by John Jakes
He wished the meeting had been arranged for another location, though. Somehow the sight of the naked young women bothered him, reminded him of the little dancer, Nedda, whom he thought he’d forgotten.
Giggling, one of the girls refilled Fisk’s champagne glass. The other girl, kneeling on the tub’s far side, was vigorously bathing the fat man. At least her arm was immersed to the elbow, and her unseen hand appeared quite busy. Fisk’s face was a study in simple-minded bliss.
Louis cleared his throat. Gould said, “Jim, you’ve inconvenienced me by insisting we traipse over to a place like this. Let’s get on with the business.”
“Jay, my friend”—Fisk tilted his glass, drank, and smacked his lips; some of the liquid dribbled down his chin—“the trouble with you is, you’re too starched. Too blasted starched.”
He winked at Louis. “I always tell Jay there’s one big difference between us. I have more trouble to get my dinner than to digest it. He has more trouble to digest it than to get it. Enjoy yourself for a change, Jay!”
“My idea of a good time is to be home with Helen and the boys.”
“All right.” Fisk pouted. He jiggled the forearm of the girl bathing him. “You wait in the bedroom.”
The girl blushed, unable to understand. Fisk waved the champagne goblet. “In there. Vamoose! Scat!”
The two retired, rumps jiggling. The mirrored door closed. With a pallid hand Gould pushed his beer glass toward Louis.
“You may have this if you want it. I haven’t touched it.”
“Jesus, what an old stiff neck!” Fisk heaved himself out of the tub, snatched a towel, and began drying his genitals. He wrapped the towel around his paunch, sat on the marble tub rim, and wiggled his pink toes. “We do need to have a talk, though. I think Uncle Dan’l’s losing his nerve.”
Gould shrugged, unexpectedly tolerant.
“When a fellow passes seventy, he’s bound to be less than steady.”
“Oh, shit on that, Jay. The Commodore’s three years older than Dan and he hasn’t lost his nerve. He’s busy as a flea on a hound. He’s out to corner Erie shares, keep us from issuing any more, and use his majority to shovel in a whole new board of directors next month. Unless we prevent it.”
Louis knocked back the rest of his champagne and reached for the bottle in its silver stand. “We took action to prevent it this afternoon. Jay’s inspiration solved our problem.”
He said it with genuine respect. Gould had remembered an antique printing press stored in the basement of the Erie offices.
Louis hoped the press was the answer to the difficulties they’d encountered in the past few weeks. The war was intensifying. After the vote on rate fixing had gone against the Commodore thanks to Louis’ efforts, the old man had realized the Boston group was abandoning him. He’d issued a terse order in the Street: “Buy Erie and keep on buying.”
While his brokers piled up shares, he took steps to prevent Gould’s faction from doing the same. Just two days ago, his captive State Supreme Court judge had issued an injunction preventing the Erie from paying Drew interest or principal on an outstanding loan of three and a half million dollars—money that could have bought shares. Judge Barnard had separately enjoined Drew from speculating with a sizable block of stock still in his possession.
That had been the gloomy picture until the afternoon’s gathering of the board—from which the Commodore’s men had lately absented themselves. In his most confidential manner, Gould had pointed out that despite the injunctions, the Vanderbilt group had failed to plug up an escape hatch—a complex New York state law permitting issuance of new shares when one railroad acquired another. A few weeks before, the Erie had secretly purchased the moribund Buffalo, Bradford, & Pittsburgh line just in case injunctions were forthcoming.
Now it was necessary to invoke the law to legalize a new float of bonds convertible to stock. Following Mr. Gould’s quiet but stunning mention of the old printing press in the basement, a vote had been taken authorizing ten millions of such bonds.
Louis had helped draft the language for the minutes. In outrageously straight-faced sentences, the directors had declared the move was being made because of an urgent and distressing report from the line’s general manager. He was pleading for funds to repair the Erie trackage, where, the minutes now read, it is wholly unsafe to run a passenger train at the ordinary speed. Broken wheels, rails, engines, and cars off the track have been of daily, almost hourly occurrence for the past two months.
It looked marvelously official. But the three gentlemen at Mrs. Bell’s knew the worried general manager would never see a penny of the income from the new issue.
Louis chuckled. “By God, it is a brilliant move—churning out bonds in the basement.”
“That’s the spirit I like to see!” Fisk exclaimed, jumping up. The towel fell away, but he paid no attention. He capered like an overage cherub. “Just give me enough rag paper and we’ll hammer the everlasting tar out of that old mariner from Staten Island!”
“Of course,” Gould thought aloud, “the Commodore will soon know we’re simply dumping more shares on the market.”
“And he’ll go after them,” Louis agreed. “It’s no strain on his bank account. He still has thirty millions to play with.”
Fisk waved that aside. “After we’ve swallowed eight or nine million of his money, maybe he’ll realize he’s throwing it down a sewer.” Warming to the subject, he practically pranced. “We can print bonds faster than his brokerages can buy ’em! Ink’s cheap. White paper’s cheap. If we can make Vanderbilt pay us fifty or sixty dollars for little pieces of paper that haven’t cost us two cents, it’s good night, Commodore!”
“Unless he moves against us in the courts again,” Gould warned.
“I’m more worried about Uncle Dan’l,” Louis put in. “Jim’s right—I think he’s going soft.”
That sobered Fisk dramatically. “Yes, Drew’s the real reason I wanted us to meet. If we lose his vote, we’re hulled and sunk. He has enough influence on the board to stop us from running the press. And he’s scared. Jay, you saw how he turned white when you proposed the printing scheme. Danny still wants to win, I think. But the question is—how badly?”
Jay Gould didn’t answer immediately. He sat like a meditating ascetic, his mournful eyes probing places beyond the ken of his companions. Finally he roused.
“I agree, Dan’s a queer case these days. It may be senility. Or perhaps he’s just gotten too fond of endowing seminaries and preening in his pew at St. Paul’s. Business and religion are oil and water. Whatever the reason, he’s forgotten that.”
Fisk agreed vehemently. “When he voted for the bond issue this afternoon, his hands were shaking.”
“And he tried to hector me about the idea afterward—” Louis began.
“I suppose all he can see is a cell at Ludlow Street,” Gould said. “He’d be devastated to have his pious reputation soiled by a term in the clink.”
“Well, Christ,” Fisk laughed, “I don’t want to see the inside of the lockup any more than he does. But as Dan himself used to say, if a cat wants to eat a fish, she’s got to be willing to wet her feet. We’re going to print the bonds as fast as possible. While we do, it’s up to each one of us to keep pounding at Dan. Keep reminding him we can’t win any other way, and this way, we’re sure to win. Every time we dump shares, the price’ll drop. Vanderbilt’s hirelings will jump in and spend like Midas. The price’ll go up, then we’ll crank the press and drive the market down again. We’ll have him dizzy and half broke if we stick to it!”
“I’m in agreement,” Gould said. “We must all work on Drew. Bolster his nerve.”
“I’ll take him to lunch at the Union Club tomorrow,” Louis promised.
“A good start.” Gould’s almost colorless lips curved in a tiny smile barely visible between his mustache and beard. “You’ve already proved your persuasive powers are considerable, Louis. Just don’t utter the word injunction to Dan. It terrifie
s him. However, I do think it’s probable Vanderbilt will get another one to prevent us from running the press.”
“That’s another point on which we have to agree.” Fisk nodded. “What if it happens? Do we stop?” He barely paused. “I say no.”
Louis pondered. The prospect of lengthy court proceedings—even an arrest—was unappetizing. But he didn’t dare offend Fisk; he was in too deeply.
“So do I,” he said.
Gould said, “I’m wondering how long we can keep Vanderbilt from realizing what we’re up to.”
“Mmm.” Fisk scratched his jowl. “Today’s the nineteenth. I’d guess a week. Maybe two.”
“We can take a hell of a lot of his money in that time,” Louis said.
“But how do you vote on stopping, Jay?” Fisk prodded. “I’d like it to be unanimous.”
Gould’s face showed no hint of hesitation. “It is. We go straight ahead until the constables bring an injunction to the doorsill. Then we’ll figure out our next move.”
“If there is an injunction,” Fisk said, “Uncle Dan’l will quit.”
“Want to quit,” Gould corrected. “Again it’s up to us to prevent him. Remind him that if he buckles, he’ll not only be unable to shower endowments on churches; he’ll be a ruined man. We must keep cautioning Danny that jail is bad, a tarnished reputation is worse, but being ruined is worst of all. Ruined is the key word. It’s better to risk Ludlow Street now—or hell in the hereafter—than be ruined. Deep down, Drew knows it.”
The balding financier’s eyes were brightly thoughtful. Louis shivered. Gould was an absolute wizard, not only of share manipulation but of the forces that motivated men. In the contemporary vocabulary there was no word more potent than ruined. Men would risk almost anything rather than be labeled with it. So would women—although to the female sex, ruin meant a loss of something other than wealth.
Louis began to feel less anxious. Fisk too seemed relieved. He lifted one flabby leg into the tub and lowered himself. “Knew we’d see eye to eye. We’ll go ahead.” He belched, adjusted his nautical cap, and used an index finger to dribble perfumed water into his navel. “And, between us, we’ll keep Danny’s pecker stiff when it droops. Every one of us is responsible.”
A glance at Louis. It said he was being tested again. He still didn’t enjoy the full measure of confidence Fisk and Gould had in one another. But they’d handed him another chance to prove his worth. He wouldn’t neglect it.
Out in the hall, someone knocked.
Gould jerked upright. “Confound it, Jim, we issued explicit orders.”
The words carried an edge of concern. Louis strode to the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Mrs. Bell,” a basso voice replied. “That you, Mr. Kent?”
“Yes. We said we weren’t to be interrupted.”
“Well, sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to be,” the woman retorted. “We have a peculiar situation downstairs. Some fellow’s asking for you.”
Louis’ stomach knotted when he heard Gould’s sharp intake of breath. Fisk began to burble outraged questions.
“Tell him I’m not here, for God’s sake!”
“He knows you are. He’s polite but he’s insistent.”
Louis turned. As he pointed to the bolt, his nervous eyes queried the other two men. He got a curt nod from Gould, unlocked the door, and admitted a massive woman in a brocaded gown.
“Why didn’t you have Dr. Randolph get rid of him?” Louis demanded.
“Because,” Mrs. Bell shot back, “he says his name’s the same as yours. He says his name’s Kent.”
ii
Jay Gould stormed toward them.
“Louis, what the devil is going on here?”
Stunned, Louis lifted both hands. “Jay, it’s a damned mystery to me. How old is this man, Mrs. Bell? Forty-five? Is he wearing shabby clothes, like a parson’s?”
Hester Bell shook her head. “He’s shabby, all right. But I’ve never seen a parson in a Confederate overcoat. The boy’s in his twenties. Partially blind. That is, I assume so. He wears a patch—”
One of her ringed hands touched the powdered skin below her left eye. She added, “He says he won’t go till he speaks with you.”
“Blast it, I knew we shouldn’t have come here!” Gould cried. “Who is he, Louis?”
“I don’t know!”
“You’ve talked about your cousin, the preacher. I’ve never heard you mention any other Kents.”
Louis began to perspire. Even Fisk no longer looked cordial.
“Reverend Kent has a couple of sons,” Louis explained hastily. “I’ve never met them. I had no idea any of them were in New York. They’re Virginians.”
“Frankly,” Gould murmured, “I don’t care who it is. Someone knows you’re on the premises—and may know I am too. I have a reputation to protect.”
That amused Mrs. Bell.
“About the same kind as a Kansas rattlesnake’s.”
Gould went livid. “I’m referring to Helen and my sons. I sent my carriage home. You get that blasted Dr. Randolph to whistle up a hack. Send it to the entrance by the back stairs right away.”
He snatched up his overcoat, stick, and gloves. Mrs. Bell sighed. “I’ll do the best I can. It’s still raining. May take a little while.”
Gould’s eyes reflected the gaslight like chips of burning coal.
“It better not take longer than two or three minutes or I’ll speak to Bill Tweed, and then all the cash on the Street won’t help you keep your doors open.”
The warning was softly spoken. But Hester Bell looked terrified. Gould turned his wrath on Louis.
“I don’t care what personal matters have brought your relative here, but you damned well—” He thrust the gold head of his cane into Louis’ chest. Louis turned red but held his temper. Gould was in an absolute fury; that was plain from his use of profanity.
“—damned well better get rid of him, and not let on you’re here for any reason except pleasure!”
Fisk came flopping out of the tub like a white whale. “It’s all damned puzzling. Smacks of one of the Commodore’s tricks—sending some fellow around to spy on us. You came in your own rig, didn’t you, Louis?”
His voice was unexpectedly weak. “Y-yes. Straight from the headquarters.”
“Was there anyone hanging around when you left?”
He tried to recollect. “Just the other board members. Oh, and a boot boy.”
“Did you give this address to your driver?”
“Of course.”
“Loud enough so the boy could hear?”
“I honestly paid no attention.”
He began to feel increasingly threatened. Cornered, Fisk and Gould stuck together. In a space of seconds he’d again become an outsider—and all because of some damned act of carelessness he couldn’t remember! His voice trailed off in a lame way. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Well,” Gould snapped, “you’ve created a devil of a mess.”
“Jay, I’ll take care of it!”
The black eyes were those of an enemy. “I know you will.”
Gould swept by, turned right in the corridor, and disappeared down the back stairs. Louis shivered again.
“Get out of here, get out, for Christ’s sake!” Fisk exclaimed. He shoved Louis into the hall, and Hester Bell after him. The door slammed. The bolt rattled in its socket.
Louis’ stomach was hurting fiercely now. If he had needed to be reminded of the stakes for which the Erie War was being fought—or the way an ally could be abandoned at the slightest hint of trouble—the last few minutes had done it.
“Mrs. Bell, are you sure this fellow said his name was Kent?”
“I’m not deaf. He said it.”
“Is he armed?”
“Not that I could tell.”
He thought quickly. “You have a back parlor downstairs, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Private?”
“Quite
.”
“Show him in there. I’ll be down in three or four minutes.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clip containing greenbacks and gold certificates. “There’s a hundred for your help.”
Hester Bell slipped the money down her bodice. But she’d turned on him too. “I don’t want any scrapes here, Mr. Kent. I pay off too many policemen—and through them, the Boss himself.” She meant the man to whom Gould had referred—William Tweed, who virtually ruled the city through his control of the Tammany Society and the board of supervisors.
“I’m paying you to help me avoid a scrape!” Louis countered. “Are your two roughnecks in the house?”
“At night they’re never out of the house.”
“Have them stand by near the parlor.”
“All right.” She started away, then swung back. “Mr. Kent, I can be almost as vindictive as little Jay. If you’ve brought personal quarrels into my club and are trying to pretend you don’t know anything about it—”
“I don’t!”
“You’d better be telling the truth.” She smiled, picking up the train of her dress and hurrying toward the main staircase.
Damn her! Where did the madam of a brothel get the gall to speak to him that way?
He knew very well. She was an intimate of Jubilee Jim—he was tight with Gould—and Louis had only been lately admitted to their confidence. If he bungled again, he would be out.
Tormented by worry, he paced the upper hall until he judged three minutes had passed. Then he wiped his palms on his trousers and started for the front stairs.
Chapter IX
“I’m on Top, Ain’t I?”
i
THE TINTED GLASS BOWLS of the hallway gas jets cast a watery aquamarine light. Gideon paced back and forth in the entrance of the parlor to which Mrs. Bell had led him. The room opened off the long, narrow corridor at a point midway between the front foyer and a vestibule leading to a back door with an elaborate stained-glass window.
About ten feet back of the parlor and perhaps six feet from the vestibule, there was a large dark recess in the opposite wall. The well of a rear staircase, he suspected. He kept his eye on it. He had no idea where Louis would appear—or if he would. But for several moments now, he’d had an eerie feeling that someone was lurking in the recess. Hesitating there—perhaps hoping he’d desert the hall.