The Devil's Dime (The Samaritan Files)

by Bailey Bristol

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered, “Hamilton. It’s time you called me Hamilton. And it’s a private affair. By invitation only. Now, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Seven o’clock tonight. May I call for you at home?”

  Addie looked up into his square face. His handlebar mustache was perfectly waxed and his hair gleamed with just the right amount of pomade. Everything about his appearance was handsomely groomed. He’d mastered the look of successful, if a bit over-fed, bank officer.

  Scott Joplin. Was he really offering her an opportunity to hear this amazing fellow? She might never have another opportunity. He’d found the perfect carrot to dangle in front of her. She reached a hand to tidy her hair, stalling. Surely she could put up with him just one more time.

  But she’d intended to introduce herself to her father tonight, though her father knew nothing of her intentions. He had no idea she was even living in New York City. Probably didn’t even realize she was twenty-four by now and successful in her own right.

  Addie sighed, not so much in resignation but in anticipation. It wouldn’t hurt to wait another week to meet her father. She’d see him another night. Tonight she’d go with harmless Hamilton to hear the king of ragtime.

  “Well, I...” she blushed, wondering how she dared accept after her horrid treatment of him.

  “Then you’ll go?” His face was so pathetically hopeful she almost laughed.

  “Yes, Hamilton,” she whispered, “I would enjoy that very much. I’ll meet you at the Warwick at seven.”

  “But I would so much rather call for you at home.” The poor man simply couldn’t keep his emotions off his face and she nearly laughed again.

  “That’s so kind of you, Hamilton, but I have a bit of business to take care of with the hotel manager after work—for my orchestra, you understand—and it would be much simpler for you to meet me there. If you don’t mind, that is.” Now she was shamelessly peeking at him from beneath her lowered lids. Had she no pride?

  For their two previous afternoon outings, she’d managed to meet him away from her meager flat, though she had no doubt he could obtain her address from the bank if he had a mind to.

  This would be the last time she’d have to worry about it. She’d not be seeing Hamilton Jensen again. At least, not socially. If she promised herself that, she could manage to get through one more evening. Joplin was indeed worth the misery.

  “The Warwick, it is. At seven. I shall look forward to the evening with great anticipation.” He ducked his head in a surreptitious bow and strode down the teller line.

  “Likewise,” Addie answered, meaning, of course, that she would look forward to the entertainment. She didn’t mind Hamilton so very much, but he was so maddeningly flirtatious that she’d been forced to spend most of the outing countering his advances. Perhaps tonight she would just give up and let her silence speak for itself.

  Three bells signaled the start of the business day as two liveried attendants opened the massive front doors. Addie put the evening out of her mind as the first morning customers began to line up just beyond the bars of Teller Station No. 8.

  . . .

  To say Jess had been restless like a schoolboy all day would have been an understatement. He was completely buffaloed by the unfamiliar anticipation that had plagued him without ceasing. As he left work that evening, Jess had the urge to deny his impulse and walk toward home instead of toward the Warwick Hotel. He would not be ruled by this untenable fancy for a slip of a girl.

  But while his brain mulled it over, his feet carried him unerringly to the majestic front doors of the popular hotel. Inside, he ducked into the washroom to get the black carbon graphite from the typewriter ribbon off his fingers. It was the one curse of the Blick. Its devilishly complex jumble of gears and levers through which to thread the ribbon when it needed to be replaced always left his hands a filthy mess. But he’d been a man on a mission tonight and hadn’t noticed his dirty hands until he was halfway to the hotel.

  By the time he’d washed up, the liveried attendant glowered at Jess from his station by the door of the marble-tiled lavatory. It wasn’t terribly difficult to determine the source of the man’s irritation. The hotel crest, embroidered on a brushed linen hand towel in nearly invisible white stitches, had been a pristine white when the man had handed it to him moments earlier. Now, as Jess lobbed it into the bin at the man’s feet, he saw that it was blackened and nasty. He resisted the urge to shove the discarded hand towel beneath the others that stood out stark and white below it in the pile, and instead, doubled his tip, which hardly mollified the fellow. But at least he stopped blocking the door so Jess could make his escape.

  It seemed impossible that a full day had passed since he’d dined at the Warwick. Busy as the day had been, he’d found scenes and sounds from the night before constantly intruding on his concentration. At one point he’d even caught himself whistling the gypsy tune. Tonight he’d find out if the virtuoso violinist could sustain his first impression. He half expected to be disappointed.

  Nearly always, dinner was an afterthought for Jess, something his stomach would nag him about until he’d finally take to the streets in search of an open café or sandwich shop. So, finding himself at the Warwick Hotel dining room two nights in a row was so out of character that he very nearly turned on his heel and pointed his nose toward the door.

  “Will you be dining alone, sir?”

  The maitre d’ leaned expectantly toward the dining room’s tasseled colonnade and made the decision for Jess. He’d stay for dinner.

  Halfway across the room, Jess began to think he was being led to the same remote table by the kitchen he’d occupied the night before. But the chair that was held out for him was just two tables from the empty stage. It couldn’t have been better had he bribed the fellow.

  Jess stretched out his long legs beneath the crisp linen cloth and settled back to watch the meticulously trained staff at work.

  “Care for ice, sir?”

  A thin boy of perhaps ten or eleven held a crystal urn filled with gleaming cracked ice at the ready near Jess’s goblet. Jess chuckled at the boy’s blank expression. He concentrated just hard enough to be polite to his patrons, but his mind was a zillion miles away.

  “Ever drop one of those?”

  “Beg pardon, sir?” The boy jumped, startled at having been spoken to, and nearly dropped the heavy leaded crystal. He clutched it to his chest as the ice inside clattered to rest. ‘Yes’ and ‘no thank you’ were the words he would be most accustomed to hearing from patrons. To most diners, he and his kind were invisible.

  “Have you ever broken one of your ice buckets?” Jess winked and grinned, trying to reassure the lad who was clearly uncomfortable over being drawn into conversation.

  “No, sir.” The boy’s eyes grew huge, and he drew the words out as he contemplated how horrid it might feel if he’d had to answer ‘yes’.

  “What d’you think would happen?” Jess folded his hands in his lap, showing the child he had all the time in the world to hear the answer.

  “Mr. Tony’d whup me, sir.”

  “Ah.” Jess nodded soberly. “And then what?”

  “Then my pa’d whup me.” This answer took no thought at all and spilled out on an involuntary snort.

  “Well, of course. He’d have to, wouldn’t he.”

  “That’s what he’d say, anyway. You want ice or not?” The boy shifted the heavy crystal bucket.

  “In a minute. But what happens first?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tell me each thing that would happen if you were to drop something like this.” He gestured toward the gleaming glass.

  “Y’mean...”

  “Just picture it in your mind smashing to the floor and describe it to me second by second.”

  “Well...” the boy shifted again and focused his gaze on the cold cut glass he held. His eyes flicked briefly left and right, as if he worried that someone might see him talking overlong with this crazy man, and t
hen he carefully set the crystal bucket on the tabletop. He flexed his wet hands, deeply reddened by the cold glass, and slid them along his pant legs to dry his palms.

  “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,” J
ess 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.