Mariah always said that I’d do anything for a pretty face, and she might be right, but I guess I’m not that different from most other men. And I’d like to meet the one who could refuse Alice when she challenged you. In all fairness, though, it wasn’t just because she was pretty—Alice may have had her mother’s face and figure, but she was her father’s daughter through and through. And in the end, I don’t care what Mariah says—I don’t have a single regret.
It all began that late afternoon downtown, in February 1902, in the New York headquarters of the US Secret Service. Alice had a deck of playing cards and a steely-eyed look that even her father, one of the bravest men I knew, had learned to fear.
“Mr. St. Clair, I haven’t forgotten you said you could shoot a hole through all the aces in five seconds. Prove it.”
“Right here?”
“Unless you’re afraid.”
I grinned. “I don’t know what Mr. Harris would say.”
“I don’t know either. And I don’t care.” She marched to the end of the conference room and removed the four presidential portraits from the wall—Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and Madison. It took her only a few moments to pull the aces out of the box and fasten them to the wall with straight pins.
“Just get back here behind me.” I then took off my jacket and pulled out my Colt New Service revolver. “Here we go.”
It’s a powerful pistol, and I’ve hardly ever fired it indoors, so even I was startled by the noise in the room. Alice didn’t look shaken at all, however, and ran to the end of the room. I hadn’t lost my touch—I could see neat dead-center holes in each card.
“You really did it. Son of a bitch.” She fetched a quarter out of her purse and flipped it to me. “You won the bet, but it was worth it to see shooting like that.”
Naturally, Mr. Harris entered his room at that moment. He was agent in charge of the New York office and technically my supervisor. His eyes went to the holes in the wall, then Alice—who looked right back at him without flinching—and then me.
“What are you doing, Mr. St. Clair?” he said wearily. “This is a government building.”
“Oh, nevermind. It’ll be hidden by the portraits, and it’s a double-thick wall there,” Alice said, but Mr. Harris just sighed again. If it had been anyone else but me and Alice, Mr. Harris would’ve been surprised and angry, but he’s learned to cut us some slack.
“What bothers you so much?” asked Alice. “That a young woman spent an afternoon in your office? Or are you annoyed because of who my father is? Or that I have my bodyguard shoot holes in your walls?”
“All of the above, Miss Roosevelt. Anyway, you’re only here because of who your father is. And don’t the two of you need to be on your way?”
“Yes. As soon as Mr. St. Clair rolls me a cigarette.”
It wasn’t in the job description, so to speak, but there had been no time to ease into this assignment and make it formal. President McKinley was killed back in September, and Mr. Roosevelt found himself trying to manage Alice and the country at the same time. A few weeks of that, and it became clear it wasn’t going to work. So he had called me into his office in early November and said, “St. Clair, I’ve got a new job for you. You’re going to be Alice’s minder. Can you do it?”
“Whatever you want, Mr. President,” I’d responded.
He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder, like in the old days. “You used to call me ‘Colonel.’ And before that, ‘Mr. Theodore.’”
Life changes, and you roll with it. I used to be Sergeant St. Clair of the First Volunteer Cavalry, the Rough Riders, and now I’m Special Agent St. Clair of the Secret Service. Babysitting Alice seemed like a cushy job, and I told the president it beat charging up San Juan Hill.
“You say that now. But I promise you, you’ll wish you were back in Cuba before the year is out.”
Now it was already into the new year, and I had come to realize that the president had a point, but again, I don’t have any regrets.
“I’m not your maid, Miss Alice. This is the last time. Now pay attention while I show you, and next time you buy your own tobacco and roll your own damn cigarette.”
“Watch your mouth,” she said.
“That’s funny coming from you, Princess.”
“And don’t call me ‘Princess.’”
Mr. Harris just shook his head and left while I got out my tobacco and Alice followed along. Her long fingers were deft with the paper, and she waited with a raised eyebrow for me to strike a match on a boot nail and light her up.
“We ought to go now,” I said. I reloaded my Colt and got my long Western riding coat out of the closet. It gets more than a few looks on the streets of Manhattan, but I’m used to it, and it’s got plenty of pockets. Alice had this elegant fur coat with a hood, which suited her well, and we headed out. We made quite a couple—the cowboy and the president’s daughter.
I had a nice little runabout parked around the corner, and Alice certainly enjoyed it. It belonged to the Roosevelt family, but I was the only one who drove it. Still, the thing about driving a car is that you can’t easily get to your gun, and I didn’t like the look of the downtown crowds, so I removed it from its holster and placed it on the seat between us.
“Don’t touch it,” I said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Yes, you were.”
I had learned something the first time I had met her. I was sent to meet Mr. Wilkie, the Secret Service director, in the White House, and we met on the top floor. He was there, shaking his head and cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. “Mr. St. Clair, welcome to Washington. Your charge is on the roof smoking a cigarette. The staircase is right behind me. Best of luck.” He put his glasses back on, shook my hand, and left.
It had taken me about five minutes to pluck the badly rolled cigarette out of her mouth, flick it over the edge of the building, and then talk her down.
“Any chance we could come to some sort of a working relationship?” I had asked. She had looked me up and down.
“A small one,” she had said. “If you can show me how to properly roll a cigarette. Cowboys know these things, I’ve heard.”
“Maybe I can help—if you can learn when and where to smoke them,” I had responded.
So things had rolled along like that for a while, and then one day in New York, some man who looked a little odd wanted—rather forcefully—to make Alice’s acquaintance on Fifth Avenue, and it took me all of three seconds to tie him into a knot on the sidewalk while we waited for the police.
“That was very impressive, Mr. St. Clair,” she had said, and I don’t think her eyes could’ve gotten any bigger. “I believe that was the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.” She looked at me differently from then on, and things went a little more smoothly after that. Not perfect, but better.
Anyway, that afternoon I pulled into traffic. It was one of those damp winter days, not too cold. Workingmen were heading home, and women were still making a few last purchases from peddlers before everyone packed up for the day.
“Can we stop at a little barbershop off of Houston?” she asked.
I ran my hand over my chin. “Is that a hint I need a shave?” I’m used to doing it myself.
“Don’t be an idiot. He’s my bookie.”
“So that’s why you had the office boy bring you back the Racing Form when he went out for lunch.” Alice had enjoyed herself with a hot dog and a bottle of beer. “By the way, what was that potato thing you were eating?”
“A knish. I can’t get enough of them, but just try to get them uptown.”
I’ll admit New York took a little getting used to, but you never run out of new things to eat here.
Alice directed me to a little side street and a barbershop that looked none too clean.
“Don’t bother parking. I’ll be right out,” she said.
“I’m not supposed to leave you alone outside.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, and we went inside together. Barbers were cutting and shaving men, and they looked at Alice as she strode in past waiting patrons reading the latest issue of the Police Gazette. A quick-eyed man sat at a table in the back, briskly taking bets and money, and when it was Alice’s turn, she looked as happy as a child with a kitten, practically jumping with excitement.
“A good week, miss,” said the bookie, paying out. He looked up at me. “Hey, sport, you want to give the lady some room? You’ll get your turn.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Alice. “He’s with me.”
“Sorry, didn’t realize. Mister—did you know how good your girl is at picking the ponies?”
Alice laughed and looked me up and down. “I’m not his girl. He’s my bodyguard.”
“What?” said the bookie, wondering if there was a joke he was missing. He clearly had no idea who his customer was.
“My bodyguard. You think I’m going to come into a dump like this alone?” She carefully counted her money and placed another bet with some of her winnings, and we got back into the car.
“He thought you were my ‘young man,’” she said. “Dear God.”
“The man must’ve been blind,” I said, glancing at her. “It should’ve been obvious you’re too young for me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she said.
I shrugged. “You’re seventeen. I’m thirty.”
“That’s just thirteen years, not so much.”
“Glad you think so.”
“If you weren’t driving, I’d hit you.” And she waved her hand, a sign that this particular conversation was over and she was changing the subject. “So what was going on in the meeting this morning? You must’ve had every field agent in New York jammed into that conference room.”
“There’s a reason they call it the Secret Service.”
“You work for my father. Of course you can tell me.” It was halfway between a wheedle and an order. I might as well; she’d find out soon enough.
“The word came from Washington. It was officially determined that Leon Czolgosz acted alone in killing President McKinley—there were no additional conspirators and no further danger to the presidential family.”
She gave me a cool look. “So that means I’m no longer stuck with you every minute?”
“Nope. You’re still stuck with me. It just means I might let you get out a little more.”
“Oh, you’ll let me? How kind of you.” She snuggled down into her furs and lost herself in thought. We continued farther uptown, and soon we were alongside Central Park, where I go when I want a little room. They even have sheep there, and every now and then I visit the shepherds and share a drink and a smoke, and we talk about livestock—there aren’t many in New York who can do that.
“Additional conspirators,” said Alice suddenly. “What made them think Czolgosz had any associates?”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, there was this one gal in particular, Emma Goldman. Apparently she had met Czolgosz some weeks before he shot McKinley. A bit of a rabble rouser with a history of violence. She supposedly helped the guy who tried to shoot What’s-his-name, the steel magnate—”
“Henry Clay Frick. He’s a bully and boor. If she tried to kill him, I’m predisposed to like her. So what did they do to her?”
I didn’t know the details, just what had been mentioned in the meeting. “Let her go, I think, after holding her for a while. I guess she didn’t really have anything to do with McKinley after all. So what’s on for tonight?”
“Tonight? Aunt Anna has some people coming over. I have to be nice to them.” Aunt Anna is President Roosevelt’s older sister. She practically raised Alice after Alice’s mother died in childbirth, and she is the only one who can control her. So, as Alice would say, I’m predisposed to like her, although I’m not sure it’s a two-way street.
“The usual crowd—men looking for positions in Washington, women looking for dinner invitations to the White House, the old families, the newly rich, local politicians. I’ll have to put on a smart dress and be polite and hope some of them are interesting.” She didn’t sound hopeful. “How about you?”
“I might scrounge a dinner from your cook, Dulcie; find a card game; maybe visit Mariah later, after she gets back from work.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed; she gave me that look whenever I mentioned Mariah. She hated few things more than being made a fool of, and she suspected I wasn’t telling her the truth about Mariah.
“She’s your sister, right?”
“Half sister, technically.”
“So you have the same mother but different fathers?”
“Other way around. Same father but different mothers.”
“Ha!” she said in triumph. “You said her last name was Flores. Why isn’t she St. Clair if you have the same father?”
“Flores is her married name.”
“You said she lived alone. You never mentioned a husband.”
“She was married, but it didn’t take. But she kept the name anyway.”
“Does she look like you? I mean, can you tell that you’re brother and sister?” She was trying to catch me out. Actually, we look nothing alike. I take after our father, but Mariah looks more like her mother. She’s a good head shorter than I am, with black hair and a darker complexion, while I’m fair with blond hair.
“Not at all,” I said cheerfully. And Alice lapsed into silence for another mile.
“I want to meet her,” said Alice eventually.
“Mariah? Sure. One night when she’s not working, I’ll have her cook us dinner. She’s a great cook.”
“No, not her,” she said, irritated. “I mean, I would like to meet her, but I was talking about Emma Goldman.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
I laughed but realized I had walked into this. The worst thing you could do is excite Alice’s curiosity. She got bored very easily, and giving her anything new, no matter how inappropriate, could be dangerous. “That’s a hell of a reason, Princess. I happen to know she’s in New York, but I don’t know where.”
“I bet Mr. Harris knows,” she said.
“I bet he won’t tell you,” I responded. “And I have no reason to ask him.”
“Very well. You won a quarter from me today. I want it back. I’ll bet you I get Emma Goldman’s address by the end of the evening.”
I took Alice’s gloved hand in mine. “Done.” And with that, we pulled up to the Caledonia, where Alice’s aunt, Anna Roosevelt Cowles, had taken an apartment while her husband, an admiral, was away at sea.
The Caledonia takes up a square block on the West Side and rents apartments to the best people who want more room and a better view than you get from the townhouses farther downtown. She set up house there after Mr. Roosevelt became vice president and moved to Washington, and she helped out as his unofficial New York hostess. Washington may be the capital, but from what I could tell, lots of important things still happened only in New York.
With the assignment, I got a small room in the building’s half basement. It’s warm and has a window, so I’m fine with it. The building almost looks like a castle, with fancy stonework and statues of imaginary animals on the corners. Alice says they’re called gargoyles, and one day I’m going to climb out a window to have a closer look.
I parked the car in the Caledonia garage and walked Alice through the front entrance, where the doorman greeted one of the building’s most famous residents. I took off my Stetson and gave the doorman a salute. He nodded back. I think he feels a little sorry for me.
The elevator took us up to the apartment, where a maid, alerted by the doorman, was already opening the door for us.
“Miss Alice, your aunt was asking for you. Your dress is laid out.”
“Very good,” said Alice. She handed the maid her coat and gloves and turned back to me. “I’ll see you later,” she said, disappearing down the hall. I like the entranceway to the apartment. It’s probably bigger than my room downstairs, with a chandelier like something out of a hotel. One of the pictures on the wall is of Mr. Roosevelt’s ranch back in the Dakotas, and I never tire of looking at it, the plains and the sky going on forever.
The maid seemed a little unclear about what I was to do next. They still haven’t learned where I fit in socially.
“If it’s all right with you, I’ll just make myself at home in the kitchen,” I said. And she watched me to make sure I went where I was supposed to go and not where the guests were gathering.
“You again,” said Dulcie.
“Good to see you, too,” I said. I hung up my coat, hat, and pistol in the service entrance hall and loosened my jacket. That was the worst part of the job. Mr. Harris says all agents have to wear a proper suit—something I didn’t even own before I started—and Mr. Roosevelt kindly advanced me the money to buy one.
“Any chance for some food?” I asked, going for charm, but Dulcie wasn’t having any of it. She turned. Her round face was red and sweaty, and there was a knife in her hand. I had no doubt she had the strength and will to gut me like a salmon.
“You know the rules. You leave your tobacco and your flask in your coat. No smoking or drinking. And I’ll see what I can do.”
“Even the president smokes and drinks,” I said.
“He ain’t president here. I’m president of this kitchen. You have a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am.” I sat down at the kitchen table, and it didn’t take long for her to drop a plate in front of me with some chicken, cabbage, and potatoes. Dulcie isn’t as good a cook as Mariah, but I doubt the Roosevelts’ guests would be interested in what Mariah cooks, so maybe I’m being unfair.
“Very good, ma’am. Much appreciated.” She grunted and went back to her stove and cutting board. When I was done, I found yesterday’s newspaper in the trash and figured that would keep me busy until the evening was over. I looked at the kitchen clock and wondered if Alice would be able to win back her quarter by getting Emma Goldman’s address—and what I was going to do if Alice wanted to visit her.
I’d gotten comfortable and even managed to coax a slice of apple pie and a cup of very good coffee from Dulcie when Alice burst into the kitchen. She had cleaned up nicely for sure, looking a lot more like a young lady of fashion than the naughty schoolgirl who was reading a beer-stained Racing Form in the office earlier.
“Miss Alice, what are you doing here?” asked Dulcie. She glared at me as if this was somehow my fault. “This is my kitchen, not a reception area.”
“I’m just fetching Mr. St. Clair, and then we’ll both be out of your hair.” She grabbed my hand and started dragging me out.
“Miss Alice, I can’t go out there.”
“Oh, don’t be difficult. There are lots of people I want you to introduce you to and who will love to meet you. And I want you to see me win my quarter back. I’m sure we can find someone. And if you help me, I may call it even.”
More than a few people looked up as Alice led me into what was called “the game room.” It had a pool table, comfortable chairs, and a small bar. I had never been in it, but Alice had mentioned it as the place where the younger set gathered during parties. We found it well populated with men in evening suits and ladies in fine dresses, and everybody seemed in good spirits.
“Everyone! This is Mr. St. Clair, who’s in charge of making sure nothing horrible happens to me.” I was then introduced to the sons and daughters of the best families in New York. Everyone was nice enough, but for the most part, the names went in one ear and out the other.
I found myself standing with a young woman called Clemmie who had a pair of lovely china-blue eyes and a magnificent mane of chestnut hair. She gave me a knowing look.
“We haven’t met before, Mr. St. Clair, but I’ve heard all about you. Alice talks about you all the time.”
“Does she really?” I asked, amused to discover that while I’m sitting in some mansion’s kitchen, Alice is in the ballroom talking about me.
“Oh, yes, she told us you were a deputy sheriff and a cowboy working for her father and then a hero on San Juan Hill with the Rough Riders.” Then she looked a little sly. “She told us how handsome you were, but now I can see that for myself.” I didn’t know how to respond to that, but Clemmie kept rolling along, now glancing at my feet.
“Are those real cowboy boots? Where are your spurs?”
“They tear the carpet up something awful,” I said, and that gave her a moment’s pause before she laughed. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Did you fight Indians out West?” she asked. “But actually, Alice said your grandmother was a full-blooded Cheyenne.” And there was quite a sparkle in those eyes.
Meanwhile, Alice was jumping from man to man like a bee among flowers in the field, talking and smiling, gently touching arms with her long, white fingers.
Clemmie now leaned over close to me. “Can I trust you with a secret, Mr. St. Clair?”
“Unless you’re trying to kidnap Miss Alice, yes.”
She giggled. “No. It’s something else. I think you have a rival for Alice’s affections.”
“I don’t have any rival regarding Miss Alice, unless he wants my job,” I said, and I was serious, but Clemmie seemed to find that funny.
“Preston van Schuyler is coming. He practically lived at Sagamore Hill last summer.” That was before my time, so this was news to me.
“So something like a romance?”
“Something like—on his side, anyway,” said Clemmie. “He’s very charming and amusing, and the Van Schuylers have piles of money. She’ll pretend it’s nothing, but she can’t help but be aware of his attentions.” But then again, Alice expected everyone to pay attention to her, so that was nothing new.
“You’re a pretty sharp young lady, Miss Clemmie,” I said. “Would you like to join the Secret Service yourself?”
“Oh, Mr. St. Clair,” she said and laughed loudly. She placed a glove-clad hand on my arm.
At that point, Alice’s darting eyes landed on me and Clemmie. She frowned and made her way to us. “And what are the pair of you discussing?” she asked a little sharply.
“Oh, Alice, your Mr. St. Clair is just as you described him.”
Alice just gave me a hard look. “Well, aren’t you chatty this evening? We’re supposed to be trying to find someone who can help us with some inquires. Clemmie—what does your father do again? Something in banking, isn’t it?”
“He’s a director of the Chase National Bank,” said Clemmie, full of pride. “He’s been to London and Geneva and lots of other places.”
“I’m sure he’s a marvelous banker, but we need someone in law. Is your father a lawyer? Does he know any lawyers?”
“Of course he knows lawyers. My cousin Norris is a lawyer, too.”
“Where does he work?” asked Alice, seeing a promising lead.
“He’s at one of the best law firms in New York.”
“But does he know any criminals?” persisted Alice.
“He’s not that kind of lawyer,” she said, a little hurt. Alice just shook her head.
A young man stepped over and linked his arm into Clemmie’s. “Come on, we need a fourth for bridge.” He led her away, but not before I had a chance to wink at her and watch her blush. Alice saw the whole thing and gave me a dirty look.
“But nevermind. This is a waste of time. We need someone with a connection to Buffalo. That’s where Czolgosz killed McKinley, so I’d imagine authorities in Buffalo are more likely to have a record of Emma Goldman than New York authorities, even if she does live here. Now who do I know who’s familiar with Buffalo?” She looked around the room, frowning, but then her eyes landed on a slim young man talking with a group of other boys who had just entered. They were laughing about something. He stepped over to us.
“Alice! I’m so glad to see you.” He greeted her warmly and gave her a kiss on her cheek. He was almost as tall as I was, but of a lighter build and closer to Alice’s age than mine. He wore his suit like he was used to it.
“So glad you made it, Preston. It’s been too long.”
“And such a dull winter so far. But when the Roosevelts throw a party, I know a good time will be had by all.”
“With everything, of course, I don’t think we’ve seen each other since you came out to Sagamore Hill for the end-of-season house party and we went bathing in the ocean.”
“I know. My father has kept me busy. We must do it again, unless . . . you’ll be in Washington soon?” And he raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps,” she said, and then she suddenly seemed to remember I was there. “Preston, this is Mr. St. Clair of the Secret Service.”
He looked me up and down. “Is that a uniform?” he asked.
“That would sort of defeat the purpose of being secret,” I said. It got a smile out of Alice.
“Of course,” said Preston, and he reached out his hand. I took it and squeezed it harder than necessary. “Preston van Schuyler. We’re old friends of the Roosevelts.”
“Do you also live in New York?” I asked. In that set, there were two kinds of people: those who lived in New York and the rest of the world.
“Yes, I do, not very far from here. I take it that you are not a native of the city?”
“Just beyond the river,” I said.
“The Hudson?”
“The Mississippi.”
“Ah. Well, we’ve been here for some generations. Although we have properties in Buffalo as well, where we have extensive interests.”
“Oh, yes, Buffalo. I forgot about Buffalo. And all the connections your family has. You know everyone,” said Alice. “Mr. St. Clair and I are in the middle of an investigation, and no one seems to be able to help.”
“An investigation?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’ve become very curious about some of the loose ends left after President McKinley’s assassination and am trying to find certain people who can help us.”
Preston looked back and forth between us and then settled on me. “Isn’t this more in your line, Mr. St. Clair?”
“Miss Alice is taking her own path in this. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Exactly,” said Alice. “We’re looking for a woman named Emma Goldman, and—”
Preston looked shocked. “Emma Goldman? Alice—she’s an anarchist, a known troublemaker who narrowly escaped a murder conviction. You can’t possibly want to see her.”
“She won’t be boring, I’m sure.” Alice looked over her shoulder. A couple of the young men were shooting pool and doing a pretty bad job of it. The bridge game seemed lively. “So what do you expect me to do?” she continued. “Attend party after party like this? Where’s your spirit of adventure? But what can I expect from a boy who graduated from Yale?” Mr. Roosevelt had gone to Harvard, and apparently there’s this big rivalry.
“What makes you think I can help?”
“The Van Schuylers have almost as many connections as the Roosevelts and are even better known in Buffalo. Can you call someone there? There must be an office of the attorney general in Buffalo, and they’d do a favor for the Van Schuylers.”
“For God’s sake, Alice, I can’t just call up and ask something like that out of the blue.”
“Oh, where’s your sense of adventure? You were so much fun last summer.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Alice, you don’t know what you’re asking. What are you going to do? You can’t mean to visit her?”
“Why not? I’m curious. Everyone tells me that it was an anarchist who killed McKinley, and I had to be kept on a short leash while they made sure they weren’t going to kill me, too, so of course I want to meet one.”
Preston looked a little stupefied at that and then appealed to me again. The fun was over. “Mr. St. Clair, this is your doing. I’ve known Alice for years, and this is nothing a Roosevelt would do.”
“Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think,” I said. Alice smiled slyly at that and gave me a sidelong glance.
“I’ve known her since she was six,” he said. And I thought, Maybe you never really listened to her.
“If you two silly men would stop arguing, we have things to do. Preston, can you make a telephone call tonight? I’m sure they’ll have records of her in Buffalo, since that’s where McKinley was killed.”
He sighed. “First thing in the morning.”
“Surely you can do it tonight. I remember Father always said that there was a night clerk at major state offices in case of emergencies, and you can call tonight so I can take care of this tomorrow morning. Come—both of you. There’s a telephone in Aunt Anna’s parlor.”
And without waiting to see if we were following, she took off. Preston and I both shrugged and headed after her. Aunt Anna’s parlor was another room I had heard about but never seen. It was an odd little room, actually. The furniture was something you’d expect from any well-born lady’s room, but the desk contained neatly stacked account books, a collection of pens, and the telephone. Mrs. Cowles worked here.
Van Schuyler looked at the telephone and seemed to be weighing something in his mind, but I couldn’t figure out what. “It’ll be a few moments, Alice. I have to call a friend of mine who will know the right supervisor for this case, and hopefully he has what you want and can put me in touch with the night clerk.” And then, with little enthusiasm, he picked up the phone and started dialing.
We didn’t want to breathe down his neck, so we stepped to the other side of the room by a small bookcase, and Alice pushed the volumes to one side to make a space.
“While we’re waiting, you can roll me a cigarette,” she said.
“I thought the agreement was you’d take care of your own smoking needs.”
“Look at how I’m dressed. Do you think I carry around tobacco and rolling paper in an outfit like this?”
I fished out the tobacco and began rolling her one. We heard Preston murmuring into the phone.
“You don’t like him, do you?” she said.
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s a nasty trick, answering a question with a question. You’re jealous, I think.”
“Because he grew up in a fine house and went to Yale, and I left school when I was fourteen? He ain’t the first rich person I met, Miss Alice.”
“No, not that kind of jealous. I mean jealous because you think that I like him more than I like you.”
“I get a nice salary for being with you. What Preston gets out of it is beyond me,” I said.
Alice did not like that answer, and I got the icy glare for it. “Once again, I have a good mind to strike you,” she said.
“Assault on a federal officer is a felony.”
“Aren’t you being amusing tonight?” she said and then thanked me for the cigarette and paused so I could light it for her.
She puffed away in contented silence for a few minutes, and I reviewed the novels on Mrs. Cowles’s shelf until Preston hung up the phone. We watched him write something on a piece of notepaper and fold it in half before standing up and coming over to us. He wore a satisfied smile. He began to hand it to Alice but snatched it away. She pouted. “It isn’t free,” he said. “Cal Atherton did you a favor, and he wants it repaid. He’d like a job in Washington. Can you talk with your father?”
“I’ll write him tomorrow,” she said as she snatched the paper. Van Schuyler laughed. “Oh, good, right here in Manhattan. Easy for a visit. Meanwhile, what do you get out of this?” she said.
“Helping you,” he said. Alice rolled her eyes.
“You flatter me, but it’s because now he owes you a favor for giving him a chance to do me a favor, which means I have to get my father to introduce him to someone in Washington.”
“You’re your father’s daughter,” said Van Schuyler, laughing again. “But do be careful, Alice. Emma Goldman is known to be vicious. And she has vicious friends.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Mr. St. Clair will be protecting me. He carries a revolver, you know, and he’s terribly good with it.”
“Are you, indeed?” said Preston dryly. But he put on a brave face. He gave Alice a quick kiss on her cheek, nodded to me, and left. I reached for the same quarter she’d given me earlier and flipped it back to her.
“So you bartered for it. Nicely done,” I said.
“You don’t have to sound so sullen about it. Anyway, I’ll buy you some more tobacco to make up for it. The thing is, I have the address, and that’s what’s important. You can take me there tomorrow.”
“But I thought it was just to win the bet.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course we’re going.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. And for that, I once again got the steely-eyed look.
“What do you mean that you won’t take me? You’re my bodyguard, not my nanny.”
“I can’t guard you properly with those people in the neighborhoods they live in.”
“How dare you tell me where I can and can’t go!” She was gripping the back of the chair so tightly, I thought she’d break it.
“Listen, I’m just a workingman. I have to get up early tomorrow. I’m going back to my room downstairs before your aunt catches me and wonders what I’m up to. Good night, Princess,” I said.
“I hate you calling me that. I hate it.”
I saw myself out. Deciding it was too late to bother Mariah, especially as I had already eaten, I just went back to my room. I gave myself a final cigarette and shot of bourbon and went to sleep. Alice and I both knew it wasn’t over and that she’d eventually get her way.
But it would do her good to make her work for it.