Madden’s expression shifted into something hopeful and devious. “Build around her house?”
“Sure. Have your plans drawn up, get your permits. Then start demolition. I predict she’ll move before you break ground on the casino.”
“I like it. Even by annoying her I have won.” He pointed at Frank. “I like how you think, Tripp.”
“Thank you. By the way, I know a great architect. She’s the best.”
“She?”
“Mrs. Phillip Mansfield. Responsible for the new Mansfield Hotel.”
Madden flipped open the lid of the enameled box on his desk and withdrew two cigars. “Ah, I’ve heard of her. I do appreciate a woman who shakes things up. Speaking of women, how did Greene take the news last night?”
Frank merely pressed his lips together.
The edges of Madden’s mouth curled as he trimmed the cigars. “You didn’t tell him. I am shocked,” he said, his tone suggesting the opposite.
As Madden lit a cigar, Frank tried to defend himself. “I have merely postponed the conversation. Miss Greene and I are having dinner this evening, at which point I’ll learn what these outings are all about.”
“You assume they have a purpose?” Madden handed the unlit cigar to Frank. “These bored society girls love to go slumming downtown. See how the other half lives.”
“You’re not exactly downtown,” Frank pointed out as he pocketed the cigar for later. “If they wanted that, they’d travel to the Bowery.” Frank had grown up not far from there, where he’d gained firsthand knowledge of downtown squalor. Memories that haunted him still, ensuring he’d do anything and everything to never return there.
Madden exhaled a long plume of white smoke. “The sister is an expert at roulette. Craps, too. She was up two hundred and thirty dollars by my count.”
High praise coming from the owner. “So the story of the stolen chips was true.”
Madden shrugged. “I never saw any chips disappear.”
The liar. Madden knew everything that went on in his club. “Where would Florence Greene learn to gamble like that?”
“I couldn’t say. Seems both the Greene sisters have secrets.”
“Any chance you’ll tell me about your squabble with their father?”
Madden puffed on his cigar and then tapped the ash in a dish. “Seeing as how you represent him, I think it best if I keep those reasons to myself.”
“Fair enough. I don’t need conflict of interest charges brought against me.” He checked his pocket watch, then rose. Another client awaited, this one downtown, before he needed to return home and bathe for his dinner appointment with Mamie. Ignoring the sizzle that slid through him at the thought of seeing her, he said, “I have another meeting, unless there was something else?”
Madden got to his feet. “No, you have been most helpful.” The owner reached into a drawer and pulled out a fat stack of cash. He held it out to Frank. “Thank you for your time.”
Frank waved away the money. “I’ll bill you—”
“Nonsense. I hate to be indebted to anyone, even for a short period. Take this, and if it’s not enough then see Jack for more.”
Frank accepted the payment. He’d worked with enough men of Madden’s ilk to know that arguing was futile. Refusing their generosity only angered them, a complication Frank didn’t need at the moment. “Thank you. Good luck with your project.”
“I don’t need luck.” Madden put his cigar between his teeth. “I own a casino. I am the goddamn luck.”
Women were not supposed to play billiards. Well, there was no law prohibiting women from playing . . . but there might as well have been. The billiards room in nearly every fancy home was located far away from the common areas used by women. It was the goal, by segregating these male domains, to shelter ladies from the smell of tobacco and ribald language. To allow men a place away from the rest of the family, where they could drink and commune with other men.
In the Greene household, however, the three sisters spent more time in the Moorish-style billiards room than hardly anywhere else. Their father never played and the girls had taken over the space as their own.
That afternoon Mamie skipped paying calls with her mother to play a match of fifteen-ball pool with her siblings. The rules were simple: the player who reached sixty-one points first won the game, and whoever won best of three games collected the pot of seventy-five dollars. The second game was underway, with Justine easily handling the first. The youngest Greene sister, if not for her love of charities and being born the wrong gender, could have had a thriving career as a professional billiardist.
Mamie hadn’t given up just yet, however. She was determined to win the money and divide it between the many struggling families she knew downtown.
Florence studied the table and debated her shot. “Shall I sink the nine or try for the ten off the rails?” Justine opened her mouth, but Florence threw her a quelling look. “Do not answer. I’m merely thinking aloud.”
Justine held up her hands and remained silent. Florence lined up and tried for the ten ball . . . only to miss the pocket. “Hell,” she cursed.
Justine slid off her stool and strolled to the table. “You cannot carom to save your life. You never correctly judge the distance.”
“Please stop giving advice.” Florence dropped into a chair. “No one likes a know-it-all.”
“Or a sore loser,” Mamie pointed out before popping the rest of an almond macaroon in her mouth.
Florence reached over to snatch the last macaroon off the tray. “Why did I let you talk me into putting up my last twenty-five dollars? I was saving it for something.”
“Like another trip to a casino?”
“Oh, that reminds me.” Justine lined up and took a shot, sending the cue ball flying over the green baize. “How was your excursion last evening?”
Mamie said nothing, not certain where to even begin, and Florence took the opportunity to weigh in. “We won over two hundred dollars, a fight broke out, someone drugged Mamie’s drink and our chips were stolen.”
Justine sank another ball. “Goodness. Glad you were both unharmed. What was the fight about?”
“Frank Tripp dropped from the ceiling to attack the man who drugged Mamie’s champagne.”
“Frank Tripp?” Another ball fell into a pocket. “Daddy’s attorney?”
“The one and only. He carried Mamie to his carriage—”
“That is quite enough, Florence. Justine does not need to hear every detail.”
Justine moved to the other side of the table. “Yes, Justine certainly does. Why on earth did he carry you?”
“He insisted on driving us home. I was more inclined to hire a hack.”
“You should have seen it,” Florence said. “Tripp jumped down from the balcony like an avenging angel, ready to pummel this man. Then he wouldn’t leave Mamie’s side. I think Tripp is sweet on our eldest sister.”
Mamie’s stomach fluttered. “You are ridiculous.”
Justine missed her next shot. Frowning, she waved at Mamie. “Your turn. Put me down for twenty-four points, Florence.”