“Rory! You can’t have forgotten, this is the day the government man is coming to look over our operation, to decide about giving us the army contract.”
Rory let out a low groan. She had forgotten. She couldn’t believe that she had let such an important happening slip her mind. The truth was that ever since meeting Zeke, she had not been giving her full concentration to the Transcontinental Balloon Company. She cast a guilty glance to where Da’s picture stood on the parlor table. The youthful soldier that had been her father seemed to bristle with reproach, a reproach that Tony should have been heaping on her.
It was not only her own future tied up in that company, but Tony’s as well, Angelo’s, Pete’s and the handful of other young men who had given up good, steady jobs down at the docks in order to work for her.
Not only was her behavior stupid, it was incredibly selfish. For one day at least, she needed to get Zeke Morrison out of her head.
“You have a seat, Tony,” she said. “It won’t take me more than a few minutes to get ready.”
Darting into her bedchamber, she scrambled into a navy-colored Newport suit—a gored skirt with matching jacket, constructed of sensible repellent cloth, plain and businesslike.She managed to knot her unruly mane of hair up into a neat chignon.
Barely a quarter of an hour later, she and Tony left the flat. It was a lovely spring morning, a little brisk, but the sun was shining, warming the front stoops of the brownstones. Even Finn MacCool looked mellowed. Basking in the rays, asleep, he merely opened one eye long enough to growl at Tony and Rory as they passed.
It was like so many other mornings when Tony had dropped by to join her in catching the El, heading for the warehouse, talking balloons. This morning they speculated on their chances of getting that government contract.
If Tony lapsed silent a little more than usual, if he often avoided looking at her, Rory supposed that was to be expected. And if her own thoughts frequently wandered to a certain brash Fifth Avenue tycoon, wondering where Zeke was, what he was doing, what he was feeling, why, that couldn’t be helped either.
Since neither she nor Tony had breakfasted, they took a detour by way of Grand Street as they often did, lured by the prospect of lox and cream cheese sandwiched between fresh-baked bagels.
The Jewish quarter of the city had always fascinated Rory, the narrow streets with their endless rows of pushcarts, selling everything from newly-killed chickens to violins. Bearded peddlers haggled with their female customers, whose hair was bound up in kerchiefs. Scholarly-looking men, wearing eyeglasses and skullcaps, lingered on corners, lost in what Rory was certain must be deep discussions, although she understood not a word of that mysterious language called Yiddish.
After she and Tony had made their purchase, they planted themselves atop a couple of herring barrels to enjoy their breakfast. Rory didn’t realize how hungry she was until she bitinto her bagel, but as usual Tony had demolished his before she was half-done.
Licking his fingers, he glanced around, preparing to perform that other daily ritual, the purchase of the morning paper. Although on Grand Street many of the papers for sale were printed in those strange Hebraic symbols, the ubiquitous New York World still made its appearance. Tony flagged down a newspaper hawker and secured one.
Usually he would have taken a few moments to glance through it. But with the government man due to arrive that afternoon, neither he nor Rory dared linger too long. There was much to be done to get ready at the warehouse.
As they set off, retracing their steps to the nearest El platform, Tony folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm. But Rory caught enough of a glimpse of the front page headline to make her freeze in her tracks.
“Tony, let me see that a minute.”
She didn’t wait for him to comply, but snatched the paper from beneath his arm. She unfolded it, her pulse already racing with apprehension.
A bold headline jumped out at her.
Millionaire Wanted by Police.
She tried to read the accompanying article under the byline of a Mr. W. Duffy, but it was difficult with Tony crowding so close and the words blurring before her panic-stricken gaze.
“What’s the matter, Rory? What are you reading? Holy damnation!”
Tony grabbed the paper from her to gain a better look. She had not been able to make out more than the words “J. E. Morrison wanted concerning disappearance of Stanley Addison.”
“Tony!” Rory bounced on tiptoe, trying without avail to read over his shoulder. “What does it say? About Zeke? It has to besome sort of ridiculous mistake. Zeke was with me most of last night. How could he know anything about the disappearance of Mr. Addison?”
Tony lowered the paper, looking at her with troubled eyes. “Rory, this paper doesn’t say Addison just disappeared. He’s dead.
“And your Mr. Morrison is wanted for murder.”
Eleven
Zeke Morrison felt as if the top of his skull were going to explode. But considering the pain that thundered like the strokes of a hundred hammers, the loss of his head might prove a blessing. For what seemed an eternity he had been conscious of nothing but mind-numbing agony, mists of darkness webbing his eyes the few times he tried to open them. The effort to do so had proved so great, he had given over trying.
But slowly the pain receded enough to allow him awareness of other things—the feel of silk beneath his cheek, the heavy odor of cheap perfume, so strong it made him want to retch. He remembered enough to know he had sprawled out on Rory’s sofa to spend the night. But such a cloying scent had nothing to do with the riot of springtime, the freshness that was Aurora Rose. Something wasn’t right.
He managed to raise his hand to his head, flinching as his fingers came in contact with a huge knot swelling on his scalp. He eased his eyes open, a fraction at a time. All was a dizzying blur, but eventually the room stopped spinning. He was surrounded not by the cozy warmth of Rory’s parlor, but an atmosphere far different.
Moth-eaten velvet curtains blocked out most of the light, for which Zeke was grateful. His gaze roved around the chamber, taking in the tawdry flocked wallpaper, the cheap gilt trim on the bedposts and dresser. Somehow it all fit well with the stink of the perfume.
