THE DEVILS DIME (5 page)

Chase National Bank occupied most of the block at Cedar and Greenwich. It was the bastion of financial authority in the city. And, for that matter, many parts of the world. Aristocratic to the core and provincial in the most minute detail, it was a hallowed place. Its fortressed walls told the people of the sprawling city that their money was safe.

As it had each day for the past two months, the click of her heels on the granite steps signaled that it was time for Addie to switch roles. Check the independent impresario attitude at the door, and don the pleasant smile of subordinate to the men who actually ran the institution.

Here women, like children, were to be seen and not heard. As Addie had learned the hard way, deviating from the prescribed procedure was not an option. Whether slow or cumbersome, or downright antiquated, the bank’s way was the only way.

Once she became accustomed to the idea, she found it had one very nice benefit for her. She wasn’t required to think overmuch. Just do the job and follow the rules, and save all that creative energy for the other job to which she could truly give her heart and soul at the end of the day.

The tails of her hair ribbon tickled her neck as the heavy doors closed with a rush of air behind her. The rhythm of shuffling papers and thumping hand stamps had already begun, and Addie welcomed its calming effect as the grandness of the place descended upon her.

And so did Hamilton Jensen.

The moment she saw him approaching, Addie veered to the left to put an additional rank of desks between herself and the fellow who was closing fast. Addie hoped her move looked as though she were simply attempting a more direct route to the women’s coat room.

It was clumsy at best. Surely Hamilton had seen through it. But her maneuver worked. If he were to adjust his path to meet up with her now, it would be a most obvious and embarrassing display. She knew Hamilton would never pursue her so blatantly.

A vicious bite to her tongue kept the smug smile from her face. It was satisfying to have escaped this most persistent fellow. She had precious little time for herself these days, but if Hamilton Jensen had his way, she’d have none at all.

Addie walked as quickly as she could without swinging her arms or losing her composure and made it to safety beyond the louvered doors of the women’s “robing room”. It took just seconds to unpin her hat and hang her summery shoulder cape in the narrow cubby assigned to her.

She checked the bow she’d pinned at the base of her curls and straightened her grandmother’s opal brooch at her neck. The efficiency of her movements, the routine, always helped cement her transformation as Addie began another day at Chase National.

Addie slipped her tan sleeve protectors on over her forearms and stopped at the vault to pick up her morning tray for Teller Station No. 8. She moved easily into her teller stall, made her own count of the tray’s contents, and began to slide the drawer into place.

As always, it stuck on the right side, and Addie had to bend down to watch the runner as she lightly jostled the temperamental tray to the exact angle it needed to achieve before rolling into place.

“Here. Let me help you with that, Miss Magee.”

Addie did her best not to groan at the solicitous tone coming at her over her left shoulder.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Jensen, but I’ve just got it now. Thank you.” She gave an angry little tap and the runner clicked into place and the drawer slid closed.

“Well, then. Very good. But Ridley should really see to getting that repaired. I see you wrestling with it every morning.”

“I hardly wrestle, Mr. Jensen.” His choice of words embarrassed her, and her tone bristled out cold and hard. Surely she hadn’t made a spectacle of herself as she teased the drawer into place.

“Of course not, Miss Magee, I only meant...”

“My apologies, Mr. Jensen, I know you meant to commiserate. Please forgive me. Now if you’ll excuse me...”

“Ah! Certainly.” Hamilton’s voice dropped to a whisper and he moved further into her station. “I shall forgive you if you accompany me to hear Scott Joplin this evening, Adelaide.”

Scott Joplin! Could it be possible?

“Mr. Jensen,” she whispered, bent on refusing and trying to find a way to do it cordially. “I’ve seen nothing announcing Mr. Joplin’s presence in the city this week. Surely you’re mistaken.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered, “Hamilton. It’s time you called me Hamilton. And it’s a private affair. By invitation only. Now, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Seven o’clock tonight. May I call for you at home?”

Addie looked up into his square face. His handlebar mustache was perfectly waxed and his hair gleamed with just the right amount of pomade. Everything about his appearance was handsomely groomed. He’d mastered the look of successful, if a bit over-fed, bank officer.

Scott Joplin. Was he really offering her an opportunity to hear this amazing fellow? She might never have another opportunity. He’d found the perfect carrot to dangle in front of her. She reached a hand to tidy her hair, stalling. Surely she could put up with him just one more time.

But she’d intended to introduce herself to her father tonight, though her father knew nothing of her intentions. He had no idea she was even living in New York City. Probably didn’t even realize she was twenty-four by now and successful in her own right.

Addie sighed, not so much in resignation but in anticipation. It wouldn’t hurt to wait another week to meet her father. She’d see him another night. Tonight she’d go with harmless Hamilton to hear the king of ragtime.

“Well, I...” she blushed, wondering how she dared accept after her horrid treatment of him.

“Then you’ll go?” His face was so pathetically hopeful she almost laughed.

“Yes, Hamilton,” she whispered, “I would enjoy that very much. I’ll meet you at the Warwick at seven.”

“But I would so much rather call for you at home.” The poor man simply couldn’t keep his emotions off his face and she nearly laughed again.

“That’s so kind of you, Hamilton, but I have a bit of business to take care of with the hotel manager after work—for my orchestra, you understand—and it would be much simpler for you to meet me there. If you don’t mind, that is.” Now she was shamelessly peeking at him from beneath her lowered lids. Had she no pride?

For their two previous afternoon outings, she’d managed to meet him away from her meager flat, though she had no doubt he could obtain her address from the bank if he had a mind to.

This would be the last time she’d have to worry about it. She’d not be seeing Hamilton Jensen again. At least, not socially. If she promised herself that, she could manage to get through one more evening. Joplin was indeed worth the misery.

“The Warwick, it is. At seven. I shall look forward to the evening with great anticipation.” He ducked his head in a surreptitious bow and strode down the teller line.

“Likewise,” Addie answered, meaning, of course, that she would look forward to the entertainment. She didn’t mind Hamilton so very much, but he was so maddeningly flirtatious that she’d been forced to spend most of the outing countering his advances. Perhaps tonight she would just give up and let her silence speak for itself.

Three bells signaled the start of the business day as two liveried attendants opened the massive front doors. Addie put the evening out of her mind as the first morning customers began to line up just beyond the bars of Teller Station No. 8.

. . .

To say Jess had been restless like a schoolboy all day would have been an understatement. He was completely buffaloed by the unfamiliar anticipation that had plagued him without ceasing. As he left work that evening, Jess had the urge to deny his impulse and walk toward home instead of toward the Warwick Hotel. He would not be ruled by this untenable fancy for a slip of a girl.

But while his brain mulled it over, his feet carried him unerringly to the majestic front doors of the popular hotel. Inside, he ducked into the washroom to get the black carbon graphite from the typewriter ribbon off his fingers. It was the one curse of the Blick. Its devilishly complex jumble of gears and levers through which to thread the ribbon when it needed to be replaced always left his hands a filthy mess. But he’d been a man on a mission tonight and hadn’t noticed his dirty hands until he was halfway to the hotel.

By the time he’d washed up, the liveried attendant glowered at Jess from his station by the door of the marble-tiled lavatory. It wasn’t terribly difficult to determine the source of the man’s irritation. The hotel crest, embroidered on a brushed linen hand towel in nearly invisible white stitches, had been a pristine white when the man had handed it to him moments earlier. Now, as Jess lobbed it into the bin at the man’s feet, he saw that it was blackened and nasty. He resisted the urge to shove the discarded hand towel beneath the others that stood out stark and white below it in the pile, and instead, doubled his tip, which hardly mollified the fellow. But at least he stopped blocking the door so Jess could make his escape.

It seemed impossible that a full day had passed since he’d dined at the Warwick. Busy as the day had been, he’d found scenes and sounds from the night before constantly intruding on his concentration. At one point he’d even caught himself whistling the gypsy tune. Tonight he’d find out if the virtuoso violinist could sustain his first impression. He half expected to be disappointed.

Nearly always, dinner was an afterthought for Jess, something his stomach would nag him about until he’d finally take to the streets in search of an open café or sandwich shop. So, finding himself at the Warwick Hotel dining room two nights in a row was so out of character that he very nearly turned on his heel and pointed his nose toward the door.

“Will you be dining alone, sir?”

The maitre d’ leaned expectantly toward the dining room’s tasseled colonnade and made the decision for Jess. He’d stay for dinner.

Halfway across the room, Jess began to think he was being led to the same remote table by the kitchen he’d occupied the night before. But the chair that was held out for him was just two tables from the empty stage. It couldn’t have been better had he bribed the fellow.

Jess stretched out his long legs beneath the crisp linen cloth and settled back to watch the meticulously trained staff at work.

“Care for ice, sir?”

A thin boy of perhaps ten or eleven held a crystal urn filled with gleaming cracked ice at the ready near Jess’s goblet. Jess chuckled at the boy’s blank expression. He concentrated just hard enough to be polite to his patrons, but his mind was a zillion miles away.

“Ever drop one of those?”

“Beg pardon, sir?” The boy jumped, startled at having been spoken to, and nearly dropped the heavy leaded crystal. He clutched it to his chest as the ice inside clattered to rest. ‘Yes’ and ‘no thank you’ were the words he would be most accustomed to hearing from patrons. To most diners, he and his kind were invisible.

“Have you ever broken one of your ice buckets?” Jess winked and grinned, trying to reassure the lad who was clearly uncomfortable over being drawn into conversation.

“No, sir.” The boy’s eyes grew huge, and he drew the words out as he contemplated how horrid it might feel if he’d had to answer ‘yes’.

“What d’you think would happen?” Jess folded his hands in his lap, showing the child he had all the time in the world to hear the answer.

“Mr. Tony’d whup me, sir.”

“Ah.” Jess nodded soberly. “And then what?”

“Then my pa’d whup me.” This answer took no thought at all and spilled out on an involuntary snort.

“Well, of course. He’d have to, wouldn’t he.”

“That’s what he’d say, anyway. You want ice or not?” The boy shifted the heavy crystal bucket.

“In a minute. But what happens first?”

“Huh?”

“Tell me each thing that would happen if you were to drop something like this.” He gestured toward the gleaming glass.

“Y’mean...”

“Just picture it in your mind smashing to the floor and describe it to me second by second.”

“Well...” the boy shifted again and focused his gaze on the cold cut glass he held. His eyes flicked briefly left and right, as if he worried that someone might see him talking overlong with this crazy man, and then he carefully set the crystal bucket on the tabletop. He flexed his wet hands, deeply reddened by the cold glass, and slid them along his pant legs to dry his palms.