“My, that smells good,” Ellsmere said, taking in the aroma.
“Uh-huh,” Rodgers said, wondering if maybe this guy wasn’t a hobo on the make. He stirred him toward the horseshow-shaped counter. “Have a seat.”
“Will Henson be coming in soon?”
“I have no idea, but I’m going to get the proprietor over here. Sit tight.”
Ellsmere sat, and the patrolman went around the far end of the counter out of sight. Momentarily, he returned with a handsome copper-skinned woman in an apron walking on the inside of the counter area.
At a table in the corner, two men enthusiastically discussed why the Yankees starting lineup didn’t hold a candle to the likes of Satchel Paige and Josh Gibson of the Negro Leagues’ Black Barons and Homestead Grays.
“Shame they don’t let ‘em play in the majors,” one lamented.
The other man concurred, pouring even more sugar in his lukewarm coffee. “You know some of our boys have been going down to Mexico to play. Got an owner down there don’t mind the color.”
“Yeah?” his companion said.
“May, this here gent says he’s a professor and has to see Matthew,” Rodgers said back at the counter.
“He does, does he?” May Maynard asked. She was tall, dark-skinned and sharp eyed.
“I was on one of his expeditions,” Ellsmere said, telling her his name. Yet, despite his eagerness to prove himself, he held back from mentioning it had been the second expedition, the one to retrieve the largest of the meteorites in Greenland. Keep your tongue still, he admonished himself.
She crossed her arms. “Like we haven’t heard that before.” She looked over at Rodgers. “Remember that one who said the ghost of the admiral had sent him with a message for Matthew?”
“I am in full possession of my faculties, Miss May.”
She and the cop exchanged a look. Then, “Let me make a call or two.” Pointing a short-nailed finger at Ellsmere she said, “But if you act up, bother any of my customers, I’ll put a rolling pin upside your head, understand?”
He dipped his head slightly. “Most assuredly, my dear Madam.”
“My dear indeed,” she said, turning about and walking back to the swing doors fronting the kitchen.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Rodgers touched the brim of his cap and left the restaurant.
Not far away, Henson entered a cramped space where several gamblers were engaged in a boisterous game of craps. Sweat, stale food and sour breaths made the air in here eye-watering.
“Six is the point,” said a man in a gabardine coat.
“Six you mother, six,” said another, a burly individual jiggling a pair of dice in his hand. In his other, he held several dollar bills tighter than he’d hold his hand around the waist of his sweetheart. He blew on his hand and rolled the dice across a green felt table.. Double threes came up amid cries of joy and disappointment.
“Come to Papa,” the shooter said, scooping up money that was thrown onto the table.
“While you’re in a good mood, Oscar…” Henson interrupted.
“Well, well, look who’s slumming,” Oscar Dulane otherwise known as OD cracked, handing the dice off to the man next to him. The two walked over to a quiet corner.
“Got a paying prospect for you,” Henson told Dulane. In addition to his being a bouncer, he also did work as—what was euphemistically termed—a “home defense officer”, rugged types employed by the ones who put on rent parties where back rooms were available for husbands tipping out on the missus. This often meant gambling was part of the attraction, and his job was to keep the peace if a tipsy patron acted out.
Henson explained he needed some men to do guard duty at Daddy Paradise’s upcoming talk at Liberty Hall.
OD said, “I can get some boys for the job. But it’d be good to go over the place, right?”
“For sure. I’ll make the arrangements. Figure three days out.”
“Sounds good to me.”
They discussed the job some more then Henson left. Back on the avenues, the newsie, Henry, told him Officer Rodgers was looking for him.
Ellsmere was on his second cup of coffee when Henson arrived. Several of the diner’s patrons said hello to him as he stepped inside. The professor brightened at seeing him. “There he is, he who looked the Grim Destroyer in the face and didn’t blink.”
Henson smiled sheepishly. “Good to see you too, Prof. It’s been awhile.”
He rose from his stool, each had their hands on the other’s shoulders. “My Lord, Matthew, seems you haven’t aged a day.”
“I wish that was true.”
“We have a matter of much import to discuss, my lad. Where might we have such a discussion?”
“There’s a booth in the back.” Henson took notice of the folded-over notes Ellsmere had with him.
Ellsmere followed his gaze. “I suppose that will have to do.”
Once they were seated, a waitress came over, refilling Ellsmere’s cup. She sat an empty cup down for Henson and filled that, too, from her tin pot. “Hi, Matt, breakfast or lunch usual?”
“Guess I’ll have myself a late breakfast, Florence,” he said. “What about you, Prof?”
“What’s your usual, Matthew?”
“Eggs over easy, grits, bacon, coffee and sourdough toast,” Florence Brown said. “He’s got to keep his strength up,” she deadpanned.
“Heh, well that’s more than I can handle,” Ellsmere said, patting his stomach. “But I could go for some eggs and bacon.”
“Got it,” she said and walked away.
Henson sampled his coffee. “So, what’s on your mind, Henrik?”
He looked over his shoulder conspiratorially, then leaned forward. “The Daughter.”
For a
