City Of Promise Part 10

Eileen did not seem satisfied with the depth of her niece's understanding. "Times of his choosing," she said.

"Yes, that's correct. Though I don't know-"

"For heaven's sake, child. He's a man. They simply don't believe women can be trusted in matters of business. And frankly, they seldom grow up, Mollie. Most of them secretly measure themselves by their physical prowess, however successful they may be in other areas. That's why all the reckless coaching and racing and, to be honest, whoring occupies so much of their time."

"Josh isn't like that! He wouldn't-" All the while thinking of how he'd looked that first day when he took her coaching, and jockeyed the modest little phaeton ahead of so many grander carriages. Beaming like a cla.s.sical hero, she'd thought, his head circled with laurel.

"Of course he's not," Eileen said. "But whatever else, my dear, you and any offspring you produce"-Mollie started to say something, but Eileen ignored her and went on-"whatever offspring whenever they arrive, must be financially secure. It's a man's job to provide, Mollie, but a woman's to manage what's provided. In this case you must take the reins, but never let Joshua know you're holding them."

Mollie had once asked Josh why he sometimes flourished a whip when he rode, but never really used it. Whether he sat astride or drove a carriage, she'd never seen his whip actually land on a horse. "Not what it's meant to do," he'd told her. "It's the crack of the whip in the air, feeling the wind and hearing the whistle, that lets the horse know you're in control."

"What are you suggesting I do?" she asked. There was no doubt but that Eileen Brannigan knew as much about the proper management of men as Joshua Turner did of horses.

"First," Eileen said, "bear in mind that your cleverness can sometimes be intimidating. So you must take this information to him immediately, but leave it to him to decide how to best use it."

Mollie shook her head. "A dunce would know how to use it. He must buy more lots. The thing is, until the flats are built and sold, Josh has no spare capital to invest."

"I am aware of that," Eileen said. "And there isn't time for me to dip for what you need. Successful dipping requires thought and planning. And I would need time to practice, be sure my hand was as steady and as quick as it used to be."

"No, Auntie Eileen, you mustn't! Not ever. I cannot bear the thought of you in that wretched place-"

"I have no intention of returning to the Tombs. And I wouldn't have gone there that one time if it hadn't been exactly what Josh called it, a put-up job with that wretched Teddy Paisley behind it. But dipping isn't what's wanted on this occasion. It's not fast enough, as I said." Eileen was pulling the rings off her fingers while she spoke. "Neither can I liquidate some other investment quickly enough to achieve our end. So, you are to tell Joshua that I do not have as much ready cash as once I did, but I am nonetheless interested in partic.i.p.ating in this profit opportunity. He is to use these diamonds to raise capital-p.a.w.n them, don't sell them, I want them back. My contribution is an interest-free loan, as with the hundred thousand, but I will have a twenty percent share in whatever lots he purchases with the funds."

"Auntie Eileen, that's-I have no words to thank you."

"I will see a profit out of it, I have no doubt." Eileen spoke brusquely and being who she was did not shed a sentimental tear, but nonetheless produced a handkerchief and patted her cheeks as if she had.

"I . . ." Mollie stopped. "I've just thought of something, but I think you would tell me not to do it."

"Do what?"

"Take these rings straight to a p.a.w.nbroker. I'd have cash ready for Josh by the time he comes home this evening."

"The time gained would be valuable, but the price you'd pay is too high. A woman should never be that forward or that obvious. You must let Joshua determine to buy the lots and tell you to go to the p.a.w.nbroker, not go on your own." While she spoke Eileen took from her pocket a roll of blue velvet tied with satin ribbon. "I'm giving you as well a diamond bracelet, one of sapphires, and my peac.o.c.k brooch. Taken all together . . . You'll get a fair amount."

"But unless I go right away it may be too late. You said yourself that other people are bound to know about the tunnel being agreed."

"No doubt of it. By tomorrow morning Josh won't be able to touch anything on Fourth Avenue, however much you get for these stones. But Fourth Avenue's not where he should be looking. I suspect it will soon be entirely too grand for what he intends. The East Sixties, Mollie. Over near Third and possibly Second. Where the elevated railroad is to be. Those are the lots Josh must buy."

Until a few years earlier the streets around Tompkins Square had been a bastion of middle cla.s.s respectability. These days the area east of Greenwich Village wasn't considered nice enough even for rooming houses. The old single family homes had been torn down and replaced with four- and five-story brick-fronted tenements, each filled with as many of the laboring poor as could be crammed between the walls. The few remaining brownstones had illegal wooden backhouses tacked on behind, the whole jammed with a mix of German and Irish immigrants. It was in precisely such an area that the sort of financial business Mollie intended was regularly transacted.

On the morning after her aunt had summoned her, Mollie stood on East Seventh Street considering her options. "I'll leave to you the matter of which p.a.w.nbroker," Josh had said. "I'll be at City Hall meanwhile. Filling out their endless papers. Pretty much everything on East Sixty-Third's owned by the town. They've been known to give huge bits of the undeveloped East Side away to worthy inst.i.tutions, but not to a private citizen. Not even up there. The standard price is a thousand per lot, though I've no doubt they'll raise it once the tunnel's built."

"How shall you know how many lots to buy, since we can't know how much the p.a.w.nbroker will give me?"

Josh had spread Eileen's jewels on the dining-room table and he leaned over and studied them. "Is that peac.o.c.k's eye an emerald?"

"It is. And those are pearls and rubies in his tail."

"All genuine?"

"Of course."

"Then it looks like a spectacular haul to me, but I don't claim to know much about precious stones. What do you reckon your aunt to have paid for this lot? All together, I mean."

Mollie considered for a moment, recalling the various sums she had entered in Eileen's ledgers over the years. "Something close to seventeen thousand dollars."

"And we know p.a.w.nbrokers offer on average a third of retail value . . . I'm going to try for five lots, Mollie. I can always back off one or two if I must. We'll do well out of four thousand dollars, or even three, but we're in clover with five."

Up to her now.

There were two storefronts displaying the traditional three golden b.a.l.l.s on the block of East Seventh Street that fronted on Tompkins Square. Mollie's decision about which to enter was based on the dismembered body of what she thought might be a cat. It lay on the pavement a few feet ahead of where she stood. If she chose the second shop she had to walk over it, or skirt it by stepping into the road across a gutter filled with garbage. She chose the closest p.a.w.nbroker. WALLACE AND SONS, the sign said, and beneath that, in gold letters on the window, "Always fair and patient."

Patience turned out to be an attribute required by the customers. The shop was narrow and dim, with a counter stretched along one side, and behind it a floor to ceiling array of boxes, each identified with a letter and a number. There was a dumbwaiter in the middle that Mollie surmised to be for carrying larger goods to the storage rooms above, and at the far end three stalls that allowed a measure of privacy for each transaction. It was not yet nine o'clock, but the line Mollie joined stretched halfway down the length of the counter. The customers were all females and each carried something. She saw any number of suits of men's clothes-p.a.w.n it on Monday the story went, claim it back on Friday, wear it on Sunday, then start again-and a few tool bags of different sizes. One woman had brought a large chair upholstered in worn brown leather. She shoved it along beside her as the queue moved slowly forward.

"That one's a regular furniture dealer." A woman had joined the queue behind Mollie and she spoke the comment into Mollie's ear. "I saw her bring in a bed and a chest of drawers just last week. She's got five little ones. Must all be sleeping on the floor by now. New here, ain't you, love?"

Mollie turned. Her confidante was dressed in a variety of colors and draped in a series of shawls. She wore as well a large brimmed hat trimmed with full-blown pink and yellow roses. It had no doubt been fashionable some springtime in the past, but combined with the rest of her costume and the fact that it was almost winter, it was ludicrous. The woman didn't seem to care. With one hand she hugged to her breast an ornate marble clock topped with a gold figure carrying a spear. She held out the other and smiled. "I'm Mary Teresa Santucci as was Mary Teresa Maguire, and for a time before that, Mary Teresa MacLachlan. Most folks just call me Tess o' the Roses," lifting her chin to indicate her improbable chapeau. "What's your name, love?"

"Mollie Turner. And you're right, I've never been here before." She'd worn the oldest and simplest dress she owned for this excursion, but even so she felt terribly out of place. Not just her clothes-the fact that she was empty-handed made her stand out.

"Tillie Wallace'll see you right," Tess said. "Not such a thief as some of the others."

"Tillie?" she asked. "You mean the proprietor's a woman?"

"Course she is. Matilda Wallace and her boys, Tommy and Timmy." Tess nodded toward the three booths at the end of the shop. "If I was you I'd go to Tommy. His is the first booth. Wait for him if you have to. Never misses a pretty face does Thomas Wallace. He might give you a bit more for . . . What've you got to hock, love?"

"I . . ." Mollie took a tighter grip on her drawstring bag. "It's nothing very much," she said. She had stripped off her kid gloves and tucked them in the bag as soon as she entered the shop and saw how much better dressed she was than the other clients. So her marriage ring showed. "Here," Tess said, "you're trying to send that wedding band up the spout, ain't you, love?" And when Mollie looked blank, "That's what you're wanting to p.a.w.n, ain't it? Your ring. Up the spout," she added impatiently, bobbing the rose-strewn hat toward the dumbwaiter. "My word, you're a right innocent you are. And needing to p.a.w.n a wedding ring. Right shame that is. He walk off and leave you, love? For some flashy piece of rubbish, no doubt. And here's you an obvious lady of quality. Right shame," she repeated.

The roses swayed with each word. Mollie kept expecting the hat to fall off, but it did not. "Something like that," she said. It was as noncommital as she could manage without outright rudeness.

The woman pursed her lips, then leaned in closer. "Ain't none of my business, love. But this ain't the right place for that sort of thing. You need old man Ganz. Now I know some as say the Jews only give a fair price to their own kind, but that's mostly talk. And the way I see it, after marrying a Scot and an Irishman and an Italian-all dead now, bless their souls-there's no sort has a corner on badness or goodness. Have to take folks as you find 'em, never mind what people say. Solomon Ganz, Mollie Turner. On Fifth Street and Avenue A. Tell him Tess o' the Roses sent you."

Sol Ganz took the jeweler's loupe out of his eye and set it on the table beside the six rings, two bracelets, and the brooch Mollie had laid out for his appraisal. "Very nice," he said. "Excellent stones." He pushed four of the diamond rings and the peac.o.c.k brooch to one side. "These pieces in particular . . . All from Tiffany's, I believe."

"That's correct," Mollie said.

"But now you have come to me. Why is that?"

He had a moon face and, Mollie thought, exceptionally white skin, the sort some women spent considerable money and time trying to achieve. Also heavy black brows that beetled across the bridge of a prominent nose, but only a little hair on his head. He stroked the few strands left to him into position across a mostly bald pate and repeated the question she hadn't answered. "Why come to me? Mr. Tiffany is known to buy back his own pieces on occasion."

The truth was the best reply. "Because I don't wish to sell any of these things. Only to offer them as collateral on a loan." He had taken her into a windowless back room as soon as he saw the nature of what she had brought to p.a.w.n. It was separated from the actual shop by a heavy velvet curtain. Nonetheless, she nodded in the direction of the three gold b.a.l.l.s hanging outside the door. "That is your business, is it not?"

Mr. Ganz put his head first to one side and then to the other, as if he were studying her from different angles. "You do not," he said after some seconds, "look like a thief."

"A thief! Why would you think-"

"What else would I think?" He reached for her hand-she had put her gloves back on-and held it too tightly for her to pull away, and began slipping the rings on her fingers. "Even over your gloves, madam, not one of them fits you. These rings were bought for a considerably larger lady than yourself. And this brooch . . . Mr. Tiffany would not advise such a flamboyant bird for a young bosom."

"I am not a thief." She could think of nothing to do except restate the a.s.sertion.

Ganz shrugged. "So you say. And I am not a fence, madam." Then, seeing her blank look, "Do you even know what that is?"

Mollie shook her head.

The p.a.w.nbroker sighed. "Someone who purchases stolen goods and sells them on and splits the profits with the gonoven-the thieves-who brought him whatever it was in the first place. That's a fence, Mrs. Whoever. And Sol Ganz is not one of them." Then again c.o.c.king his head as if to see her better. "It is Mrs., isn't it? I can feel your ring." He had kept hold of her hand and he squeezed his fingers over her wedding band.

"Mrs. Joshua Turner," Mollie said.

Ganz released her hand. "Why do you look familiar to me?"

"I've no idea."

"Yes, you do. Otherwise why would you be blushing? And I have an excellent memory for both faces and names. But right now . . . it is your face I recognize. Not your name." Then after a few seconds when neither he nor Mollie spoke, "Aha! Mr. Leslie's Ill.u.s.trated Newspaper. Some months ago . . . Last spring, I think . . ." Finally, with another exclamation of triumph. "I remember! You are a pickpocket."

It was time to take control. As Josh would do. But using her cleverness, not a whip. "You are remembering only part of the story, Mr. Ganz. I am not a pickpocket. If I were I would no doubt have regular methods to deal with what I acquired. But Mr. Leslie did put my picture in his paper in connection with a story about picking pockets. I was married in August. Before that I was Mollie Brannigan."

Ganz said nothing, merely kept looking at her and nodding his head, apparently mentally running over the story of which Mollie had reminded him. "Yes," he said finally. "You are correct. And these jewels . . . I think it likely they belong to the true villainess of the story. The infamous Mrs. Brannigan."

"My Auntie Eileen," Mollie said with no trace of shame in her voice, "whom I love and cherish. And every item there," she nodded to the array of jewelry, "was bought by her from Mr. Tiffany. None of it was picked from anyone's pocket, Mr. Ganz. You can be entirely sure of that."

"I think," he said finally, "you are again correct. If Eileen Brannigan wanted to fence stolen jewelry, she would know whom to approach. It seems highly unlikely she would send a wide-eyed innocent like her niece to Sol Ganz. So, Mrs. Mollie, what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Take these jewels as security against a loan," Mollie said, "of ten thousand dollars." It took every bit of her will to keep looking directly at him. I can do with three, but get me five and we're off to the races, Mollie love. Josh's final words when they parted that morning.

"Hah! Now you are the gonov, Mrs. Mollie. Ten is out of the question. Three maybe. And that is very generous."

"It is highway robbery, Mr. Ganz. And you would be earning interest on considerably less than that to which you are legitimately ent.i.tled." Legitimate was arguable. According to the sign posted on the wall behind him, Solomon Ganz charged seven percent per month. It was an extortionate sum.

Ganz put his loupe back in his eye and bent over the stones a second time. "How long," he asked finally, "do you expect to leave the jewelry with me?"

"We will reclaim it no later than a year from today. But three thousand is not acceptable, Mr. Ganz. I must have ten."

"Six thousand dollars," he said finally. "And I am to be repaid one year from today. Not a day sooner or a day later."

"That's a hard bargain, Mr. Ganz. It commits us to twelve months of interest whether or not we require it."

Ganz shrugged.

At seven percent for six thousand, they would owe him at the end of twelve months nearly twice what Mr. Ganz was prepared to lend them, eleven thousand and forty dollars. Usury, plain and simple. But once the railroad tunnel was built . . . All Mollie's instincts told her the lots Josh was trying to buy would be worth at least ten times their current value. If necessary he could sell one and pay off virtually the entire debt. "I agree to six thousand for a year," she said, "but at six percent interest, not seven."

There was a pencil on the desk and a small notebook. The jeweler spent a few moments making jottings. "Very well," he said finally. "Six percent interest. One year from today you pay me ten thousand four hundred and twenty dollars. If you do not, the jewels are mine to sell."

"I believe there's an error in your calculation, Mr. Ganz. The amount owed will be ten thousand three hundred and twenty dollars."

He looked at her again, then spent another few moments jotting figures in his notebook. "You are right again, Mrs. Mollie," he said when he put the pencil down. He was smiling. "My wife, may her memory be for a blessing, she could do that too. Any numbers. In her head without even a pencil. Mr. Joshua Turner is a fortunate man."

8.

"SOMEONE TO SEE you," Hatty Ellis said. "A gentleman. I put him in the parlor."

"Send him away." Eileen didn't look up from her embroidery hoop. "Tell him we're not in business any longer."

"Tell him yourself. Though I'll wager he's not come looking for wh.o.r.es. Too old."

Eileen knew she'd lost the argument; she frequently did with Hatty, though for the sake of form she continued to protest. "They are never too old. You have surely learned that after all this time." She'd had one regular client, white-haired and bent, who showed up twice a month for years. He simply wanted to sleep beside the young woman he'd selected. Always one of the same two, both endowed with remarkable bosoms. The client slept with his head nestled between his chosen wh.o.r.e's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her hand in the vicinity of his crotch. Paid top rates. But then, they all had. "Send him away," she repeated. "Whatever do I pay you for, Hatty, if not to save me a bit of trouble?"

"To cook, as you know well. Besides, you don't want to send this old gent away without seeing him. Take it from me, what you want is to march yourself downstairs and talk to him."

"And why is that?" Eileen looked up at last. When Hatty adopted that tone attention must be paid.

"Gave me his card," Hatty said.

Hatty didn't read. Which only made the statement more intriguing. "For heaven's sake, why didn't you mention a card? Give it to me."

As soon as the thing was in her hand Eileen understood. What Hatty had recognized were the three gold b.a.l.l.s. They were embossed above the name Solomon Ganz, and below that were the words PROMPT PAYMENT AND GOOD TERMS. Eileen had not discussed giving Mollie her jewels to p.a.w.n, much less the reason for it. Which, as Eileen had learned over the past quarter century, didn't mean Hatty Ellis was ignorant of the arrangement. Her cook always knew everything that went on under Eileen Brannigan's roof. Pretty much without exception.

"He wrote something on t' other side as well," Hatty said.

Eileen flipped the card over. On the back were the handwritten initials, T. P. "Bring him up here." The words flat and without emotion, belying her beating heart.

"Better if you go down," Hatty insisted.

"Why is that, Hatty?" In that same toneless voice.

"Looks like he's a Jew," the cook said. "You don't want one of them up here in your private sitting room."

"Of course he's a Jew. His name is Solomon Ganz. Bring him up, Hatty. And bring us tea and some of your corn bread and strawberry preserves."

Sol Ganz ate three pieces of corn bread, each piled high with Hatty's superb preserves. "Mrs. Ganz," he murmured, "made wonderful strawberry preserves. You will understand, Mrs. Brannigan, if I say these are almost as good." Ganz carefully wiped his mouth with the small linen napkin she'd provided and set it on the tray. "You've seen what I wrote on the back of my card, Mrs. Brannigan?"

"The initials T. P. Yes, I saw."

"They are familiar to you?"

"I don't think you'd still be sitting there, however good my cook's strawberry preserves, if you did not know the answer to that, Mr. Ganz. What has Teddy Paisley to do with you?"

"I think the question is what he has to do with you."

"Nothing now. Once, many years ago back in the Old Country, in Ireland, we knew each other. Over here . . ." Eileen shook her head. "He's nothing to do with me."