City of Promise (31 page)

On the Tuesday evening following his first visit to Sixty-Third Street, Elva Jackson arrived at the house on Grand Street and placed a check for two hundred and fifty-five dollars in Joshua’s hands.

The two men conducted their business in the drawing room turned office. Josh had been reluctant to use the room for some time after the murder, but nearly six weeks had passed since he’d found George Higgins’s body. Meanwhile the police had let the matter drop, and Jane had managed to scrub the carpet clean of bloodstains. After that the room had been thoroughly aired and put back together by Mollie, who refused to be either sentimental about a man she barely knew, or fearful about bad omens. Auntie Eileen’s upbringing had given her a bit more spine than that. Besides, no one could arrange Josh’s disturbed papers better than she.

Josh found it easier than he expected to slip into his old ways of doing things. He was waiting in his office when, as expected, the bell rang promptly at seven and Mollie showed Mr. Jackson into the front room.

After which she promptly ran around to the dining room where she could press her ear against the double doors and hear every word the men exchanged.

“Flat Four B,” Joshua said. “To be leased to at a sum of eighty-five dollars a month payable in advance in quarterly installments of two hundred and fifty-five dollars each. This first payment to serve as a deposit against damages. The first quarter’s rent due the day you move in.”

Four B. A canny choice, Mollie thought. Cheaper because it wasn’t a corner flat, and less expensive than the flats on the floors below. But three flights were manageable if one didn’t wish to use the elevator. She heard nothing for a moment or two. Presumably both Josh and
Mr. Jackson were looking over the lease. Then Josh asked, “Are we agreed, Mr. Jackson?”

“We are, Mr. Turner.”

Mollie couldn’t see the handshake, but she knew it had happened, and that both men had signed, and she twirled around the dining room in a single and silent waltz of triumph.

By week’s end DuVal Jones had agreed to lease the ground-floor flat closest to Fourth Avenue. It was now well known that Vanderbilt would start sinking a tunnel for his trains come spring, and Josh had assigned One D the highest rent of any of the units, one hundred and ten dollars a month. Mollie had paled when he mentioned the sum. “It’s not as exorbitant as it sounds,” Josh insisted. “For one thing it looks west to Madison and Fifth. They’ll be grand avenues one day, even as far uptown as Sixty-Third Street.”

“Still, Josh, it’s so much more than they’re paying at Bowling Green.”

“Jones didn’t quibble over the price and he’s chosen to pay me a year in advance. Plus the security deposit. That’s sixteen hundred and fifty dollars cash money.”

“If he can afford so much, Josh, why doesn’t he buy a house?”

Josh shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, but the price of real estate is on the rise everywhere in the town. Mr. Drexel of Philadelphia has just bought a building on Wall Street for three hundred forty-eight dollars a square foot.”

“Good Lord.”

“Exactly. Meanwhile, Mr. Jones is leasing six hundred and fifty square feet for what—?” Looking to Mollie to supply the sum.

“Two dollars a square foot per annum,” she said instantly. “Plus a fraction.” She picked up her pen to enter DuVal Jones’s name in the ledger that listed the St. Nicholas tenants. “I shall mark it down as a bargain.” Then, as her pen moved across the columns, “Do we know what Mr. Jones does for a living, Josh?”

“No idea. But he’s never been late with the rent in the years he’s lived at Bowling Green.”

“And you gain a tidy bit in interest by having a year’s rent in advance.” She wanted to cut out her tongue as soon as she spoke the words.
Never forget, Mollie, Joshua has more to prove than most men. You must not put yourself forward in the matter of business.

He didn’t bristle, just said with the exuberance that marked him since things began going so well, “The devil with the interest. It’s folding money, my love. Working capital. That’s a lot more important to me right now. But,” with a quick kiss planted on her forehead, “nothing for you to be concerned with in any case.”

“So,” she said, “the only one of the prospects we haven’t heard from is the one-eyed Mr. Wolfe.”

“Not another word from him,” Josh said. “But two out of three’s a fine result. I am certainly not grousing. And I’m told another prospect came by yesterday when I wasn’t at the site. Mr. Stanley Potter who, according to Samuel, says he’ll return next week.”

“Stanley Potter, recently admitted to the bar? Who also lives at Bowling Green?”

“That’s the one. And why are you smiling like a cat with a bowl of cream?”

“I’m thrilled for you, Josh. For all three of us,” she added with a shy smile.

“All three of us,” he agreed, reaching out to pat her swelling belly.

She had to find a way to visit other family residences. There were dozens in the city. Of course they weren’t owned by her husband so she wouldn’t have such easy access. Perhaps she should see if Francie Wildwood might introduce her. It might even be an opportunity to discover what it was Mrs. Wildwood wanted, and how come she had apparently kept Mollie’s secret.

“I trust you don’t object to bringing the papers here,” DuVal Jones said.

He and Josh were in an oyster bar on South Street, typical of many on the waterfront. The sign outside said Hanrihan’s and inside a long counter with stools accommodated men wanting a quick half dozen and a glass of beer. It was lunchtime and there were many more customers than stools. Josh and DuVal Jones, however, were seated at a small table beside a window. Jones sat with his back to the room. Josh where he could see everything. His topper, he noted, was pretty much the only one in the place. Some of the patrons were laborers in the nearby fish market, or men who worked on the ferry pier a few steps away. They wore caps. Like many of the others—men who managed the ferry traffic and the market stalls—Jones wore a hard round bowler, the sort of hat sometimes called a derby, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar. Proof against the cold March winds. “I’m not likely,” Josh said, “to object to meeting a man any place he chooses when he’s prepared to pay me a large sum of money.”

Jones responded with a tight-lipped smile. It occurred to Josh that he’d known the man since he moved his blonde and dimpled young bride into the Bowling Green rooming house, but he’d never actually heard DuVal Jones laugh.

The clang of the bow slamming the dock announced the arrival of the Brooklyn ferry. A few of the men went out to meet it. The window was foggy with warm breath and Josh used the side of his hand to rub a clear space. The glass was crusted with salt spray, but he could make out the crew securing the mooring lines, and beyond them, on the opposite shore, the rising tower of the audacious bridge some said would make the ferry obsolete. “Do I take it we meet here because you’re on your way across the river, Mr. Jones?” Francie Wildwood had reported Amanda Jones saying her husband worked in Brooklyn. She never mentioned at what.

“No, Mr. Turner. On this occasion it happens I’ve just returned. It is a journey I make frequently.” Jones took an envelope from his inside pocket.

“Am I to assume, Mr. Jones, your business is based across the river?”

Jones didn’t answer, merely laid the envelope on the table between them and covered it with his hand.

“It might be thought,” Josh said, “that a flat way uptown on Sixty-Third Street is particularly inconvenient for a gentleman who makes regular ferry trips to Brooklyn.” He did not reach for the money.

“I do not expect to find it so, Mr. Turner.” The envelope edged closer to Josh, but Jones kept his hand over it. “In any case, it is a trade I am willing to make.”

Josh lay his hand over that of Jones. “In return for what? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all.” Jones slid his hand out from under Josh’s. “I believe Mrs. Jones will be most comfortable further uptown. If you care to count that, Mr. Turner, it is quite safe to do so here. And I will certainly understand your caution. I can assure you, however, that it is all there.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Josh said. He slipped the envelope into his pocket and produced the lease. Both men signed it and pocketed a copy of the document. Jones rose to go. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Turner.”

Josh insisted the pleasure was his.

Stanley Potter, Esquire, was short and thin. Looked, Josh always thought, like a paper cutout of a man. As if you could fold him up and put him in your pocket. He had, however, a surprisingly deep voice. Twice the size of the rest of him.

“I have decided to lease one of your flats, Mr. Turner. I will have Four B. I am, as you know, an attorney, and I’ve prepared an agreement for the transaction.” His comments were made on the site, in the hearing of every laborer within twenty yards.

Josh was delighted. Couldn’t hurt for the men to know the flats were being spoken for. “That affords me great pleasure, Mr. Potter. You’re precisely the sort of man to anchor a new direction for the city. With residents such as yourself, the East Sixties have a great future. I
cannot, however, rent you Four B because it’s already spoken for. Four A is available. Also Four C and D.”

“Mrs. Potter will be disappointed. She told me Four B was the one she’d set her heart on.”

“Four C is the same price, Mr. Potter.” How the devil could his wife know which flat she wanted when she’d never been to the site? “And have you considered the advantages of Four A or D? They’re corner flats. That means more light and air.”

“More noise as well,” Potter said firmly. “Mrs. Potter discussed the question with your wife. They agreed the middle flats would be quieter.”

“My wife?”

“So I’m told, Mr. Turner. When you sent her to visit the ladies of your Bowling Green residence.” The attorney had wandered over to the elevator shaft while he spoke, and was peering up at the newly installed cables and pulleys. The cab wasn’t yet in place and the tall empty space acted as an echo chamber for his booming voice. “I take it Mrs. Turner got home safely despite the storm. Took a bit of a risk, didn’t you, sending a woman on that sort of errand? Though of course you couldn’t have predicted the weather.”