Brooklyn on Fire Page 6

  “Really, and who are you trying to save this time?”

  “You may have heard of him. His name is George Vanderbilt.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth dropped wide open. “George Vanderbilt, as in…Stop fooling with me, Mary. I don’t appreciate sick jokes.”

  “It’s no joke, Mother. I met him while I was working on my case at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a place that, along with my profession, you think is a waste of time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I just realized I have a prior engagement.”

  Elizabeth’s mind was swimming with excitement and anxiety. As Mary rose to go, she tried to stop her. “Tomorrow night, George Vanderbilt, there’s not much time to prepare…”

  With a nod and smile to Sean and her father, Mary was gone, leaving Elizabeth all at once excited, frustrated, and in the dark.

  Jeffrey and Sean were not used to seeing Elizabeth so nonplussed. They looked at each other and were about to laugh when Elizabeth noticed.

  “Oh, shut up, you two!” she screamed.

  But they couldn’t help themselves. Their laughter was uncontrollable.

  LAZLO WAS ALONE and laughing out loud. Sitting in a cushy club chair in his living room, he had in his hands The Wrong Box, a novel written by Robert Louis Stevenson and his stepson Lloyd Osbourne. He was reading it for the third time, and its dark humor still tickled him immensely. It was somewhat out of character for him—not that Lazlo was above having fun. He enjoyed a good repartee with Mary or anything that involved intellectual jousting as long as the other person was at least close to his level. If not, he labeled it “cerebral massacre” and found no pleasure in it. Outright laughter was entirely a different matter.

  He reached over to the side table that was next to him. Besides a kerosene lamp, resting on it was a box, out of which he removed a Japanese washi and wiped his nose, which had been running from his laughing so hard. Lazlo liked his creature comforts, and he admired the Japanese for inventing simple items that made everyday life so much easier. A washi was an extremely soft, almost silky paper with which one could wipe one’s nose and then just toss it away. He also preferred to lounge around his apartment at night in a kimono. He had a dark blue one with some gold stripes that was loose fitting and extremely comfortable. He had reasoned that no one would see him, since he was alone most of the time. Years earlier he had been married for a short while, but they were both so headstrong and so feverishly erudite that eventually each had found the other insufferable and they had divorced, glad to be free of one another.

  His apartment above the store was roomy enough for just him. There, he could indulge in whatever scholarly pursuits he desired with little interruption from the outside world. It had two bedrooms, one of which he had turned into an office to do the bookkeeping for his business. There was a large living room with a fireplace and a decent-sized kitchen with, of course, a Franklin stove. Matching his personality, all the furniture was comfortable, though a few pieces were worn. He had a hard time getting rid of something he liked just because it was showing its age. As far as conveniences were concerned, it had been cheaper for Lazlo to build a toilet with plumbing downstairs in the back of the store. It was somewhat off-putting, but it was still significantly better than venturing outside in the cold to an outhouse. And he was very much impressed by a fairly recent invention of the Scott brothers: putting toilet paper on a roll. Their product hadn’t caught on because most people thought that any discussion of what went on in the nether regions was in poor taste, and that made advertising difficult to attain.

  It was about this time that nature gently tapped him on the shoulder, and having remembered that he had run out on his last visit, Lazlo rose to get a new roll of his precious toilet paper, which he stored in a kitchen cupboard. As he ventured downstairs, thinking about The Wrong Box and the bizarre adventures of the Finsbury family, he paid little attention to his surroundings. But as he reached the bottom level, a man’s shadow crossed his path. He turned toward the bookstore window and saw a man pacing outside his shop, stopping periodically to peer in the window. He was wearing a hat and had his collar turned up, so his face was indiscernible. What was discernible was an urgency, almost a desperation in his behavior. Then there was a knocking at the door, which quickly escalated into more of a pounding.

  Lazlo had been safely ensconced in his self-made cocoon over the past two decades and rarely experienced anything out of the norm or the slightest bit alarming. This was radically different and cause for concern. In a closet in the back of the shop he kept a rifle that was reputed to have been used by Benjamin Franklin when he was a military commander in the French and Indian War. It was a Brown Bess, a flintlock smoothbore musket that was over one hundred thirty years old, and besides not being absolutely sure that it was Franklin’s, more importantly at this moment, Lazlo had no idea whether it could still function. Still, he knew it would have to do. It could possibly scare someone off…he hoped. As the pounding increased, he got Brown Bess and was headed for the door when it occurred to him how unthreatening he looked in his kimono, holding an ancient musket in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. The only thing he could do to rectify the situation was to drop the toilet paper.

  Lazlo’s rendezvous with the intruder was imminent. He reached for the doorknob and felt something he hadn’t felt since he was a schoolboy: fear.

  7

  COLLIS HUNTINGTON, ANDREW Haswell Green, Alfred Chapin, and Hugh McLaughlin were sharing a booth in a saloon in lower Manhattan that was practically under the Brooklyn Bridge. It was meant to be a clandestine meeting, and as evidence that it was, McLaughlin hadn’t brought Liam Riley with him. None of them were familiar with the saloon, nor would they have chosen it as a place to dine and drink. The meeting place was a compromise, so that the two men from Manhattan and the two men from Brooklyn would be on neutral ground.

  “Well, well,” McLaughlin exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day when a poor son of Irish immigrants like me would be sittin’ face-to-face with New York’s golden boy Andrew Haswell Green and the great Collis Huntington. God, America’s a wondrous country, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” responded Huntington, “and I bet you’ve found others naïve enough to fall for that humble immigrant crap.”

  Both Green and Chapin were appalled at Huntington’s crude remark, but Huntington knew no other way to do business. He was fully aware that Chapin was just a puppet and that McLaughlin was the real decision maker. He needed McLaughlin to know right off that if he planned to shovel any shit, he’d better not throw it in Huntington’s yard. McLaughlin wasn’t unnerved, or at least if he was, he didn’t show it.

  “As a matter fact, I have,” said McLaughlin calmly, “and they’re all in Brooklyn.” He paused for effect, then continued. “I heard yer family’s been here so long they greeted the pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. Ya may have forgotten how sturdy we immigrants are. By the way, is it true? Are ya part Indian?”

  Thinking the insults had gone too far, Green quickly interrupted. “Gentlemen, we have come here to put aside our differences, not to create more.”

  “Don’t worry, Andrew,” said Huntington. “This is just a mating dance we Indians do before the romance begins. Right, Hugh?”

  “I’m already in love,” said McLaughlin, staring straight at Huntington, who returned his gaze. There was no way either of these two gigantic egos was going to give the other the satisfaction of blinking first.

  After an uncomfortable pause, Chapin finally spoke. “Gentlemen, we have weighed the pros and cons of the situation, and I think it behooves us to explain why Brooklyn sees no advantage in becoming part of your city.”

  “Brooklyn or you?” Huntington interrupted.

  “We are Brooklyn,” McLaughlin quickly answered.

  Concerned that, like two cocks trapped in the same barnyard, Huntington and McLaughlin would get lost in another standoff, Chapin jumped back in. “The fact of the matter is, our people like things t
he way they are. They have good schools, wholesome neighborhoods, and have no desire to take on big-city problems.”

  “Brooklyn on its own is the fourth-largest city in the United States,” Green calmly answered. “True, we’re number one, but don’t fool yourself. You’re already a big city with big-city problems. There is strength in consolidation. A unified harbor alone will please your banking and merchant community, and the civic improvements we can make will increase real estate values. With our pooled resources, we can solve any problem that arises.”

  “Our people like being part of a smaller community.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Alfred. A good portion of them are already commuting to Manhattan for work. Don’t you think they’d rather work and live in the same city?”

  Chapin paused, stuck for an answer, but McLaughlin wasn’t. “Look, His Honor is a nice fella. He doesn’t like sayin’ things that may sound unpleasant, so let me put it in plain English so there can be no misunderstandin’. We don’t want yer immigrant mongrels with their poverty, disease, and crime comin’ here and soilin’ our fair city.”

  “I’m confused, Hugh. Are immigrants mongrels or are they sturdy, and where do you fit in?” asked Huntington.

  “Yer family’s been here so long ya think all immigrants are the same. That’s yer mistake, and it’s a real jim-dandy. The ones comin’ in today, the Eastern Europeans and the Jews, are from a different stock, and we don’t want ’em. Is that clear enough for ya?”

  “We all have our prejudices,” responded Green. “I do have one question though. You have over eight hundred thousand people in Brooklyn. What are you going to do for water?”

  “There’s no water problem,” McLaughlin answered with a touch of disdain in his voice.

  “That’s not what I hear. You have four hundred thousand more residents than you did twelve years ago, and the water supply has stayed the same. Your aqueduct has already broken several times and left the whole city without water. We have plenty of water, and we can help.”

  “Mr. Mayor, will ya please tell these gentlemen from Manhattan that they’re barkin’ up the wrong tree?”

  “Yes,” said Huntington, “please do that, Your Honor.” And Huntington’s steely stare fell right on Chapin. In fact, Chapin felt it going through him. He seemed shaken.

  “To be perfectly honest, Andrew and Mr. Huntington, it was a concern, but we’ve recently addressed it and we’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  McLaughlin indicated Chapin. “See? I told ya he’s a nice fella. He’s tellin’ ya to take a walk, and it sounds like he’s gonna invite ya to dinner.”

  Huntington looked right at McLaughlin. “It may be foreign to your ears, but it’s called having class, Hugh.”

  “Then try something that’s foreign to your ears: no.” McLaughlin looked at Chapin, then they both rose and left.

  Green finished his drink before turning to Huntington. “So, Collis, which is it? Are they just angling for power or do they really think they can survive without us?”

  “Most probably a bit of both, but one thing is for sure. The mayor is bothered by something, and to use his words, it may behoove us to find out exactly what that is.”

  Green had noticed it too, but he was the epitome of an upstanding gentleman and had given them the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t a fool. He knew people lied, but he thought the contingent from Brooklyn was being clandestine in order to get a better deal. Huntington knew something sleazy was going on. He could smell it.

  AS THE MAYOR’S carriage crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on its way home, Chapin tried to rationalize his behavior at the meeting.

  “I think I handled the water issue fine, Hugh. I don’t think they noticed anything.”

  “If I noticed it, you don’t think Collis Huntington caught it? The man’s not just a snake. He’s a cobra. And you know how a cobra thrives….It feeds on its own.”

  “Look, I—”

  “Relax. Do you see me worried? I’m not, and do ya know why? Brooklyn’s gonna be fine and we’re gonna be fine because yer holding our ace up yer sleeve, and it’s about to win us the hand. Ya do have the ace, don’t ya, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Like I told you earlier, it’s almost done. But it’s unnerving going up against Huntington. I get the feeling he’s completely aware of what we’re doing.”

  “Let me worry about that fella. I bet Collis Huntington never tangled with an ol’ street fighter like me before. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to get hit right where it hurts the most.”

  MARY HAD TOLD her mother she had a prior engagement, but it was a lie. She needed to get her mother out of her head and decided the best way to accomplish that was to focus her energy on her case. At least that was something on which she might make progress.

  At this point, her only chance of determining John Worsham’s cause of death would be to exhume and examine the body. She knew that even if that were possible, it would be a long shot to get any concrete answers, but it was all she had. Arabella Huntington was going to be of no help, and so it was up to Mary to find some legal precedent to allow her to dig Worsham up. That required knowledge of the law she didn’t possess. Lazlo had a section on law in his bookstore, and now that she had an office there he had given her a key to use at her will. Mary wasn’t tired, and thanks to her mother’s hurtful mention of Charles Pemberton, she wouldn’t be for a while. So, in an effort to turn a negative into a positive, she headed for Lazlo’s Books.

  She was half a block from the bookstore when she noticed light was emanating from the shop. Usually at night, Lazlo was safely ensconced in his apartment upstairs, rarely going below except for the occasional trip to the toilet, and then there was no reason to turn on lights in the store. She cautiously approached and found the door ajar. Mary became instantly alert. She was glad she had kept up on her jujitsu, a discipline she had been practicing since she was a child. It had come in handy on the Goodrich case, and now it gave her the confidence to venture farther into the store.

  She heard scuffling coming from the back bookcases, followed by the loud sound of books crashing to the floor. Mary knew Lazlo was too old and much too slow to handle any youthful intruder, and at no age would he have been able to deal with a criminal. She quickly but cautiously moved toward the back bookshelves.

  When she arrived there, she found Lazlo on the floor moaning, surrounded by fallen books. There was another man on the floor facedown, unmoving.

  “Lazlo, are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said as he slowly sat up. “I was just demonstrating juego de maní to our friend here, and I’m afraid I’m not as good at it as I thought I was.”

  “Our friend?”

  The man slowly turned, brushing off the books, and Mary immediately recognized him.

  “Archer!” And it was indeed Archer Huntington.

  “I had told Lazlo of my interest in Hispanic studies, and when he discovered I wasn’t familiar with juego de maní, which is a combination of dance and martial arts, he decided I had to see it. Apparently, the dance part needs considerably more practice.”

  Archer smiled and so did Lazlo as they slowly rose. Mary didn’t share their amusement. She was confused.

  “What are you doing here, Archer?”

  Lazlo said, “Oh, that’s right, you don’t know. You see—”

  “Please, Lazlo, I want to hear it from Archer, and later you can tell me why you’re wearing that hideous outfit.”

  “It’s called a kimono.”

  “I know that much.”

  “No one would’ve seen it if Archer here—”

  “Please, Lazlo, from Archer.”

  Archer Huntington straightened himself and his clothes, then looked directly at Mary.

  “I need to know what happened to my father. I want you to exhume his body, Miss Handley.”

  COLLIS HUNTINGTON HAD adopted Archer shortly after he married Arabella. Archer was fourteen at the time, and Huntington was the only father he had e
ver known. John Worsham had died when he was a baby.

  “If my father had abandoned me, I might not care who he was or what happened to him,” Archer explained as he and Mary sat in her office after Lazlo had gone back upstairs. “But that’s not the case. He just…died.”

  “You realize your mother won’t be happy about this.”

  “That’s quite an understatement, but thank you for the warning. Ever since our lunch today, the question of my father’s death has been haunting me. I’m afraid I might have spooked Lazlo with my exuberance, but I doubt whether I’ll get any rest until it’s settled.”

  Mary almost smiled at the inability of certain rich people to deal with discomfort. She knew of others with far worse problems who had to live with the horror of their circumstances every day, because they didn’t have the financial wherewithal to free themselves. But Archer seemed like a decent enough fellow, so Mary decided not to hold his privilege against him.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I saw my mother put your card in a drawer, and when she left the room, I fished it out.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be uncomfortable having to sneak around.”

  “Frankly, Miss Handley, I can’t imagine having a better mother. She was always there to support me and give me anything I needed. But I’m fairly certain that Mother is trying to shield me from any possible scandal that may arise from this. What she doesn’t realize is that if such a situation does arise, I feel perfectly equipped to handle it.”

  Archer’s words reminded Mary of her trouble with her own mother and how she had always yearned for Elizabeth to be supportive. “You’re a lucky young man to have a mother who cares about you so much. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Most certainly, and I am prepared to pay for any expenses involved. I want it done properly.”