Rory forced the sash closed and drew the drapes. "Well, Mr. Morrison," she murmured. "It would seem this time it is you who has run away."
Run away from her? That hardly seemed possible, not after the determined way he had been pursuing her, tracking her to her own part of town. More likely it was memories that he fled, those ghosts of the past that forever seemed to be looking over his shoulder.
Damn Tony anyway and Tessa too." She took an angry pleasure in imagining the tongue lashing she would give Tony the next time she saw him, her thoughts interrupted only by the sound of a knock at the door.
"Oh, the devil!”
Rory wondered who could be plaguing her at this early hour. But hope stirred within her. Yes, it just might be the devil, with his wicked dark eyes and lazy grin.
Rory rushed across the room and flung the door open.
But it wasn't Zeke come back to her, full of apologies and explanations. It was only Tony, shuffling his feet, looking awkward.
"Uh, g'morning, Rory."
"After all the trouble you caused last night, Tony Bertelli, I don't have much to say to you." She tried to shut the door in his face.
He jammed the heel of his hand against the frame, preventing her.
"Aw, come on, Rory, please. I ain't here to fight with you anymore. I only want to tell you I am sorry."
She hesitated, but she could see that he meant it. The hollows beneath his eyes told her that he'd had a bad night, Tony who always slept with the imperturbability of a granite boulder.
Not that he didn't deserve to pass a sleepless night after what he had done. But how could she keep her heart steeled against him when he stood twisting his cap in his ungainly hands, looking at her so wistfully?
Grudgingly, she stepped back, allowing him to enter. He stepped inside the door, making no move to come any farther into her parlor, shuffling his feet as uncomfortably as any stranger not sure of his welcome—Tony, her friend, her brother, the kid from the next block, the boy whose heart she was breaking.
A small sigh escaped her. "Oh, stop acting like such a goose, Tony. I'm not going to bite you."
"No? The look in your eyes when you opened the door reminded me of Miss Flanagan's dog." He tried to smile, but his joke fell flat. He took in a deep breath. "I am sorry about what happened last night. I shouldn't have brought that woman here."
"Indeed you shouldn't have. You caused a great deal of upset."
"You're telling me!" Tony rolled his eyes. "That Miss Marceone cried all over my jacket the whole way home. She told me some more about how Morrison stopped her from marrying. Mother of God, that fool woman was going to run off with Marco Duracy."
Apparently the name conveyed something to Tony, but Rory merely shot him a blank look.
"Marco Duracy? You never heard Angelo talk about him? Well, see, Angelo knew this fellow from down on the docks whose uncle's third wife's daughter—"
"Oh, Tony, please." Rory groaned. "It's too early in the morning for this. Just make your point."
"Anyway, this Marco Duracy was a real worthless piece of—" Tony broke off, with a cough. "He was a bounder, lazy, good-for-nothing. Mean tempered. I wouldn't let any sister of mine get within a mile of him."
“Then perhaps whatever Tessa might say, Zeke's actions were justified."
“Maybe. But it doesn’t make me like this Morrison guy any better. There are still some things about him that are real doubtful. But I didn't come here to get you all riled, talking about him again."
He crumpled his cap some more, staring down at the threadbare carpet. "What I really came to say is that I know I was acting beyond the limit. No matter how I feel about you, I got no business meddling. You have the right to love whoever you want to even if it isn't me."
"Oh, Tony."
"No, I mean it, Rory. You should be free to choose for yourself, no matter what kind of bum you pick, no matter how rotten—"
"Thank you, Tony," she intervened sharply, before he went on to ruin the whole effect of his apology and make her angry all over again.
"I just wanted you to know that I'll always be here if you need me. I understand I can never be anything more to you, but we have been friends for a long time. I still want that."
"So do I."
She wanted to fling her arms about him, give him a big hug, but the longing in his eyes was yet keen. She couldn't risk it. Instead she gave him a poke on the arm, which he returned, the gestures awkward rather than playful. But it was a beginning.
Tony settled his cap back on his head, exhaling a deep breath of relief. "There! Now that we got that all cleared up, maybe we can be heading for the warehouse. Did you eat breakfast yet? We could-"
His voice wavered as he noticed the rumpled coverlet on the floor by the sofa and Zeke's coat lying over the chair. Tony swallowed, looking a little sick. "He’s still here?"
Rory shook her head.
Tony frowned. He appeared to be biting his tongue in an effort to keep from haranguing her any more about Zeke It was a heroic struggle, but he won it.
"You better get dressed," he said gruffly. "So we can get to work."
Rory hesitated, feeling reluctant to leave the flat. There was always a chance that Zeke would come back here looking for her. And how long do you propose to wait, you fool? a voice jeered inside her. All of the morning, the day, the rest of her life perhaps? She was being idiotic, but she had never felt less like going to the warehouse, dealing with the problems of her floundering company.
"I don't know if I'm feeling up to going in to work today," she said.
"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 bed¬chamber, 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. Bear
ded 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 bit into 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 be some 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.
CHAPTER 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.
Zeke blinked in recognition, not of this particular place, but of similar establishments he had frequented. He knew a bedroom in a brothel when he saw one.
He could almost hear the echo of Sadie's voice scolding. Johnnie, why must you have anything to do with bad girls like those?
"This time, lady, I swear I'm innocent," Zeke murmured. How had he come to be here? Not by his own power, of that he was certain. He couldn't even remember leaving Rory's flat.
He shifted on the lumpy mattress, his head throbbing with the effort to remember. It had been too warm in Rory's parlor. He had opened the window, climbed up to the roof.
The roof! Footsteps behind him, the thug with the jagged scar, the heavy club crashing down- it all came back to Zeke in a blinding flash.
Attacked by the same man twice in one night? It made no sense. Obviously, the scarred man had trailed Zeke to Rory's flat and lurked in the street below, waiting for him to leave. When Zeke had climbed up to the roof, the thug must have spotted him and followed. In Zeke's experience, pickpurses usually weren't so persistent. He didn't know what this was all about. He was only sure of one thing—he had to get out of here.
Zeke struggled to raise himself. But at that moment, he heard the scrape of a heavy boot, the chink of a key as someone unlocked the bedchamber door.
Too weak to risk further conflict, Zeke felt it might be better to lie still. Closing his eyes, he feigned unconsciousness as the door swung open. The floorboards creaked, and Zeke sensed someone standing over him.
He risked peering beneath his lashes enough to see who it was—two men, undoubtedly the same two who had assaulted him earlier.
The ugly one with the scarred chin leaned closer. "Hey, I thought I saw him move. I better give him another thunk."
Zeke tensed, keeping himself motionless with great difficulty. To his relief the second man intervened. "Naw, stupid. He's supposed to wake up."
"Yeah?" the scarred man grunted. "Well, I don't like none of it, all this play-acting and games. This feller's too dangerous. Damn near broke my jaw before. I shoulda just slit his throat the first time we jumped him."
"Good thing you didn't. The boss man would've been mad as hell. He might not have paid us. He wants him alive for now."
The voices faded and Zeke heard the door close, telling him he had been left alone again. He tried to clear his disordered thoughts, make sense of what he had just heard. The boss man wants him alive for now.
So he had been right. This series of attacks was no coincidence, no minor attempt at thievery, but part of some more sinister plan directed by a person who had not as yet revealed himself.
It would seem you have an enemy, Zeke, my boy. There was nothing new about that. In the old days, he could have taken his pick of any number of rival gang members who might have wanted to see him dead. Now that he was a respected pillar of the community, that was supposed to be all behind him. It had been a long time since he had even been threatened. Not unless one counted Charles Decker's pathetic bluster.
Zeke's lips curled in contempt as an image of the politician rose in his mind, the weasly fellow sitting in Zeke's office hemming and hawing, while he had hinted that Zeke should drop his support of Stanley Addison or else he would be sorry.
All bluff. Or so Zeke had thought. He still had difficulty picturing Decker, in his natty checked business suit, dealing with street toughs and arranging something so desperate as abduction, possibly murder.
Yet Decker had been hard-pressed of late. Any rat when cornered would bite. Maybe Zeke had been foolish to underestimate the man.
Only one thing was clear. He would find out nothing lying here in some night chippie's bed. Nothing except how they intended for him to die.
Luckily his captors had not taken the trouble to bind him. Whoever was paying the scarred fellow wasn't getting much value for his dollar. The thug wasn't that good in a fight, nor was he overburdened with brains.
This time when Zeke struggled to rise, it still hurt, but his head didn't swim so bad. He made it to a sitting position, the ache behind his eyes settling to a dull throb. Hell, he always had had a hard head.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he planted his feet on the floor and nearly stepped on someone.
/> Startled, Zeke drew back, glancing down and realizing he was not the room's only captive. Sprawled on his back lay a young man with waves of wheat-gold hair, staring at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, the sensitive contours of his face gone rigid.
Zeke's throat tightened with recognition. "Addison!"
The shock of seeing the attorney somehow numbed Zeke's own aches. Shaking off what remained of his confusion, he sank down to his knees beside the man.
He didn't need the absence of a heartbeat or even the sight of the dark red pool on the attorney's slender chest to know. Addison was dead.
Addison, with all his muddleheaded ideals that Zeke half-admired and was half-driven crazy by. Addison, his blue eyes empty now, with all his dreams snatched away.
Zeke rocked back on his heels, feeling sick. It was not the first time he had confronted death, even in its more violent forms. Why did this one wrench so hard at his gut? He barely knew Stanley Addison, yet he felt pierced with a sense of loss. He was actually shaking. His fingers trembled as he moved to close those gentle, unseeing eyes.
As his hand dropped back to his side, Zeke struck against something hard, half-protruding from beneath the bed. Grasping it, Zeke pulled the object out, only to find his fingers curling about the thick handle of a knife, the blade encrusted with blood. His sorrow gave way to anger.
"God damn it. God damn them all to hell!" He didn't know who, but someone was going to pay for this.
At that moment, the door to the room swung wide. Zeke would have given every last cent he possessed for it to be the scarred thug, or better still the mysterious and cowardly "boss man" who had yet to show his face.
Instead he stared upward into the haggard features of a buxom woman, clad in a scanty negligee. She gasped as stared at Addison’s blood stained body and then at Zeke, the knife still poised in his hand.
From then on everything seemed to happen by prearranged cues. The girl backed out of the door, screeching with a melodramatic flair that would have done credit to Maude Adams.