Silver Dreams (14 page)

"Go away!" he barked.

"Cassidy, open this door!"

He made a halfhearted attempt to recognize the voice, but the shape he was in, he'd be lucky to recognize his own. He squinted at the door as if it would give him a clue as to who was on the other side.

"Open up, Max!" There was the voice again, shrill, insistent, male, and now vaguely familiar.

His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his eyes refused to bring any object in his room into focus. What the hell was wrong with him? He tossed the pillow to the floor and placed his palm against his forehead. "Oh, now I remember," he moaned. "Go away, I'm sick!" he called to his heartless visitor.

"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."