Metropolis (41 page)

Harris turned to the wall with a groan, but then Sarah made him sit up for his medicines. After he’d taken them, Mr. Noe laid the flat wooden crate on the bed and said, “Frank, my boy, I think this might cheer you up, somehow. I hope so.”

It was heavy and about the size of a dictionary or a Bible. There was also a well-traveled letter. Both were covered with foreign franks and bore Harris’s name
—Frank Harris,
that is—in an unmistakable Gothic hand: his father’s. That was a strange sight, a meeting of two worlds he never thought would converge.

“They arrived yesterday.”

He blinked. “Thank you,” he said.

Mr. Noe extracted the nails from the crate with a hammer, producing a series of curdling screeches, while Harris fidgeted with the letter.

The letter, of course, was in German, and it was a mea culpa, beginning with the surprising words
My Dear Son, How happy I am to learn you are alive.
The story it told was not as simple as Harris had imagined it. His father wrote of a belated attempt to restore their relationship, apparently sometime around when Harris’s uncle brought his apprenticeship to an end. He said he’d sent letters, first to Hamburg, then to Fürth, without reply and concluded his son wanted no part of him. He said Wittold Diespeck had informed him this was true, and that he had respected his son’s wishes and desisted. He had, however, continued to send the money to cover the apprentice fees, apparently long after his son had been hauled back from Hamburg—an event of which Wittold Diespeck had neglected to inform him, just as he had failed to pass on his letters. But he acknowledged that the rift was his fault: He had sent his son away. He had neglected him. He was sorry.

Harris felt very little, reading the words. It was as if it were someone else’s life that had been ruined by a needless set of mistakes and misunderstandings. The question running through his mind was,
What does this mean to me now?
His father’s change of disposition couldn’t save him from the ordeals he’d seen or give him a Beatrice disentangled from Dandy Johnny Dolan. It couldn’t give him back the life he’d never had. What did it mean? Finally, at a loss, he turned to the box.

Another letter, folded and sealed with blue wax, rested on top of a bundle wrapped in cloth. It had been written the following week—an afterthought, but presumably they had traveled across the ocean on the same boat.
I
have
realized
there
are
two
things
of
your
mother’s
that
should
belong
to
you.
The first was the proceeds of her share of the Diespeck farm, which had been sold off. It was not a great fortune, but it was more than Frank Harris would have made on the bridge in five years, and his father proposed to transfer that value to his son.
A
month
or
more
will
have
passed
since
I
sent
this,
his father wrote.
Indeed,
many
years
have
passed.
But
now
I
urge
you
to
send
me
the
address
of
your
bank
in
New
York
by
the
transcontinental
wire.
I
am
an
old
man
now,
and
I
do
not
wish
further
delay
or
accident
to
prevent
this
transfer
from
taking
place.
It was the first thing that had really stirred him since he’d opened the letter, this idea that his father might die before they could communicate again. He felt the urgency, too, not for money in his bank account but for an exchange not mediated by months.

If he marveled that he was suddenly the sort of man who had a need to send a message by transcontinental wire, if the idea that he might soon have a bank account full of money was incredible to Harris, the contents of the bundle were far more real. Inside layers of cloth and brown paper, he found a familiar, elaborately tooled leather case. The smell of the old leather and the contours of the thing moved him far more than his father’s letters had yet managed to. It was so direct and visceral, so simple, so wanted. He opened the cover of the daguerreotype case and looked into the face of his mother. Yes, her eyes were closed, and yes, she was dead. He’d long since accepted that. The surprise was seeing himself so clearly in the reflection of the polished silver plate, his rather battered, bearded, grown man’s face floating just over her shoulder. Before it had always seemed an either-or: her face escaping, his intruding. Now he found they flowed together—viewer and viewed, mother and son. He was part of her, part even of his father, and yet he was also a man his mother could never have imagined: a man called Frank Harris who was helping to build a great bridge in a country she had never seen.

Some time later, Mr. Noe knocked. Sarah had gone home. Harris read his landlord and surrogate father parts of his real father’s letter, and Mr. Noe shook his head and smiled as he listened.

“Ah, Frank, my boy, that’s lovely. But I hope you won’t be moving out. The sum he mentions is large enough that you certainly could set up a modest house of your own, but you’ll always be welcome here. I’d like it if you stayed on.”

“Thank you,” Harris said. He hadn’t even thought of moving.

“And will you keep your same job? What with the fall and that money, maybe it’s time you did a different kind of work? Selling brushes, perhaps, or managing on the factory floor. There’s pretty good money in it.”

“Thanks. But I want to stay on the bridge—as long as I can work on top.” Harris was, in fact, worried he wouldn’t be allowed to go back up there, not after falling like that.

“Just so you know, my boy, that I’d like it if you wanted to come to work for me. There’s going to be a lot to do to get the new factory up and running. My offer stays on the table, any time you want it.”

Mr. Noe was going out that afternoon to inspect the progress of the construction. It was going to be a highly modern factory building and was being fitted out precisely to his rather unusual specifications. The present Noe Brush facility in Brooklyn had been too small for years and was technologically outmoded. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Noe had suggested that Harris come and work for him, but he didn’t push it—he didn’t fool himself that Harris would be as attracted to brushes as he was to stonecutting.
But as soon as he settles down,
thought Mr. Noe—and he was thinking of Dr. Blacksall—
then he’ll want a quieter existence.
He smiled and set the daguerreotype of Harris’s mother on the bedside table.

35.

A NEW ERA

T
he cook had reluctantly told Harris that she would admit Beatrice the next time she came, but Beatrice did not return. She was fully occupied handling Johnny. She let him believe she’d told Piker what he wanted. To Piker she suggested Johnny had been amused by the news reports—“quite
pleased,
” she said, that Harris came off so well.

Piker laughed. Piker laughed at anything Johnny thought was funny. “But doesn’t he want me to do him then?” he added. “I thought for sure he’d want me to do him now. He really doesn’t?”

Beatrice had been encouraging Johnny’s drinking since the Harris story broke. She didn’t want him thinking on his feet. At the moment, he was passed out in the living room, in no condition to speak for himself. But she knew it couldn’t last. Unless she did something soon, something drastic, Johnny would wake up. If he woke up and went out, he would talk to Piker. And Harris would be dead. She’d be in some trouble, too. She found herself fantasizing about killing Johnny. It would have been so easy—just a blow to the head. But then she envisioned the war for power that would erupt among the Whyos. More people than just Johnny would die, and she would be to blame. If only she had been a man, she thought for perhaps the hundredth, the thousandth time. Then she could have openly taken over.

She left the Dolan penthouse and walked the city till dawn, from the Battery north, all the way past the Restell mansion to Central Park and back. By the time she got home, she’d come up with a plan. It was a long shot, but the Whyos needed a boss. And she needed an ally. She went to see Fiona.

Fiona had come into her own since the Jimster made the gang. In the vacuum left by Johnny’s indolence, the two of them had put together a couple of very clever jobs, including a string of robberies based on intelligence about heists other gangs were planning to pull. A small crew of Whyos would arrive at the location first, enter stealthily and abscond with a substantial but exquisitely safe haul of only the most anonymous, fungible, easily pawned goods. It took restraint to leave the jewels and fancy silver behind for the second comers, but that stuff was much more identifiable and riskier to fence. Whoever got caught with it would bear the full responsibility for the job. Yes, thought Beatrice, Fiona had what it took. She understood the principle of subtlety. The only problem was her voice, which wasn’t as strong as she’d have wished. But she had an idea of how to handle that. She found Fiona down at the Morgue and arranged a rendezvous at Fulton Ferry that evening.

“Is there something going on? Tell me now.”

“
Jesus.
Not here. Just meet me, and bring the Jimster, all right?”

Late that afternoon, after she’d done the report, Beatrice made ready to go out and meet Fiona. Johnny sat up on the couch, polishing and sharpening the blades of his boots. He’d gone out to take a piss and had another drink and an egg sandwich she made him, but he was still in his blue velvet dressing robe.

“See you, Johnny. I’m going out,” she called to him from the front room.

“Come in here.”

“What? I’ve got to go out.” But she went to the doorway of the living room. She didn’t want him to get suspicious.

“You’re protecting your old boyfriend, aren’t you?” he said.

“What are you talking about?” So it was too late.

“Aren’t you?”

She realized he’d been listening in when she did the report, to see if Piker had dealt with Harris. Piker didn’t generally take two days on an assignment.

“He isn’t my boyfriend.
Jesus.
There’s a lot of jobs going on, and I’m keeping them all together, not you. Offing Harris isn’t my first priority. I happen to think it’s totally unnecessary. But I’m leaving for the Morgue right now, and so, if you insist, I’ll give Piker the assignment as soon as I find him.” It was a weak retort, she knew—there weren’t that many jobs going on—but Johnny didn’t stop her from going. She tried not to think about Frank Harris. There was no time for mooning, but there might be time to fix things. If she failed—well, she told herself she wouldn’t fail. If only Harris weren’t such an unlucky guy. Then she went out, not to the Morgue but to meet Fiona.

Undertoe had the German letter, but he knew it wasn’t enough to take back to Lieutenant Jones. He was regretting his choice of dupe more than ever—he’d never meant to pick a player, like Harris had turned out to be, just a down-and-out slob with a plausible grudge. The Geiermeier debacle was on his mind as Undertoe walked up the hill from Fulton Ferry to Brooklyn Heights in search of a little short-term satisfaction, maybe a backyard brownstone job that would net him some flatware and candlesticks, maybe just a rich old lady’s wallet, jewelry, dignity—whatever came his way. It was just after dark, and he cruised the dead-end alleys at the top of the Heights, one after the other, keeping his eyes peeled for possibilities. He spotted an attractive rear-garden entrance on a narrow tree-lined alley that was dominated by a large church. The casement windows spilled forth the sounds of evensong, chanted by a men’s choir, and Undertoe was filled with the sense of promise, of possibility. The sound would make a good cover. One of the problems with Brooklyn as a territory was that it was too quiet; a crash or any sort of unexpected screaming could be heard by everyone in a mile radius, it seemed.

He looked down the alley and saw a young lady standing at the dead end of the street, where it overlooked the harbor. Her slim waist and full skirt were silhouetted by the lingering brightness of the western sky over Manhattan. She appeared to be contemplating the harbor, deeply absorbed in thought. An easy mark. He was planning to come right up and make some remark about the view before he showed his cards. He was close upon her before he saw that she was not alone but engaged in a conversation with two other people who were seated on a bench obscured from his view by the shrubbery and the shadows. Not such a good target after all. As he turned to go, the choir in the church stopped singing and Undertoe picked up the tones of a familiar voice. He turned back for another glance, to see whom he was dealing with. That was when he realized who they were: the Dolan girlfriend, the Jimster and his girl. The rash on Undertoe’s neck prickled and he backed out of the alley. He felt angry as he headed back down Hicks Street, the idea of a brownstone job forgotten. It looked, instead, like it was going to be another of those nights on which he earned his nickname.

The three Whyos had taken the ferry across and then they’d verged south, remarking to one another on the flowering shrubbery, just as if they were out for no other purpose than to enjoy an evening stroll on Brooklyn Heights with its views of the city at the end of every lane. The alley they found seemed perfect for Beatrice’s needs. The choir rehearsal would mask their voices from anyone—cop, Whyo or civilian—who wandered up the block. They walked to the end of the alley and Beatrice began to talk, starting with how Johnny had collapsed after his mother died. Finally, she bit the bullet and told them the main thing: that she’d been covering for him at every check-in and evening report since. She didn’t expect them to believe her, at first, and they didn’t. Fiona was just as incredulous as Beatrice had been when Johnny first told her about his mother. The Jimster was a little easier—he’d been her pupil far more often than Johnny’s since he joined the gang, and though Beatrice had made sure that Johnny was the one who taught him the private codes, Johnny simply wasn’t the legend to the Jimster that he was to the other, full-fledged Whyos. Johnny wasn’t impressive these days, the way he used to be.

Beatrice knew from the start that she’d have to prove herself. That was why she’d gone for the cover of the choir. She looked back up the street and, seeing no one, quietly began to imitate his voice, perfectly hitting the strange tenor vibrato of his signature whyo and deploying various secret idioms that Fiona and Jimmy both believed belonged to them and Johnny alone. Of course, she was convincing: It was she they had been talking to every time they reported in, ever since Mother Dolan had died. But it shouldn’t have been possible. They looked at each other and then at her, disturbed. They didn’t approve. It wasn’t right. Beatrice understood. She remembered how she’d felt when Johnny first divulged it to her.

“He can barely do it himself anymore. It takes a lot of control, concentration and thought. God, half the time he can hardly talk straight or stand upright; he certainly couldn’t control a situation with his voice. What I’m telling you is, at some point soon, the others are going to see he’s weak. He’s going to get himself in trouble. And someone needs to be ready to step in the minute he does, because if he goes down and there’s no one there, the whole system—the protection, the common till, the freedom of the Why Nots—it’ll be gone overnight.”

“Jesus,” said Fiona. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

“Everything.” Beatrice looked from Fiona to the Jimster back to Fiona. “See, you’re the ones that can do it. I can’t. There has to be a man in front. And if something happens to Johnny, I’ll be alone—no one would accept just me. What I propose to do, in exchange for your promise to keep things running fairly and for the benefit of all, is to teach you two what Johnny and Mother Dolan taught me. Then, whenever the time comes, it’s going to be your show.”

“Beanie, I just joined. There’s no way—”

“That’s no disadvantage. Everyone knows he likes you, and you’re not a half-bad thief, and you can sing. But the main thing is, they’ll believe anything I want them to, if we set it up right. Don’t you see, I speak for him.
I am him.
But truth be told, Jimster—and no offense—it’s not so much you I’m picking as
her.
Or both of you. You’ll be the trousers, Jimmy, and the voice. Fiona will run the show.”

They were quiet and attentive and seemed nervous, all of which she took as a good sign, and so she went on and explained how it would work: As long as the Jimster could show he knew the myriad individual passwords and code names and as long as he took a strong lead the minute Johnny was down, it would create the illusion that Johnny had chosen him for his heir. There might be a little brawling, but she was confident the gang would accept it. After all, the Whyos liked being Whyos—the security and the income were unbeatable. She explained the rudiments of the secret language and how she ran a report, but she wouldn’t teach them the details or all the private idioms until it was really necessary. She omitted one other detail, too: If it worked, she was getting out just as soon as she could, and never going back. They shook hands and then, with the pact made, turned and headed back to the ferry.

Johnny had gotten a queer feeling from Beatrice that night, the way she promised so easily to go find Piker Ryan. She didn’t argue half enough, admitted her negligence too fast. It seemed to him she’d been a little too eager and submissive. He didn’t trust it. So instead of the squirt of laudanum he was craving, he settled for a jot of rum in his coffee and then went out to the terrace and made contact with Piker Ryan. It felt good to whyo again; he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been able to do it for so long.

“So did you find Piker?” he asked Beatrice when she got in.

“It’s all set, Johnny, no worries.”

“Because he didn’t see you down at the Morgue.”

“You went out? Well, I guess I saw him after you did. You want a gin?”

“He was just here.”

“You know,” she said, “you shouldn’t worry so much about security, Johnny. It’s going to make you look weak. And anyway, I’m doing it all. Everything’s under control.” But she knew that affecting a breezy manner wasn’t going to get her out of this.

“You? You’re just a little whore,” he growled, and threw his cup at her. “I don’t know why my mother was so keen on you.” She looked down at her dress, stained with coffee. The cup lay broken on the floor. But that was as far as he went. Then he poured himself a gin, ran himself a bath, hauled out his shaving cup and scraped the razor across his face. He wiped a palmful of pomade through his locks, pared his nails and slipped into his red silk waistcoat and a gabardine suit, carefully sliding the black mourning band around his upper arm. He slammed the door behind him.

When he walked into the Morgue a short time later, swinging his monkey-headed cane, he was looking like the old Dandy Johnny, and he was greeted with bawdy and enthusiastic shouts from the Whyos. They were glad to have their boss back and in a good mood. He bought a round of drinks for the whole bar. Piker Ryan was waiting for him in the back booth, as planned.

As for Harris, the purple and blue bruises that engulfed his backside and half of his face were now beginning to go green around the edges. There was a great nasty lump on his occiput that was still almost unbearably tender, but his mind was fairly clear, and the stitches up his arm and across his right knee were starting to itch. The doctor had told him he’d be back at work in a couple of weeks. The bridge company had told him he could have a transfer to the Manhattan tower if he wanted it, whenever he recovered. Dizziness was never mentioned. He was a bit of a folk hero now, and the publicity of his return would be good for the bridge. The reporters had gone away after a day or two when a better story broke: A disgraced servant girl had leapt from the belfry of Trinity Church and landed on the back of a pony hitched to a baker’s cart. Unlike Harris, she wound up dead. The pony had a broken leg and had to be shot as well. The girl’s friends and various people who knew her employer were willing to talk to the papers, providing plenty of colorful background. By contrast, what the papers knew of Harris’s life had been a bore and Harris himself too squeaky clean.

A few days after the hubbub around Harris subsided, a sizable amount of money was deposited in a bank account under Harris’s name via the transoceanic wire. Harris wired his thanks, promising a longer letter, and then began wondering what on earth to do with the money. He thought about sending some of it to the O’Gamhnas, but he was sure they would think it was tainted by some crime. He would have liked to give some of it to the Henleys, but they were proud people. For the time being, he just left it there, untouched, and began composing his letter to his father in his head. But he had trouble concentrating on that or anything else. Writing itself was next to impossible.