19 Purchase Street

by Gerald A. Browne

  “I’ve met her.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Exceptional woman,” Hine said, testing.

  “The great beauty of my time.”

  Hine agreed.

  Pickering believed he knew now why this fellow Hine had come calling. Happened to be nearby? Bullshit. Twice in the space of only a couple of minutes he’d asked after Leslie. That was what he was there for, something to do with Leslie and very likely one of her affairs, her latest with that young man, Gainer, no doubt. Hine had come to inform on her, trade some information, maybe even photographs, for whatever he wanted, a favor of some sort, or money. Over his years with Leslie others like this Hine, unaware of the Pickerings’ marital arrangement, had made similar approaches. Usually money was expected. This fellow Hine, however, did at least have a sort of calling card. He was married to a Whitcroft, or at least so he claimed. Didn’t matter, Hine still had that snitcher’s look and nervousness about him. Maybe he’d been turned down by Leslie and his balls couldn’t handle that and so he was here to recoup. Well, not at my expense, Pickering decided. With unmistakable point he told Hine: “Leslie can do no wrong so far as I am concerned.”

  Hine was amazed at the sensitivity of Pickering’s antenna. He had planned to ease into the topic of Leslie Pickering and gradually reveal her involvement with Gainer and the robbery at Number 19. He had thought that surely Pickering would see how such a thing might jeopardize his imminent appointment to a post that was so close to High Board and would be glad to settle on a trade: not having that known in exchange for a boost.

  Hine had not, however, expected Pickering to be as much man as he was. Now, Hine’s instinct told him it would be at least professionally unwise to cast even one pale beam of bad light in Mrs. Pickering’s direction.

  Hine took the conversation to business, and as modestly as he could got the point across that he was not naive about what the air was like in the upper stratospheres. Such as Boston. He also got on to a couple of his theories about how investment could be put to use in Africa to gain ultimate control. If from this he at least made a positive impression, it was worth something, Hine figured.

  The split wood was stacked.

  Pickering started the pneumatic splitter. Its engine was too noisy for talk.

  Hine watched Pickering lift a whole heavy log in place on the splitter. The blade of its sledge drove into the end of the log, crackled and splintered it in two. Hine was glad that log wasn’t his head. He got up and signaled that he was leaving. Pickering didn’t pause from his labor, merely acknowledged by raising his hand. As he went up the path, Hine believed he could feel Pickering’s smile on his back, a smile directly related to what had not been said.

  A few words held back. The whole thing had come that close to coming apart. If Rodger Pickering had learned what his Leslie was into, the robbery at Number 19 and the rest of it, he would have had no choice but to act on it, use all possible means to straighten it out. It would have meant cutting Leslie from his life at once and he would have done it or, at least, had it done as swiftly and cleanly and thoroughly as possible. To avoid contamination of his proximity to the High Board. Leslie’s death would have been hard on Pickering, but despite his genuine fondness for her, actually a kind of love for her, one had to accept things in the order of their importance. He would have done it, and then he would have done in Arnold Hine.

  TWENTY minutes later Hine was driving south on Purchase Street. Up ahead he saw a Harrison Township police patrol car, its light rack strobing. The police car was stopped near the entrance to Number 19. Officer McCatty appeared from around it. He recognized Hine’s blue Porsche, gestured that Hine should pull over.

  Now Hine saw the problem.

  It was the last thing he needed.

  He got out and strode angrily in the direction of the gate. McCatty fell in beside. “I just got here myself,” McCatty explained. “All I know is it wasn’t here when I went by ten minutes ago.”

  The way the tanker truck was parked lengthwise close up to the gate it prevented all traffic to and from Number 19. It was a huge eighteen-wheeler with the blue, orange and white Gulf logo on its long cylindrical body along with the words AVGAS 100LL and flammable.

  Officer McCatty pointed out the tire tracks of the tanker where it had been steered onto the shoulder of the road and over some rough going so that it could be positioned as it was. “Looks deliberate to me,” McCatty said.

  Three security men were going over the tanker.

  Hine stood clear. The thing might be set to explode. It appeared dangerous. In fact it had the word Danger painted permanently on it in several places. Hine imagined how much of an explosion such a mass might make. He backed off another twenty feet, to the opposite side of the street where there was a rock wall he could get behind.

  “The keys are in it,” a security man called down from the cab of the tanker.

  “Don’t touch the ignition,” McCatty advised him.

  The other two security men opened the panel of the housing along the left side of the tanker, where its five pumping connections and valves were located. They examined the capacity indicators attached to each valve. “It’s empty,” one of the security men reported.

  Or, more likely, made to appear that way, Hine thought. Any moment he expected someone to touch whatever it was that would set the tanker off. What would Horridge think? Such an explosion was sure to draw attention. Horridge would hate that, and he, Hine, would have to take all the blame. This certainly had not been one of his better days, Hine thought.

  A security man was now up on the ramp that ran along the top of the tanker. He undid the hatch to one of the compartments. Gasoline fumes hit him. He peered down into the tanker. “Someone get me a flashlight,” he said.

  McCatty got one from the patrol car.

  The security man beamed the flashlight down inside.

  His first impression was that he was looking at enough plastique explosive to blow away Number 19 and all its neighbors. Bags and bags of it. Black mesh laundry-type nylon bags.

  He lowered himself down into the compartment. Moments later his head and shoulders emerged. He motioned to Hine.

  Reluctantly, Hine went to him, climbed up on the tanker.

  The security man spoke to him in a low tone.

  “Don’t bother with it,” McCatty was saying to Hine, “I’ll call in and have someone come take it away—”

  “No you won’t.” Hine was actually grinning.

  McCatty directed traffic on Purchase Street, even stopped it and had it backed up quite a ways while the tanker was maneuvered forward and back time after time, its air brakes hissing. It took some doing and once it seemed impossibly jackknifed, but finally it was straightened out and headed in the right direction. The gates to Number 19 were opened. The tanker was driven in and up the winding drive, parked at the north end of the house. Except for the AVGAS 100LL designation the tanker displayed, it was not out of place, could well have been there for a regular delivery of heating fuel oil.

  The security men and the collators were put to work. Hurrying, but with care, to cause as little fuss as possible, the bags containing the cash were hefted out of the compartments of the tanker and carried up the backstairs to the second floor north wing and on into The Balance Room. Most of the money was still in its original bound sheaves. Hine examined it as it was weighed on the electronic scale. He kept an exact record of the pounds and ounces that registered. Soon the last million was neatly back in place on a Balance Room shelf. They had done it without disturbing Horridge, which was what Hine wanted. He would break the news to Horridge in his own way.

  In the confined atmosphere of The Balance Room all that money together gave off an even stronger odor of gasoline. It would gradually disappear, Hine thought, but to help, Hine instructed that the heat sensor alarm system be turned off so the air conditioning could be set high for ventilation. He also had the new mass-measuring alarm adjusted before he closed and bolted
The Balance Room door.

  By then it was nine o’clock.

  Hine sent word down to cook that he would take dinner in his quarters. He ordered poached scrod and some boiled vegetables, bread pudding with hard sauce for dessert, and tea.

  While waiting for the food to arrive he sat in the leather chair Darrow had so often previously sat in, kicked off his shoes and crossed his legs on the matching hassock. Using an electronic calculator capable of performing to fifteen digits, he converted the weight of the money that had been recovered.

  The figure he came up with was 1,038,000,000.

  One billion, thirty-eight million.

  Gainer, the stupid fucker, had even shorted himself. Withheld only forty-four million instead of the fifty million they had agreed on. Hine thought Gainer must have miscounted because he was scared. That wild business yesterday on and then around Ellis Island must have shook him. Why else, except to try to buy his good will, would Gainer have put the money right there on Number 19’s doorstep? No matter, Andrew Gainer still had the big one coming.

  Hine checked his figures again. They still came out one billion, thirty-eight million.

  He sat back, stretched.

  He felt absolutely blessed.

  It was almost as though he’d been favored by an omnipotent force. The way he had gotten the idea in the first place and the way Gainer came to fit so perfectly into it. The way Gainer and the Pickering woman hadn’t been killed yesterday. Killing the Pickering woman would have been a terrible error, he now realized. And trying to leverage her husband would have been just as bad. Now the money, at least the bulk of it, was back in The Balance and he would be the new Custodian for sure.

  He was, indeed, blessed.

  Should celebrate himself.

  Decided he would.

  He waited until dinner was brought, placed on the table near his window. He was hungry, but when the servant was gone he did not touch the food. Turned the night lock on the door.

  Assured of privacy, he undressed. He pulled a silk-covered comforter from the bed. So light and plumped it practically floated to the floor. He spread it, neatened its corners almost ritualistically before sitting on it. Its texture seemed to appreciate his ass.

  He had no fantasies, required none. Any image outside himself, just as any other hands, would have spoiled it. For a long while he teased and hardened his cock, all the more by not touching it.

  THE following morning when Hine went down to breakfast he was disappointed to learn that Horridge had departed for Boston at about seven-thirty. On the Gulfstream III from Westchester Airport. Word was that he would return by midafternoon.

  Hine and his surprise would have to wait.

  To counter his impatience, Hine attended to his normal daily responsibilities. He would never be the lax and too easily distracted Custodian that Darrow had been, he told himself. Darrow’s downfall was his, Hine’s lesson. Nor would he allow himself to get stuck in this dangerous notch the way Darrow had. After four, perhaps only three, years of his efficiency Boston would be putting the next safer rung under his foot. There was a limit to his ambition, of course. It wasn’t realistic to hope for High Board, but no reason why he couldn’t reach the echelon close up next to it. The Pickering level would satisfy him, Hine thought.

  He went up to The Balance Room, saw that the collators were hard at it, perched on their high stools, their counting fingers a blur. Hine had a cordial good morning for them while thinking he would somehow put a stop to each of them getting away with a hundred dollar bill every day.

  He noticed two green trashbags off to the side. Those would be the brings of the groundkeepers and the garbagemen. The loose-money bin was full. It would be a busy day. He stepped into the inventory area. The gasoline fumes from the recovered money seemed only slightly less. He called security control to make sure the ventilating system was circulating outside air. It was. Was it on full force? It was. Oh well, they’d just have to live with it for a while.

  The head collator handed him a piece of notepaper. Hine took it with him down to the study and placed it on the desk beside a ledger sheet. He would be the absolutely best Custodian they ever had, he thought, as he pulled up the leather chair with the seat cushion conformed to ten years of Darrow’s sitting.

  He went over the flow.

  How much had been brought yesterday.

  How much had been carried yesterday.

  Six million, eight hundred thousand brought.

  Twelve million carried.

  Good, Hine thought, he’d keep ahead of them. He’d improve every phase of this operation, increase the number of carriers, interview and cull the prospects himself. Keep them scared and in line. Gainer was an example of how remarkably effective fear could be.

  The ledgers on the desk were Hine’s personal accounting of The Balance.

  It was a pleasure for him to make the entry of 1,038,000,000 and then add it. Making the bottom line total 3,105,000,000.

  Three billion, one hundred five million.

  The Balance.

  Horridge returned at three o’clock. He had scarcely put down his attaché case before Hine was leading him to The Balance Room.

  “What is that ungodly odor?” Horridge wanted to know.

  “Gasoline.”

  “Is something wrong up here?”

  “Quite the contrary, the—”

  “What is it I’m here to see?”

  “The Balance.”

  “I don’t enjoy looking at money.”

  “The Balance is now three billion, one hundred five million,” Hine said with understated pride.

  “Really?” Horridge said, as though informed that he had three apples rather than two.

  “Yesterday we managed to recover almost all of what was stolen. One billion, thirty-eight million of it, to be exact.”

  “How much of a ruckus did you cause doing that?” Horridge inquired casually.

  “None.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Not a stir.”

  They went downstairs. Horridge told Hine to wait outside the closed door of the study while he made a call. It took only a few minutes.

  Horridge invited Hine in and told him: “It has been decided that you should be assigned as permanent Custodian.”

  Hine managed to keep his face as straight as Horridge’s.

  “However, you are to understand and to accept the responsibilities that traditionally go with the job.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sure you are aware of the advantages, but what of the penalty that will be imposed for any consequential blunder?”

  “I am aware of the penalty.”

  “And you accept?”

  “I accept.”

  “The Balance is in your hands.”

  Horridge went upstairs for a warm bath and a nap.

  Hine remained in the study. Within a minute or two after he had been made Custodian he put to use the prerogative of the position. He called Intelco’s New York office, asked to speak to Donald Hunsicker.

  The Distributor.

  Hunsicker’s secretary said he was out of town, would not be back until the next day, Wednesday.

  Was he reachable?

  Hunsicker was in California staying at the Bel Air.

  Hine direct-dialed the hotel. Hunsicker had to be paged. When he came on, Hine told him he had an important order.

  Hunsicker said he was not aware Hine was qualified to issue orders. Hine assured him that he was now.

  In that case, Hunsicker said, he would meet with Hine at Number 19 on Monday morning next.

  Not good enough, Hine told him. Tomorrow, when Hunsicker got in he should come directly from Kennedy.

  That urgent an order?

  Yes.

  Hine clicked off and thought what a pleasure it was going to be for him to put Gainer’s name in Hunsicker’s ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “REMEMBER the movie, The Champ?” Leslie asked.

/>   “Yeah.”

  “The part where the champ, at the sacrifice of his own feelings, tells the kid he doesn’t want him around?”

  “That’s not how this is,” Gainer said.

  “You didn’t really mean it just now when you said I was too old for you.”

  “I meant it.”

  “Like hell. Say you didn’t.”

  “You were only a phase, Leslie. What I’ve got eyes for now is inexperience.”

  “Stop breaking your own heart.”

  They were in Leslie’s Rolls Corniche, parked on Barnes Lane just off Purchase Street. Leslie had turned and stopped there because they were approaching Number 19 and the matter wasn’t settled.

  Gainer suggested: “Why not wait in the car and have a chat with Lady Caroline?”

  “Are you ridiculing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any other time I’d punch you out for that.”

  “You’re unreasonable.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’re selfish and reckless.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re a lousy lay.”

  “Whatever you say, champ.”

  “Leslie, for the last time, here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to get out and walk up to Number 19. You’re going to stay here and wait. If I don’t come back in an hour, you go home.”

  “No deal. Here, take some Rescue.” She fumbled around in her handbag and came out with the little brown bottle, undid the cap and squeezed some up into the dropper. Gainer wouldn’t cooperate, kept his head turned away so she couldn’t get to his mouth.

  She squirted it in his ear.

  He whirled around angry, knocked the dropper cap from her hand. It flew into the back seat.

  “I couldn’t resist,” she said. “You were being so obvious.” She got to her knees and felt around in the back for the dropper cap.

  Gainer let go, let his cheek press her hip. “Oh, Leslie,” he murmured. He hugged her left thigh.

  She had found the dropper cap but remained as she was, allowing Gainer to work it out.

  “It’s just that I love you so much,” he said.

  “I know, lover, I know,” she said. On the glint of the rear window everything they’d had together reflected in an instant for her. That might not be a positive omen, she thought. She turned and sat. They kissed. Not as well as either wanted, an awkward front-seat kiss. Then Leslie snapped on the car’s lights, raced the motor because she couldn’t remember if it was on, put the car in gear and went left on Purchase Street. Every commonplace action seemed significant.