Which was just as well, Zeke thought, or he might have been tempted to bellow at the nosy pair. No, fellows, not his problem ‘money. It was that other root of all evil—a woman. As Zeke crossed the hotel’s plush lobby, heading for the bar, his black mood showed no signs of lifting. He never figured himself for thekind of fool that would waste much energy in moping over some female.
When Rory had escaped from him earlier that morning, he had sworn and said good riddance. If she didn’t want him, all she had to do was tell him no. She didn’t need to go haring off as if he were Jack the Ripper.
He had taken himself off home and gone to bed. But after a few hours’ restless sleep, he had arisen, still irritable but angrier at himself than her. What an ass he had made of himself. He’d never chased a woman through the streets before, not even in the wild days of his youth. For the first time, he began to entertain the suspicion that he might be the one to blame for the disastrous end to what had otherwise been an enchanted evening. Perhaps he had misinterpreted her response to his kiss. Perhaps he had misunderstood her remark about not wanting to be married.
Oh, what the hell difference did it make? Rory had exited out of his life as abruptly as she had made her entrance. It was best just to forget her. He ought to be thinking of nothing but his upcoming appointment with Addison.
Shoving open a large door, in which was an oval of frosted glass, Zeke entered the hotel bar. He was already having misgivings about his choice of a site for the meeting. If Addison did have some explosive new information about Decker and his cronies, as the garbled phone conversation had indicated, then it might have been better to talk in a more private place.
Mrs. Van H. had always told Zeke he should join one of the exclusive gentleman’s clubs. They afforded excellent settings for discreet business chats. Zeke had actually gone so far as to put in an application with the Union Club, but after he had punched out a fellow down on Twenty-second Street for smacking some poor girl, Zeke’s application had been politely refused. It seemedthe club’s august members didn’t approve of brawling in the streets, not even for the most chivalrous of motives.
The hell with them then, Zeke had thought. As he glanced around the Hoffman House bar, he saw that it would do just as well. The crowd that usually flocked to the place to sample the bar’s sumptuous free lunch—well, free except for the cost of a beer—were all long gone.
Two men lingered in a table by the corner, drummers by the look of them, with their natty attire and overstuffed valises full of sales samples. Other than that, the place was empty except for the bartender polishing glasses behind the counter.
The tips of his handlebar mustache waxed to perfection, a red garter banding one sleeve of his shirt, James P. Mulgrew flashed Zeke a welcoming smile.
“Afternoon, Mr. Morrison. Been a long time since we’ve seen you in here. How’s life in the castle?”
“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 beengone 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 againstthe 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.
