She wrote hastily. Dearest Papa...It seems that your children are about to disappoint you once again. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive us...
She stuffed the short note into an envelope and carried it to her room, then dragged her bags from her cupboard and tossed clothes into them. Donning a forest green traveling suit in record time, she gave her hair a quick brushing and pinned on a hat. She grimaced into the mirror at the less than satisfactory results of her grooming, then picked up her bags and crept silently down the stairs.
After leaving the message for her father over the fireplace, Elizabeth left by the front door. Her first stop was the bank. She needed part of her trust fund to pay her fare west. If she were lucky finding a cab, she'd be at a teller’s window in a few minutes, and from there it was just a short walk to the train station.
The incessant knocking seemed to be coming from far away. Max groaned and rolled over, taking his pillow with him. Still the sound penetrated the goosedown, slicing through his muddled brain cells with sharp stabs. He opened one eye and peered at the clock by his bed. Little hand on the seven, big hand on the six. Holy Mother. What manner of torturer bangs on a man's door at seven thirty on a Saturday morning?
"Go away!" he barked.
"Cassidy, open this door!"
He made a halfhearted attempt to recognize the voice, but the shape he was in, he'd be lucky to recognize his own. He squinted at the door as if it would give him a clue as to who was on the other side.
"Open up, Max!" There was the voice again, shrill, insistent, male, and now vaguely familiar.
His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his eyes refused to bring any object in his room into focus. What the hell was wrong with him? He tossed the pillow to the floor and placed his palm against his forehead. "Oh, now I remember," he moaned. "Go away, I'm sick!" he called to his heartless visitor.
"I don't believe you, Cassidy, but you sure as hell will be sick if you lose your job!"
Max leaned up on one elbow and tried to concentrate. "Mr. Kritsky, is that you?"
"Of course it's me. Now get your arse out of bed and open this door! I don't have all day, and you don't have an hour!"
Despite the warning not making any sense, Max dragged himself to a standing position and slunk to the door. Why would the editor of the Gazette be paying a visit on a Saturday morning, especially the first Saturday Max had had off in weeks? Oh, no, this wasn't a good omen for his day of rest. He opened the door and peered at his boss. "What are you doing here, Mr. Kritsky?"
The stocky man brushed right past Max and strode to the center of the room. Max didn't even think about stopping him. Kritsky was thirty years older than Max and several inches shorter. His loose jowls, drooping cheeks and nearly bald pate might make a person think that Gus was past his prime, but Max knew better. If the Gazette editor couldn't threaten you with the power of his muscles, he would cower you with the strength of his presence. Max respected him.
"I've got an assignment for you, Cassidy."
"But it's Saturday, my day off," Max protested.
"You don't get to be a top reporter by watching a calendar. I should think you'd know that. Days of the week mean nothing in this business. The news doesn't happen according to any man's schedule."
"Well, no, sir, but isn't there anyone else who could take this assignment?" Max pressed his knuckles against his pounding temples. "I really need this day, Mr. Kritsky."
"What, to sleep? You can rest when you're old like me. Now's the time to make hay. You want your name to be a household word, don't you?" He didn't wait for the obvious answer. "And, since you asked, well, yes, there's a dozen fellas I could put on this job, but I like you Max, so you're it. Instead of belly-aching, you should look at this as your lucky day."
Resigned
She stuffed the short note into an envelope and carried it to her room, then dragged her bags from her cupboard and tossed clothes into them. Donning a forest green traveling suit in record time, she gave her hair a quick brushing and pinned on a hat. She grimaced into the mirror at the less than satisfactory results of her grooming, then picked up her bags and crept silently down the stairs.
After leaving the message for her father over the fireplace, Elizabeth left by the front door. Her first stop was the bank. She needed part of her trust fund to pay her fare west. If she were lucky finding a cab, she'd be at a teller’s window in a few minutes, and from there it was just a short walk to the train station.
The incessant knocking seemed to be coming from far away. Max groaned and rolled over, taking his pillow with him. Still the sound penetrated the goosedown, slicing through his muddled brain cells with sharp stabs. He opened one eye and peered at the clock by his bed. Little hand on the seven, big hand on the six. Holy Mother. What manner of torturer bangs on a man's door at seven thirty on a Saturday morning?
"Go away!" he barked.
"Cassidy, open this door!"
He made a halfhearted attempt to recognize the voice, but the shape he was in, he'd be lucky to recognize his own. He squinted at the door as if it would give him a clue as to who was on the other side.
"Open up, Max!" There was the voice again, shrill, insistent, male, and now vaguely familiar.
His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his eyes refused to bring any object in his room into focus. What the hell was wrong with him? He tossed the pillow to the floor and placed his palm against his forehead. "Oh, now I remember," he moaned. "Go away, I'm sick!" he called to his heartless visitor.
"I don't believe you, Cassidy, but you sure as hell will be sick if you lose your job!"
Max leaned up on one elbow and tried to concentrate. "Mr. Kritsky, is that you?"
"Of course it's me. Now get your arse out of bed and open this door! I don't have all day, and you don't have an hour!"
Despite the warning not making any sense, Max dragged himself to a standing position and slunk to the door. Why would the editor of the Gazette be paying a visit on a Saturday morning, especially the first Saturday Max had had off in weeks? Oh, no, this wasn't a good omen for his day of rest. He opened the door and peered at his boss. "What are you doing here, Mr. Kritsky?"
The stocky man brushed right past Max and strode to the center of the room. Max didn't even think about stopping him. Kritsky was thirty years older than Max and several inches shorter. His loose jowls, drooping cheeks and nearly bald pate might make a person think that Gus was past his prime, but Max knew better. If the Gazette editor couldn't threaten you with the power of his muscles, he would cower you with the strength of his presence. Max respected him.
"I've got an assignment for you, Cassidy."
"But it's Saturday, my day off," Max protested.
"You don't get to be a top reporter by watching a calendar. I should think you'd know that. Days of the week mean nothing in this business. The news doesn't happen according to any man's schedule."
"Well, no, sir, but isn't there anyone else who could take this assignment?" Max pressed his knuckles against his pounding temples. "I really need this day, Mr. Kritsky."
"What, to sleep? You can rest when you're old like me. Now's the time to make hay. You want your name to be a household word, don't you?" He didn't wait for the obvious answer. "And, since you asked, well, yes, there's a dozen fellas I could put on this job, but I like you Max, so you're it. Instead of belly-aching, you should look at this as your lucky day."
Resigned
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