"I don't believe you, Cassidy, but you sure as hell will be sick if you lose your job!"
Max leaned up on one elbow and tried to concentrate. "Mr. Kritsky, is that you?"
"Of course it's me. Now get your arse out of bed and open this door! I don't have all day, and you don't have an hour!"
Despite the warning not making any sense, Max dragged himself to a standing position and slunk to the door. Why would the editor of the Gazette be paying a visit on a Saturday morning, especially the first Saturday Max had had off in weeks? Oh, no, this wasn't a good omen for his day of rest. He opened the door and peered at his boss. "What are you doing here, Mr. Kritsky?"
The stocky man brushed right past Max and strode to the center of the room. Max didn't even think about stopping him. Kritsky was thirty years older than Max and several inches shorter. His loose jowls, drooping cheeks and nearly bald pate might make a person think that Gus was past his prime, but Max knew better. If the Gazette editor couldn't threaten you with the power of his muscles, he would cower you with the strength of his presence. Max respected him.
"I've got an assignment for you, Cassidy."
"But it's Saturday, my day off," Max protested.
"You don't get to be a top reporter by watching a calendar. I should think you'd know that. Days of the week mean nothing in this business. The news doesn't happen according to any man's schedule."
"Well, no, sir, but isn't there anyone else who could take this assignment?" Max pressed his knuckles against his pounding temples. "I really need this day, Mr. Kritsky."
"What, to sleep? You can rest when you're old like me. Now's the time to make hay. You want your name to be a household word, don't you?" He didn't wait for the obvious answer. "And, since you asked, well, yes, there's a dozen fellas I could put on this job, but I like you Max, so you're it. Instead of belly-aching, you should look at this as your lucky day."
Resigned to the inevitable, Max sat down in the nearest chair. "I appreciate that, sir, I guess. So what is this assignment?"
"Pack your bags. You're taking a trip."
"Today? Where?"
Gus pulled up a kitchen chair and lowered himself into it. "Here's the story. One of my sources was down in Little Italy last night, and it's a good thing he was. He was hanging around a back window of Cirillo's Funeral Parlor and just happened to catch part of a conversation between none other than Frankie Galbotto and some poor fish he had dangling from his hook."
Gus interrupted his own story with a chuckle of pure pleasure. "You're gonna love this, Max. It seems Mr. Galbotto has decided to invest in a silver mine in Colorado. Can you believe that?"
All the tiredness was shocked from Max's body. He sat up straight, suddenly alert and anxious to hear more. Any news about Frankie Galbotto interested Max. "A silver mine?" he repeated.
"Yeah, that's rich, isn't it? Galbotto gave this dumb cluck three thousand dollars to go digging around some mountain. Now you and I both know, Max, that those mountains are played out. The chances of finding silver are pretty slim, so it makes you wonder why a guy like Frankie would do such a stupid thing. Frankie’s a lot of things, but stupid ain’t one of them."
"No, sir,” Max said. “Frankie isn’t stupid. “Do you know who he gave the money to?”
Gus laughed out loud. “You’re going to love this, Cassidy.”
“So tell me, Mr. Kritsky.”
"Winnie Sheridan's no-account son!" Gus stood and paced in Max’s small room. "I tell you, Max, I feel like this story just fell from heaven into my lap. If I were twenty years younger I'd follow this one myself, but I'm not, so you're the next best guy to do it. We get to catch Frankie Galbotto putting money into a sucker's bet, and I get a little personal revenge on Winston Sheridan at the same time. His son following a fool's trail that'll land him nothing but a crock of cow patties. I love it!"
Max felt sick again, but this time it had nothing to do with the Irish stout he'd consumed the night before. "Why do you suppose Frankie gave Sheridan the money, Mr. Kritsky?"
"Who the hell cares?” Kritsky hollered. “All I know is that if you put one wily fox in a room with a dumb bunny, there's no doubt which one's gonna come out on top. Galbotto's going to get his pound of flesh from the Sheridans somehow, and I can't wait to see how he'll do it. And I’m happy to watch Winnie Sheridan, that fat upper cruster who’s looked down on me for years, eat a big slice of humble pie."
Max put his elbows on his knees and bowed his head. At this moment all he could think about was Betsy and how it was her brother about to stick his neck out again. "I can't do this assignment, Mr. Kritsky," he said into his lap.
"What? Why the hell not?"
He raised his head and looked into his boss's eyes, hoping for sympathy. "I know something about the Sheridan family. It's hard to explain, but I'm connected to them in a small way. I can't be impartial."
"Even better!" Gus shouted. "Who wants you to be impartial anyway? It's a feature article, for crissake, Max. All I want is a bang-up story written in your perspective." He passed his hand in front of his eyes, creating an imaginary headline. "The Thug and the Chump...got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Gus poked his finger at Max's face. "This could be the story that makes Max Cassidy. The whole city'll be talking about this one."
"But Mr. Kritsky..."
"I won't take no for an answer. You're the best man I've got and the guy I want to go. Now pack your bags."
Max searched his foggy brain for another way to get out of this mess and came up empty.
Gus took a long envelope out of his pocket. "Here's your ticket and some extra cash. Your train leaves in one hour. Just promise me you'll watch your back, son. Galbotto can play a rough game."
Max took the envelope. This was a plum assignment. It had everything a promising reporter looked for. Intrigue. Danger. Travel. Just rewards. So he'd take the assignment. After all, Gus hadn't mentioned a woman, so Max was confident Betsy wasn't in on the deal. He knew how she felt about Frankie Galbotto. She wouldn't have anything to do with him or take one red cent from his hands. But Ross certainly would. His recent history was proof of that.
Besides, Betsy hated Max already, so what difference could it make if he followed up this story about her brother? And maybe, just maybe, the crazy kid would find some silver. And if not, then there was a chance Max could keep him from ending up dead like the Faraday brothers before him. Betsy would thank him then. If there was any truth at all to Dooley Blue's story, then there had already been too many murders on Devil's Fork Mountain.
When Max entered the train station nearly an hour later, he had no trouble locating the two major characters he’d come to find. How could anyone fail to notice a dapper, fair-haired, pale-skinned aristocrat cozying up to a bearded, tattered old deacon of dust?
He got as close as he could before darting behind a pillar in the lobby where he could watch Ross and Dooley without being seen. He knew Ross wouldn't recognize him since the two had never met, but the same was not true of Dooley Blue. No matter how confused the old guy might be on certain matters, he was sure to remember a man he'd met just yesterday, especially if that man had been brought to his attention as a possible backer of the Fair Day Mine.
Minutes later, a railroad official announced preliminary boarding of Penn Central's westbound express. The two men stuffed some papers they'd been studying into Ross's attaché case and proceeded to the loading platform outside. Immediately, two dark clad, olive-skinned men appeared from nowhere and exited the building as well. Max noticed them since they were only slightly smaller than gorillas and had equally simian muscular chests and upper arms.
He couldn't recall ever seeing the men with Galbotto, but their menacing appearance and close proximity to Ross Sheridan made him suspicious. He made a mental note to watch out for them on the trip west.
Max waited a few minutes more to be absolutely certain the other passengers had boarded the train. Then he stepped out from behind the pillar and
started toward the exit himself.
Suddenly a flash of bright colors, mostly green, whirled through the revolving entrance of the terminal. A slight figure, undeniably female, clutching a bulging valise in each hand, scurried across the lobby to the ticket window. A smart little hat, which matched the woman’s suit, rested on a mass of riotous red hair.
"Damn!" Max swore, looking for another hiding place. "What the devil is she doing here?"
But the answer was obvious. This trip west had attracted one more traveler.
Chapter Seven
A lobby bench was the only thing separating Max from Betsy Sheridan. He dropped to his knees and crawled under it, pretending to look for something on the floor. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself, but this was a bustling train terminal in midtown Manhattan. None of the preoccupied patrons was likely to help him search for the nonexistent item.
Through the wrought iron panels bolting the bench to the floor, Max could see the bottom of Betsy's skirt and the heels of her polished leather shoes. Her bags sat on the floor, one on each side of her. From the swish of her skirt and the persistent tapping of her toe, he could well imagine the conversation she was having with the ticket agent.
Max tilted his coach hat to the side to hide his face and stuck his head out from under the back of the bench to hear what she was saying. He hoped it would be a petulant response to learning tickets were no longer available.
"...but I prefer a Pullman sleeper, one with some privacy," she insisted. After a pause, she said in a resigned voice, "Well, if a berth is all that's available, I'll take it."
Drat the rotten luck! Max dropped his forehead to the cool marble of the floor and considered the disastrous consequences of Betsy being on the train. She must be determined to take this trip since she was settling for the accommodations of common folks. Winston Sheridan could probably buy and sell the Penn Central Railroad, and his only daughter was reduced to sleeping in a berth for the next five nights.
Even if Betsy managed to avoid the riff raff of ordinary travelers while she journeyed west, Max knew he would have a hard time steering clear of her all the way to Colorado. But that's exactly what he had to do. For five days he'd have to avoid bumping into her or Dooley Blue. That meant cautious trips to the lavatories and hardships procuring meals. He surely couldn't frequent the dining car.
He heard the snap of the latch on Betsy's reticule and the next second her hands grasped the handles of her valises. With a stride equal to her single-mindedness to get to Colorado, she breezed by his bench in a swish of green fabric and gold braid. He slid out from under the bench just in time to watch her exit the depot, her ticket clamped between her teeth. He grabbed his own scarred leather satchel and followed her out.
Max witnessed the reunion of brother and sister from the walkway connecting two passenger cars. Ross obviously had no idea Betsy was coming. Once he recovered from the shock of seeing her, his enthusiasm for having a loyal supporter grew. He bestowed enough charm on his sister to transform her initial anger into forgiveness. And apparently convinced her that everything about the adventure was on the up and up.
Max suspected that Betsy didn’t know how the expedition was being financed, or she wouldn't participate so eagerly. And judging from past experience, it would take a visit from Galbotto himself with a fistful of greenbacks held out to Ross for her to believe her brother had taken money from him to back their venture. If Max knew anything about Betsy, it was that she was a stubborn and opinionated woman. And her opinion of her brother was not based on reality.
Watching Betsy become the willing third member of fortune hunters was not easy for Max. He chewed the end of a pencil until it snapped off between his teeth. He couldn’t ignore just how much he disliked Betsy's brother. The sorry snake didn't deserve the blind adoration and unconditional support his sister seemed determined to shower upon him.
It rankled even more to realize that Betsy didn't extend any kindly sentiments to Max. She openly resented his efforts to protect her from her slithering sibling. And her disgust would only multiply if she were to see him on the train and discover his reason for being there. This assignment was turning into the most difficult one of Max's career, and he had to admit that perhaps he’d allowed his emotions to become involved. Regret, second guessing, worry. Emotions a reporter could not sustain. Along with perhaps another one, hard to define and even more devastating.
The day passed without incident, however, as Max was able to keep an eye on his subjects without being detected. From the rear of the passenger coach, he recorded snippets of their conversation overheard from behind the cover of an open newspaper. At dinnertime, while he ate a sandwich behind a post on a crowded loading dock in Harrisburg, he watched the Sheridan party eat in the luxury of the dining car.
Sleeping accommodations for the principal players had been assigned in different cars, and Max lost track of them when it was time to retire for the night. It was quite late when he located his own lower berth near the lavatory at the end of one car. He gratefully crawled onto the narrow mattress, drew the privacy curtain, and prepared for bed. Removing his pants, vest and shirt, and wearing only his long johns, Max propped himself against his pillow, turned up the gas in the single globed jet by his head, and reviewed his notes from the day.
He hadn't covered the first page when he noticed a pleasant fragrance in the passageway. He leaned toward the slit in his curtain and sniffed. Oh, no, the fates couldn't be this cruel, he thought as the light floral scent registered in his brain as not only alluring, but familiar.
The aroma lingered outside his curtain when a soft padding of footsteps stopped. Then the heavy canvas fabric covering his berth swayed slightly as his "berth mate" brushed it while climbing the outside ladder to the upper bed. She left the tantalizing fragrance in her wake to tease Max's senses in a most disturbing way.
He'd definitely noticed that Betsy Sheridan preferred that same scent. His rational side argued with the part of him that tensed with mounting anxiety. There had to be thousands of ladies in Manhattan who chose that cologne. What are the chances that the female perched above him was the one he was most intent upon avoiding?
A soft illumination spilled down into the narrow crack between her bunk and the train wall, and Max realized that the woman had lighted her own gas jet. A night owl, too, he mused with an indifferent shrug. Satisfied that he would not imagine trouble where none likely existed, Max settled back once again and turned his attention to his notes.
This time his work was interrupted by an innocent statement spoken in a light, conversational tone. "I hope my light doesn’t bother you.”
His eyebrows shot up and his gaze snapped to the upper berth as if he could somehow see through the panel of metal and mattress and confirm his worst suspicion. But he didn't have to see her to know. The Cassidy luck was running true to form. Yes, indeed. Betsy Sheridan was going to be sleeping not three feet above him for the next five agonizing nights.
He sensed her rolling and twisting. “These beds take some getting used to.”
A response seemed necessary so he uttered a monosyllabic answer. “Yup.”
"I always read at night,” she said softly. “But if my light bothers you, just say so and I'll turn it off."
"Hmm."
"Did you board in Manhattan?"
"Uh huh."
"I'm going all the way to Colorado. Are you going that far?"
He croaked, sputtered, avoiding a direct answer. He knew he must sound like an imbecile or at best someone who had been raised by wolves, but what was he to do? Why the hell did Betsy pick midnight on a speeding westbound train to illustrate her talkative side? Hadn’t anyone ever told her not to strike up conversations with perfect strangers? But then, remembering her general euphoria during this whole day, Max wasn't surprised that her cheerfulness encompassed even her "berth partner."
"By the way," she continued in her ebullient good humor, "should you need my attention, my name
is Miss Sheridan."
No kidding. "Oh."
"And you're Mr...?"
A name...she wants a name. For a man who dealt in names every day of his life, spelling them correctly, double checking their authenticity, often even chuckling over their absurdity, Max couldn’t come up with a single one. He frantically searched the cramped area around him looking for something he could use as a name. His gaze locked on the brass plaque tacked to the wall above his toes. Dream-Away Mobile Beds, Elkhart, Indiana. "Mr. Drea..." No, that was ridiculous.
"Mr. Dree?"
His face tightened into a self-punishing grimace.
"How unusual. What is it?"
How the blazes did he know? Could he possibly say, "It's Hoosier," and get away with it? Not likely. Finally, out of desperation, he barked in the same low voice he had used to answer her other questions, "Short."
Silver Dreams Page 9