“I hope you’re right about him,” Evie said and went back to the library. She glowered at Sam once for good measure and then settled in at the long table, checking through stacks of newspaper reports and books, searching for anything that might shed light on the strange murder of Ruta Badowski.
When she’d had enough, she sneaked out her copy of Photoplay.
“So, is Clara Bow running away with Charlie Chaplin?” Sam read over her shoulder.
Evie did not look up. “Why don’t you take it and read it for yourself? You seem to be skilled at taking things. In fact, why don’t you carry it with you on your way out?”
Sam snickered. “Now, why would I leave such a sweet deal? Besides, I’d hate for you to miss me, sister.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Let’s put that phrase to the test, shall we? I’ll get your hat.”
“No can do. Your uncle needs my help. Look at all this stuff—who knew there were so many superstitious charms? Like this—love charm of the Hopi. Oh, I better not let you hold this, sister. You might get goofy for me.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“I’m counting on that day.”
“I hope you can count pretty high, then,” Evie said.
He leaned in a little closer. Evie could see the flecks of amber in his eyes. “Admit it—you liked that kiss.”
“You owe me twenty dollars.”
“Cash or check?” he said cheekily. Even the dullest Ohio girls knew that bit of lingo: Kiss now or kiss later?
“Bank’s closed, pal.”
Sam nodded. “Check, then.” Whistling, he headed for the library doors. Evie followed him up the wide, curving staircase that led to the museum’s second floor.
“Can I help you, sister?”
“I’m making sure you don’t leave with half the museum.”
“Just have to iron my shoelaces,” he said, nodding toward the men’s room at the top of the stairs. When he reached the men’s room door, Evie stood outside, her arms folded across her chest.
“Honestly, I’d invite you in, but I’ve managed to avoid getting arrested for petty theft. I’d hate to go to the Tombs for perversion.”
“Whatever it takes to get you out of my uncle’s museum,” Evie quipped. “I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself, doll.”
In the museum’s musty lavatory, Sam washed his hands and left the tap running. Whistling, he sat on the cracked tile floor and watched the shadow of Evie’s feet under the slit of the door as she paced. She’d get bored eventually. He opened Jericho’s wallet, which he had lifted while the blond giant was occupied in the stacks. Trusting fella. That was a dangerous habit—trust. Sam removed a five-dollar bill, replacing it with two singles. It was the oldest trick in the book: If you stole the Abe’s cabe outright, the other fella could make you for a thief. But if you took a large bill and left some singles, the mark would think he’d spent the big dough and just didn’t remember getting change.
From his jacket pockets, Sam removed two small silver ashtrays, which he’d managed to take from the library unnoticed. These he hoped to sell later to a disreputable pawnbroker on the Bowery for a few bucks. For now, he wrapped them in one of the bathroom’s hand towels and hid them behind the toilet bowl. He had big plans, and plans took time and money.
Evie’s shadow disappeared. Sam opened the door a crack and saw that the hallway was empty. He closed the men’s room door again, turned off the tap, and stared at his reflection in the tall wooden mirror. Two shocks of his dark hair hung down on either side of his gold-flecked eyes. The devil-may-care expression was gone, and in its place was one of hard determination.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Lloyd. Tell me where she is, or…”
Sam stopped. Though he’d played the scene over in his mind many times, he was never really sure what he would say when that day came. He only knew that he wouldn’t be going in blind. Sam pulled up his pants leg and removed the gun strapped there, turning it over in his hands, examining the barrel, feeling the tension in the trigger. He opened the chamber and spun it around. There were no bullets yet. The ashtrays would bring enough for those. This job at the museum had been a stroke of good luck, easier than hustling magic tricks on the streets of Times Square. All he had to do was hold on for a little while—long enough to find out who needed to pay for what had happened to his family. And they would pay.
In the mirror, Sam was scowling. He looked older than his seventeen years. He straightened his collar, eased the scowl into a hard smile, and raised the gun, taking aim at his reflection.
