As Jerome entered the home of Marshall Crenshaw, he felt as if he had entered a fantasy world, and in a way he had. Even outside of Jerome's neighborhood, few lived like Marshall Crenshaw. Of course, the very rich had never concerned Jerome too much. They, like everyone else, came from two ilks of people: those who, under pressure, would choose right, and those who would choose wrong. Some had wealth because of their unscrupulousness, but others had wealth in spite of the unscrupulousness of others. Marshall Crenshaw fell into the latter category.

If anything, Jerome classed Mr. Crenshaw with Leonard Lafitte. Leonard, like Marshall, had been born into a good situation. Leonard's father, had started with a few dollars and a ridiculous amount of talent and had worked his way into relative affluence, at least for Jerome's community. Did that make Leonard a bad person? No way. Leonard had taken his father's achievement and worked hard to respect it, and Jerome had no doubt that Marshall Crenshaw had done the same.

Many others in Mr. Crenshaw's position had either squandered their wealth unwisely or had, in undisciplined hedonism, joined forces with whoever, whether honest or criminal, offered them the quickest route to pleasure. The McReynoldses came to mind as Jerome considered the contrast. Though the original Mr. McReynolds had built a shipping business from the ground up, his son had, as Carson liked to say, "felt the rising tide of opportunity" on the day that prohibition passed. Many had agreed with Carson McReynolds, unhappy with the new restrictions that would do little to curb a big problem but would provide many opportunities for crime to fester. Still, McReynolds had embraced shady dealings as a fact of life, and Jerome would not excuse him.

As Jerome often told Leonard and Marcel, "It is not his message I disagree with, it's his method of dealing with it."

Unlike Carson McReynolds, Marshall Crenshaw had spurned any attempt to engage him in the darker side of politics. For that, Marshall had gained respect across social boundaries. Perhaps he didn't publicly stand for the less fortunate, but Jerome had learned not to separate men on that basis alone. If a man possessed a moral core, when pushed, that man would stand for moral causes, including justice for the less fortunate.

Of course, Jerome's respect for Marshall Crenshaw did not in any way elucidate the man's purpose in inviting Jerome to his home. With the election two days away, Jerome saw little immediate good in meeting with Crenshaw, though even a tacit endorsement could buy Jerome some votes. The following day's rally would prove even more impressive if adorned by a banner reading, "Jerome Weathers, Marshall Crenshaw's choice for City Council."

Jerome forced himself to stride confidently to the back gate of the relatively palatial residence. Before he reached the wrought iron, a black man opened the gate for him, and Jerome smiled at the man. He wondered if anyone ever spoke to the man outside of the servants. If the man's answering grin said anything, the answer was yes. He seemed at ease and happy, a pair of characteristics not too often seen among servants of the wealthy. Jerome ran into several other servants on the way, some black and some white, who all smiled and interacted well with each other. If Marcel had walked into the same place, the band leader would have resented seeing a black man in such a servile position, but Jerome had always thought practically. Jobs were growing scarce, and few white men would hire a black man for anything but dirty occupations. These men acted as equals with their coworkers, and Jerome had even heard rumors that Marshall Crenshaw had given Clarice her first loan to open the five and dime twenty years before.

Yes, Crenshaw could not be called an activist egalitarian, but his actions produced egalitarian results.

When Jerome finally followed the starched collar and polished shoes into the lush and well-lit office, he had given over his attempt at equanimity and allowed himself to gape at several examples of finery in the home.

"It is an honor," Jerome heard from behind him, and he turned to stare down at the portly form and red face of Marshall Crenshaw. "I had already heard much about your political aptitude, but the professor has enlightened me as to the extent of your character. In fact, the professor thinks so highly of you that he has let his youngest son go to work for your campaign."

From behind a narrow bookcase came a cough of protest. "I assure you, Marshall, Tony never sought my permission. Though..." A pleasant smile appeared from behind the neatly organized row of books and peered at Jerome from near eye-level. "I would, of course, have given it to him. Forgive me, Mr. Weathers, for lurking among the books." The tall thin man crossed the space between them, his hand extended in greeting. "Mr. Crenshaw has several outstanding copies of academic works in his library here, and I'm afraid I lost myself for a moment. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

The professor's warm hand grasped Jerome's own, and Jerome couldn't miss the twinkle of sincerity in the eyes beneath the mousy grey head of hair.

"And it's an honor to meet both of you, as well, though I would be a liar if I claimed to have any idea why you asked me here."

At another awkward cough from the professor, Jerome experienced his first misgivings, though he had no idea along which lines they lay. He suspected no ill intent from his hosts, but he sensed that they bore some kind of unpleasant news.

"Well," Crenshaw began, "we actually requested your presence with us today because of Tony."

A million scenarios flashed through Jerome's mind as he remembered the hundreds of hands that Tony had shaken in the name of the "Weathers campaign." If Tony had fallen into some nefarious situation, Jerome's campaign would no doubt suffer as a result.

"Now, don't look so nervous," the professor spoke reassuringly. "Tony is fine, and he's done nothing wrong. No," Professor Garner exchanged a look with Crenshaw. "On the contrary, I'd say he has done something right, but it might take him out of the last couple of days of your campaign."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Jerome gathered himself. Tony's smiling and trustworthy face would have helped drum up supporters in the proceeding forty-eight hours, but Jerome could manage nonetheless. With that concern alleviated, Jerome turned his attention to his young friend's welfare.

"Is Tony in some danger?" Jerome begged solicitously.

"Not necessarily Tony himself, but I believe you know his friend, Marissa."

"Marissa Erinson. She's a friend of my godson, Leonard. Does your daughter, Barbara, have something to do with this, too?" Jerome wondered.

Again, an exchange of glances by his companions.

"As a matter of fact, she does," Marshall admitted with some consternation.

"As does my middle son, Mario," the professor allowed solemnly. "They have apparently caused Marissa some serious trouble, though they did not intend it, and Tony has for some reason stepped in to help her. I'm not exactly sure myself how Tony got involved, but he seems determined to protect the girl."

Jerome shook his head, "I have never seen a girl less inclined to cause trouble or be in trouble. What could Marissa possibly have done to bring "danger" upon herself?"

"That's just the point," Crenshaw explained, reaching beneath his desk and pulling out a roll of newspaper. "She did not bring it upon herself. Barbara and Mario brought it upon her."

As he spoke, Crenshaw handed the paper to Jerome, and both men watched in apprehension as Jerome began to peruse the volume before him. He tried to rein in his anger as he recognized the work before him, but a tight twitch in his neck belied his calm.

"Marissa wrote this?" he spoke in hushed aggravation.

"Marissa," explained the professor, his tone implying that he understood the full import of what Jerome held in his hands, "wrote the first two and a half pages of the paper in your hand. Have you read them?"

Jerome shook his head. Even before he had seen the paper, he had known of the offense of the last pages, and he had skipped over the rest of the paper entirely. To think Marissa had anything to do with publishing those lists ignited Jerome's fury.

"I understand you're upset, Mr. Weathers, and I understand how poorly you have been treated, but out of respect for your godson and his friendship, I think you should read the first two pages before you draw any conclusions about Marissa. I think you of all people would understand that you can't lump everyone together, that each man's honor should stand on its own."

Again, Jerome shook his head, forcing himself to agree to sound reason. "Well, of course I do. I'll read it."

"Please sit down, Mr. Weathers. Ross," Crenshaw called through an open door, "please get Mr. Weathers some tea."

Jerome seated himself in the luxurious chair, so caught up in the task before him that he missed the chair's splendor. As he read, his emotions transformed completely, from irritation and indignation to gratitude and confusion. What kind of girl could write such a thing?"

"This is about Selma," Jerome whispered.

"Selma?" Paul Garner queried.

"Marcel? The girl in the story. Selma is – was – his sister, and Marcel is my dearest friend. Marissa wrote this?" As he looked up at the men, a tear threatened to spill from his eye. He hadn't relived that moment he had watched them carry Selma's lifeless body into the house in more than a decade.

"Well, apparently, Marissa heard the story from Leonard. Apparently, she's very good at drawing people into sharing their stories. From what Mario says, she's 'safe' somehow."

Still confused, Jerome tried not to glare as his anger rekindled at the word "safe."

"So safe that she would malign Selma's cousin in the same publication in which she used Selma to drum up sympathy for her cause."

"Marissa did no such thing," the professor jumped to the girl's defense. "I'm afraid," he calmed back down, "I'm afraid the maligning was done by my son."

"And my daughter," Crenshaw interjected. "They published the lists completely without Marissa's knowledge or permission. In fact, their duplicity set her on the path of trouble in more than one way. For one, someone found out that Marissa wrote this article."

"That explains the phone call I received from your daughter," Jerome addressed Crenshaw. "She wanted me to warn Marissa to expect some kind of danger."

"Yes," Crenshaw agreed. "She would do that. I know she has done something thoughtless and hurtful, Mr. Weathers, but you have to believe that my daughter has pure motives. She is just overzealous and doesn't think things through."

"Apparently," Jerome agreed with muted sarcasm.

"And my son is even worse," the professor seemed unwilling to let Barbara bear all of the blame. "Mario's motives are less pure, I'm afraid. Affected, as it were, by a pair of feminine fiery eyes."

Jerome breathed a sigh of frustration, suddenly seeing with new clarity the tenuous nature of public opinion. That it can lie subject to a young man's hormones seemed completely unfair. Still, it hardly made the young man, or the young woman, worthy of such righteous anger as Jerome had let himself harbor.

"You said more than one way," Jerome picked up the previous thread of the conversation.

"Yes," Professor Garner followed his lead. "Well, I can't say that Marissa is entirely blameless in this one, though I also don't exactly blame her. When she found out what our children had done, she was obviously very hurt. Betrayed, in fact."

"Shows some sense on her part at least," Jerome asserted.

"It does, though her subsequent actions proved her capable of folly. She sought out Sam Lincoln."

The words settled ominously on the lush upholstery and carpeting of the room. "She sought him out?"

"Apparently," Marshall Crenshaw took over the narrative, "Marissa had run into Sam on several occasions, and for some sick reason that we could not devise, he had expressed a measure of interest in the girl."

"Like a cat is interested in a mouse," Jerome posited sardonically.

"I would tend to agree," Crenshaw nodded. "And Marissa apparently had no other acquaintance outside of my daughter and the professor's son. So, when left to her own devices, she sought out Sam."

"And Sam, as part of the McReynolds campaign, knew of her involvement with the paper."

"We actually don't know for sure," Crenshaw explained. "That's part of why we called you here. Last night, Marissa accompanied Sam to Calloway's"

Jerome sucked in a breath.

"And it seems that Tony followed her there, concerned for her safety when he saw her with Sam. Last we heard, Tony spoke to his father late yesterday evening and expressed his intent to go into Calloway's after her."

"Sounds like the Tony I know. No sense, too much bravery, and the inability to ignore someone in need." Jerome smiled to himself as he thought of his young friend. If Tony had survived the night, Jerome would make sure to box his ears for his carelessness.

For his part, the professor looked surprised to hear such words spoken about his youngest son. "Doesn't it?" Jerome prodded.

"Well, to tell you the truth," the professor seemed a bit out of breath. "I hadn't really seen that side of Tony. I guess," Paul Garner furrowed his brow in consternation. "I guess I had been looking at the wrong things to assess his performance."

"Well, if you don't know that Tony Garner is one of the finest young men in St. Louis, then, yes, professor, I would say that you have. He is an amazing young man. One of a kind."

Professor Garner took a moment to gather himself, moved to a moment of silence by the praise for his son – the son he had subconsciously labeled a disappointment.

"Barbara and Mario came to me last night," Marshall Crenshaw began again, "very concerned about their friend. I'm not sure I sensed remorse on Barbara's part." Crenshaw shook his head. "She is a young woman of deep convictions, but she has not yet learned to temper them with compassion. Still, she loves Marissa and wishes her no harm. Mario, too, felt concern for her safety,"

"And since she has disappeared," the professor spoke up, "and Tony with her, we are at a loss at how to find her."

"And here I rushed over to speak to you when a trip into Marcel's might have solved this whole problem. If Tony is there with this young woman, then we don't have anything to worry about."

"Well, I applaud your bravery, Mr. Weathers," came Crenshaw's dubious tone. "But I believe we have much to worry about regardless. For one, your campaign."

"My campaign?"

"If McReynolds is sending Sam Lincoln to the Morans for anything, the campaign must be his purpose. Sam is running the campaign."

"True," Jerome conceded.

"And," Crenshaw continued, "since you so often occupy Mr. Lafitte's establishment, you need assurances that it will remain secure. If Moran has marked Marissa as a target, her presence there must not be made known. I am in no way certain that Marcel's is a secure location. Not that I suspect your friend of anything, but Moran will not show forbearance if he thinks he needs to forcibly remove the young lady from Mr. Lafitte's establishment."

A chill followed the words as they echoed around the room. All three men in the room could imagine various scenarios involving the Moran's at Marcel's, and none of the thoughts boded well for Marcel Lafitte or those he hosted in his business.

"Of course, those considerations don't erase our responsibility to take care of Miss Erinson," Jerome assured his companions after a pause. "Maybe if we removed her from Marcel's, we could put a stop to both the danger to her and to Marcel's patrons."

"Then the question becomes," the professor agreed, "where do we take her?"