City of Dreams

by Martin, William

  CITY OF DREAMS

  BOOKS BY WILLIAM MARTIN

  The Lost Constitution

  Harvard Yard

  Citizen Washington

  Annapolis

  Cape Cod

  The Rising of the Moon

  Nerve Endings

  Back Bay

  CITY

  OF

  DREAMS

  WILLIAM MARTIN

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed

  in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  CITY OF DREAMS

  Copyright © 2010 by William Martin

  All rights reserved.

  “Let’s Keep It Superficial” copyright © 2005 by Jake Rat.

  All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-2197-8

  First Edition: May 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For the Ancestors of my Children.

  They came from Mayo and County Cavan,

  From Lithuania and Bavaria, too.

  Some came to Boston and some stayed in New York,

  But they all saw America first as the City of Dreams.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some rainy Saturday afternoon when you’re cleaning out your attic or flipping through a bin in your favorite secondhand bookstore, you may uncover a pile of flimsy, crudely printed notes from the American Revolution. They may appear to be nothing at all, but be careful with them, because they may be New Emission Bonds.

  Of course, you won’t be able to call Peter Fallon for an opinion, because he’s a fictional character. But I was lucky because whenever Peter Fallon needed an opinion, I could call Ned Downing.

  Ned is one of the nation’s leading scripophilists and scholars of eighteenth-century American capital markets. He first told me about the bonds, more properly called New Emission Money, over a decade ago.

  And what a story. A struggling Congress attempts to finance the Revolution by printing money and issuing promissory notes backed mostly by air. Alexander Hamilton takes the financial reins of the new government and tries to make good on all the promises, and those that remain unfilled, including interest payments on the New Emission Money, he calls debts “of honor.” Two centuries later, modern collectors and historical institutions attempt to redeem the New Emission Money, which may still be accruing interest.

  And then what happened?

  I told Ned that some day I would write a novel about the New Emission Money. Now I have put Peter Fallon and Evangeline Carrington on the case in New York. But I could not have written this book without the generous advice, insight, and historical perspective that Ned Downing has offered at every phase of the process. As I say of a character in the book, he introduced me “to a new way of seeing American history.” He answered all my questions during the research and writing, and he read the manuscript, too.

  I have, of course, taken a novelist’s liberties in fashioning my historical fiction out of the story of these flimsy pieces of paper and their passage through New York history. But the broad contours and most of the specifics are true, thanks to Ned.

  There are many others who deserve my thanks, too. They have offered research help, insights, advice, reminiscences, eyewitness accounts, and friendship.

  So, my thanks to Mark Bartlett and the staff of the New York Society Library, Alice Beale, Thomas Cook, Peter Drummey and the staff of the Massachusetts Historical Society (which owns a collection of New Emission Money), Patty Garcia, John Harrison, John Herzog, who founded the Museum of American Finance and graciously gave me a personal tour, William Kuntz, Katherine Kunz, Stephen Martell, Linda Nakdimen, Joseph Riley, Andy Rosenwach of the Rosenwach Tank Company, John Spooner, Susan Terner, Pamela Thomas, Martin Weinkle, and my research assistants, Corwynn Crane and Lauren Dye.

  Also a more general thanks to the Sons of the Revolution in the State of New York, who own and operate the Fraunces Tavern Museum; to the staffs of the Federal Hall National Memorial, the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, the Morgan Library and Museum, the Museum of the City of New York, and the New-York Historical Society; to the priests and parishioners of Trinity Church and St. Paul’s Chapel, in Lower Manhattan, and the Sacred Heart of Jesus Church on Fifty-first Street.

  Thanks for their continued support to Bob Gleason, my editor at Forge; and to Tom Doherty, my publisher; and to Robert Gottlieb of the Trident Media Group, my agent for a quarter century.

  Thanks to my kids, Bill, Dan, and Elizabeth. They’re spread around the country, but they still offer their opinions and can now offer professional judgments, too, on subjects as diverse as IPOs, dramatic structure, and human psychology.

  And thanks as always to Chris. She makes the hard work much easier.

  WILLIAM MARTIN

  December 2009

  CITY OF DREAMS

  ONE

  Monday Afternoon

  PETER FALLON READ THE CALLER ID, pushed the Talk button, and said, “I am not moving to New York City.”

  “That isn’t why I’m calling,” said Evangeline Carrington.

  “But that’s where every conversation ends up.”

  “Listen, Peter, I’m in a bookstore.”

  “What are you doing in a bookstore?”

  “Buying you a wedding present.”

  “I have enough books.”

  Peter was sitting in his office. Books everywhere. And in the outer office, more books. But not just any books: a Shakespeare Second Folio from 1632, a first edition of Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, a signed first of Tales of the South Pacific, the rarest Michener, three million dollars worth of books, all bought, sold, and brokered from the third floor of a Boston bowfront, above an art gallery that was above a restaurant.

  “If you think I’m getting you golf clubs,” she said, “forget it.”

  “I’d love a new Callaway driver,” he said. “We can play on the honeymoon. Nice golf courses in France.”

  “Forget France,” said Evangeline. “I want you to come to New York.”

  “See? I told you. This is where every conversation ends up. I don’t want to live in New York. And there’s a wedding in ten days. In Boston. There are details.”

  “Name a detail that I haven’t already taken care of.”

  “I have to put the dance tunes on my iPod. I have to shuck the oysters—”

  “Peter, get serious.”

  He sat up straight, as if she were in the room. “Okay. I’m all ears.”

  “I’m in Delancey’s Rarities on Fourth Avenue, in the back. I’m going through a bin of engravings, because I know how much you like them, and this bag lady comes in.”

  “A bag lady? In New York? There’s news. Does she smell?”

  “Of rum. I can smell it back here. But she doesn’t sound drunk, or old, or especially derelict. That’s what’s got my attention.”

  “Eight million stories in the naked city, babe.”

  “She’s saying how Delancey is an expert in old money, and so is she, so they should team up, because she knows where there’s a lot of it, and if they work together—”

  “Smart bag lady. She knows enough to go to Delancey. A major player in the scripophily market.”

  “Scripophily?”

  “Collecting old money. Antique stock certificates, bonds . . . it’s hot right now.”

  “Oh, hey, wait a minute . . .”<
br />
  Peter could hear Evangeline breathing. He could almost hear her listening.

  While he waited, he clicked the Internet and glanced at the stock market. The Dow was dropping—and fast—in the last half hour of trading.

  Then Evangeline was back. “The bag lady says she has something that’ll impress Delancey. But she’ll only show it to him on her turf.”

  “She sounds batty. Don’t let her hear you or see you, or she’ll make herself your pain in the ass instead of his.”

  “She can’t see me in the back. And she can’t hear me because I’m whispering, and Delancey’s playing his old-timey music.”

  Peter could hear the music, too. “That’s Benny Goodman. The term is timeless, not old-timey.”

  “Okay. Timeless. Now they’re talking about a room papered in old money. You know, Peter, I think we should see what this is about.”

  “We?” Peter laughed. “Aren’t you always saying, ‘Peter,’ in that cold, calm voice you get when you’re pissed off, ‘Peter, I’m just a travel writer. Don’t be dragging me into your treasure hunts.’”

  “Peter,” she said in that cold, calm voice, “ten days from now, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You were the one who turned down the prenup. Right?”

  “Right”—Peter put his feet up on the desk—“because I’m after your money.”

  “So if this is something big, and it pays off, it’s community property. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And it could make a helluva wedding present . . . wait a minute”—her voice rose an octave—“she’s showing Delancey a picture. Peter, this could be . . . something.”

  “Right.” Peter tried to control a laugh. “Something.”

  “I can see you smirking, Peter. Stop it. Oh, hey . . . she’s leaving. The bag lady’s leaving. Do you think I should go after her?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?” Peter laughed.

  “Peter, screw you.” And she clicked off.

  PETER SPUN IN his chair and looked out the window.

  He realized that if this marriage was going to work, he had to learn the difference between smart-ass and plain-vanilla ass.

  He thought about calling her back, but that would only make things worse. So he just pictured Delancey’s store.

  Peter’s old mentor, Orson Lunt, once said, “Whenever you’re in New York, go down to Book Row. Stop in at the Strand, of course, then go to Delancey’s. It’s dark, it’s messy, but it’s a treasure trove. Look around, go through the bins, get to know Delancey, ask him as many questions as you can, but answer as few as possible, because he’s sharper than Gillette, and he doesn’t miss a trick. . . .”

  Orson was retired now, but Delancey was still going strong, the kind of guy who’d probably die in his store some day, get to heaven, and go looking for Bill Shakespeare, just to ask him where he’d buried his manuscripts. Then Delancey would figure out a way to come back to life, dig them up, and sell them to the highest bidder.

  Of course, Delancey had done pretty well in this life, too. He played the poor bookseller in the dumpy shop, one of the last holdouts on Book Row, but he also owned the building, and every year or so, he sent Peter an e-mail that went like this:

  Dear Pete—

  Strike one: Peter hated to be called Pete.

  I’ve been doing business with a New York stockbroker who also happens to be a major collector. Considering his interest in our field, I think you might be interested in his services. Business to business, so to speak. This is some chance. He does not take on many clients. And believe me, there’s no one in Boston who can match this guy’s heat.

  Strike two: Peter had a Boston broker who delivered all the “heat” any investor could want, without New York’s high overhead or taste for two-hundred-dollar lunches.

  So give it some thought. Minimum investment, five mil.

  Strike three: for Peter to come up with that much money, he’d have to sell his inventory, his condo, his car, and he’d still be scrambling.

  Peter often wondered what Delancey got out of the relationship beyond a loyal customer, and he almost called Evangeline to warn her about a sales pitch. But he knew she was too smart to fall for one.

  So he imagined her walking from the back of the store, past the long bookshelves, toward the afternoon light flooding the front . . .

  . . . AND SHE WAS.

  She stuffed her cell phone into her purse and hurried through the American history section and up to the big windows that looked out onto Fourth Avenue.

  The bag lady had left and turned south toward the Bowery. She was pushing a shopping cart full of boxes, bottles, a plastic trash bag, and a scruffy little dog.

  Evangeline couldn’t see her face, just a dirty raincoat and a dirty Mets hat over a mess of dirty brown hair. Should she follow?

  “Find anything?” Delancey said “find” with a New York accent that made it come out foiwnd. Though it was early May, he was wearing a gray wool vest sweater over a white shirt and skinny brown tie. And his comb-over reflected—literally—his talent in the lost male art of creating something out of nearly nothing but Vitalis.

  Strictly old-school. That was what Peter said about Oscar Delancey, and he meant it as a compliment.

  “I didn’t find any priceless engravings of Lincoln, if that’s what you’re asking.” Evangeline craned her neck to watch the bag lady rattling away.

  “The Bowling Green, eleven o’clock tonight,” said Delancey.

  “What?”

  “That’s where I’m supposed to meet her.”

  “Who?”

  “I heard”—hoid—“you on the phone. Did you say hi to Pete for me?”

  “Of course I did, and don’t call him Pete.”

  “Did you tell him about the crazy broad who just left?”

  Busted. Evangeline stepped back from the window and gave her blond hair a little flip. She knew that he liked looking at her. To a man in his late sixties, a woman of her age was just a kid. That was why she had worn a skirt and a heel. She always made better deals if Delancey was in a good mood. She noticed his eyes flick down to her legs, so she turned her foot to give him some calf. But when his eyes stopped at her chest, she folded her arms and said, “Of course I told him. A bag lady walks into a bookstore and starts talking about a room papered in money? How in the hell could I miss that?”

  “I was talking about a room papered in money. I was telling her that I hear stories like hers all the time, about old grandmothers findin’ old bonds underneath old wallpaper in shitty old bathrooms on the Lower East Side, and if I go and look, I don’t find anything but old cock-a-roaches.” Delancey dropped into his chair and swung to his computer. “I’ll bet Pete told you to leave her to me.”

  “He did, but if you’re not interested in what that bag lady—”

  “Honey, she’s one of the reasons I put in a buzzer system.” He pressed a button beneath his desk and the door lock gave an electric hum. “I’ve got one of the best inventories of rare books in Manhattan, and I never worry about the bad guys, but pain-in-the-ass old bums with b.o. drive me crazy, male or female.”

  “So why let her in?”

  Delancey shrugged. “Eh . . . I’m a soft touch. What can I tell you?”

  “She showed you a picture just now.”

  “An old house on the West Side. It was a fancy estate in Washington’s day. An eyesore in Lincoln’s. Torn down in Teddy Roosevelt’s. She used to come in all the time with cockamamie stories like that. Now she says if I meet her tonight, I’ll learn somethin’ big. I’m not bitin’.”

  “Why not?”

  Delancey gave a bigger shrug. “What do I look like? Stupid? I’m a businessman, for chrissakes. I’m not into cops-and-robbers stuff. Not like your boyfriend.”

  “So why does she bother you instead of some other dealer?”

  “Eh . . . she must read the papers before she sleeps in them.” He lo
oked at her over his glasses, as if trying to decide how much to tell her, and said, “I sold a couple of old bonds to an uptown buyer and it made the papers.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t tell you except that—”

  “Don’t say you wouldn’t tell me except that you like my legs.”

  Delancey chuckled. “I wouldn’t tell you, except that his identity was in the papers. My stockbroker. Austin Arsenault. You heard of him?”

  She shook her head.

  “I sold him two Revolutionary War bonds that he’s now trying to get the Treasury to honor. Gone all the way to the Supreme Court. It’s a big story in the scripophily biz.”

  “Does this make you the scripophily stud?”

  “Yeah. But the pretty girls ain’t flockin’. You know any pretty girls you could send my way?”

  “Maybe.” Evangeline sat on the edge of his desk and swung her leg. “I also know that a room papered in money might make a pretty nice wedding gift.”

  Delancey watched her leg for a moment.

  She was playing him, and he knew it, and she knew that he knew it.

  Then he said, “If you really want to meet this bag lady, have dinner with me tonight. Then we’ll see if she shows up.”

  “And if she does?”

  “I’ll split the commission. But half of nothing is still nothing.”

  She stopped swinging her leg and offered her hand. “Deal.”

  He took the hand and grinned. His teeth were stubby, mostly yellow near the roots, mostly white toward the ends, as if he only brushed halfway. “Bring a friend. And wear something that shows your . . . assets.”

  “Good that you said ‘assets.’ If you’d said ‘tits,’ I would have been mad.”

  “Well, you can show them, too, if you want to humor an old man.”