Free Deep in the Heart of Trouble by Deeanne Gist Page B

him first thing after work.
    Taking a swallow of genuine Coca-Cola, he listened along with the other men as Mr. Castle read aloud the latest news of the war. The boys cheered and whistled upon hearing the marines had captured Guantánamo Bay and seventeen thousand troops had landed just east of Santiago.
    Setting his coins on the counter, Tony wiped his mouth and slipped out. The streets were congested with men heading east toward the saloons. A ninety-foot gas tower at the corner of Beaton and Collin threw out enough illumination to get by on, though from here he couldn’t see the abandoned seed house Miss Spreckelmeyer had converted into a bicycle club. Still, he’d have no trouble finding it in the dark. It was just northeast of town, not far from Whiteselle’s Lumber Yard.
    He skirted the red-light district, passed Frost’s Wagon Yard and the Central Blacksmith Shop. He wound behind the city pound and set a few dogs barking until he was a good distance away.
    When he got within sight of the club, gaslight from its high horizontal windows guided him to the doorstep. He knocked, but no one answered, so he pushed the door open.
    “Quicker, Mr. Sharpley. You must keep your eye on the ball.
    Now, let’s try again.”
    In the middle of the vast room, Miss Spreckelmeyer faced a young man who wore a quarter-sleeve shirt with exercise tights as snug as a pair of long johns.
    Bunching her skirt in her fists, she raised her hem and tapped a ball back and forth between her booted feet as she moved toward Mr. Sharpley. The full skirt and white shirtwaist she wore were more suited to a stroll through town than a ball drill.
    It was the first time he’d seen her without a hat, though. Her hair had wilted, its twist no more than a suggestion of its former glory. Hunks of blond hair swirled across her face, over her shoulder and down her back.
    Sharpley crouched, bounced on his toes, and kicked at the ball when she drew near, but only succeeded in stirring her skirts.
    She easily passed him, then stopped the ball with her toe. “You lunged again. I’ll get by you every time if you jump in like that.”
    “I don’t see what this has to do with ridin’ bikes. Just put me on the bicycle and I’ll go faster than any of the rest of ’em. I swear I will.”
    She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “There is a difference between being fast and being quick. I will admit you are fast. But if something happens during the race that requires you to respond quickly, you will not fare well.”
    Tony settled his shoulder comfortably against the south wall, ankles crossed and hat in hand. They went through the exercise two more times, and he could see their frustration mounting. Sharpley did lunge, but she also outplayed him. Even if the boy used proper technique, he’d be hard pressed to win the ball from her.
    “Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Tony suggested.
    Miss Spreckelmeyer squeaked and whirled around. “What are you doing here?”
    “You sent for me.”
    “I sent for you hours ago.”
    “And here I am.” He pulled away from the wall and gave a mock bow.
    “Well, I’m busy now. You will have to come back in a hour or so.”
    He strode onto the court. “Surely that won’t be necessary. I can’t imagine you needing me for very long and it looks like your young charge could use a rest.”
    “He can’t have a rest. I’m trying to build up his stamina.”
    “By trouncing him at football?” He extended his hand toward the boy. “You must be Sharpley. My name’s Bryant.”
    Sharpley grinned. “You work with Crackshot.”
    Tony smiled at the mention of Wilson’s new nickname. “I surely do.”
    “Who’s Crackshot?” Essie asked.
    “Nobody,” Tony answered, turning toward her. “If you’d like, I would be glad to help you show Sharpley what it is you want him to do—with the football, that is.”
    He bent over and pulled off his cowboy boots.
    “Mr. Bryant! Stop that at once. What do you think you are