Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “Really.” He scoffed and stepped away from her.

  “You don’t feel it, do you?”

  “Feel what?” He was ready to call it a night.

  “Your power. Ordinary people like me can. We feed off it.” His look told her she had his interest again. So that’s what he likes, she thought. He’s one of those. She needed to be humble, fawning, and reverent. She could do that, and do it well. “We try to stay close, hoping some way, somehow, it’ll rub off on us.”

  “And how will that happen, pray tell?” Bemused, he stepped back toward her.

  “Please don’t laugh. It’s all some of us have.” Once again he was close to her, and she wrapped her hand around his thigh. Her voice got breathier and began to build in intensity. “Countless numbers depend on you. Their lives hang on your every word. People listen. Heed. Fear. And where does that leave us? In awe; in awe of your amazing, forceful, unyielding dominance.”

  She felt him, and this time he was ready. Not just ready, eager. In no time he was on top of her, spurred on by her moans of ecstasy. They weren’t real, but they were convincing. Now he wanted her. He craved her. And she knew.

  “Give me all your power,” she demanded breathlessly between moans. “I want it all!”

  He was also breathless, but it was real. “Call me by my name,” he ordered her. “Call me J. P.”

  So that’s who he was. She thought he looked familiar. The great J. P. Morgan. She would have laughed if she didn’t have a job to do.

  “Give it to me, J. P.,” she screamed. “Give it all to me!”

  Delmonico’s had been a fixture on Beaver Street at the southern tip of Manhattan for fifty-one years. It provided fine dining and an extensive wine cellar surrounded by a décor of luxurious wood, elegant chandeliers, and tasteful artwork. Successful men who worked nearby were its main clientele, and besides always being a place for a good steak, it was rumored that more business deals were made at Delmonico’s tables than up on Wall Street. So it was no surprise that J. P. Morgan chose Delmonico’s for a lunch with Thomas Edison.

  Morgan’s tryst in Westchester the night before had reinvigorated him and given him a new perspective on his dilemma. He was the man with the power. He needed to put the problem on someone else’s shoulders and let them worry about pleasing him. Morgan was in a good mood. Soon he would get to unload his burden and toy with Edison, two activities he enjoyed immensely.

  Edison sipped a glass of Vin Mariani as Morgan tore into his steak. He was less than thrilled at the lunch invitation. Besides always feeling uncomfortable around Morgan, he knew being summoned by him meant that he wanted something, and Edison couldn’t refuse. As expected, Morgan had secluded them in a private booth with the curtain drawn, making Edison a captive audience.

  “Consuming a steak makes me feel utterly primal,” declared Morgan, chewing vigorously, “as if I killed the beast myself.”

  “It comes from a cow, J. P. They’re raised for slaughter.”

  “Please allow me my delusions, Tom. Are you sure you don’t want to eat?”

  “The wine will suffice.” The cocaine content of the wine dulled his hunger, and Edison also wanted to get to the point and leave. “I assume this isn’t a social lunch.”

  Morgan didn’t break stride as he stuffed more steak into his mouth and chewed through his words. “I have a concern about my investment.”

  The expenses had been sizable. Morgan was a moneyman, and Edison had already prepared an answer. “I thought the costs might cause some—”

  “Costs? Tom, we have a product that’s opium to the masses. Once they taste it, they’re not able to live without it.”

  “Sit on our golden throne,” Edison agreed, “and charge outrageous fees without a whimper of protest.”

  “Outrageous is the precise fee I had in mind.”

  They laughed. Morgan patted his face with his napkin, and Edison took another sip of wine. Though Edison had joined in the frivolity, he was dismayed that, once again, he was unable to read Morgan. Fortunately, that was outweighed by the fact that Morgan was seemingly fine with the flow of money he had been pumping into their project.

  “What’s the problem then?” Edison asked. “Is it Westinghouse?”

  “I can handle George. It’s this Tesla fellow. Is his AD system—”

  “AC, J. P.,” Edison cut in. “It’s called an AC system.”

  “Yes, yes.” Morgan dismissed the correction. “Is it really less expensive and more powerful than ours, as he claims?”

  It rankled Edison that Morgan knew so little about science, cared even less about it, and yet was going to make millions because of Edison’s work. The answer to Morgan’s question was a resounding yes, but Edison’s ego wouldn’t allow him to admit it out loud, and especially not to Morgan.

  “It’s irrelevant,” Edison answered. Surely Morgan knew this. “Once the market is ours, they’ll have to meet our terms.”

  “We’re not there yet, and it would be a shame to allow someone in so late in the game. Competition lowers fees, and I’m rather fond of outrageous.”

  “And you shall have it, J. P. Trust me,” Edison said. He boldly raised his glass and toasted Morgan, who, now mollified, dug back into his steak with renewed fervor.

  So this is what was bothering J. P. Morgan, Edison thought, then he stretched and relaxed. He had begun planning Tesla’s destruction right after his conversation with Governor Hill, starting with the demonstration he had planned for the next day. It was an added bonus that by doing so he also was a rare step ahead of Morgan. Edison smiled broadly, opened the curtain of their booth, sat back, and looked around the room. He decided he liked Delmonico’s. He liked it very much.

  21

  Mary had read about Edison’s upcoming demonstration in the newspaper and that it would take place on the day of her next appointment with him. He was going to unveil a new invention that was described as revolutionary, though it was not specified what the invention was or what it would revolutionize. It was obvious that Edison had an element of P. T. Barnum in him and no doubt wanted to ensure a maximum turnout. Mary could already envision the sympathetic look on Mrs. Embry’s face as she broke the news that they would have to reschedule. She decided to go to the demonstration and somehow make sure Edison didn’t dodge her afterward. At least that was her goal.

  The demonstration was to be held on the vast property adjacent to Edison’s West Orange laboratory, where he had already broken ground to build factories that would produce his products. When Mary arrived, the crowds had already begun to form, and she found a position somewhere in the middle. There were reporters from every newspaper in the New York area, along with some who had traveled longer distances. They weren’t alone. Spectators from all walks of life had flocked there to see what new miracle Thomas Edison would unfold before them. P. T. Barnum would have been proud. It was indeed a carnival-like atmosphere, the chatter and excitement similar to that of people standing in line to see the Bearded Lady, the Sword Swallower, or the Eighth Wonder of the World. Mary knew that scientists needed to do more than just innovate. Selling financed research. But she couldn’t help feeling there was something cheap about the proceedings, more fit for a charlatan than a brilliant inventor.

  The crowd stood in front of a raised platform that was blanketed with a large asbestos cover. In the rear, there were two generators, one substantially larger than the other. The larger one was on the left and the smaller on the right. In the center was an object covered with a silk sheet, draped very much like a sculpture before an unveiling.

  A man was stationed at each generator, and Batchelor was there to supervise them. Finally, when it was twenty minutes past the scheduled time, when the antsy crowd had worked up enough fervor, Edison arrived in a Marcus car, one of the first passenger vehicles powered by an internal combustion engine. He hopped out of the car and stepped onto the platform, waving to everyone, exhibiting the mark of a true showman. His appearance was met with applause and random
shouts of approval. After a short time, he held up his hand, and they eventually quieted.

  “I heard there was a rumor about a new invention. Is that why all of you are here?” he asked, his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.

  The crowd responded with an overwhelming roar of “Yes!”

  “You know what they say about rumors? You should ignore them.”

  The crowd booed good-naturedly, shouting their protestations.

  Edison paused as the reaction built to the desired frenzy, then continued. “But this time you would be wrong to do that.” As he walked over to the center object covered with a silk sheet, he said, “For today, you will witness something that is at once revolutionary, utilitarian, and terrifying.”

  As he removed the sheet, he announced with great flair, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the electric chair.”

  The chair was made of wood with straps for both arms, both legs, and the body. It sat on a metal plate with wires protruding from it. The austere, scary-looking contraption elicited the requisite “oooh”s and “aaah”s from the crowd. Edison picked up a metal headband, also with wires attached to it. He held it above the chair where a person’s head might be if that person was sitting in the chair. Gasps were heard from the crowd.

  “I wouldn’t try placing this chair at your dining room table,” he joked, and nervous laughter erupted. Then Edison became very serious. “Our most heinous criminals will meet their ends here. Good riddance, I say.”

  Loud murmurs of agreement echoed his sentiment. Mary marveled at Edison’s manipulation of the crowd. It impressed and disgusted her at the same time.

  Edison patted the chair. “No need to fear this one yet. It is merely a model built by Tom Brown under my auspices and will be fueled by AC current.”

  A hand shot up from a reporter upfront. He didn’t wait to be acknowledged.

  “Mr. Edison, isn’t AC current Mr. Westinghouse’s brand?”

  “Ah, the New York Times, always very astute and often lacking in manners.” After a round of laughter, including the reporter’s own chuckle, Edison continued. “Yes, AC is my competitor’s brand. But Thomas Edison always provides the very best product, and AC has clear advantages here.”

  He motioned to Batchelor, who in turn signaled behind the platform. One by one, two men entered from a plank on the rear side, each escorting a calf on a rope. Edison went to the larger generator and was handed a rod attached to a wire by the man who was standing there. He held it up.

  “This rod is attached to my DC generator.”

  In an unexpected move, Edison touched one of the calves with the rod. A shocked hush ran through the crowd as the calf’s knees buckled. Then it whimpered, shook, and finally pissed. Mary was disturbed by Edison’s willingness to harm an animal for the purpose of a press demonstration, but he wasn’t finished.

  Without hesitation, he took a rod from the man next to the smaller generator.

  “This rod,” he announced as he lifted the rod above the second calf, “is attached to the Westinghouse AC generator.”

  The crowd was transfixed as Edison placed the rod against the second calf. The calf emitted a deathly cry. In a matter of seconds it caught on fire. This was much worse. Screams emanated from the crowd as they watched the calf burn alive. Then, in complete agony, it fell to the ground and died. People were more than shocked. They were horrified. Some were wobbly, on the verge of fainting. The total silence that had engulfed West Orange was shortly broken by sounds of vomiting.

  Mary was sickened. Surely a man of science could have found a way to display his work without employing such abject cruelty. But Edison was seemingly unfazed.

  “It’s extremely clear which current is better suited for the electric chair,” he said with a modicum of deference to the recently departed calf. “However, we need to ask which calf represents the current we want in our homes. This one”—he pointed to the first calf; it was still woozy but very much alive—“or the one that was Westinghoused?”

  Smiling, Edison pointed to the second calf’s charred remains.

  As Mary entered Edison’s outer office area, she was reassessing her estimation of him. His feet of clay had become evident, but the leap to murder was still a giant one. She couldn’t draw that conclusion from the facts she had, though she no longer rejected the possibility. There was still much information to be gathered, and speaking with him had become a must.

  When Mrs. Embry began to assume her apologetic pose, Mary paid absolutely no attention to her and headed straight for Edison’s office.

  “Miss Handley, you can’t…!” exclaimed the shocked Mrs. Embry.

  Mary was already at Edison’s door. She opened it and charged in as Mrs. Embry scrambled after her.

  Upon entering, Mary saw Edison hunched over a rectangular boxlike object about four feet high that was made out of wood. He seemed to be peering into some sort of viewer. “Mr. Edison,” she began, prompting him to straighten and turn toward her. But Mrs. Embry had entered directly after Mary.

  “She just burst right in, Mr. Edison,” the dumbfounded Mrs. Embry apologized, speaking with the fear of an employee who was about to be chastised.

  Mary didn’t want that to happen. “Mrs. Embry did her best to stop me, but I had no choice. I have a job to do, Mr. Edison, and it requires your participation.”

  “Oh yes…Miss Handley,” Edison said, apparently so wrapped up in his work that he had forgotten about the appointment and possibly, for a moment, who Mary was. “It’s all right, Mrs. Embry.”

  He nodded to her, and she left. Mary had decided to continue following the chief’s advice. She would try to put Edison at ease by beginning their conversation with something nonthreatening. It wasn’t difficult, because no matter what Edison might have done, she was still very interested in his work.

  “May I ask what that is?” Mary said, indicating the rectangular object.

  Edison beckoned to her. “Come, take a look, Miss Handley.”

  Mary walked over and peered into the viewer. What she saw was a small black-and-white image of a man eating ice cream…and the picture moved! The man was chewing, smiling, and turning his head from side to side. He looked very lifelike.

  “My Lord, what is this?” Mary was genuinely impressed.

  “Simply a man eating ice cream,” Edison replied.

  Mary stood up, and her look told him she really wanted to know.

  He smiled and patted the machine. “It’s in the early stages of development. I intend to add my sound technology to it, but I call it the Edison Kinetoscope.”

  Mary immediately recognized the name from her conversation with Muybridge.

  “Why, it’s amazing, truly amazing,” she said, and it was, so it took very little acting for her to say the words.

  “What it is,” Edison explained, “is a better and cheaper way for people to spend their leisure time. Helping others is my true reward.” He conjured up the proper pious yet modest expression. However, considering what she’d just witnessed at his demonstration and what she had heard about him, Mary found it less than credible.

  “You are a great humanitarian, Mr. Edison,” she declared. “I mean, who cares if Eadweard Muybridge claims he invented this device before you did.”

  Edison paused, then smiled, trying to act amused. “He does, does he?”

  “Yes. Calls it the zoopraxiscope. Sounds downright animalistic if you ask me.”

  Mary laughed, and Edison joined in as he took a bottle of wine and two glasses from a nearby cabinet, stalling for time to assess whether this woman was crafty or just plain dumb.

  “You’ll find, Miss Handley, that inventors are insanely territorial. If a mere thought crosses their minds, they claim that thought as an invention that is theirs in perpetuity.”

  Mary noticed the label on the bottle and couldn’t help wondering if there was a connection with her attack in the alley and the bottle with the same label that was left to defame her. “I see you’re a devotee of Vin
Mariani.”

  “Yes. I was hoping you’d join me.”

  “I’ve had more than my fill, thank you,” she said pointedly.

  “Impossible,” he exclaimed. “Cocaine’s utterly medicinal. It clears cobwebs after being up all night.”

  “Your long hours are legendary.”

  “There’s no substitute for hard work,” he mused before uttering the statement that had become identified with him. “Creativity is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.”

  “That doesn’t leave much room for acquisition, does it, Mr. Edison?” Mary had finally dropped any pretense. She stared directly at him.

  “Is this more of Mr. Muybridge’s rubbish?” Edison asked, still trying to assess where this conversation was going.

  “Confirmed by Nikola Tesla.”

  Now he knew. This woman was the enemy. Well, if she wanted to spar, she had picked the wrong partner. He poured himself some wine.

  “You’re not what I expected, you know,” he said.

  “First impressions can be misleading.”

  “Or used to mislead. Tread softly, Mary. You’re playing with the big boys now.”

  “Oh, I see we’re on a first-name basis…Tommy.”

  “Rather prickly, eh? It’s a shame Chief Campbell hasn’t taught you to mind your words. You see, even I am subject to harmful rumors.”

  “So roasting calves in order to discredit a competitor is done in self-defense?”

  In that instant, quicker than a flash, Edison exploded.

  “You impudent little shit!”

  He flung the wine bottle against the wall, shattering it, the wine splashing everywhere. His anger seemed out of character and was very scary. Shocked, Mary backed away, but Edison wasn’t letting up.

  “I’m not some lowly guttersnipe at McGinty’s Tavern you can beat at will!” He paused, then nodded smugly. “Yes, I know more about you than your own mother does.”

  Confused and frightened, Mary stared at him for a moment, taking it all in, until they were interrupted by Mrs. Embry, who came in the room, looking worried.