THE DEVILS DIME (6 page)

“First, my fingers feel slick, and the points of these here diamonds, these designs, start to drag down my shirt.” He looked to Jess for reassurance he was on the right track.

Jess gloated silently. He’d been right about the boredom in the lad’s eyes. Behind those piercing brown eyes was a clever mind being wasted. The boy’s response was proving him right.

“Go on,” he nodded.

“Then my mind kicks in, knows I’m gonna drop the thing. But my hands don’t know it yet, so they just let the sweaty glass drag on through.” The pace of his words remained steady, thoughtful, as he continued to dissect the imagined catastrophe.

“That’s when I know I can’t catch it, but my fingers try anyways, and knock it sideways while it goes down. My...my chest starts t’ pinch an’ my throat gets dry and I jump back. Some o’ the ice is already scatterin’ round, an’ then the glass hits the floor. An’ it breaks. An’ each one o’ them diamonds splits off and scatters an’ ya can’t tell the glass from the ice.”

The boy dragged his eyes from the bucket and fixed his gaze on Jess. He was beginning to get comfortable with this game.

“That there’s when I tells m’ feet they better skedaddle if they know what’s good for m’ butt.”

Now Jess snorted.

And the boy snorted.

Jess pulled a silver coin from his pocket and flipped it onto the table, then helped himself to the silver tongs.

“Not bad, kid. Not bad at all.” Jess was still chuckling as he filled his water goblet with ice. The boy was trying hard not to stare at the silver dollar. “Think you could write that down?”

The boy stalled, thinking it over. “I ain’t too great at spellin’.”

Jess hung the silver tongs back on the ice bucket and rapped a knuckle on the coin, then held it up to gleam in front of the boy’s eyes.

“You bring me back that story printed out real nice...your own work, mind you...and I’ve got one of those for you.”

The boy’s eyes grew huge, so aghast was he at the unlikelihood of his amazing good fortune. Then his brow crinkled.

“But I gotta work, mister.”

“Well, then, get goin’. Remember your story, though, boy. Write it down. You want your dollar, you’ll find me. Now git.”

The boy smiled shyly and reached for his ice bucket. His hands hesitated.

“Here.” Jess took his linen napkin from his lap and wrapped it around the cold wet crystal, gratified by the look of relief and thanks in the boy’s eyes before he stepped to the next table. Same boy, same scrawny legs, same crystal bucket. But the boy was different now. He watched and reacted. He was beginning to own the space he’d shuffled invisibly through just moments earlier. There was a huge bright spot in his immediate future, and he moved differently now. He moved forward. A kid with a mission.

It felt good to chalk up another prospect. It would be nice to know some day if any of his silver dollar boys—and there had been several over the last four or five years—would grow up to be writers.

The fresh ice rolled and clinked as it settled in his water goblet, and his waiter came and went with his order. He stared at the empty chairs that stood just a few paces away while he waited for his dinner to arrive. It was time to consider the opportunity that lay before him. If he played his cards right, he might actually make the acquaintance of the intriguing violinist tonight.

He fingered the engraved calling card that had tumbled onto the table when he’d gone into his pocket after the boy’s silver dollar. The same card he’d flashed at Twickenham the day before. His name and office were grandly stamped on it in gold lettering, certainly the most elegant business card he’d ever possessed.

He tapped it idly on the table as he contemplated how it might facilitate his first introduction to the young woman. He imagined her now as he’d seen her last night, flashing as much fire and passion from her eyes as she did through her instrument. What made him think he could interest the likes of her in getting to know him better?

He could wait for her to take her final bow, and when she turned to leave he could stand and give his compliments and offer his card. Did he dare suggest coffee? Or escort her home? Did she have a husband who would meet her at the backstage door?

The rules had become thoroughly muddled these days. How was a fellow to know what a woman expected? And how, for the love of Pete, had he arrived at the age of thirty-two so blasted ignorant?

Jess cut off his own questions and reminded himself these things didn’t truly concern him. He was simply going to interview the woman about her incident with the confidence man on Park Row, nothing more.

His pork chop arrived, impeccably prepared, and while it provided no answers to his dilemma, it disappeared swiftly. Somehow he even managed not to repeat the gravy incident of the previous night.

He was just savoring his first bite of apple brown betty when a fellow began rearranging the chairs on the low stage, readying the area for performers.

An odd quickening of his pulse signaled his own readiness.

A half dozen chairs disappeared, and minutes later the fellow hurried back with an easel that he placed to the left of the performer’s area. Jess dropped his spoon into the empty bowl and attempted a casual disinterest as he glanced toward the announcement.

The Warwick Hotel is pleased to welcome The Worthington Brass.

Jess wiped his chin and slumped back from the table. No
Avalon Strings
tonight. He sat a moment, adjusting to the disappointment that swooped over him. He wouldn’t be seeing the stunning violinist. He stood and dropped his gratuity on the table as four young men trooped onto the stage.

He was not in the mood for brass tonight. He’d heard enough brass bands when he was attached to the Cavalry. Best to leave before they began.

Jess threaded his way to the rear of the full dining room, all the while contemplating his sudden turn of mood. He’d been looking forward to the prospect of seeing, hearing, and possibly even getting to know the talented young woman. Now he realized he was actually disappointed.

The cloak room was just steps from the dining room, and Jess swung through its red-tasseled opening to retrieve his topcoat and hat.

“Ah! Mr. Pepper! Enjoyed your dinner, I trust?”

The freckle-faced fellow behind the counter whipped through his low swinging brass gate and held out Jess’s black lambskin and Stetson. In a practiced move the young man deftly traded his soft-bristled brush for a chamois-covered tool and made discreet sweeps across the leather shoulders and back as Jess adjusted to the familiar weight of the ancient coat.

“That I did, sir. That I did.”

“Rocky? Oh, there you are! Did you by any chance find my other glove last night? I can hardly appear at the Astors’ with only one—”

Jess turned toward the colorful voice as he took his hat from the attendant and nearly dropped it as he came face to face with the dark dancing eyes of the violinist.

“Oh,dear, I—” she stammered. “Please forgive me for interrupting.”

Jess assessed the understated simplicity of her pale green and peach gown that made her as perfect a subject for an artistic masterpiece as it did an evening about town. Small gemmed butterflies glittered from their nesting places in the elaborate twists of her hair. She seemed younger than the driven female he’d watched the night before, as if the gown freed her movements as lavishly as her violin freed her spirit. This woman was not made for gabardine. She was made for gossamer.

Her cheeks grew pink as his eyes dipped slightly to the ruching at her décolletage and then snapped back to capture her gaze once again. He took in the fair complexion and full lips set in a startled smile, and absorbed the detail of the face that had so recently captivated him.

“If you frolic with half as much zest as you fiddle, the evening will be a success,” Jess quipped, deliberately stressing his gross understatement regarding her virtuosic violin.

“You must be mistaken, sir.” Her eyebrows arched with humor as she quite prettily regained her composure. “I care not for the fiddle.”

“Mr. Pepper, may I present Miss Adelaide Magee, our resident musical genius.” The attendant—Rocky, she’d called him—made the introductions with a grand flourish. “Miss Magee, Mr. Pepper writes for the
New York Times
.”

Jess held his Stetson to his chest and took her offered hand. He regretted the fact that it was the gloved one as he dropped a kiss just short of the back of her kid-clad fingers.

“An exceedingly great pleasure, Miss Magee.”

Jess straightened, about to request permission to pay her a call when her escort poked his walking stick and top hat through the velvet drapery at the door.

“Ready, my dear?” The man failed to hide his irritation at finding his young companion engaged in conversation with a stranger. He held the curtain aside with exaggerated courtesy, expecting her to join him.

But Miss Magee held Jess’s fingers an instant longer as Jess began to draw away. Her eyes lingered as well, sending their own silent message across the space between them. The slight pressure she gave as she released his hand told Jess he had not misinterpreted her pleasure at making his acquaintance.

A sudden thought dampened his enjoyment of the moment. Perhaps the mention of his connection to the newspaper was what interested her.

She turned to slip her arm through the offered elbow of the elegant fellow who could have been her uncle. Or father. It was difficult to tell. His silver-tipped stick announced the fact that whether or not he was a man of importance, he was, at the very least, a man of exceptional means.

“Addie! Your glove!” Rocky intercepted Miss Magee at the curtain. He restored the errant glove and was rewarded with a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, my friend,” she said softly, as she turned away and disappeared through the opening. But not before she’d cast a quick glance back toward Jess from beneath her ample lashes.

Thank you for the glove? Or thank you for the introduction.

An extraordinary heat scooted up the back of his neck as Jess stood in the coat room and contemplated her intent. Rooted to the spot where this most unexpected encounter had taken place, he found himself surprisingly hopeful that it was the latter.

Chapter Four

She had been so wrong, so terribly wrong.
Nothing
was worth the smarmy feel of Hamilton Jensen’s roaming fingers. Now she’d never hear Joplin again without squirming in her skin. By Sunday afternoon Addie had not yet calmed down from her silent fury of Thursday evening, when she had no recourse but to be polite to him through the horrid hours in the Astors’ elegant music room. He had introduced her to everyone as his discovery, the marvelous new violinist in town. And he hadn’t even heard her play.

Half the people there were potential employers for one event or another, so Addie had no choice but to appear grateful to him. And a desperate need to keep her job at the bank had forced her to bite her tongue raw.

She shuddered, remembering her fear when Hamilton had maneuvered her into a secluded hallway and pressed a disgusting kiss. She’d practically laughed in his face when that wonderful police chief had accidentally intruded.

“Good evening, Mr. Jensen! I see you’re keeping lovely company this evening.” He’d swept an elegant bow, and his cape slipped off his shoulder in a rakish swirl. Hamilton stammered out an introduction, and Addie found herself drawing away from him as she offered Chief Trumbull her hand. The chief’s eyes had swept the length of her, and when they returned to her face, she saw interest. Not exactly fatherly, but much more debonair than the leer Hamilton usually shed upon her.

And then the dear man had begged a ride home, saving her the horrors that a dark carriage might have presented, had she been alone with Hamilton. She could have kissed him.

But today another man was the object of her interest. It was high time she faced that initial visit to her father, even if Hamilton had left her out of sorts. If she put it off once again, she might never face up to the task. So today was the day.

It was too far to walk in the heat of the afternoon, but a ride on her pennyfarthing would get her there just fine. The antiquated three-wheeled, two-pedal women’s cycle was in sad shape, but it never failed to get her where she needed to go. And upon it, she could outrun anyone, even someone with ill intent. That is, if she left her corset at home and allowed her lungs the freedom they needed.

Addie maneuvered her mechanical conveyance through Sunday afternoon traffic along the twenty-one block route to Sutton House and parked the pennyfarthing in the air shaft that served as an alley just east of the apartment building.
The task of negotiating traffic had been cleansing in its own way, and as she mounted the stairs to her father’s fourth floor apartment, she actually smiled.

He didn’t know that today was the day he was going to get his family back.

. . .