Free Crooked Hearts by Patricia Gaffney Page A

in the robbery, Grace?”
    “I told you, it’s none of your business.”
    “Oh, come on,” he coaxed. “I came straight with you about the Croakers, didn’t I? I lost almost two thousand dollars, and I need forty-five hundred by next Tuesday. How much more forthcoming can I be?”
    She played with the buttons at the wrist of her new India silk day dress, probably admiring the contrast between the dark burgundy and the white skin of her long, slender hand. She had a new cape, too, black with a cream satin lining, hanging on a hook behind her. He hoped she was remembering that neither the gown nor the cape, nor her new high-button walking shoes, had come cheap, and that he hadn’t so much as batted an eye when he’d heard the price. In fact, after she’d modeled the burgundy silk for him this afternoon in Miss Jolie’s Fashion Salon and Ready-to-Wear, he’d parted with his money without a peep.
    His hard-earned money, make that. They’d traipsed around town to four different post offices before going to Miss Jolie’s, and from each box he’d collected half a week’s worth of pickings from his numerous business enterprises. “Slim pickings,” Grace had labeled them, and he’d had to admit to her that his rackets were currently in a slump. Which, to Reuben’s mind, made his generosity all the more commendable. Naturally he expected to be repaid, at a rate of interest he hadn’t told her about yet, as soon as her husband wired money in response to the telegram she’d sent him earlier in the day. But still. He’d bought the clothes she was wearing, the meal she was eating—the bed she’d be sleeping in again tonight. Even on Grace Rousselot’s cockeyed scale of justice, that ought to earn him one honest answer.
    “Okay,” she said finally, “I’ll tell you. On one condition.”
    “What’s that?”
    “That you promise not to whistle.”
    Reuben looked down at the unappetizing slurry of ground beef, mashed potatoes, and applesauce on his plate. “I can’t even chew.” The Croakers had loosened one of his molars.
    She swept the half-empty restaurant with a glance, bent forward, and mouthed, “Four.”
    “Four?”
    She sat back.
    “Four what? Hundred?”
    She looked disgusted.
    “Four thousand? Four thousand dollars?”
    “Shh!” She took a sip of coffee, relishing his amazement.
    “And you collected all that as Sister Augustine?” he hissed.
    She smiled.
    “How long did it take?”
    “About three weeks.”
    He muttered a number of oaths and curses in a language she wouldn’t understand. “I’ve been running the wrong gyps,” he marveled, shaking his head over and over. “Christ almighty, I should’ve been playing a priest.”
    “Three long, grueling weeks,” she pointed out. “And don’t think it’s just a matter of putting on a clerical collar and waiting for people to start throwing money at you. It’s an art.”
    “Art, shmart. I watched you on the stagecoach with Sweeney, don’t forget. He was going for his wallet even before you started batting your eyes at him.”
    “Art, shmart?” Obviously she’d never heard that expression. “Anyway,” she sniffed, “I don’t bat my eyes.”
    “The hell you don’t.” She also blushed, wept, pouted her lips, and stuck her chest out whenever she thought it would get her where she wanted to go.
    “We’re getting off the subject,” she snapped. “I’ve told you how much the thieves got from me. Are you thinking of doing something about it?”
    “How badly do you need the money back?”
    “You’ve got a really irritating habit, you know that? Of answering a question with a question.”
    He folded his arms and waited.
    “I’m not in debt, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Nobody’s going to beat me up if I don’t get it back.”
    “What do you need it for?”
    “Medical bills,” she answered too quickly.
    “You look pretty healthy to me.” His leer wasn’t successful; he couldn’t raise his bad eyebrow high