Silver Dreams (12 page)

He sobered instantly and reached for her hand. "I know you're upset, but I don't want you to be taken in by this guy. If you're so sure that my hunch about Dooley is wrong, then why don't you tell me why you think your hunch is right?"

She slapped his hand away. "Because I trust people, that's why."

"Yeah, like Dooley Blue and Ross Sheridan. They're a couple of sterling candidates for keys to the city."

"How dare you say something like that to me?  Ross is my brother!"

"No apologies necessary, kid. I'm aware that we don't pick our relatives. Sometimes we just get stuck with the apples that fall far from the tree."

Elizabeth was seething. "Is that right, Max? Well, we do pick our friends, and thank heavens I don't have to choose you!"

He stepped back from her, as if he knew he'd gone too far. "I'm just trying to save you some grief, Betsy."

"My name is Elizabeth, and I'll thank you to call me that. No, on second thought, don't call me anything. Just go away, Max. Go away."

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally he held up his index finger and said softly, "Just watch yourself, Bet... E-liz-a-beth. Trusting the wrong people can get you into a lot of trouble."  He walked down the alley, turned a corner and disappeared.

Elizabeth thought about what he'd said. His warning had come too late because she'd already trusted the wrong person when she believed in him. Now there wouldn't be a trip to Colorado. She wouldn't find the Fair Day Mine, and much time might pass before she made her name as a reporter. Tears welled in her eyes. Her throat constricted. It hurt to admit that the biggest disappointment of all was that she wouldn't be working side by side with Max Cassidy.

Max was thankful for two things. One was that he'd chosen Flanagan's Tavern to get drunk since it was only a few blocks from his flat. When he finally decided to walk, crawl, or be dragged home, it wouldn't be too hard to get there. The second was that it was Friday night and he was anticipating the first Saturday he'd had off in many weeks. He could sleep off the hangover he was sure to have in the morning.

Sometimes Max regretted his lack of tact. Growing up with Seamus Cassidy for a father didn't teach a person much about that underrated character trait. Seamus solved all his problems with a strong word and an even stronger fist. Max learned early on that to survive in a violent world, he either had to learn to duck or battle back with a bluster equal to his opponent. Max had mastered both.

But four years at the University of Dublin had taken some of the rough edges off Max Cassidy. Unfortunately he was still discovering that not all people were as hardhearted or filled with resentment as his father had been. Since coming to America, Max had nearly succeeded in erasing the bitterness of a painful, deprived childhood and replacing it with the self-esteem won from hard work. But just when he thought he'd banished the last of Seamus from his system, Max realized he still had the sharp Cassidy tongue that could bite with the sting of a scorpion.

He'd never forget the look on Betsy Sheridan's face when he left her in the alley. All he'd meant to do was save her from wasting time and money on a scheme which was guaranteed to bring disappointment and failure. He'd only intended to warn her about the misery that comes from believing in the incredible, trusting in the unreliable - hard lessons Max had learned growing up in Ireland. But his callous words had hurt her, taken the sparkle out of eyes that were green as a County Cork hillside. He guessed it was true then. Some of the father always stayed in the son.

"Here's the other pint you ordered, luv."

Max looked up into the doe-brown eyes of Sally. She took away his empty mug and left a full one. Max couldn't remember how many times she'd done that this evening, but he was beginning to feel the effects and welcoming the numbness.

Sally gave a furtive glance toward the bar and then slid into the booth beside him. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong, Cassidy?" she said. "I can tell you're under a cloud this night."

He took a long swallow of ale. "It's nothing to worry your pretty head about, Sally. I'll be right as rain tomorrow."

"You can tell me what’s got you blue, you know that." She gave him a playful pinch to his arm.

Her coaxing was so gentle that Max relented with a sigh. "I've had a disagreement with a friend, that's all. About a couple of things we don't exactly see eye to eye."

Sally nodded. "Could this
friend
be the red-headed lass you brought in here the other day?"

Max chuckled. "You don't miss much, Sally," he said.

"Not about my favorite customer I don't."  She nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck and whispered in his ear. "If it was me you were pining over, you wouldn't have to worry about seeing eye to eye, because I guarantee it wouldn't be your
eye
I was interested in looking at. You’ve got parts that appeal to me much more, Max, and they're located further south."

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."