“Hello,” she said.
“Good morning, miss.” The scar moved as he spoke, like a worm crawling across his face.
Cassie forced herself not to grimace. “How can I help you?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
Cassie considered. “I merely wondered how business is at the factory, as it seemed so quiet yesterday.”
“You’re a terrible liar, lady.” He pointed his cigarette at her. “I know who you are. You wrote that article about my sister, called out her maiden name. Did Walker tell you to write that?”
“Wait, your sister? No, Mr. Walker’s lawyer threatened me after he read the article, actually.”
The man nodded thoughtfully. “He would do that.”
“Don’t you know where your sister is?”
“If I knew where she was, she wouldn’t be missing, would she?”
“Well—”
“Look, I can’t be seen hanging around this side of town too long. You come see me at the Dark Horse Pub tonight. Ask for Tommy.”
He stubbed his cigarette out on the wall and disappeared into the crowd.
Cassie stood there for a long moment, stunned.
***
Cassie fretted over her next move all morning while she drafted a response for her popular women’s advice column—this time, a question over whether to break an engagement. She gave the expected response—the letter writer must not break the engagement or risk ruining her reputation—even though personally she thought that the fiancé sounded rather crass, so the woman would do well to leave him. While she wrote, she kept an eye on the other reporters. The men were always going between each other’s desks, shouting rude comments across the room, gathering at open windows to smoke. She would have to pick her moment carefully if she wanted to engage one of them without dragging the others in.
She seized the chance just before lunch. “Powolski,” Cassie ventured once he was on his own, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. While every word he spoke to her usually dripped in condescension, he was one of the few reporters who deigned to talk to her at all, so he was her only resource.
He took his time turning around to face her, and took a long sip of his coffee instead of speaking.
“How are you today?” Still no answer. She would just have to plunge in. “I was wondering, what do you know about the Dark Horse Pub?”
His eyes popped wide in surprise. “What do you want to know about it?”
“Well, where it is, for starters.”
“You’re not actually thinking of going there? It’s not exactly in your part of the city.” His eyes took in her neatly pressed dress, her unstained white lace cuffs.
“I need to go there. To see a source.”
He guffawed, and she worried he would draw the attention of the other men.
“Can you keep it down, please?”
“What is this source about? Ways to wash whiskey out of shirts? You can get that from plenty of other places.” He took a step away from her.
“Please. A woman’s life is in danger.”
He gave her a strange look. “Does Ellerbee know you’re working on this story?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Is it good?”
“The Tiatellis are involved.”
He whistled. “You can’t handle that on your own.” He set down his coffee mug. “If I help you, I want the byline.”
“What? It’s my story.”
“Sorry, can’t help you.” He started to walk away.
“All right, all right. But we have to do this my way.”
“Whatever you say, little lady.” He gave her an exaggerated bow and walked back to the circle of his brethren.
***
The Dark Horse Pub was tucked away at the end of a run-down street. Despite the fact that it lacked any signage, it bustled with people. Cassie had donned her plainest dress, but as soon as she stepped inside, she saw that she had erred. She still stood out from the few other women in the room, all of whom were in various states of deshabille. She cursed herself for not having the sense to at least leave her hat and gloves at home.
Powolski grabbed her elbow and led her to a corner table. Several men leered at her as they walked past. Most of them did not smell pleasant. “See your friend yet?” he asked.
Cassie scanned the room. She didn’t see Tommy anywhere, but it was hard to be sure. The pub was barely lighter than the street outside, and there were plenty of dark corners, probably by design.
