Part 33 (1/2)
All the p.a.w.nbroker's talk of making money for his ”grandchildren” was rubbish. He had none. Moreover, for the last three years Sol Ganz had shown himself a totally reliable business a.s.sociate, and seen exceptional profits as a result. There were, Josh knew, men for whom nothing was ever enough, but somehow he could not a.s.sign Sol Ganz to their ranks. So what in G.o.d's name was he really after? As for DuVal Jones, he was a small-time crook who operated across the river in Brooklyn; the strong-arm man for a more important criminal, who nonetheless had, as far as Josh knew, no connections or concerns in New York City and . . .
And Clifford was the key. He had to tell Miller that. Emphasize the point. Lupo was one of the puppets, important, yes, but Trenton Clifford pulled the strings.
He'd brought his telephone here from his previous office. It lay on the floor, a useless wooden box since the company hadn't sent anyone to connect it. And it made no difference since, like most people, Frankie Miller wasn't on the exchange. Josh reached for his hat and his gloves.
The hansom slowed. Josh lowered the window of the carriage and peered at the colossus looming in front of him. The Brooklyn Bridge had changed the world. Six thousand feet long, it stood a hundred and thirty-five feet above the East River and was eighty-five feet wide at its base, the expanse divided by a sixteen-foot pedestrian promenade raised a bit above the vehicular traffic flowing east and west either side. It had cost seventeen million to build-more than three times the original budget-and was said to weigh some fifteen thousand tons and to be the longest suspension bridge in the world. Certainly, in the matter of New York City, it cast a real and figurative shadow unlike any the island city had previously known. A marvel of civil engineering that some called the eighth wonder of the world, the Brooklyn Bridge had created a swathe of Manhattan that would never again see the sun.
The driver got down and came around to open the carriage door. ”This is the place, isn't it, sir? Roach's Tavern.”
”Yes, this is it.” The shadows were so deep he could barely see the mangy old bull beside the door. ”I shan't be long. Please wait.”
Not long at all. Miller wasn't at the tavern and no one could say when he'd return.
Josh climbed back into the carriage, looking again at the bridge meanwhile. It was clotted with people on foot and in slow-moving carriages. All of them shouting and waving and enjoying an adventure, not minding that it would take them hours to get across. Not an adventure he wished to share just now.
The driver lowered the window and leaned in, waiting for instructions. ”The Brooklyn ferry,” Josh said.
Take the bull by the horns. Maybe, like Mr. Roach's effigy, it would turn out to be blind and deballed.
23.
THERE WAS A small glove maker's shop on Sixty-Ninth Street in the shadow of the Third Avenue El where Mollie was a frequent customer. Since she was so close she stopped there on her way home from Josh's office and spent twenty minutes with her elbow on a cus.h.i.+on and her hand up in the air, while the craftsman fitted different models. She could have either smooth leather or sueded, she was told. And any number of shades were available. Eventually she selected particularly supple gray kid, and requested the same style be made for her in pale blue and in beige. It was nearly one when she got back into the waiting hansom, and close to half past the hour when she arrived at 1160.
”Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner. There's a lady waiting for you just over there.” The doorman nodded toward one of the velvet-covered banquettes that ran along the wall of the lobby.
Molly turned her head. Amanda Jones rose to greet her.
”I knew you recognized me as I did you.”
”Indeed,” Mollie admitted. ”Not immediately, but when I saw which flat was yours I remembered meeting you years ago on Bowling Green. Please sit down, Mrs. Jones.”
They had ridden to the sixth floor in silence. Jane was waiting by the door-one of the wonders of the new electrification was a means for the elevator operator to notify the servants in each apartment when their master or mistress was on the way up-but Mollie had immediately dismissed the maid and herself showed her caller to the library. Now she glanced at the bell rope. ”Will you take tea?”
”Thanks, no. But I wouldn't mind a gla.s.s of that.” The blonde indicated a decanter of sherry.
Mollie poured a generous portion for each of them, then took the chair across from that of Amanda Jones. It seemed absurd to inquire after her visitor's health or compliment her on her hat. None of the usual social norms felt appropriate. Mollie simply waited.
”It's about me and DuVal,” the other woman said. ”And someone else. I suppose you've already guessed that.”
”Not exactly. I have no idea why you would wish to speak to me about anything to do with your husband.”
”I think he came to see you recently.”
”Not me,” Mollie corrected. ”I am aware that he called on my husband. But only because I was told.”
Amanda Jones turned her head, taking in the size and decor of the room. ”Place like this,” she said. ”I guess it's possible for your husband to see somebody and you'd never even know. Nothing like that can happen at the St. Nicholas. How many rooms have you got here anyway?”
”Twelve,” Mollie said.
”Like it was a whole house.”
”Yes, rather.”
”I want a house. A whole one of my own.” Amanda Jones spoke with sudden urgency. ”And a maid. DuVal could buy me those things. He handles thousands and thousands of dollars for the mayor of Brooklyn. Every week. Do you know about that?”
Mollie shook her head. According to Josh, Jones worked for a small-time hoodlum, which was what Mollie had suspected ten years ago, but they'd not spent any time on details. ”I know very little about your husband's affairs,” she said.
”No reason you should, I suppose. You're a grand lady now. Don't involve yourself in your husband's business like when he was just getting started and you came to talk to us down on Bowling Green. Doesn't matter. I can tell you for sure, DuVal always pays the rent on time. Otherwise he might have to find some other place to put us. Me and my daughter. She's ten and I keep telling her we're going to move to someplace really nice pretty soon, but I don't think she believes me anymore. It's all like a fairy tale far as she's concerned.” She raised her gla.s.s and finished her sherry.
Mollie did not bother to defend the niceness of the St. Nicholas. It was a relative matter, as she knew well. ”Would you like another, Mrs. Jones?”
”Don't mind if I do.”
Mollie got up and brought the decanter to where they were sitting, then filled the other woman's gla.s.s. ”Do I take it you have only the one child, Mrs. Jones?”
”Absolutely. I made it very clear to DuVal I wouldn't have another until he bought us a house.” She smiled but it did not seem to Mollie to be an indication of pleasure. ”Couple of times he thought he'd gotten me in the family way despite that, but it always turned out he was wrong. We ladies know how to take care of that when it's necessary, don't we, Mrs. Turner? And don't look so disapproving. I know all about who you was before you married your one-legged millionaire.”
”I'm not disapproving, Mrs. Jones. Everyone has to decide such matters for themselves.”
Amanda Jones got up and carried her sherry to the window. ”You can see the Central Park from here. I didn't realize that.”
”Yes, we can.” Even if Fifth Avenue and Madison were to be developed this far uptown, Josh was convinced both streets would be given over to private mansions and the upper floors of Park Avenue wouldn't lose their serene outlook.
”So what good's all this to you? The fancy apartment and the gorgeous view. The way I hear it, you never could have children and that ruined your life. People say it's G.o.d's punishment for your having lived all those years in a house of ill repute.”
Mollie refused to let the direct attack disarm her. ”As I recall, Mrs. Jones, back when we met on Bowling Green you insisted the role of a wife and mother was to be the angel of the hearth. Now you tell me you have defied your husband in the matter of a family.”
Amanda Jones turned her back on the view and looked at her hostess. ”Back on Bowling Green I was a girl of barely sixteen. I've learned a few things since then. Had them shoved down my throat, you might say.”
”Exactly what do you want from me, Mrs. Jones?”
”My chance, Mrs. Turner. Mine and my daughter's.”
”I don't understand.”
”Captain Trenton Clifford's going to buy me a house of my own. He's promised. Only DuVal found out about me and the captain. He doesn't dare do anything about it. The mayor doesn't want that kind of trouble and he would do something terrible to DuVal if he caused it.”
”I don't see that this has anything to do with Mr. Turner and myself, Mrs. Jones.” Mollie's heart was pounding, but she knew she mustn't allow her feelings to show. She'd lose whatever advantage she might have if she did that.
”Course it has. I wouldn't have come here otherwise. DuVal's trying to make your husband do his dirty work for him. But if Mr. Turner does what DuVal wants, he'll be in terrible trouble. Maybe lose everything. Go to jail even. Where will you be then, Mrs. Turner?”
Coming across on the ferry the sunlight on the river had been almost blindingly bright. Now, on the Brooklyn side, Josh was once more in the shadow of the bridge and deafened by the ceaseless rumble of its traffic.
According to Miller, he had a man observing the Water Street house day and night. Josh could see no evidence of him; that after all was Miller's stock-in-trade. Josh didn't fool himself he had the same ability to be unseen, but he stood in the deepest shadows and studied Clifford's house.
It was small and old-fas.h.i.+oned, a one-story cottage with a ramshackle addition tacked onto one end. Most likely an outhouse. Best guess: the place had once belonged to a fisherman, perhaps an oysterman working the beds on the Brooklyn side of the Narrows. Doubtless he'd have sold his day's catch by going around the grand houses on the hills of the nearby Heights.