Chapter Eight



“First you bust back into my life and now you want to share a cab with me?”

Connor shrugged, pulling his coat collar up close around his neck. “We’re going to the same place, why not?”

Eric narrowed his eyes, scarcely able to contain his impatience as he peered at the man through the wet fog. He fought a myriad of emotions besieging him in matter of seconds, but most predominate was blinding anger. It took all of Eric’s control not to launch his fist right between Connor’s eyes. “Jesus!” he barked. “I might know you’d stay at the St. Charles. Don’t tell me, your room is right next to mine.”

Connor looked taken back. For someone who could dish out sarcasm with the best of them, he’d never learned to expect it from Eric. The old familiar feeling of guilt clenched at Eric’s gut as Connor raised his arm in the dark to hail a cab. “No, actually. It was all full. I’m staying at Howards Hotel but they’re close enough.” Noticing Eric’s recognition of the hotel’s name, Connor gave a slight smile and nodded. “Yes, the psychic Howard. Her husband runs a hotel or at least he used to. Not a bad gig, huh?”

“Bring in suckers for your séance and just happen to have a room to put them up in.”

Connor nodded. “I’d say we’re in the wrong business.”

There was a slight pause before Eric gave an inner groan. He was doing it again. One moment Eric hated him and somehow the next they’re holding a seemingly normal conversation. “I’m not in the wrong business,” he snapped. “You are!” Turning his back on him, Eric gave a long shrill whistle into the damp night and shouted, “Cab!”

He lucked out when there appeared to be a hansom right around the corner, the hooves clopped against the wet cobblestone as it trotted ever closer. Connor edged closer to him, probably making sure Eric couldn’t have time to steal the two man cab away. Not until the rig was several feet away did Eric spied the top of the drivers black hat and the tip of his whip swaying through the mist. The horse snorted as it pulled up, spaying cool steam through the cold night air.

“St. Charles Hotel,” Eric yanked open the cab door and the horse shifted, the cab creaking and rolling back slightly as he entered. Connor climbed in and sat beside him.

“I’d like to buy you dinner, Eric.”

“Why?”

Connor shot him a slight smile. “Talk about things. It’s been a long time my friend.”

“Old friend?” Eric snorted. “When were you ever my friend? And besides, you really think one dinner is going to ease your conscious?” he asked, without turning. With a hard pound on the roof, Eric signaled the driver to move. The sound of the whip swishing through the wet hair gave him the chills. The horse snorted and jerked forward as the whip met its mark.

For several seconds, neither man said a word. Finally, Connor chuckled, removing his gray bowler hat and smoothing his slicked down curly red hair. “Fair enough, we need to start somewhere. How about I buy you the hotel?” He turned, his gaze fixed on Eric. “Your father pays me well enough.”

*****

Harold Ikeman closed the door to his room at the Howard Hotel, locking away his precious contents behind the door. All but his sketch pad. His stomached growled as he tucked the item beneath his arm and started downstairs the thick carpeted stairs to the desk clerk below. A young blond man wearing horn rimmed glasses much like his own smiled behind the desk.

“May I help you sir?”

Harold absently checked over his vest pockets to make sure he had his coins and key before smiling back. “Yes, well, how acquainted are you with St. Charles?”

The young man lifted a brow and cocked his head slightly to the side. “I was born here, sir.”

“I’m looking to get out,” Harold viewed the cold night street through the windows, “move about the city, meet its citizens.”

The clerk pulled a slight face, obviously wondering why anyone would pick to get out in such foul weather. “Oh,” he muttered, “well, we have fine dining, or at least good dining here, if you’re hungry that is. Or you can head over to Ma Flannery’s bakery for a hot cup of coffee and some gooseberry pie.”

Harold cleared his throat and leaned heavily on the cluttered counter. “Ever heard of a man around here by the name of Eric Ryan? Supposedly a tall man, big build.”

“Oh, you mean that Lieutenant everyone is talking about?”

Harold nodded and tried to give what he hoped would be a genuine smile. He gritted his teeth and prayed the boy didn’t tell him that he “just missed him.” Never in his life had he tracked someone so evasive. “He wouldn’t happen to be staying here, would he?”

The young man gave a wary blink and tapped his long thin fingers against the warn edge of his sign in book. “No sir. They had a big party for him and his wife about a week ago at the St. Charles Hotel.”

Harold tilted his head his nostrils suddenly filled with the heavenly scent of beer wafting in from a nearby saloon. “Ever seen him? I mean, could you point him out to me?”

“No sir, I think he pretty much keeps to himself.”

Realizing the clerk was growing suspicious of all the questions, Harold thanked him, turning quickly and headed across the street to the lively Horseshoe Saloon.



A gay tune emptied out from between the establishments swinging doors, captured outright by the night’s wet swirling fog. Harold wasn’t much for drinking, but he was willing to bet that his article of his subject was. Loud moans from someone losing probably a great deal of money in a poker match lifted over the pounding keys, if only for a moment. Anxious about going inside, Harold pulled his gray tweed coat around his bare neck and started forward only to dash aside as a cowboy, bent in half lunge from the double doors, a thick red stream dripping from his bottom lip.

“I got money!” he screamed over his torn brown jacket shoulder. “Fer Christ sakes, I just need a little time to get it is all.”

“Come back when you got it and not before!” A surly looking bald man of about fifty shouted back, scrubbing his hands on a warn what probably was a white apron. For just a moment the man locked his beady eyes on Harold and stared over the still swinging doors, his barrel chest seemingly widening the longer they gawked. “Well, you comin’ in?”

Harold felt himself swallow the last of his nerve with a hard gulp. “Ah,” he stammered, feebly pointing down the street. “No thank you. I think I’ll just walk down a ways.” As fast as his shaking legs would take him, Harold moved along the dark board walk. He’d come from Denver, one of the raunchiest towns in the west; almost as deadly as Portland. Yet, he’d never felt so threatened there as he did here in St. Charles Missouri. He stopped before the frosted glass doors of Ma’s Bakery, the bitter smell of brewing coffee assaulted his nose as he pushed opened the doors.

The restaurant was packed for a cold night. A young looking waitress flitted from crowded table to table filling coffee cups with a sweet smile. When she acknowledged him, she waved him in, and sat him in along the far wall at a small two person table. At closer examination, she was probably older than he first suspected. Her brown hair damp around the hairline and pulled into a collapsing bun. Her red cheeks, burned probably from standing over the stove rounded into a smile.

“What can I get you, darlin’?”

At first he started to order a beer, but blushed as he thought better of it. “Coffee and pie, please.”

She gave a nod and pointed to the written menu on the wall, her finger long, slightly crooked from hard labor, her fingernail chipped. Apple or Gooseberry?”

“Gooseberry.” As she started from his side, he cleared his throat. “May I ask you, Miss, well, I’m a stranger in this town and I find it odd that I keep hearing about a big celebration today that I missed. I thought it was supposed to be tomorrow and darned if I didn’t miss it. Did you attended?” He gave her what he hoped to be a warm smile.

She blinked at him a couple of times and then nodded. No, I didn’t attend, it was too cold and I had to get ready to open.” Harold gave a inner groan. If the man was so popular, why didn’t anyone know about him? A slight smile tugged at her lips. “He’s a married man anyhow. No since chasing dreams.”

Harold acted surprise. “Oh, I didn’t realize the celebration was for a person. My, she must be a very important person that the whole town would honor her.”

“He.” She shifted and put her hand on her hip, her long gray and yellow skirt billowing around her. “You must be a stranger if you don’t know about the Lieutenant. He’s becoming legend around here. Never seen him though. He’s supposed to be tall, strong, handsome…” Her eyes shot to the door as it opened and two men entered. At first she dismissed them and then took a double take, a slight sparkle lit up her dull brown eyes and she took a sudden breath. “Like that fellow dark haired fellow there.”

His commanding presence immediately struck Harold. Tall, broad-shouldered, a hard square jaw and green eyes that readily surveyed the room, the new comer looked anything but happy.

His partner, a well-dressed, smaller man, with light brownish red hair and a well-tailored mustache smiled at the young woman, his eyes taking in her full form. “A table for two, please.”

They sat in the middle of the room, the smaller man doing all the talking for both of them. Harold didn’t know why, but he continued to watch their table, turning his head, unable to take his eyes off the impressive figure of the striking man. Over the din of the room, he heard the imposing man growl something, clearly not happy.

Harold took out his small notebook and began to sketch him. He watched the young woman take their order, how the man dismissed her with a curt nod of his noble head. There was something regal about how he held himself, his hard chin tilted slightly up, the long stare of his wide eyes.

Harold looked for a badge, either a marshal or sheriff would account for the man’s strength and self-assuredness. From what he saw, the man had neither. Besides, the waitress would have known him if he were a regular. Harold’s mind raced. Could this be the allusive Lieutenant Ryan?

Again the two men exchanged verbal lashings, the smaller man shifting in his seat as his companion’s green eyes bore into his own. Obeying a hunch, Harold gathered his papers, his notebook and his half drank cup and crossed the room, sitting quietly in the seat directly behind the tall man. His instincts for a pending fight were correct.

“Jesus you’re a pompous asshole, Connor.” The man’s chair scraped back and he stood, his shoulder wide, so broad in fact that the other man was obliterated from Harold’s sight. Do me a favor, don’t ever look me up again.” The large plate of a steaming steak came out of the kitchen and the waitress stopped halfway to the table, her mouth agape.

Her eyes wide as the tall man stalked away from the table. “Don’t you want your dinner?” She asked him.

He swung around at her questions and paused, his large hands clenched into fists. “Put it on his tab,” he snapped. Then gave a shrill, sharp whistle, halting all conversation. “Listen up everyone. Dinner and drinks are on Connor James tonight, so order anything you want.” His eyes narrowed down at his one time companion. “His employer pays him very well, so he can afford it. Drink up everyone!” As cheers from the surprised and now happy patrons went up, the man stormed out, shoving his way out of the frosted glass, the door banging against the wall.

Harold cursed his bad luck as he scrambled to grab his materials and follow the man out before he lost him. If this was the lieutenant, then he had to find out. The young woman rushed the table and people around her called for more beers and pie.

“Is this true?” she raised her voice. “Are you really paying for everything because someone has to pay for all this?”

The brown haired man groaned, running his hand over his jaw. “Yeah, I’ll pay. I wouldn’t want to make a liar out of the great Lieutenant Ryan, would I?”