Silver Dreams (4 page)

She had no trouble locating him. In fact he almost bumped into her in the busy lobby. She might not have known who he was amidst the bustling activity of the
Gazette
headquarters, but she recognized his voice and turned toward it as he brushed past her.

In his hurry to exit the building, Max grabbed a young boy by the arm and thrust a folder of papers at him. "Get this up to copy right away, Sam, and check with Molly about the proofreading of my bit on the mayor's nephew. I'll be back by five o'clock."

"Yessir, Mr. Cassidy," the boy said and headed through a swinging door with Max's copy.

Elizabeth snaked her way among a noisy throng to reach the front door and follow Max out. He was already a half block away when she came outside. Holding on to her straw boater and hurrying toward him, she called, "Mr. Cassidy! Max Cassidy!"

He stopped and cocked his head as if trying to gauge the direction of her voice.

"Here, Mr. Cassidy, behind you!" She’d managed to catch up with him.

He spun around and faced her, but his eyes showed no evidence of recognition. But then why should he recognize her?  Three nights ago she'd been in an evening gown with her hair done in curls, and they'd met in a dimly lit carriage. Today she was dressed in a tailored navy linen skirt, matching vest, and white silk blouse. And her hair, which he'd called "gorgeous" then, was bound at her neck with a ribbon and fell in one hastily heated wave down her back.

Still, it rankled to see that vacant look in his eyes, especially when she suddenly realized she was staring at him in open-mouthed awe. In the light of day, Mr. Max Cassidy was undeniably handsome.

There was such energy about him that it seemed he might bolt at any moment. Elizabeth had the impression that if anyone expected to hold Cassidy's attention, he'd better talk fast and have something interesting to say. Otherwise Max would be off on more pressing concerns. He narrowed his eyes and studied her face. "Do I know you?" he finally asked.

"Well, yes, actually you do. We met the other night. I'm Eliz..."

"Betsy!" he shouted jubilantly. "From the Dorchester."  He grabbed her hand and pumped it. "How're you doing?"

"It's Eliz...oh well, never mind. I'm fine. I'd like to talk to you if I could." She held up her copy of the
Gazette
as if the paper gave her legitimacy for interrupting his day.

Max seemed pleased. "Somehow I didn't figure you for a reader, but in this business I’ve learned that you can never tell about people."

"I'm not really a reader. This is the first copy I've ever bought."

"Yeah?"  His deep blue eyes sparkled with interest. "What'd you think?  Did you see yourself in the article about the craps game?"

He could have knocked her over with a flick of his finger. She was in the article? Good heavens, what would her father think if he heard about this? "You mentioned me?"

"Sure."  He took the paper from her and turned to the correct page. "Here it is." He pointed to the end of the story. "It says right here that I was rescued from my pursuers by a female benefactor."

She should have been relieved by the anonymous reference, but all she felt was resentment at the obvious slight. "A female benefactor," she shot back. "That's all you could think to say?  I saved your life!"

"Well, you sure helped me. But I don't know if I'd go so far as to say you saved my life. If you hadn't been there, I'd probably have found another way."  He winked at her, just as he'd done the other night. "I can be slippery when I have to."

She bristled. Obviously Max Cassidy thought he was invincible. She tried to return to her reason for being there. "Mr. Cassidy..."

"Call me Max. After all, you did
almost
save my life."

"All right, Max. I want to talk to you about this story. There's something I don't understand."

"Have you had lunch?"

"Lunch?  No."

"Then that's where you can talk all you want."  He glanced at his watch. "I have about forty-five minutes, then I've got an important appointment on Delancey Street. You like Irish stew?"

"Well enough I guess."

"Good. I'm on my way to Flanagan's Tavern. Come with me, Betsy, and I'll buy you a bowl and a beer. It's the least I can do for my getaway girl."

Flanagan's was less than a block away. Voices from noontime patrons spilled out the open doorway to the crowded sidewalk. Tantalizing smells of spices and warm bread drifted in the air. Inside, at least half of the rowdy crowd seemed to know Max.

He took Elizabeth's elbow and guided her to a booth in the back. Along the way he waved to patrons who joked about the "red-headed hen" he'd brought with him. A buxom waitress in a flouncing skirt and apron greeted the customer she obviously knew well.       

When he and Elizabeth were seated across from each other, a man with long bushy sideburns and full beard approached their booth. He wore a snapped front cap pulled so low on his forehead, Elizabeth couldn’t see his eyes. The bulk of him would have made two of the more slightly-built Max. Ignoring Elizabeth for the moment, the man leaned over the table and spoke in a low, gravelly voice to Max.

"You’re not forgettin' about the fight tomorrow night, are you, Cassie?  I got that last bit of information you wanted. LaRosa's goin' down in the third."

"You can bet I won't forget about it," Max answered. "I'll be there with bells on my shirtsleeves. Still eight o'clock at the address off Morningside?"

The man nodded once and backed away into the crowd without another word. Elizabeth waited until he'd disappeared. "Who's that?" A part of her didn’t want to know since the man seemed unsavory, but mostly she was fascinated.

"I haven't the first notion what his name is," Max said. "He's a piper and a darn good one. Didn't you tell me you're a reporter?" 

She nodded.

"Then you know what a piper is."

"Of course," she answered too quickly. "Well, yes, sort of. He's a man who, who...what is it he does again?"

Max's lips slanted in a teasing grin. "He's part of the pipeline. You know, the way reporters get their information. He's one of the nameless contacts who make a living out of stooling. And Brawn there is one of the best."

"Brawn?"

"That's what I call him, for obvious reasons."

"What'll it be, sweetie?" The waitress had come to the booth and waited with her order pad in her hand. "Stew's the special."

Max leaned back, tossed his hat onto the bench beside him and gave the waitress a flirtatious look that made Elizabeth feel like an intruder. "Sally, my girl, why don't you save your breath and tell me when stew's
not
the special at Flanagan's."

She giggled. "So you're havin' it, right? And the lady?"

"We are, following the two drafts you'll bring us first...if there is a God, and you are, as I suspect, one of his angels."

The girl's large teeth shone through a ring of vibrant lip color. "Comin' right up, Max," she cooed, and Elizabeth immediately deduced that the waitress was hopelessly smitten with Cassidy.

When she'd gone, Max settled a penetrating gaze on Elizabeth. "So, Betsy Sheridan, what do you want to talk to me about?"

She folded her hands on top of the table. "I have questions about your story from Saturday night." He raised one eyebrow and waited. She clasped her hands more tightly and plunged ahead. "I don't feel that you handled the subject with the seriousness it deserved."

"Is that so? How do you mean?"

"The man you wrote about is the husband of a woman in your office, correct?"

"Yes. His name's Paddy O'Toole, and his wife Molly has worked at the
Gazette
for as long as I've been there."

"And you consider her a friend?"

"Absolutely. She reminds me of my own sweet mother, rest her soul." His lip curled into something resembling a smirk. "Unfortunately, Paddy reminds me of my own sour dad and he probably has as heavy a fist."

"I'm sorry about that," Elizabeth said, "but even so, in your article you referred to Mr. O'Toole as 'lucky' for what happened to him, and though you didn't use his name, you called that despicable Mr. Galbotto an Italian businessman. Isn't that stretching the truth in spades?"

He nodded his head slowly. "Ah...I see what you're getting at. You think I should have gone on about the fate of poor Paddy and the injuries he received at the hands of the sinister mob leader, Frankie Galbotto. I should have called on the police to arrest Mr. Galbotto, urged Paddy's fellow micks to avenge his misfortune, and melted the hearts of every colleen in Manhattan."

"Exactly!" Elizabeth exclaimed, satisfied that she'd made her point so effectively to the self-assured
Gazette
reporter.

He leaned forward on his elbows and ginned smugly. "Sorry, Betsy. It's a nice thought, but it would never have worked."

"Why not?"

"You don't get out in the neighborhoods much, do you?" He regarded her appraisingly as if memorizing the details of her appearance and finding her starched clothes and trim boater not of his world. "No, obviously you don't," he said.

"You shouldn’t draw conclusions, Max," she said, truly offended that he’d analyzed her station so correctly.

"Sorry, luv. Let me explain. Frankie Galbotto probably knows half the cops in the city, and I'd lay you ten-to-one odds they
all
know him. If the police were going to arrest Galbotto, they'd have done it long before now. And the story of one poor soaker who lost his wages gambling wouldn't have inspired the cops to put the cuffs on Frankie. Trust me, Betsy, the boys in blue would have turned a deaf ear and an eye as blind as Paddy's is now to his troubles. And here's the saddest part...it may be Paddy O'Toole who's lying in the hospital, but I guarantee you the real victim is Molly who's lost his wages."

What Max said made sense, but then why write the article at all, Elizabeth wondered. "If that's so, and the police are going to leave Galbotto alone, then what did you accomplish with the story?"

"A fair trade off, that's what." He sat straight, fixed Elizabeth with a serious stare, and seemed determined to make her understand. "The one thing Galbotto doesn't want is bad publicity from the
Gazette
. Granted the cops probably still wouldn't touch him, but he doesn't want to look bad in the eyes of society. Frankie's got a wife and kids, and he maintains an air of respectability for them. He belongs to the Italian-American club uptown. His daughters go to private school. He's built an image, understand?"