Escapade (9781301744510) (13 page)

"Tolerable, Mulgrew." Zeke leaned up to the
bar, resting one foot on the brass railing.

"Your usual, sir?"

Zeke nodded, and the man scooped up a mug,
turned on the tap, filling it up to the rim with a frothing cold
beer. He slid it in front of Zeke with a practiced efficiency.

"Thanks." Zeke drew forth his pocket watch
and consulted it. Quarter after four. He was a little late, but
trust Stanley Addison to be later still, he thought with a
frown.

Mulgrew seemed to sense that Zeke was not in
the mood for idle chatter. He busied himself at the other end of
the bar, for which Zeke was grateful.' Funny how the bartender at
Hoffman House could still read his moods. It had been over two
years since Zeke had lived at the hotel while his house on Fifth
Avenue was under construction.

He had rented a suite of rooms on the fifth
floor when he had returned from his self-imposed exile in Chicago.
He had been gone a long time—eight years. New York had changed a
lot and so had he. He hadn't been at all sure of the reception he
would get back at the little flat on Pearl Street.

But Sadie Marceone had wept with joy to see
him, a joy that hadn't lasted long. You would have thought she
would have been glad to see him returned so successful after the
mess he had made of his life in New York. Far from being impressed
with his wealth, she had been frightened of it. He had to assure
her he hadn't been robbing banks or anything. He had made a killing
on the market, several good speculations that had paid off. He
didn't tell her he had gotten his initial stake from working a
gambling salon in Chicago. She would neither have understood nor
approved of that. Instead he outlined his future plans, a real
estate investment that he had gotten wind of that promised to
double his wealth.

The little he did confide made her even more
concerned.

"Money. God help you, Johnnie, that's all you
talk about. It's made you so hard, driven, like nothing else
matters, like getting more money is all that life is about."

"Well, I know a man can die from the lack of
it," he had retorted. Or a woman. She had gotten much older since
he

had left, more worn, more gray from her own
struggle with poverty. He had wanted then and there to take her
away from that wretched flat, install her in a grand house on the
avenue. All she had wanted was to go to the church, light a candle
and pray for his soul.

Zeke drained his mug, trying to shrug off the
remembrance, which was as bitter as the dregs at the bottom of his
glass. He called for a refill and then noticed that someone else
had entered the bar while he had been lost in his memories.
Unfortunately it wasn't Stanley Addison.

Zeke stiffened at the sight of the shock of
red hair that was becoming like a beacon for trouble. Bill Duffy
lounged up against the bar only a few feet away from him. When he
caught Zeke's stare, the reporter had the brass to grin at him.

"You're getting to be a nuisance, you know
that, Duffy?" Zeke growled.

"Hey, this meeting is purely coincidental."
Under Zeke's skeptical gaze, Duffy abandoned his look of wide-eyed
innocence. "Would you believe I trailed you here from Forty-ninth
Street?" Zeke gave a snort of disgust. While Mulgrew refilled his
glass, Duffy also put in an order for a beer. The bartender plunked
it down in front of him, but apparently wary of extending the
reporter any credit, he demanded instant payment.

Mulgrew's caution was justified. Duffy turned
out his pockets. Except for a stray button, he came up
empty-handed.

"Oh, just set it down to Mr. Morrison's
account," he said.

When Mulgrew cast a dubious glance at him,
Zeke grimaced and nodded his head. Duffy was an infernal pest, but
his sheer bravado roused a grudging admiration in Zeke.

But he was less than pleased when Duffy
grabbed up his mug and edged closer.

"All right, you've got your drink," Zeke
said, "Now go sit down somewhere. I warn you now I am in no mood to
be badgered with questions."

"No questions, just a friendly chat. I
thought you might want to see this." Duffy dropped a folded
newspaper on the bar in front of Zeke. From the banner at the top,
Zeke could tell it was the afternoon edition of the New York
World.

"My story's in there about that little
excitement at your party yesterday. Balloon Girl Invades High
Society. Not exactly front-page stuff, but they let me have a whole
column."

Duffy started to unfold the paper, but Zeke
checked the motion. The last thing he wanted was to see anything
that would remind him of Rory Kavanaugh. Zeke started to thrust the
edition away, then stopped, his eye caught by a headline on the
front page.

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. Six
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.