“I’m gonna see if I can scare up one of those punch card–reading machines,” Sam said, smoothing back his thick dark hair and securing his Greek fisherman’s cap in place once more.
“Who do you think those gray-trousered men were?” Evie asked.
“Don’t know. But I got a feeling they weren’t looking for dead letters.”
“Oh! Don’t forget about tomorrow night! Pears soap is very excited that you’re coming on the show with me.”
“Do I hafta?”
“Yes. You do. It’ll only be a few minutes, Sam. Just enough to sell soap and make the advertisers happy, which will make Mr. Phillips happy, which will make me happy.”
“That’s a long chain of happy. Okay, Sheba. I’ll see you at nine.”
“Nothin’ doing. Show’s at nine. You’ll see me at half past eight.”
On the other side of the windows, Mr. Phillips’s secretary waved impatiently to Evie and nodded toward the magazine people.
“I suppose I’d better get in there,” Evie said. She could still feel the lingering ghost of Sam’s touch on her arm.
“Suppose you’d better,” Sam said, without moving.
“Well,” she said.
“Yeah,” Sam said.
“So long, my lovely leprechaun,” Evie called as she backed away.
Sam doffed his hat to her. “So long, Mutton Chop.”
Sam watched through the hotel’s tall front windows as, inside, the photographer had Evie pose with a tennis racket, as if she were pretending to reach for a serve. It was just a photograph, but Evie’s expression was one of fierce concentration, as if she meant to hit that ball out to the stars. Sam knew he should be moving on, but he couldn’t seem to go.
On the road to New York, Sam had spent a wild couple of months with daredevil aviator, Barnstormin’ Belle. He’d liked her plenty, but in the end, he’d left her to chase after Project Buffalo.
“Always thought it would be a plane that’d bring me down someday. Never figured it would be a boy like you,” she’d told him. “Someday, a girl’s gonna break your heart. Let me know when it happens. I’d like to send her a thank-you note,” she’d said, slapping a pair of aviator goggles over eyes glistening with tears. “Scram, Flyboy. I got a show to do.”
Sam had a skill that often let him take what he needed. But you couldn’t do that with love. It had to be given. Shared.
Through the window, Evie saw him. She made a funny face—a silly gesture—and Sam felt it deep inside.
“Don’t get soft, Sergei,” he muttered to himself.
The uniformed doorman approached Sam. “May I help you, sir?” he said, letting Sam know he’d worn out his sidewalk welcome.
“Pal,” Sam said, giving Evie one last, longing look, “I really wish you could.”
At a noisy Horn & Hardart Automat on Broadway, Evie hunkered down in a corner and kept an eye out for T. S. Woodhouse, who pushed through the door at last with his usual louche swagger.
“I was surprised to get your call, Sheba,” he said, taking a seat and helping himself to a forkful of her apple pie. “Why, these days, you’re busier than Babe Ruth’s bat.”
Evie tucked a dollar beside his hat. Woody glanced at it, then took another bite of pie. “Aren’t you getting enough press these days, Sweetheart Seer?”
“It isn’t about me this time,” Evie whispered.
Woody grinned. “I have never heard those words from your lips.”
Evie ignored the jibe. “Woody, I need you to put that feverish brain of yours to work on something that requires real investigation for once.”
“I do love the way you ask for favors, Sheba. Full of humility and grace.”
“You want humility and grace, head to a nunnery. This is important.”
“I’m all ears.”
Evie wasn’t entirely certain she should trust Woody, but he was all she had. She looked around to make certain they weren’t overheard. “You ever hear of something called Project Buffalo?”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Is this a charity that takes kiddies to zoos?”
“No. It was a government project during the war, maybe even before that.”
Woody wiped his mouth, keeping his eyes on Evie. Then he took out his pencil and wrote Project Buffalo on his notepad. “Go on.”
“I-I don’t really know much about it, except that it might have had something to do with Diviners.”