Lair of Dreams

“Whaddaya mean by that?” Sam said. He matched Woody’s smile, but his eyes were hard.

“I figured her for riding in cars with pretty boys from Harvard or oil barons from Texas with a lotta money and only a little sense.”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and glared. “Guess Lamb Chop doesn’t go for that after all.”

Woodhouse held Sam’s gaze. “I suppose you’re right. Say, there’s a pretty interesting rumor going around about you and your Lamb Chop,” he said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“That the whole romance was cooked up by WGI’s publicity hounds.”

Sam had had enough. “Get lost, Woody. If you were anybody worth knowing, you’d be higher up on the masthead and wouldn’t have to make chump change writing gossip about Sheiks and Shebas for the Daily. Radio’s gonna put you news boys ten feet under soon enough, anyway. You might wanna hustle yourself a new job.”

Woodhouse’s self-congratulatory smile turned cold. “That so? What do you think I should be writing about instead? Bootleggers and bookies? Or maybe secret government programs, like Project Buffalo?”

Sam felt squeezed of air. “Whaddaya know about Project Buffalo?”

“Ah, gee, sport. What would I know, a bum like me?”

“Where’d you hear about Project Buffalo?” Sam pressed.

“What are you two talking about over here?” Evie said.

T. S. Woodhouse’s gaze flicked from Sam to Evie and back again. He smiled. “I was just wondering which headline would be more interesting tomorrow: ‘Sam ’n’ Evie: Still Sparking’… or ‘Splitsville’?”

Sam glared at Evie. “You told him about Project Buffalo?”

“I-I… it isn’t what you think, Sam.”

“Oops. Looks like I’ve sparked a lover’s quarrel,” Woody said, triumphant. He took out his pencil. “Anything you’d like to say for the late edition?”

Sam took Evie’s hand, pulling her over to a corner of the dais. “How could you do that? I told you: no reporters. You promised to keep it a secret between you and me, Evie. I trusted you,” Sam said, his words quiet but angry.

“Sam, could we talk about this later?” Evie matched his tone. “I’ll explain everything, but…” She nodded toward the large crowd. “People are watching.”

“Oh, sure. I see. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your adoring public,” Sam said, hurt joining the anger. He didn’t trust many people, but he’d trusted her. “Well, I don’t care anymore, Evie. I’ve had enough. You know what? Maybe I’ll just blow this whole thing wide open. Tell you the truth, I’m tired of going to parties every night, anyway. I’m tired of playing your pretend fiancé. Tired of you. Just tired.”

A secretary gestured for them. “Miss O’Neill? Mr. Lloyd? You’re needed.”

“Sam… please.” Evie reached for Sam, but he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Come on. Let’s get this over with,” he said and walked away.

The Ziegfeld girls danced their way through a Diviners-inspired musical number. Theta was giving it her all, but even her talent couldn’t save the lousy song, and Sam hoped Henry hadn’t written it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evie glancing over at him nervously. She looked miserable. Maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on her, but he couldn’t help it. He was furious with Evie. Project Buffalo was his life, not hers. She knew what it meant to him. How could she be so cavalier about it?

The dancers cleared off. Mr. Ziegfeld spoke a few words, and then Sam and Evie were on.

“Gee, that was swell, Mr. Ziegfeld,” Evie chirped into the WGI microphone. “It doesn’t take a Diviner to see that this show will be the elephant’s eyebrows!”

“Isn’t she terrific, folks? And how about a hand for that lucky fella of hers, Sam Lloyd?” Mr. Ziegfeld gestured to Sam, who gave a halfhearted wave. He came and stood next to Evie, but they were miles apart.

“Evie! Sam! Evie!” the reporters called. T. S. Woodhouse raised a finger again and again. Evie answered the other reporters’ questions but refused to call on him.

“Gee, Miss O’Neill, I’ve got the distinct impression you’re ignoring me, and I’m all balled up about it,” Woodhouse shouted, garnering chuckles from the crowd.

“Why, Woody, I couldn’t ignore you if I tried,” Evie said pointedly.

“It’s about this silly rumor I heard floating around town that maybe this romance is a buncha hooey. Daily News readers want to know: You two lovebirds on the level, or is this some kinda scheme cooked up by WGI to keep the ink wet on headlines and make the radio station money?”

There was murmuring in the crowd.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand about true love, Mr. Woodhouse. You manage to cheapen everything,” Evie spat back, defiant, but Sam could hear the panic in it. “Sam and I happen to be mad for each other.”

“Yeah?” Woodhouse sneered. “I guess that’s why you’re standing so close together.”