Oh, now I remember," he moaned. "Go away, I'm sick!" he called to his heartless visitor.
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