by John Shirley
Greavy led him along a companionway to his cabin, which was not much warmer. Most of the little oval room that wasn’t the narrow bed was taken up by a table covered with overlapping blueprints, sketches, graphs, intricate designs. The Wales brothers’ design sometimes looked like Manhattan mated with London—but with the power of a cathedral. The designs were overly fancy for Sullivan’s taste. Maybe he’d get to like it once it was done. If it ever was …
Greavy took a bottle from under his pillow and poured them two slugs in glasses, and Sullivan eased the stuff down.
“We need to be ready for any kind of raid,” Greavy said, distractedly looking past Sullivan at the blueprints, his mind already back in the world of the Wales’s design—and, very nearly, Ryan’s new world.
Sullivan shrugged. “With any luck he’ll get the place finished before they can screw with us. The foundation’s already laid. Power’s flowing, right? Most of the stuff’s in place on the support ships. Just a few more shipments.”
Greavy snorted, surprising Sullivan by pouring himself a second drink—and irritating Sullivan by not offering him one. “You have no idea of the work. The risk. It’s enormous. It’s the very soul of innovation. And I need more men! We’re already behind schedule…”
“You’ll get some more. Ryan’s hired another man to supervise the—‘foundational work’ he calls it. Man named McDonagh. He’s going to put him on the North Atlantic project once he proves he really can be trusted.”
“McDonagh. Never heard of him—don’t tell me, he’s not another apple picked from an orange tree?”
“A what?”
“You know Ryan, he has his own notions of picking men. Sometimes they’re remarkable, and well, sometimes they’re—strange.” He cleared his throat.
Sullivan scowled. “Like me?”
“No, no, no…”
Meaning yes, yes, yes. But it was true: Ryan had a way of recruiting black sheep, people who showed great potential but needed that extra chance. They all had a spirit of independence, were disillusioned with the status quo—and sometimes willing to skirt the law.
“The problem,” Sullivan said, “is that the government thinks Ryan is hiding something because he’s trying to keep people from finding out where these shipments are going and what they’re for … and he is hiding something. But not what they think.”
Greavy went to the blueprints, shuffling through them with one hand, his eyes gleaming behind his thick spectacles. “The strategic value of such a construction is significant, in a world where we’re likely to go toe-to-toe with the Soviets—and Mr. Ryan doesn’t want any outsiders going down there to report on what he’s building. He wants to run things his way, ’specially once it’s set up. Without interference. That’s the whole point! Or to be more accurate—he wants to set it up to run itself. To let the laissez-faire principle free. He figures if governments know about it, they’ll infiltrate. And then there’s the union types, Communist organizers … suppose they were to worm their way in? The best way to keep people like that out is to keep it completely secret from them. Another thing—Ryan doesn’t want any outsiders to know about some of the new technology … You’d be amazed at what he’s got—new inventions he could patent and make a fortune on, but he’s holding it back … for this project.”
“Where’s he getting all these new inventions?”
“Oh, he’s been recruiting people for years. Who do you think designed those new dynamos of his?”
“Well, it’s his call,” Sullivan said, looking wistfully into his empty glass. Weak brandy or not, a drink was a drink. “You’ve been working for him twice as long as I have. He don’t tell me much.”
“He likes information to be compartmentalized on this project. Keeps a secret better.”
Sullivan crossed to the porthole and peered out. Saw his shadow, out there, still clamping that pipe in his mouth. But now the G-man was pacing by the Olympian, looking the freighter up and down. “Son of a bitch’s still out there. Doesn’t seem empowered to do anything but ogle the ship.”
“I’ve got to meet the Wales brothers. You know what they’re like. Artists. All too aware of their own genius…” He frowned at the blueprints. Sullivan could see he was jealous of the Waleses. Greavy sniffed. “If there’s nothing else—I’d better get on with it. Unless there’s something else besides this new man that Ryan’s taken on?”
“Who? Oh, McDonagh? No, I’m here to confirm the time you ship out. Ryan wanted me to come down personally. He’s beginning to think they might be listening in on the telephones somehow. I’m thinking if you can leave earlier than midnight, it’d be better.”
“As soon as the captain’s back. I expect him within the hour.”
“Leave soon as you can. Maybe they’ll get a warrant after all. I don’t think they’d find anything illegal. But if Ryan wants to keep them from knowing what he’s up to, the less they see, the better.”
“Very well. But who could imagine what he’s up to? Jules Verne? Certainly not these drones at the IRS. But Sullivan, I assure you—Ryan is correct: if they knew what he really has in mind, they’d be quite worried. Particularly considering how little help he gave the Allies in the war.”
“He took no sides at all. He didn’t care for Hitler or the Japs neither.”
“Still—he showed no special loyalty to the United States. And who can blame him? Look at the wreckage the ant society made of Europe—for the second time in the century. And the horror of Hiroshima and Nagasaki … I can’t wait to leave all that behind…” Greavy escorted Sullivan toward the door. “Ryan has every intention of creating something that will grow—and grow! First across the seabed, and then, in time, above the surface of the sea—when they’ve done such damage to themselves, these so-called nations of the earth, that they can no longer pose a threat. Until then, he is right to mistrust them. Because he is creating something that will compete with them. A whole new society. Indeed, in time a whole new world! One which will utterly replace the vile, squirming anthill humanity has become…”
New York City
1946
“Merton? Get outta my bar.”
Merton was gaping at Frank Gorland from behind the beer-stained desk of The Clanger’s smoky little office. Harv Merton was a man with a large round head and thick lips, a skinny body, and a brown turtleneck sweater. Hell, he looked like a damn turtle—but a turtle in a bowler hat. “Whatta hell ya mean, your bar?” he asked, tamping a cigarette out in a butt-filled ashtray.
“I’m the owner, ain’t I? As of tonight anyhow.”
“Whatta hell ya mean you’re the owner, Gorland?”
The man who called himself Frank Gorland smiled without humor and leaned against the frame of the closed door. “You know any expressions besides whatta hell? You’re about to sign this bar over to me, is whatta hell.” Gorland ran a hand over his bald head. Prickly, needed to shave it. He took the papers from his coat, all legal down to the last period, and dropped them on Merton’s desk. “That look familiar? You signed it.”
Merton stared at the papers, eyes widening. “That was you? Hudson Loans? Nobody told me that was—”
“A loan is a loan. What I seem to recall is, you were drunk when you signed it. Needed some money to pay off your gambling vig. A big fucking vig it was too, Merton!”
“You were there that night? I don’t remember—”
“You remember getting the money, don’t you?”
“It—it don’t count if I was drunk!”
“Merton, if there was no business done drunk in this town, half its business wouldn’t get done.”
“I think you put something in my drink, that’s what I think; the next day I felt—”
“Stop whining; you cashed the check, didn’t you? You got the loan, couldn’t pay the interest, time’s up—now this place is mine! It’s all there in black and white! This dump was your collateral!”
“Look, Mr. Gorland…” Merton licked his thick lips. “Don’t think I disre
spect you. I know you’ve hustled—uh, worked your way to a good thing, this end of town. But you can’t just take a man’s bidness…”
“No? My attorneys can. They’ll come after you hammer and tongs, pal.” He grinned. “Hammer, Tongs, and Klein, attorneys at law!”
Merton seemed to shrivel in his seat. “Okay, okay, whatta ya want from me?”
“Not what I want—what I’m taking. I told you, I want the bar. I own a bookkeeping operation. I own a drugstore. But—I don’t have a bar! And I like The Clanger. Lots of dirt on the fights, what with the boxin’ setup and all. Might be useful … Now you call that fat-ass bartender of yours in here, tell him he’s gotta new boss…”
* * *
Gorland. Barris. Wiston. Moskowitz. Wang. Just some of the names he’d had the last few years. His own name, quite another Frank, seemed like it belonged to somebody else.
Keep ’em guessing, that was his way.
The Clanger wasn’t just a cash cow—it was the place for Frank Gorland to hear the right conversations. It was just a short walk from the docks—but it was not just a nautical bar. There was a big boxing bell on the wall behind the bar; when they tapped a new keg, the bell was loudly clanged and the beer lovers came running, sometimes from down the street. Best German-style brew in New York City. The walls of the dusty, cavelike bar were decorated with worn-out boxing gloves, frayed ropes from rings, black-and-white photos of old-time boxers going back to John L. Sullivan. He had a bartender, an old Irish lush named Mulrooney, working down at the other end. But Gorland liked to work the bar so he could hear the talk. Good for his bookmaking action, and you never know how it might fit the next grift. When you serve a beer—cock an ear.
The talk at the crowded bar tonight was full of how Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, back from the war with a pocketful of nothing and a big tax debt, was going to defend his world heavyweight title against Billy Conn. And how the retired Jack Johnson, first Negro to win the heavyweight champ title, had died two days before in a car accident. None of which was what Gorland needed to know. But there were a couple of guys here who’d have the skinny on the up-and-comer Neil Steele versus the fading boxing-circuit bum Charlie Wriggles.
Gorland had heard a rumor that Steele might be throwing the fight, and he had a theory about how that information might pay off—way past the usual payoff. Only, Gorland needed more assurance that Steele was taking the fall …
Gorland hated bartending because it was actual physical work. A great grifter should never have to do real work. But he wiped down the bar, made small talk; he served a beer, and cocked an ear.
The jukebox was finishing a rollicking Duke Ellington number, and in the brief interval before it switched over to an Ernie “Bubbles” Whitman big-band cut, Gorland zeroed in on the conversation of the two wise guys in the white ties and pinstripes whispering over their Sambocas. He wiped at an imaginary spill on the bar, edging closer. “But can we count on Steele?” said the one some called Twitchy. He twitched his pencil-thin mustache. “Thinks he’s going to challenge the Bomber next year…”
“So let him challenge; he can lose one fight. He needs the payoff, needs it big,” said the chunkier one of the two, “Snort” Bianchi—with a snort. Bianchi scowled, seeing the bartender hanging around too nearby. “Hey bartender—there’s a broad over there trying to get a drink, how’s about you fuck off and serve ’er!”
“I’m the owner here, gents,” Gorland said, smiling. “You want to come back in here, show some respect for the establishment.” Wasn’t good to let these greasers get the upper hand.
Bianchi frowned but only shrugged.
Gorland leaned closer to the wise guys, adding in a murmur, “Psst. Maybe you better take a powder if these feds are looking for you…” He nodded toward the door where an FBI flatfoot by the name of Voss stood in his gray snap-brim and overcoat, glaring about with his piggish little eyes. He looked about as “undercover” as the Statue of Liberty.
The wise guys slipped out the back way as the federal agent made his way to the bar. He was reaching into his coat when Gorland said, “Don’t bother with the badge, Voss, I remember you.” He didn’t want badges flashed anywhere near him if he could avoid it.
Voss shrugged and dropped his hand. He leaned across the bar so he could be heard over the noise. “Word on the street is, this here’s your joint now.”
“That’s right,” Gorland said evenly. “Lock, stock, and leaky barrels.”
“What you calling yourself now? Gorland still?”
“My name’s Frank Gorland, you know that.”
“That’s not the name you had when we tried to connect you to that interstate bookmaking operation.”
“You wanta see my birth certificate?”
“Our man’s already seen it. Says maybe it was forged.”
“Yeah? But he’s not sure? Not much of an expert, if he doesn’t know for sure.”
Voss snorted. “You got that right … You going to offer me a drink or not?”
Gorland shrugged. Decided not to make a smart remark about drinking on duty. “Bourbon?”
“Good guessin’.”
Gorland poured the G-man a double. “You didn’t come in here to cadge drinks.”
“You got that right too.” He took down a slug, grimaced appreciatively, and went on, “I figure you’re gonna hear stuff in a place like this. You give me something now and then—we might lay off finding out who the hell you really are.”
Gorland chuckled. But he felt a chill. He didn’t want his past poked into. “If I tip you, it’ll be because I’m a good citizen. No other reason. Anything special going on?”
Voss crooked a finger, leaned even farther across the bar. Gorland hesitated—then he leaned close. Voss spoke right in his ear. “You hear anything about some kind of big, secret project happening down at the docks? Maybe bankrolled by Andrew Ryan? North Atlantic project? Millions of bucks flowing out to sea…?”
“Nah,” Gorland said. He hadn’t heard about it—but the millions of bucks and the name Andrew Ryan got his attention. “I hear anything, Voss, I’ll tell you. What kinda deal’s he up to?”
“That’s something we don’t … something you don’t need to know.”
Gorland straightened up. “You’re killing my back, here, with this. Listen, I gotta make it look like … you know.” He’d been seen talking to the fed a little too chummily.
Voss nodded, just slightly. He understood.
“Listen, flatfoot!” Gorland shouted, as the jukebox changed records. “You won’t find out anything from me! Now charge me with something or buzz outta my place!”
Some of the customers laughed; some grinned and nodded. Voss shrugged. “You better watch your step, Gorland!” He turned and walked out. Playing his part.
Only he was going to find out, one of these days, that “Frank Gorland” wasn’t going to play along with anything the feds wanted. He’d feed them some hooey—and find out for himself what Andrew Ryan was up to. That kind of money—must be some way to tap into it …
Especially as this was Frank Gorland’s territory. He was owed.
He didn’t hear anything about Ryan for a couple of days, but one day he heard a drunk blond chippie muttering about “Mr. Fatcat Ryan … goddamn him…” as she frantically waved her empty glass at him.
“Hey wherezmuh drinkie?” demanded the blonde.
“What’ll you have, darlin’?”
“What’ll I have, he sez!” the frowsy blonde slurred, flipping a big, mussed curl out of her eyes. Her eye shadow had run from crying. She was a snub-nosed little thing but might be worth a roll in the hay. Only the last time he’d banged a drunk she’d thrown up all over him. “I’ll have a Scotch if I can’t have my man back,” she sobbed, “that’s what I’ll have! Dead, dead, dead, and no one from that Ryan crew is saying why.”
Gorland tried out his best look of sympathy. “Lost your man, didja? That’ll get you a big one on the house, sweet cakes.” He poured her a double
Scotch.
“Hey, spritz some goddamn soda in there, whatya think, I’m a lush ’cause I take a free drink?”
“Soda it is, darlin’, there you go.” He waited as she drank down half of it in one gulp. The sequins were coming off the shoulder straps of her secondhand silver-blue gown, and one of her bosoms was in danger of flopping out of the décolletage. He could see a little tissue sticking up.
“I just want my Irving back,” she said, her head sagging down over the drink. Lucky the song coming on the juke was a Dorsey and Sinatra crooner, soft enough he could make her out. “Jus’ wannim back.” He absentmindedly poured a couple more drinks for the sailors at her side, their white caps cocked rakishly as they argued over bar dice and tossed money at him.
“What became of the unfortunate soul?” Gorland asked, pocketing the money and wiping the bar. “Lost at sea was he?”
She gawped at him. “How’d you know that, you a mind reader?”
Gorland winked. “A little fishy told me.”
She put a finger to one side of her nose and gave him an elaborate wink back. “So you heard about Ryan’s little fun show! My Irving shipped out with hardly a g’bye, said he had to do some kinda diving for them Ryan people. That was where he got his lettuce, see, what they call deep-sea diving. Learned it in the navy salvage. They said it’d be pennies from heaven, just a month at sea doing some kinda underwater buildin’, and—”
“Underwater building? You mean like pylons for a dock?”
“I dunno. But I tell ya, he came back the first time real spooked, wouldn’t talk about it. Said it was much as his life was worth to talk, see? But he tol’ me one thing—” She wagged a finger at him and closed one eye. “Them ships down at dock 17—they’re hidin’ something from the feds, and he was plenty scared about it! What if he was in on somethin’ criminal, not even knowin’, and he took the fall? And then I get a telegram … a little piece of paper … saying he ain’t comin’ back, accident on the job, buried at sea…” Her head wobbled on her neck; her voice was interrupted by hiccupping. “… And that’s the end of my Irving! I’m supposed to jus’ swallow that? Well, I went over to the place that hired him, Seaworthy Construction they was called—and they threw me out! Treated me like I was some kinda tramp! All I wanted was what was comin’ to me … I came out of South Jersey, and let me tell you, we get what we’re owed ’cause…”