Silver Dreams Read Online Free
Author: Cynthia Thomason
under her arm and hailed a cab with the intention of just gazing at the building from a distance.
On the way she perused the articles in the journal. She found three bylines belonging to Maxwell Cassidy. The stories credited to her mysterious passenger were strange indeed.
The first one was headlined, "Dangerous Relation...Man gets twenty stitches from mother-in-law who was ten miles away in Brooklyn Heights." Reading the lead paragraph, Elizabeth discerned that the hapless man received his wound from an irate wife who bludgeoned him over his head with a portrait of her mother. The heavy antique frame disintegrated on impact, splintering all over the poor fellow's bald pate.
Max's second headline read, "Beware the Meat Course...Can you identify that unique flavor?" This article was about a man at a South Street Seaport meat packing plant who had his arm chopped off by a butcher's saw. His co-workers rushed him to the hospital and when they returned, they found no evidence of the severed arm. The day's quota of sausages, however, had gone out to distributors as scheduled.
Elizabeth's stomach churned while she searched for the last of Max's articles, the one she had personally experienced, at least second-hand. "Injured Man Ends Up Rolling Lucky Seven," the headline read, followed by, "Patrick O'Toole grateful for help from Italian businessman who prefers to remain anonymous."
Elizabeth read the headline a second time as her incredulity grew. How could anything about Mr. O'Toole's ordeal be considered lucky, she wondered, thinking about the wounded man suffering with blindness and broken legs. And how could Max refer to that despicable Galbotto fellow as a helpful businessman as if he were a paragon of society? What kind of investigative reporting was this?
She read the details of Max's encounter in the basement of the Dorchester Hotel. He admitted that he was there to investigate the injuries inflicted upon one middle-aged man of Irish descent. The details of Max's own struggle with the unidentified ruffians were quite vivid, even to the picturesque descriptions of the "beefy fist which slammed into his upper lip."
Elizabeth didn't have time to finish the article because the cab stopped in front of a three-story brownstone building with the words True Detective Gazette scripted on the first and second story windows. She folded the newspaper, paid the driver and dismissed the cab. She no longer had an interest in merely observing the building. Since reading the article she was determined to question Max about his journalistic ethics.
She had no trouble locating him. In fact he almost bumped into her in the busy lobby. She might not have known who he was amidst the bustling activity of the Gazette headquarters, but she recognized his voice and turned toward it as he brushed past her.
In his hurry to exit the building, Max grabbed a young boy by the arm and thrust a folder of papers at him. "Get this up to copy right away, Sam, and check with Molly about the proofreading of my bit on the mayor's nephew. I'll be back by five o'clock."
"Yessir, Mr. Cassidy," the boy said and headed through a swinging door with Max's copy.
Elizabeth snaked her way among a noisy throng to reach the front door and follow Max out. He was already a half block away when she came outside. Holding on to her straw boater and hurrying toward him, she called, "Mr. Cassidy! Max Cassidy!"
He stopped and cocked his head as if trying to gauge the direction of her voice.
"Here, Mr. Cassidy, behind you!" She’d managed to catch up with him.
He spun around and faced her, but his eyes showed no evidence of recognition. But then why should he recognize her? Three nights ago she'd been in an evening gown with her hair done in curls, and they'd met in a dimly lit carriage. Today she was dressed in a tailored navy linen skirt, matching vest, and white silk blouse. And her hair, which he'd called
On the way she perused the articles in the journal. She found three bylines belonging to Maxwell Cassidy. The stories credited to her mysterious passenger were strange indeed.
The first one was headlined, "Dangerous Relation...Man gets twenty stitches from mother-in-law who was ten miles away in Brooklyn Heights." Reading the lead paragraph, Elizabeth discerned that the hapless man received his wound from an irate wife who bludgeoned him over his head with a portrait of her mother. The heavy antique frame disintegrated on impact, splintering all over the poor fellow's bald pate.
Max's second headline read, "Beware the Meat Course...Can you identify that unique flavor?" This article was about a man at a South Street Seaport meat packing plant who had his arm chopped off by a butcher's saw. His co-workers rushed him to the hospital and when they returned, they found no evidence of the severed arm. The day's quota of sausages, however, had gone out to distributors as scheduled.
Elizabeth's stomach churned while she searched for the last of Max's articles, the one she had personally experienced, at least second-hand. "Injured Man Ends Up Rolling Lucky Seven," the headline read, followed by, "Patrick O'Toole grateful for help from Italian businessman who prefers to remain anonymous."
Elizabeth read the headline a second time as her incredulity grew. How could anything about Mr. O'Toole's ordeal be considered lucky, she wondered, thinking about the wounded man suffering with blindness and broken legs. And how could Max refer to that despicable Galbotto fellow as a helpful businessman as if he were a paragon of society? What kind of investigative reporting was this?
She read the details of Max's encounter in the basement of the Dorchester Hotel. He admitted that he was there to investigate the injuries inflicted upon one middle-aged man of Irish descent. The details of Max's own struggle with the unidentified ruffians were quite vivid, even to the picturesque descriptions of the "beefy fist which slammed into his upper lip."
Elizabeth didn't have time to finish the article because the cab stopped in front of a three-story brownstone building with the words True Detective Gazette scripted on the first and second story windows. She folded the newspaper, paid the driver and dismissed the cab. She no longer had an interest in merely observing the building. Since reading the article she was determined to question Max about his journalistic ethics.
She had no trouble locating him. In fact he almost bumped into her in the busy lobby. She might not have known who he was amidst the bustling activity of the Gazette headquarters, but she recognized his voice and turned toward it as he brushed past her.
In his hurry to exit the building, Max grabbed a young boy by the arm and thrust a folder of papers at him. "Get this up to copy right away, Sam, and check with Molly about the proofreading of my bit on the mayor's nephew. I'll be back by five o'clock."
"Yessir, Mr. Cassidy," the boy said and headed through a swinging door with Max's copy.
Elizabeth snaked her way among a noisy throng to reach the front door and follow Max out. He was already a half block away when she came outside. Holding on to her straw boater and hurrying toward him, she called, "Mr. Cassidy! Max Cassidy!"
He stopped and cocked his head as if trying to gauge the direction of her voice.
"Here, Mr. Cassidy, behind you!" She’d managed to catch up with him.
He spun around and faced her, but his eyes showed no evidence of recognition. But then why should he recognize her? Three nights ago she'd been in an evening gown with her hair done in curls, and they'd met in a dimly lit carriage. Today she was dressed in a tailored navy linen skirt, matching vest, and white silk blouse. And her hair, which he'd called
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