City of Promise (34 page)

In some circumstances, Josh learned, success was like the pox. It spread by contagion. By the middle of April he’d leased thirty-seven of the St. Nicholas’s forty-eight flats and he had a clutch of inquiries for the remaining units, some of them quite promising. He’d put a
series of notices in the papers and requested they be run on the pages women were likely to read. Unquestionably, it did the trick.

Churlish of him not to actually thank Mollie for the idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after she’d lied to him about her visit to Bowling Green. It still rankled whenever he thought about it. If she’d simply confessed once she got over the immediate effects of her adventure, he’d have forgiven her for not consulting him beforehand. (Though he could not honestly say he’d have given his permission for her to talk to the women, and it had turned out a useful exercise in terms of the flats.) But he could not understand that after she went to Bowling Green, after the potentially dire consequences for her and their unborn child, she did not own up to what she’d done. It was that which planted seeds of doubt Josh ignored with difficulty, even allowing for her condition, which Simon had warned him could lead to all sorts of female irrationality.

Fortunately he had little time to dwell on the matter. The flats were looking to be finished by the middle of April. McKim had done some drawings for him of a similar project to go up on Sixty-Eighth Street, on three of the six lots he’d bought with the money raised by pawning Eileen Brannigan’s jewels. The new building would be closer to Third Avenue. And while it would be served by the same horsecars, residents would have five further blocks to walk once they were dropped off at the end of the line. Those things made Josh think he must rent the second lot of flats for slightly lower sums. “You can save a bit on finishes,” McKim advised.

“Better still,” Josh said, “we can go up a story. I can afford that this time, and additional flats will protect my margin.”

“Nine floors,” the architect said.

Josh detected some hesitation. “Can we go up that high with no safety issues?”

“Keep the steel coming and you can go up twice that high. The only difficulty would be finding men who wish to install their families among the clouds.”

“People told me no one would want to live above and below each other. The St. Nicholas is two-thirds leased.”

McKim smiled. “You’re right and I was wrong. May I, nonetheless, offer a suggestion? One that might even qualify as an apology of sorts. For doubting you originally.”

“No apology required. I’m interested in your suggestion because I trust your skills and admire your talent.”

“Thank you. In that case . .” McKim’s pencil flew over the paper in swift and certain strokes. “Square the new building off. Build it over the three lots on Sixty-Seventh as well as those that front on Sixty-Eighth and have back-to-back flats.”

“It’d be like a tenement.” Josh could not hide his astonishment. “No cross ventilation.”

“Nothing like a tenement,” the other man insisted. “Those abominations run an air shaft up the center that’s so narrow you can reach across it. You,” more pencil strokes, “will have this.” He turned the sketch so Josh could see it more clearly. It was drawn as a bird’s-eye view and he was in effect looking down at a clearly defined space with trees and benches and what he took to be grass. “A central courtyard,” McKim said. “It will provide an amenity for the residents, as well as proper ventilation in each unit. At the same time you will not simply double the number of flats by doubling the building space. You will triple them. And you can make each nine hundred square feet rather than six fifty. So you can rent them for the same amount or perhaps more, despite their being further from the stable.”

He went on to explain the structural realities, the gains made by creating additional bearing walls, and differing configurations of plumbing and heating requirements. Joshua listened intently for twenty minutes. “Do it,” he said finally. “It’s brilliant.”

“I shall design and draw it,” McKim said. “Doing it, my friend, is up to you.”

Josh doubled the work at the foundry and Tickle hired two new men. He did so under the terms of the contract the two had negotiated that first day in the old slave quarters turned foundry. Base wage increased to fifty-three cents an hour for a forty-hour week. Time and a half for overtime. “I must pay you a wage now as well, Mr. Tickle. That was our agreement.”

“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 fiancée, 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 embarrassment. 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 hell 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 muffle 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 God, 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.”