Silver Dreams Read Online Free PDF

from my sister in County Cork.'  But she looked over at me and smiled like an Irish lass with a fat calf on the dinner table. And I sent my story up to editing saying Paddy O'Toole suffered a trouncing over a game of chance but sure hit a lucky streak when an unidentified Italian businessman came to his rescue." 
     
    Max gave Elizabeth a knowing grin. "Tell you what, though, Betsy, I'll bet by now, Galbotto's identified himself to half of Manhattan. He's quick enough to take the credit, but you'll never catch him taking the blame."
     
    Elizabeth suddenly realized that she'd been staring at Max like an adoring protégé since he'd started his story. If he'd noticed her rapt attention, he must be even more certain of himself. Elizabeth found it difficult to imagine how Max's ego could blossom even more. Still, she had to admit that she'd never met anyone quite like him. Yes, he was cocky, but he was also clever and caring and had a talent for sniffing out the news.
     
    "That's a wonderful story," she admitted. "You managed to write an exciting account of what happened to you and still help Molly and Paddy O'Toole. I think you might have a heart, Max."
     
    He shrugged with what Elizabeth figured was pretended modesty. "Everybody's got a heart, Betsy. The trick for a reporter is to make everybody else's beat faster than his. When he does that, they remember the byline."  He pointed to the mug of ale sitting untouched in front of her. "Drink up," he said, clinking his own half empty glass against hers. "To the
     
    newspaper business."
     
    "To the newspaper business," she repeated and, following Max's lead, took a long draw of the only dark, bitter Irish ale she'd ever tasted in her life. Max wiped the foam from his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, and Elizabeth Sheridan, who'd never cleansed her mouth with anything but a fine linen napkin, stuck out her tongue and did the same.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
     
     
    Glancing at his watch, Max hurried down West Fourth Street. "You dumb Mulligan,” he muttered to himself. “You just made yourself fifteen minutes late by talking to that girl as if you hadn't a care in the world. It'd serve you right if you lost this story." He'd now have to take a cab to Delancey Street instead of a streetcar, and it would cost him an extra two bits. There were two things Max didn't like to waste - time and money, and he'd squandered both on the green-eyed Betsy Sheridan.
     
    Adding to his frustration, he'd given her the only cab within a block of Flanagan's, a chivalrous gesture he couldn't afford since he was pressed to find another one. Still a smile came to his lips when he thought of her. She'd definitely made the stew at Flanagan's more palatable than usual.
     
    Putting Betsy Sheridan from his mind, Max concentrated on the important matter of getting his story. "Dixie Lee," he said under his breath, "I hope you remember that you promised me an exclusive." 
     
    Max was confident Dixie wouldn't let him down. He liked the saucy madam at Dixie Lee's House of Dee-Lights, and he knew she trusted him. He figured she'd keep her word about telling him the details of the raid at her establishment the day before. In Manhattan, more often than not, the word of a whore was better than that of a judge.
     
    He spotted a hire coach by the curb, the horse lazily flicking flies with its tail. Max whistled between his fingers, waking up both horse and driver. When he jumped inside the cab, he was already shouting the address.
     
                                     
     
    "Elizabeth, is that you?"
     
    Winston Sheridan's voice carried down the hallway to the main staircase of the family's Georgian residence. His harsh tone made Elizabeth tremble in the evening slippers she'd hoped would muffle her descent from her second floor room. She had successfully managed to hide upstairs all afternoon, pondering her extraordinary