Page 43 of Passion's Wicked Torment

On the evening of the 30th, Kristin and McShane were at a formal ball hosted by one of Long Island’s most prestigious social couples, the Meershaws. It was a gala social event. In the main ballroom there were at least 100 elegantly dressed couples mingling and dancing to the music of a band so big it almost could be called an orchestra. Servants zipped to and fro carrying drinks on trays, or platters containing such hors d’oeuvres as pastry filled with beluga caviar, chunks of lobster wrapped in prosciutto, and of course truffles and pâté de foie gras. Women wore expensive evening gowns, their necks and ears and fingers aglitter with jewels. The men were trimly tailored and sophisticated.

Kristin and McShane were dancing across the ballroom floor. Kristin had very mixed feelings about all the parties they had been invited to lately. They were exciting, and she knew that under other circumstances she might be able to enjoy them. But the fact that Chad was still held captive made it impossible to enjoy anything.

McShane caught her mood, even though she was taking pains not to make it obvious. “Smile, lassie. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. And people are watching.”

She saw he was right, and she put on a false smile. She nodded to her hosts as McShane swept her past. The hosts raised glasses in toast and smiled their approval. “I don’t like going to all these parties,” she said to McShane. “I wish we could avoid them.”

“After all the trouble and expense we went to to cultivate relationships with these people? That would be wasteful.”

“Oh, I know. But still, I feel so false.”

As they danced, other couples kept nodding at them and smiling. The fact was, Kristin had become a celebrity of Long Island society. This was due partly to her beauty and grace, but mostly to the flair with which she charmed the social elite who had come to her casino ship over the past few weeks. She had discovered that, in addition to her skills as a businesswoman, she also was skillful at being a witty and stylish hostess. Her manner of speech and dress and carriage conveyed the impression of high breeding, which the social elite had been intrigued by. She never let it be known that her background was ordinary and middle class.

McShane had at first wondered why she went to such trouble to cultivate the good graces of the financial, social and political luminaries who came to her ship. Kristin explained it simply: “They have power and clout. If they like me and begin inviting me into their homes, feeling friendly toward me, it’ll make it much more difficult for Ironman to attack us.”

She had been right in her assessment, and McShane respected her sharp business sense. She seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing what to do to make a business flourish. Just as she had built up the saloon in Yukon, she had also managed to turn their casino ship into a thriving enterprise in a very short period of time. And as she became more and more a visible part of the social scene, it became increasingly difficult for Ironman to mount an attack against her vessel.

Even though Ironman broke society’s laws as routinely as most people cross streets, there were certain people he knew he could not antagonize. He had to tread softly around the politicians and financial magnates of New York, for if they ever decided he was a major nuisance, the pressure on him could really be brought to bear.

Kristin’s decision to cultivate relationships with these powerful people had been a brilliant strategic move. And she had left nothing to chance. She had taken steps to make sure her ship was the toast of New York society. The first step was the one that had made McShane wince the most.

“You’re not really going to let them win?” he had protested.

“Only some of the time. Only often enough so that they’ll feel good about us. Besides, when we let enough of them win big from us, the word will get around, and we’ll have more business as a result. So in the end we really won’t lose at all.”

“It sounds fishy to me.”

But it had worked. Kristin had done her homework. She had studied the social register and had even hired a social secretary familiar with the New York scene to tell her which of her guests each night were powerful or important. Then she sent word to her dealers and croupiers that these people were to be given an extra edge. All they knew was that they felt very good about going to the Kristy for a pleasant night on the town.

Kristin also succeeded in luring these people to her ship by single-handedly making it fashionable to frequent a casino ship. She turned her operation into a strictly first-class affair. She also made a point of greeting her more celebrated guests by name, in a way that showed she was aware of their stature. In a word, she very skillfully and subtly flattered them. Soon she began to know many of her clientele on a first-name basis, and she was receiving invitations to their parties.

It was almost impossible now for Ironman to mount an attack on her vessel without incurring the wrath of these powerful people. And he certainly could not risk attacking the Kristy while any of these people might be aboard. One thing was bothering Kristin though. She voiced it now as the dance ended and McShane guided her back to their table.

“I wonder why Ironman didn’t attack us during the first days we were in operation, when we were so vulnerable?”

“Aye, lassie. I wonder about it too.”

Kristin frowned. “He’s going to have to do something soon. I wonder what it’ll be?”

McShane handed her a glass of champagne from the tray of one of the waiters. He took one for himself. “It’ll be soon all right. He’s lost more than half his business to us these last weeks. Well over half!”

Kristin was just about to add something when two couples came over—a banker and his wife, and an aide to the governor, who was escorting a prominent dowager. They engaged Kristin in jovial conversation, delighted by her wit and by the way she personified to them what they believed to be the “new woman” of the jazz age.

This image had been getting much play recently in the novels of two expatriate Americans in Paris, Scott Fitzgerald and H. Craig Brady. McShane stayed near, but the real life of the conversation was Kristin. McShane could not hope to match her repartee and was content to remain in the background.

Several minutes later one of the servants came up to McShane and delivered a folded note on a silver platter. “It’s from a gentleman at the door, sir. A Mr. Sampson.”

McShane opened the note quickly, suspecting that something had gone wrong. The note was printed in block capital letters, which was the only writing the card dealer knew:

CAPTAIN LOGAN SENT ME. A MESSAGE CAME FROM IRONMAN. HE WANTS A MEETING AT MIDNIGHT ON THE KRISTY WITH YOU AND MISS FLEMING. TO DISCUSS A TRADE, HE SAYS. CAPTAIN LOGAN THINKS IT’S COVER FOR AN ATTACK.

McShane folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. He leaned close to Kristin, who was conversing with the two couples, and spoke quietly into her ear. “Trouble. Let’s go.”

They excused themselves and left. McShane told her about the message as they took a taxi to the dock. To his surprise, Kristin was not displeased, but seemed enthusiastic. “Sean, this could be what we’ve been waiting for! To discuss a trade, is that what he said? Maybe he’s ready to give Chad back to me, unhurt, in exchange for us moving the Kristy away!”

McShane grunted. “Maybe. But I’m not lowering my guard till I see it. Once the boy is on board, safe, with none of Ironman’s goons around, then I’ll believe it.” He pulled the pistol out from the shoulder holster he had taken to wearing. He checked the chambers in the darkness of the cab to make sure it was fully loaded.

Kristin permitted herself a slight smile of hopefulness as the cab raced toward the dock. She would not let herself believe it either, until she saw it with her own eyes. Still, this was the first positive thing that had happened in all the months since Chad had been abducted. Finally! she thought. Finally she might be on the verge of having her brother back again.

Out at sea, aboard the Daisy, Ironman watched as Dr. Cheer gave Chad a shot in the arm with a syringe. “You’re sure that’s going to do it, doc? This is important, you know.”

Dr. Cheer weaved slightly as he put his syringe back into his black bag. His voice, as usual, was slurred with alcohol. “My good man, I assure you, if you wish to have him hopped up and quivering with eagerness to leap into action, you’ll have it. His nerves will be jangled, his mind fuzzy. And he’ll be as violent as a Tartar.” He waved a finger. “Pardon the historical allusion. I’m aware you are not a man of vast education.” “He’ll be violent and crazy? Right?”

“He now has high-grade amphetamines coursing through his wretched bloodstream. In twenty minutes he’ll be seething.”

Ironman grunted with satisfaction. He looked at Chad, who appeared vacant eyed and disoriented. He no longer wore a growth of scruffy beard. Ironman had ordered him shaved. His gaunt face showed off his bruises more clearly now, but that couldn’t be helped. Anyway, no one would be looking at his face for more than just a few seconds the way he had it planned.

Without looking at him, Ironman held out his hand to Riggio. “The picture.”

Riggio put it into his hand. Ironman went up to Chad and held the picture in front of his eyes. “You recognize who this is?”

Chad squinted at it. He stared for a long time, as if in some deep, not-yet-ruined cavern of his mind he felt a glimmer of familiarity. But then he shook his head. “Uh, uh. Who is she?”

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