Silver Dreams (17 page)

"What's wrong?" he asked, smiling as if they had shared a joke.

"Nothing," she said pulling her hand from his. And then, because she knew she had to say something, she added, "I was just wondering how you came up with that ridiculous name."

"Mr. Dree?"  He tapped his blanket-draped toe under the plaque at the end of his berth. "
Dree...m-away Beds
. Pathetic isn't it?"

"I would have expected more from a man with your creative talents. But I will say this. You're something of an improvement over what I imagined the real Mr. Dree would look like. Not nearly so charming of course, because he knew how to talk to a lady."

"Oh, you think so?  I might be jealous of him except for one very pertinent fact. Despite all his charms in getting you here, it has been Max Cassidy who's kept you in his bed!"

She was too stunned to strike back. After all, it was true. She'd been in Max's apartment, and now she was indeed in his bed. Once a girl has been privy to a man's most intimate worlds in the dark hours of the night, it should be only a short jump to...to what?  The wicked speculation rocked Elizabeth’s comfortable notions about propriety.

"As you’ve pointed out, Max," she said “I must return to my bunk.”

"A little sorry to hear it, Bets, but we're all right, aren't we? You and I...we're friends again?"

"If we ever were,” she said smartly. “But I'm reminded of something you once told me. It's hard to have friends in this business. Maybe now I understand...two reporters after the same story and calling themselves friends. Hardly likely."

She climbed out of his berth but stuck her head between the curtains. "Good night, Cassidy," she said.

He crossed his arms on his pillow and rested his head on them. It was a little boy thing again, sweet and innocent...and very deceiving. "Wait a minute, Betsy," he said. "That thing I told you about not having friends..."

"Yes?"

"It's basically true, but don't take it to heart. It might make a bitter old woman out of you."

It was not at all what she'd hoped he would say, but then Max almost always did the unexpected. "Thanks for the advice, Max.” She pulled his curtain shut with a snap.

He listened to her few nestling movements above him, then extinguished his light. A braid, he thought. Her hair is as tightly wound as a Swiss clock and pretty much what I imagined from her. But not impossible.

Twenty little buttons, all shaped like rosebuds and climbing the whole way up her chest like she was a damn fence post. Once again, just what I expected. He smiled in the dark. A challenge certainly, but also not impossible.

At daybreak the train was just a few hours from Denver where the Fair Day party would switch to the smaller, more compact Rio Grande Railroad to take them to Central City. Max dressed with extra attention to detail because he was about to enjoy the first decent meal he'd had since boarding in Manhattan.

He no longer had to hide from the subjects of his investigation and could go to the dining car. The moment he had dreaded from the beginning, running into Betsy had happened, and while it was unpleasant at first, everything had come out right enough in the end. She had apparently forgiven him for following them to Colorado and absolved him of the crime of stealing her story.

The worst was yet to come, however. The story of Ross's dealings with Frankie Galbotto still had to be written, and Max was certain Betsy was no closer to believing that her brother could have a connection to that creep than she had been in New York.

Even though he hadn't seen the two thugs from the depot since leaving Manhattan, Max couldn't forget Gus Kritsky's words. Frankie Galbotto would get his pound of flesh from the Sheridans somehow, and Max just hoped it wouldn't be at Betsy's expense.

Entering the dining car was like entering a whole new world. Max had seen his share of fancy ballrooms and well-appointed drawing rooms, but this experience was in a class by itself. Shimmering chandeliers hung every few feet along the mahogany paneled ceiling. Gas jets reflected off stark white linens. Sterling flatware gleamed on the tables, and crystal water goblets sparkled in the flames of votive candle centerpieces.

 Conversations at every table were kept to a discreet hum. Knives and forks clinked delicately against fine china plates, and attentive waiters with starched napkins over their arms were summoned with a wave of a jeweled finger. Ah, the world of the Sheridans, Max thought

The ladies were elegantly attired, and the men wore lightweight summer jackets tailored to a tee...all but one that is. Dooley Blue was like a buzzard among peacocks. While he fit the dress code by definition, having somewhere procured a jacket, under the outward trappings he was still Dooley from the back alleys of Manhattan. Grime from years of neglect, fell into the age cracks of his face. His untrimmed beard held an assortment of food from the morning meal. All in all, as he sat at the elegant table, Dooley seemed like a poor man's Christmas tree put to shame by his neighbors’ dazzle.

Max strode up to the table of the Fair Day three. Ross was the image of the pampered young squire. Betsy, clad in her green and gold traveling suit, was as fresh as a new morning despite her midnight escapade. All three looked at Max, but Dooley’s eyes sparked with recognition.

"Hello, Mr. Blue," Max said.

“I know you,” the old man said.

Max glanced at Betsy, and she gave him a weak smile. “Mr. Blue,” she said. “You remember Max?”

Dooley scratched his chin. "Now I recall. I showed you the rock."

"You what?" Ross exclaimed.

"He's girlie's brother ain't he?"

Ross's eyes widened with annoyance. "No, he isn't. I am, you id..."

"Ross, it's all right."  Betsy reached across the table and patted his arm. "Dooley and I know this man. I can explain." The seat next to her was vacant and she motioned for Max to join them.

"That's right, young fella, sit," Dooley agreed. "We're almost there, to Denver. We'll be scaling that mountain soon enough. “

Max sat down and leaned close to Betsy. "I see why you trust this man’s judgment. He's sane as a judge. He's pegged me as your brother."

"That’s not fair, Max. Dooley gets a little confused by the details, that's all, but when it comes to the story of the Faraday brothers and the mine, he's perfectly rational. You'll see."

Ross stretched across the table demanding his sister's attention. "Criminy, Lizzie, who
is
this guy? And why do you and Blue seem to know him and I don’t?"

"Oh, sorry, Ross. This is Max Cassidy. He's a reporter for the
True Detective Gazette
."

Max extended his hand and Ross grasped it absently.

"What's he doing here?"

"It's a long story," Betsy said. "I met Max shortly before we left, and I took him to meet Dooley thinking he might be interested in the mine. As it turned out, he wasn't, but then his paper sent him here to write about it, and...oh, dear, this does get confusing."

"What have you done, Lizzie?" Ross asked in a panic. "How many other people have you told? There won't be enough money to divide between you and all your so-called friends!"

Max put his palms up in a gesture of surrender. "Cool off, Sheridan. You've got no threat from me. I'm just here for the journalistic pleasure of it."

"That's for sure, young fella,” Dooley said. “Pure pleasure, that's what it'll be. 'Specially when we start picking what’s left of that ore."  He looked right into Max's eyes. "You're going be a rich man, my boy."

"He is not!" Ross said.

"No, I’m not," Max said.

"Quiet, all of you," Elizabeth warned. "The waiter's coming."

A young employee hovered with an order pad in hand. "Have you decided yet, sir?" he asked Max.

Max opened his menu and gulped at the prices. Maybe he should be grateful he'd been forced to eat his meals on the loading docks. Gus hadn’t given him enough to blow his pittance on steak and eggs. "Coffee," he said. "And a bowl of oatmeal. I'm not all that hungry."

Max was just finishing his coffee when Dooley announced he was going out for a smoke, and Betsy said she was going to finish packing. "Are you coming, Ross?" she asked.

"I'm going to stay and have a word with Cassidy here."

She hesitated, a worried look on her face.

"You can go," Max said. "We'll behave ourselves."

"You'd better. Ross?"

"Yeah, go."  He waved her away.

When they were alone, Max turned sideways in his chair and waited for Ross to say something.

"Let's be honest with each other, Cassidy," Ross began with swaggering confidence. "This mine is really important to me. I've put a lot of effort into it."

"I'm sure you have."

"I found Dooley. I set the whole thing up. I'm financing it. And I'm going to see it through to the end. I don't want anything to ruin my chance for success. You understand?  I've got too much riding on the Fair Day Mine."

"I don't doubt that," Max agreed.

"So I'm warning you...you'd better be on the level about not wanting the silver."

"I'm on the level all right," he said. "And it's a good thing, too. One of us has to be."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

With his forefinger, Max jabbed Ross' silk tie where it rested against his sternum. "I
know
how you're financing this venture, Ross, and now I'm warning you. I don't give a damn about your success. But nothing better happen to your sister or the old guy. For some reason, they believe in you, and they're counting on you. For my money, that's a little like living on the edge of an active volcano and counting on the fact that it won't blow."

Max stood up and set his napkin on his plate. But his gaze never wavered from Ross's face. "I'm going to be watching you, big brother. All the way to the Fair Day Mine."

He walked away from the table without looking back and exited the dining car. He would have kept going but stopped in his tracks when he glanced into the passageway connecting the next car. Two men stood in the shadows. Max recognized them immediately. They still wore their expensive Italian suits. And they outsized every other passenger in the area by pounds, inches and muscle.