Snatching up the next bullshit-nonsense-lonely-heart masterpiece, Editor William Jenkins drank in Miss Providence’s advice like a parched patron at Henry’s saloon. The satisfying quench produced another hoot and knee slap. “What did I say? Sales will triple? Heck, no! Circulation is going to… to…” Jenkins snapped his fingers in the air for the waiter to serve him up a word.
Placing his hands on hips, Scott obliged. “Quadruple.”
“Quadruple.” Will contemplated the offered tidbit. “Yeah. I guess that would work.”
Scott’s pained expression silently commented on Jenkins’ hit and miss vocabulary. How was this man a newspaper editor? A politician - understandable. But an editor of the free press?
“Thank you, William.” Kinsey’s smile beamed victory. “May I assume your unbridled enthusiasm indicates your desire to continue with our arrangement?”
“I’d be a fool not to, my dear Miss…” The editor’s wink matched that of Shay McLoughlin’s. “Providence.”
Scott raised an eyebrow at Will’s unbridled wit. Jenkins, it’s going to take more than an advice column to save your ass from being a fool.
“I do believe, gentlemen, I’d like to celebrate this successful venture with one of Henry’s sarsaparillas.”
A second eyebrow joined the first at his cousin’s announcement. When did Miss Providence become a teetotaler?
“Sarsaparilla it is!” The palms of Will’s hands smacked the desktop for emphasis. “You stroll across the street, little darlin’, and tell Henry that sarsaparilla is on me. Nothing’s too good for the newest star of the Green River Gazette.” Jenkins leaned back in his swivel chair, achieving a gravity-defying angle. “Lancer, you don’t mind staying a spell. There’s a small matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
Scott grinned. Why he didn’t mind at all. He had his own agenda regarding a small matter whose victory and smile were gradually dissipating. “I welcome the conversation, Will.” With his arm around Kinsey’s shoulders, Scott lassoed the Gazette’s feature attraction before her objections could get a foothold.
“Scott.”
Six long strides and ten short stumbling steps carried the cousins across the creaking wood planked floor. “This won’t take long, Freckles.”
“Scott. Wait.”
A turn of a dull brass knob and the office door played a squeaky melody on rusty hinges. “Henry will be happy to see you.”
“Scott!”
A yellow glove planted firmly on the protester’s bustle propelled her through the open doorway. “I hear tell he’s got a fresh supply of rye grass straws, perfect for sipping sarsaparilla.”
“SCOTT! You’re not listening to me!”
“Noted.” The office door squealed a mournful refrain as it gently closed off Miss Providence’s accusation.
Click.
“Where’s that goddamn brother of yours, Lancer?”
Pushing his hat back, Scott blessed his verbal assailant with a quizzical look. “Who? Johnny?” Not exactly how I'd planned to begin the conversation.
“Yes, Johnny. How many brothers do you think you have?”
Scott found the query amusing. He removed his leather gloves and tucked them into his belt. If asked this question a couple of years ago, the answer would have been zero.
“Don’t stand there with a smirk on your face and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about goddammit!”
It appeared Jenkins’ meager vocabulary also included limited profanity. “My apologies, Will, for the confusion. Yes. Johnny’s my brother.” Ignoring an empty chair, Scott pushed aside a basket spewing out various papers and settled on the corner of the editor’s desk.
“Well, let me tell you - oh, hey, by all means, don’t let important town council documents get in the way of a Lancer backside.” Jenkins haphazardly gathered up wayward letters and flyers. “As I was saying, your goddamn brother almost cost me an arm and a leg with a lawsuit.”
“Confusion’s starting to set back in, Will.”
“Then let me clear up what I think you already know. Johnny rearranged my typeset which was all laid to be printed. After he finished his little stunt, Bessi Ashill’s engagement to Ewen Martin read Mr. and Mrs. G. D. Asshol denounces the engagement of their daughter, Bossi to Mr. Uwen Fartin.”
“How can you know Johnny’s responsible for this slight mix-up in letter placement?”
“All right. Maybe I should get me one of those Pinkerton boys and his magnifying glass to take a good look at all those inky fingerprints your brother left behind to answer that question.”
Scott bit his lower lip to squelch vocalizing his thoughts on the Pinkerton boys.
“I had Bessi’s whole clan in here threatening to hire some fancy-pants San Francisco lawyer to sue my… my…”
“Ass-hill?”
Jenkins’ eyes narrowed. “Newspaper. Sue the newspaper. You know what something like that would do to my stellar reputation, not to mention my flourishing political career?”
Scott guessed little would change in the man’s sinking reputation or floundering political career.
“I finally appeased the threatening mob with the promise of providing a case of champagne at the wedding. Goddammit!”
Struggling to remove any signs of laughter in his voice, Scott offered his condolences. “Look. I apologize for my little brother’s childish prank. When the time comes, I’ll drag Johnny in here to pay half on the promised champagne.”
“A repentant man would pay for the whole case.”
“A diligent editor would’ve caught the blatant mistakes.”
A grunt leaned Jenkins back in his chair.
Judging the storm had passed, Scott proceeded to navigate the next patch of choppy waters. “Will, you can’t print those love advice letters.”
“Like hell I can’t. They’re gold.”
“They’re bogus.” Scott gestured toward the opened letters with a nod. “I switched the original letters with ones Johnny and I wrote. We tried to teach Kinsey a lesson so she’d give up her Labyrinth of Love but it backfired.”
Momentary silence abruptly ended with Editor Jenkins boisterous proclamation. “You’re hired!”
“What? Hold on -"
“You and your brother.” Will held out his hands. “Hey, I can forgive and forget. I’ll put you both on the payroll to keep writing these gems. Heck, who needs the pathetic problems of the common folk when I have you two?”
“No.” Scott stood and addressed his newly appointed occupation. “Forget it. In fact, Kinsey’s off your payroll starting right now.”
“That little lady isn’t on my payroll. I mean, if you want to split hairs, I’m not paying her.”
Scott’s brow dipped in time with Jenkins’ realization of a well-kept secret.
“She didn’t tell you, did she?” Will swiveled his chair and pointed out the window at Henry’s. “I was ready to turn down your cousin’s lonely hearts pitch until she suggested her wage plus a percentage of the Gazette’s increased sales be deposited in Sister Rosa’s account at the bank. Now, how in the hell can I say no to that proposition?”
A fly buzzed an observation. Back and forth. To and fro. Over and under. Where did she go?
I’ll be damned. How in the hell does someone say no to that proposition? Scott’s gaze drifted to follow Will’s pointing finger. Simple answer - they don’t. “I believe you and I have finally stumbled upon something we can agree on, Jenkins.” An adjusted hat shadowed a dimpled grin. “I’ll make certain Kinsey gets those original lonely heart letters.”
“I’d like to say I’m not the coldhearted bastard you think I am.” The editor’s focus returned to a newspaper on his desk. “Just a stupid one.” Melancholy William Jenkins touched the photograph of the masked Miss Providence. “The man who captures this little lady’s heart - by God, he’s the lucky one.” A throat cleared. “Offer still stands, Lancer. Care to go into the newspaper business?”
“I appreciate your unbridled enthusiasm Will, but I’m standing firm on the no.” Scott turned to leave. “By the way, what percentage did you settle on? Three?”
“Ha! I wish! That little Aussie shark finagled a seven percent bite out of my profit!”
********
Strolling into Henry’s, Scott spotted Kinsey sitting at the table his brother customarily claimed when visiting the establishment. Resting elbows on a freshly scrubbed bar, he placed an order. “Henry, I’ll take a nice, cool sarsaparilla.”
The bartender snickered at the request while serving it up in a thick glass mug. “One of those temperance females get her claws into you?”
“I happen to like the stuff.” Indignation bowed to disappointment. “Where’s the straw?” Disappointment birthed an accusation. “I got to say you’re getting a little stingy with your loyal customers.”
“Those rye grass straws don’t grow on trees.”
“Agreed. They grow in a field. And I’d like one plus two more. The damn things get soggy.”
“That’s an extra nickel.”
“Sounds fair. Add it to Mayor Jenkins' bill.”
Settling into a chair opposite his cousin, Scott slid a straw across the table.
Kinsey removed the one from her half empty drink and held it upright. As predicted, it stood at attention for a brief moment before collapsing into a mushy heap. “I think he picks these from the pasture out back.”
“So…” A sip slurped through Henry’s version of a drinking straw. “When were you planning to enlighten me on your arrangement with Will?”
“When were you planning to enlighten me on your creative writing with Johnny?”
“You knew?”
“I do now.”
Watching his cousin borrow a smile from the Mono Lisa, Scott rolled his eyes. He’d fallen for his own tactic of pulling a reluctant confession from a guilty young lady. “Touché, little one.”
“I admit, your letters were quite convincing at first. But honestly, Scott, just how many uneducated baboons and close-minded cavemen live in Green River? Wait. Perhaps you shouldn’t answer.” Kinsey stirred the sarsaparilla with her second fast-wilting straw. “I have your permission to carry on with the Gazette?”
“Of course.”
“Murdoch won’t be happy.”
“Don’t let my father fool you. He thoroughly enjoyed calling the tune on this caper.” Tossing a disintegrating reed aside, Scott held up his mug for a toast. “Here’s to happy hearts.”
“To happy hearts! Um, I was wondering…” a pause allowed Miss Providence to join the conversation. “When will you be returning to Sacramento’s Arcade Hotel for a lobster canapé?”
“I haven’t given it much thought. Besides, my travel plans are none of your business.”
“Have you been corresponding with the lovely head chef?”
“Again. None of your business.”
“Gosh.” Kinsey’s finger tapped her temple. “I wish I could remember her name.”
“Emily Marie Browning.”
“Ah ha! A middle name! You have been writing to her!”
A slow exhale preceded an urgent request. “Henry? Best bring me that beer.”