“Money often costs too much.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Leaving my brother behind with Yarra has me over a barrel Mannheim, so why not holster the one on your gun that’s aimed at my back.”
“Very well.” Godfrey, sitting behind Scott in the buggy, honored the request. “My oh my, not a cloud in the sky! I must say, it’s a glorious day for a ride. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Furlong?”
Kinsey sat next to her older cousin in silence although Scott had a fairly good idea what the young lady was thinking by her expression, one usually reserved for smelling cattle dung.
“Ah, the beauty of her surroundings has left the brass nail speechless… finally.” Mannheim sighed. “Although I do enjoy your company, Mr. Lancer, since we have so much in common.”
An eyebrow raised. “Oh?”
“Think about it. We are both intelligent, well-educated, philosophical gentlemen, alumni of outstanding New England institutions of higher learning. Our fated journeys have brought us financial opportunities which we have embraced to become successful businessmen - earning respect in the social circles in which we travel.”
“Sweet fancy Moses, Godfrey!” Finding her voice, Kinsey placed a palm to her chest in mock distress. “How will the elite ever manage to make the distinction between the two of you?”
Mannheim gifted the young lady’s sarcasm with his own sarky retort and chuckle. “Perhaps a small discrete bullet hole to one forehead could set us scholars apart.”
Scott slowed the buggy to a halt. Turning, he addressed his rear seat passenger with the confidence of a man who had accurately predicted the future on more than one occasion. “I commend your progressive thinking, sir. You’ve just formulated an excellent solution to our deeply profound dilemma.” Mannheim’s faltering smile encouraged Scott to continue. “Ah, look, Freckles. The unpleasantness of his surroundings has left the brash shill speechless… finally.”
“Your brother’s lost a lot of blood, Lancer.” The bookie’s eyes narrowed. “I’d get moving if I were you.”
********
Helping Kinsey step off the buggy he’d stopped across the way from Green River’s bank, Scott glanced around in hopes of maintaining the casual appearance of three acquaintances in town for the afternoon. Explaining to the bank’s president the reasoning behind a large money withdrawal while avoiding awkward questions would be difficult enough. He certainly didn’t need further attention out here on the street.
“Hey, Mr. Lancer!”
Ben. Scott’s gut tightened as he faked a relaxed smile and wave while Benjamin Hillard headed in their direction.
“Who’s he?” Godfrey circled behind the cousins, muttering. “Best watch what you say.”
“He’s no threat, Mannheim. Ben’s just a kid who helps out at the telegraph office.”
“I’ll be the judge of who’s a threat.”
Kinsey’s taunt whispered in her captor’s ear. “Letting a 14-year-old lad get your knickers bunched to the knees, Godfrey? I thought that was more Merritt’s preference.”
Placing his hands on hips, Scott shot a directive over his shoulder. “Step back Mannheim and let us handle it.” A friendly grin returned to greet the boy. “Ben, good to see you.”
“Wanted to say howdy and tell you ma sure enjoyed that sarsaparilla. Hello, Miss Furlong.” Sporting a quizzical look, Benjamin leaned to the right in order to get a better look at the man standing behind Scott.
“My goodness, where's my manners?” Kinsey moved forward to put her arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Let me introduce a dear friend of mine - Mr. Smith. He’s traveled all the way from Melbourne to attend the wedding!”
Seeing Ben’s brow furrow deeper with the recognition of Mannheim, Scott stepped in with an excuse for the young man’s look of confusion. “Don’t tell me with your excellent memory you’ve forgotten Miss Furlong is getting married?”
“No.” A head cocked. “I remember.”
“That memory and an eye for detail will serve you well as a Pinkerton some day.” Scott winked. Come on, Ben. Think about what I’m saying.
Tentatively, the lad extended his hand toward Mannheim. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise.” Godfrey’s abrupt handshake spoke of his annoyance.
“Well, I’m glad the sarsaparilla got you out of the doghouse with your mother, Ben.”
“It sure did and thanks again.”
As he turned away, Scott’s wave of relief was short-lived.
“Mr. Lancer?”
An exhale briefly delayed the response. “Yes, Benjamin?”
“A letter arrived at the post office for your pa today. I think it’s the important one he’s been looking for. Maybe I should ride on out to the ranch and deliver it to him.” The boy’s steadfast stare spoke volumes.
“Yes.” Scott nodded. “Indeed. He’d appreciate getting that urgent news as soon as possible.” A chance was taken. “Say, Ben, if there’s any mail for Mr. Kapinski, why don’t you bring it along too. It’s hard for the old man to leave his home and get into town. I’m certain my father will tip handsomely for your thoughtful time.”
“Yeah. Mr. Kapinski.” Pause. “Sure thing, Mr. Lancer.”
Benjamin delivered his own wink, which assisted Scott’s smile to become more genuine. If between the lines had been read correctly, young Hillard would be on his way to inform Murdoch Lancer of the game being afoot regarding Mannheim and that the patriarch was needed at the haunted Kapinski cabin.
“That conversation had better be as innocent as you made it sound.” Concern dusted Godfrey’s warning.
Scott watched the boy walk into the telegraph office. “The lad’s simply out to make a few extra silvers.”
“Ah. An entrepreneur like myself. Perhaps I should take him under my wing. Maybe have Merritt teach him a few tricks of the trade.”
“You know, Mannheim… ” Palming the crown of his hat, Scott readjusted it low to shade his eyes. “I believe it’s going to give me great pleasure to break your jaw.”
“Perhaps.” Godfrey’s arm swept toward the bank. “However, let’s get my money first, if it’s not too much to ask.”
*********
Holding his grandfather’s hand, 8-year-old Scott walked into the Boston bank that managed Harlan Garrett’s finances. Towering carved pillars rose up from marble floors which reflected the flickering gas lights suspended from copper-tiled ceilings. The only movement of air came from murmurs of patrons’ lips as their secret transactions were whispered to the attentive men who were each trapped in large gilded bird cages. Overseeing all was the bank’s archangel standing in his balcony perch, a gold pocket watch chain glittered against his black silk vest. The solemn gentleman glared down, his eyes seeking out suspicious, unacceptable behavior from any sinner foolish enough to enter his domain and commit an unlawful act.
Later, in hopes of sampling freshly baked apple bread, Scott slipped into the comforting kitchen at the Garrett’s Beacon Hill brownstone, receiving a smile from Winnie. “And now how was yer first trip in seein’ yer grandfather’s bank?”
An eye roll ensued. “It was like going to church.”
The cook’s laughter danced about the room’s hanging pots and pans. “Ah, ScottyGarrett, I suppose it’s because some gentlemen choose to worship money and power rather than the Good Lord.” Winnie leaned down for a more serious capture of the boy’s attention. “Don’t ye ever become one of those men.”
*********
Scott found The Merchant Bank of Green River stood in sharp contrast to his boyhood memories of Grandfather’s financial establishment. Wooden floorboards creaking with familiarity replaced cold unyielding marble while simple wrought iron scroll work greeted patrons at the tellers’ stations where lively conversations covering everything from cattle prices to ice cream socials continued long after completed business matters.
The gold watch chain looping across a well-rounded vested mid-section of bank president Mr. Leonard Sussman was the only visible characteristic he shared with the Boston counterpart from Scott’s past. The gentleman’s ever-present toothy smile residing beneath an impressive handlebar mustache accompanied his handshake which, depending on the heftiness of a patron’s account, varied in exuberance. Considering Kinsey’s substantial contribution to the bank’s safe, Scott expected Sussman to do a damn cartwheel every time she stepped through the door.
“Miss Furlong!” Leonard approached, paused, clicked his heels with a slight bow and then gathered Kinsey’s hand with both of his. “My day is complete. Welcome.”
“The pleasure continues to be mine, Mr. Sussman.”
“And Scott Lancer.” Releasing his delicate grasp on the young lady, Leonard thrust his hand forward as if hoping for a quick arm wrestling match. “Good to see you, son. How’s your father?”
“Murdoch is well and sends his regards.”
Sussman’s amicable gaze landed on Mannheim with the prospect of a deposit. “And here is a new face!” The customary handshake was offered. “Leonard Sussman - President of Green River’s Merchant Bank. At your service, sir.”
Mannheim warmly accepted the greeting. “Godfrey Smith - Financial Advisor from Melbourne. You’re just the man we’re looking for.”
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