City Of Promise Part 18

"It was, Mr. Turner. But I don't want an hourly wage. I'm a manager here, not just a supervisor."

"That you are," Josh agreed.

"Should have a salary, then." And when Josh made no objection, "I'll settle for thirty-five dollars a week. To start," he added.

"A year at thirty-five a week," Josh said. "No overtime, mind you. Not if it's a salary. And no increase for twelve months. Though I've a mind to pay a bonus if the steel for the second building is ahead of schedule."

Tickle nodded. "That's fair. Now, what about the other part of our arrangement? I'm to have a flat in return for these past six months with no pay."

"So you are, Mr. Tickle." It was the first time the little man had mentioned it, but Josh never thought Tickle had forgotten their unusual agreement. Any more than he had. He'd just been glad not to be asked to make good while the project was in the early struggling stages. It had always worried him that Tickle might demand his right and want to move in immediately in the bargain. Could have given the project a bad name if the initial resident was someone who looked to have come straight from Barnum's freak show. "Tell you what," he said, "why not choose your flat in the new building? We can call it the Eddyville Arms."

"Our agreement was a flat in the first building," Tickle said. "The one as is already built. I'm not bothered by the name."

"I've only six flats left in the St. Nicholas."

"Don't need but one," Tickle said. "I'll come pick it out this Sunday. Noontime. I'll be bringing Maude Pattycake with me. We're betrothed."

Josh accepted the inevitable, since going back on his promise was out of the question. "Congratulations, Mr. Tickle. Sunday noon it is then."

Tickle and his bride-to-be were at the flats before Josh arrived, waiting outside the building, craning their necks as most people did when confronted with the structure. It must, Josh thought, look taller to them than to most. "You can take much of the credit for the fact that it's been built, Mr. Tickle," he said by way of greeting. And, tipping his hat to the tiny creature holding Ebenezer Tickle's arm, "My best wishes to you, Miss Pattycake. Mr. Tickle is a most remarkable maker of steel. I am, as I said, the beneficiary of his excellent work."

"Wedding's in three weeks," Maude said. "At Mama Jack's. We'd be most pleased if you'd come, Mr. Turner. And Mrs. Turner, of course."

"I'm honored, Miss Pattycake. Thank you."

"Come along." Tickle was pulling impatiently at Maude's hand. "Let's go pick our new home. Tell us which ones are still available, Mr. Turner."

"I'll show you," Josh said, leading them into the lobby where he had a schematic plan of the flats tacked to the wall. "Those with red crosses through them are rented," he explained.

"We get our pick of what's left," Tickle said. "Whichever one we want." He aimed the words at his fiancee, but he was looking at Josh.

He'd waited purposely, Josh realized, gambling that the last flats to go would be the dearest. And in some measure he'd been right. Two A and D and Three A were still available. They were all priced at over a hundred a month. "So you do, Mr. Tickle. That's what I promised."

The dwarf nodded, then turned to the drawing. "These two here," pointing to the second floor of the plan and the two corner flats. "They're not taken, are they?"

"They're not, Mr. Tickle."

"What about them top two floors," Maude Pattycake said. "Looks like some of them are still available as well."

"They are," Josh agreed.

"Those are cheaper units." Tickle looked grim.

"That's correct," Josh admitted. "Sixty-five dollars a month on the corners and forty-six each for the middle two. Plenty of light and air on the upper stories," he added, but went no further. It wasn't just Tickle's obvious displeasure that stopped him. He didn't like the feeling of encouraging the man with whom he'd made a good-faith arrangement, who'd come through for him in every particular, to make a choice that others found undesirable.

Maude Pattycake meanwhile had stopped studying the drawing. She was looking around at her surroundings. "The corridors on the upper floors are black and white tile as well," Josh said. "And there will be mirrors and gas lighting, just as here in the lobby."

Maude nodded. "That's an elevator over there, isn't it?"

"It is," Josh said.

"Can you run it?"

"Yes, I can."

She turned back to the plan. "I want to see that one up there." She pointed to the uncrossed corner flat on the top floor, Eight D.

"But the ones lower down are the best ones," Tickle insisted. "That's why they're the most expensive."

"That one," Maude said pointing again to the eighth floor.

Twenty minutes later Josh ceremonially drew a red X through the unit on the top corner overlooking Fourth Avenue. "I'll have the papers ready for you by week's end," he promised. Then, unable to contain his curiosity, "Can you tell me why you chose that flat, Miss Pattycake?"

"All my life, Mr. Turner, I've been looking up to folks. Now I have a chance to look down."

These days Mollie mostly slept alone and Josh in another bedroom down the hall. He came to her occasionally, did what he wanted-it was in her mind to say he used her, though she hated the thought-then left. At first their separate sleeping arrangements were dismissed with a murmured word about her needing her rest after the ordeal of the storm. Eventually it was clear that Josh suffered more from the memory of that adventure. Though they did not discuss it after he reported what he'd been told by Stanley Potter. It's obvious he thinks me a cad to have sent my wife on such an errand. Not the sort of thing a gentleman does.

It was in Mollie's mind to ask Auntie Eileen what advice she might offer, but she kept putting off the discussion. It wasn't so much their nighttime habits that made her cringe with embarra.s.sment. It was her disregard of all her aunt's good counsel concerning the business of not putting herself too far forward.

She had not yet found the courage to broach the topic, and had yet to profit from whatever good advice her aunt might offer. So she was alone on that Monday morning well before dawn when she was jolted from sleep by someone ringing the bell and banging on the front door.

Mollie pulled on a robe and hurried into the hall. Her husband was there before her. She sensed his presence in the dark. "Who is it?" she asked.

"No idea, but sounds like he's in a h.e.l.l of a hurry to talk to me. Go back to bed. I'll deal with it."

She heard the approach of either Tess or Mrs. Hannity starting down from the attic, heard Josh dismiss whoever it was.

He hadn't strapped on his peg. The soft shuffle of whoever it had been returning to her room did not m.u.f.fle the heavy, asymmetric sound of Josh descending the stairs with only his cane for balance. Mollie held her breath, listening for the thud that would indicate a fall. There was none.

She stepped into the hall, leaning over the banister so she could see. Josh had reached the front door. He tucked the cane under his arm, standing on one leg while he used both hands to deal with the bolt and the chain he'd had installed right after poor George Higgins was murdered. "Hang on," he said. Then, "Good G.o.d, Mr. Tickle. Come in. What's happened?" And turning to the stairs, as if he knew Mollie would be in the hall despite his instructions that she return to bed, "Come down, please. Bring some bandages and carbolic."

"There was five of 'em," Tickle said. His face was cut and bruised and one eye was swollen shut. "Stompers, with them black kerchiefs tied around their faces. Me and Obadiah and Israel, we weren't no match for 'em."

Stompers were one of the Five Points gangs. They were known for having steel blades fixed to the heels of their boots, and masking their faces when they went on a job. "I should think not," Josh said. Then, to his wife, "I believe Mr. Tickle's arm is broken. He'll need a doctor to set it. Will you write a note to Simon, please. Perhaps Tess will take it to the hospital. If Simon's not there she can leave it for when he arrives."

He waited until Mollie had gone into the office, then turned back to the dwarf. "How are the others?"

"Obadiah got a mean crack on the head with one of the billies them thugs had. Put him straight out. That's why I was the one as come to tell you. Otherwise I'd have sent him. Longer legs can be useful sometimes."

"Is he still unconscious?"

"He was coming around when I left. Israel will look after him. I suppose I could've asked the new men to sleep at the foundry as well. Didn't 'cause they both got families and-"

"You and your men are paid to make steel, not do guard duty," Josh said grimly. "It's my job to protect my business, and you can be sure that after this I shall."

"That'll be a good thing, Mr. Turner, but what I didn't tell you . . ."

"Go on." He steeled himself for what he knew was going to be worse news. "Tell me now."

"It's the Kelly converter, Mr. Turner. That's what them thugs was aiming at. Smashed it up right proper and weren't nothing we could do to stop 'em."

"What's the plan then, Josh?" Zac had a way of sitting back in his chair and folding his hands, rather like Solomon waiting to pa.s.s judgment Josh always thought. "Tell me what you need. If I can help I will."

"Not money," Josh said quickly. The Devrey Building was as impressive as ever, a white marble temple of commerce built in 1835 when the city's oldest shipping company was at the height of its power, but these days there were half as many clerks in the various offices, no new vessels under construction, and at any given time fully a third of the fleet riding empty and at anchor. Josh reckoned his boardinghouses and building projects were probably showing a greater profit for the year than his brother's fabled company; certainly he had more liquidity. "I'm not in a bad position as far as cash goes. I've taken deposits on all but six of the flats at the St. Nicholas, and ten percent of those at the new building are spoken for."

"I thought you hadn't broken ground for that one yet."

"We're supposed to get started in a couple of weeks. I think we can maintain that schedule. There's a supply of steel at the foundry. Enough to begin building at any rate."

"I take it then the inventory wasn't damaged?"

"Pretty d.a.m.ned hard thing to do, damage steel beams with billies and sledgehammers. Time-consuming as well, since you'd have to go after them one at a time. According to Tickle, the Stompers went straight for the converter. Attack the means of production, a good strategy the generals tell us."

"Tickle's the dwarf, isn't he? Your foreman."

"That's right. He and the others, there's not much they don't know about a steel converter. They can fix this one, but it will take time." Josh got up and refilled his gla.s.s from the decanter of sherry on the table beside Zac's office window. "And before you ask," he turned back to face his brother, "I'm pretty sure I know whose idea it was, but I've no proof."

"This isn't a court of law. Who?"

"Man by the name of Trenton Clifford. Captain in the rebel army. He was commander of the prison on Belle Isle when I was there. I think he murdered George Higgins as well. As a way to get at me. Can't prove that either."

"I see. Josh, about Clifford, I . . ."

"Yes." Josh waited.

After a few seconds Zac shook his head. "Nothing. Except I'm wondering what you might have done to cause Captain Clifford to hold such a potent grudge all these many years."

"I concentrated on staying alive, nothing more. It can't be about Belle Isle or anything that happened during the war because as far as Clifford and I are concerned, nothing did."

"What then?" Zac rose and came to join him by the window.

"I'm not sure," Josh said. "But I don't think Clifford wants to beat his chest and sound the rebel yell. He's done with all that. What he wants is to make a fortune, like everyone else in this town."

"By somehow taking over your business? Constructing flats?"

Josh ignored the slightly disparaging tone and shook his head. "No, though mark my words, there's a fortune to be made in real estate if one has sufficient capital. Clifford's got a different idea, however." He gestured with his drink to the hubbub below the window where the junction of Broadway and Ca.n.a.l Street was seething with traffic. "He came to me a few months ago with a scheme for building an underground railway. You were still in England at the time. He wanted me to write and suggest you sell all the Devrey ships and bankroll his plan. Lend it the Devrey prestige."

"Did he now? And what did you tell him?"

"To go to h.e.l.l." Then, when his brother didn't say anything, "Zac, he's not just an ordinary b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Clifford's wicked to the core. I've seen him do things that would chill your blood. I knew you wouldn't have anything-"

His words were cut off by the chiming of the Carolina clock. Zac had installed it before the war. The clock did more than toll the hours; it set up a moving display running along the top of the five-story building, models of the fabulous clipper ships Carolina Devrey Turner had commissioned in the 1840s. Reproduced on a scale of one to one hundred with meticulous accuracy, the clippers crossed a churning ocean under the full cloud of sail that had once transfixed onlookers standing on the New York docks. These days people made the journey to the Devrey building just to see the simulation.

"Five o'clock," Zac said when the noise faded. "I've plans for later, Josh. Let's get this sorted, shall we?" He moved back to his desk. "Tell me exactly what I can do."

"I need to put guards at the foundry. Hoods as tough as any to be found in the city. A match for whomever Clifford sends."

"Presuming you're right and he's the one sending them."

"Presuming exactly that. Though it doesn't really matter. I've no doubt that once we start producing again, we'll get a second visit, whoever's behind it. They made their intentions clear."

"Have you thought of going to the police?"

Josh recalled his interviews with Captain Willis and Sergeant Hoyle, and their willingness to accept an alibi provided by the most notorious wh.o.r.emistress in the city. "You're joking, aren't you?"

Zac nodded. "Point taken."

"After all these years running the New York waterfront," Josh said. "If you don't know which toughs are the right ones for the job, no one does."

"Happens I do." Zac made a note on the pad on his desk. "I'll send someone to see you at the house tomorrow evening. Name's Frankie Miller. You'll never meet him in church, but as long as you pay him what you've agreed, you can trust him absolutely. Anything else?"

"Yes. I want to move the inventory. I'm having a shed constructed on one of Mother's lots. I'll arrange to have that guarded as well, of course, but the easiest way to get the steel there is by boat. I need to transport it from Wall Street uptown to Ninety-First Street."

"Done," Zac said, making another note. "Is that it?"

"It is. I'll be on my way and leave you to your evening's plans." Josh picked up his topper and his cane and started for the door, pausing before he opened it. "Zac . . ."

"Yes?"

"Clifford's every bit as bad as I said. Worse maybe."

"I've no doubt," his brother said quietly. "None at all."

"Not Stompers," Frankie Miller said. "Word is it was one of the Italian gangs been taking over around Mulberry and Bayard and Hester. Mulberry Bend they call it, not that a gentleman like yourself would know much about the Bend or the Eye-ties. Anyways, they tied on them black kerchiefs to make it seem like they was Stompers, but according to my sources, they wasn't."

Josh was astounded. He'd never seen Frankie Miller until ten minutes earlier when the man showed up at his front door. Now they were sitting in his office on Grand Street and Miller was making it clear he'd already taken it on himself to investigate the source of Josh's woes. "I presume my brother told you what happened."

Miller nodded. He looked like a bank clerk, or perhaps an accountant. Certainly not a criminal. Medium height, thin, not particularly muscular, with pale skin and black hair parted on one side and carefully combed and oiled. He wore a tweed jacket and matching trousers, and the hat clutched in his hand was a bowler.

The hat sparked a train of thought. "Mr. Miller, if the men who attacked my foundry weren't Stompers . . . Is it possible some gang from Brooklyn could be involved?" There wasn't much logic to it, only his memory of having met DuVal Jones in an oyster bar near the Brooklyn ferry landing the day he leased a flat in the St. Nicholas. And his conviction at the time that Jones was some kind of thug. Though it made no particular sense that he should want to delay construction on another of Josh's buildings.

Miller put paid to that idea. "No reason whatever to think so," he said.

"Then who were they? And why pretend to be a gang they were not? According to the newspapers the whole point of the distinctive clothing is to brag about their violence."

"That's the Irish gangs." Miller spoke softly, each word receiving equal emphasis. Rather like a judge p.r.o.nouncing sentence, Josh thought. "They're what you might call playing at being baddies. Oh, I know they kill folks and whatnot, but it's not the same. With the Irish, mostly it's because they love to fight. Bigger the dust-up, more it suits 'em. The Eye-ties, they're professional criminals. Seems most of 'em are from some island. Sicily, I think it's called. They do business in a regular way. Got a price list. Two dollars to punch somebody, four if both eyes is blacked. Twenty-five for a stabbing. Unless it's to be fatal. Then they call it doing the big job and it costs a hundred."

Josh glanced at the place on the rug where he'd found George Higgins's body. If Miller noticed he didn't say. "I take it you want guards down at the Wall Street docks, Mr. Turner. Near Mr. Devrey's pier."

"The old iron foundry next to it, yes."

Miller nodded. "That's what Mr. Devrey said. I'll put four men on it. One inside, three out. You won't see the three. n.o.body will unless they're needed."

"Is that enough? According to my foreman they were attacked by five of these Stompers, or Sicilians, or whoever they were."

"Four of my men's enough," Miller said quietly. "You can trust me."

Exactly what Zac had a.s.sured him to be the case. "I need guards as well on Ninety-First Street. I'm going to store the finished steel in a shed up there. It's closer to where we'll be using it and perhaps it won't be so obvious a target. My brother told you that's the object of all this thuggery, interrupting the production of steel?"