The Warriors (70 page)

The balding financier’s eyes were brightly thoughtful. Louis shivered. Gould was an absolute wizard, not only of share manipulation but of the forces that motivated men. In the contemporary vocabulary there was no word more potent than ruined. Men would risk almost anything rather than be labeled with it. So would women—although to the female sex, ruin meant a loss of something other than wealth.

Louis began to feel less anxious. Fisk too seemed relieved. He lifted one flabby leg into the tub and lowered himself. “Knew we’d see eye to eye. We’ll go ahead.” He belched, adjusted his nautical cap, and used an index finger to dribble perfumed water into his navel. “And, between us, we’ll keep Danny’s pecker stiff when it droops. Every one of us is responsible.”

A glance at Louis. It said he was being tested again. He still didn’t enjoy the full measure of confidence Fisk and Gould had in one another. But they’d handed him another chance to prove his worth. He wouldn’t neglect it.

Out in the hall, someone knocked.

Gould jerked upright. “Confound it, Jim, we issued explicit orders.”

The words carried an edge of concern. Louis strode to the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Mrs. Bell,” a basso voice replied. “That you, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes. We said we weren’t to be interrupted.”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to be,” the woman retorted. “We have a peculiar situation downstairs. Some fellow’s asking for you.”

Louis’ stomach knotted when he heard Gould’s sharp intake of breath. Fisk began to burble outraged questions.

“Tell him I’m not here, for God’s sake!”

“He knows you are. He’s polite but he’s insistent.”

Louis turned. As he pointed to the bolt, his nervous eyes queried the other two men. He got a curt nod from Gould, unlocked the door, and admitted a massive woman in a brocaded gown.

“Why didn’t you have Dr. Randolph get rid of him?” Louis demanded.

“Because,” Mrs. Bell shot back, “he says his name’s the same as yours. He says his name’s Kent.”

Jay Gould stormed toward them.

“Louis, what the devil is going on here?”

Stunned, Louis lifted both hands. “Jay, it’s a damned mystery to me. How old is this man, Mrs. Bell? Forty-five? Is he wearing shabby clothes, like a parson’s?”

Hester Bell shook her head. “He’s shabby, all right. But I’ve never seen a parson in a Confederate overcoat. The boy’s in his twenties. Partially blind. That is, I assume so. He wears a patch—”

One of her ringed hands touched the powdered skin below her left eye. She added, “He says he won’t go till he speaks with you.”

“Blast it, I knew we shouldn’t have come here!” Gould cried. “Who is he, Louis?”

“I don’t know!”

“You’ve talked about your cousin, the preacher. I’ve never heard you mention any other Kents.”

Louis began to perspire. Even Fisk no longer looked cordial.

“Reverend Kent has a couple of sons,” Louis explained hastily. “I’ve never met them. I had no idea any of them were in New York. They’re Virginians.”

“Frankly,” Gould murmured, “I don’t care who it is. Someone knows you’re on the premises—and may know I am too. I have a reputation to protect.”

That amused Mrs. Bell.

“About the same kind as a Kansas rattlesnake’s.”

Gould went livid. “I’m referring to Helen and my sons. I sent my carriage home. You get that blasted Dr. Randolph to whistle up a hack. Send it to the entrance by the back stairs right away.”

He snatched up his overcoat, stick, and gloves. Mrs. Bell sighed. “I’ll do the best I can. It’s still raining. May take a little while.”

Gould’s eyes reflected the gaslight like chips of burning coal.

“It better not take longer than two or three minutes or I’ll speak to Bill Tweed, and then all the cash on the Street won’t help you keep your doors open.”

The warning was softly spoken. But Hester Bell looked terrified. Gould turned his wrath on Louis.

“I don’t care what personal matters have brought your relative here, but you damned well—” He thrust the gold head of his cane into Louis’ chest. Louis turned red but held his temper. Gould was in an absolute fury; that was plain from his use of profanity.

“—
damned
well better get rid of him, and not let on you’re here for any reason except pleasure!”

Fisk came flopping out of the tub like a white whale. “It’s all damned puzzling. Smacks of one of the Commodore’s tricks—sending some fellow around to spy on us. You came in your own rig, didn’t you, Louis?”

His voice was unexpectedly weak. “Y-yes. Straight from the headquarters.”

“Was there anyone hanging around when you left?”

He tried to recollect. “Just the other board members. Oh, and a boot boy.”

“Did you give this address to your driver?”

“Of course.”

“Loud enough so the boy could hear?”

“I honestly paid no attention.”

He began to feel increasingly threatened. Cornered, Fisk and Gould stuck together. In a space of seconds he’d again become an outsider—and all because of some damned act of carelessness he couldn’t remember! His voice trailed off in a lame way. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“Well,” Gould snapped, “you’ve created a devil of a mess.”

“Jay, I’ll take care of it!”

The black eyes were those of an enemy. “I know you will.”

Gould swept by, turned right in the corridor, and disappeared down the back stairs. Louis shivered again.

“Get out of here, get out, for Christ’s sake!” Fisk exclaimed. He shoved Louis into the hall, and Hester Bell after him. The door slammed. The bolt rattled in its socket.

Louis’ stomach was hurting fiercely now. If he had needed to be reminded of the stakes for which the Erie War was being fought—or the way an ally could be abandoned at the slightest hint of trouble—the last few minutes had done it.

“Mrs. Bell, are you sure this fellow said his name was Kent?”

“I’m not deaf. He said it.”

“Is he armed?”

“Not that I could tell.”

He thought quickly. “You have a back parlor downstairs, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Private?”

“Quite.”

“Show him in there. I’ll be down in three or four minutes.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clip containing greenbacks and gold certificates. “There’s a hundred for your help.”

Hester Bell slipped the money down her bodice. But she’d turned on him too. “I don’t want any scrapes here, Mr. Kent. I pay off too many policemen—and through them, the Boss himself.” She meant the man to whom Gould had referred—William Tweed, who virtually ruled the city through his control of the Tammany Society and the board of supervisors.

“I’m paying you to help me
avoid
a scrape!” Louis countered. “Are your two roughnecks in the house?”

“At night they’re never out of the house.”

“Have them stand by near the parlor.”

“All right.” She started away, then swung back. “Mr. Kent, I can be almost as vindictive as little Jay. If you’ve brought personal quarrels into my club and are trying to pretend you don’t know anything about it—”

“I don’t!”

“You’d better be telling the truth.” She smiled, picking up the train of her dress and hurrying toward the main staircase.

Damn
her! Where did the madam of a brothel get the gall to speak to him that way?

He knew very well. She was an intimate of Jubilee Jim—he was tight with Gould—and Louis had only been lately admitted to their confidence. If he bungled again, he would be out.

Tormented by worry, he paced the upper hall until he judged three minutes had passed. Then he wiped his palms on his trousers and started for the front stairs.

T
HE TINTED GLASS BOWLS
of the hallway gas jets cast a watery aquamarine light. Gideon paced back and forth in the entrance of the parlor to which Mrs. Bell had led him. The room opened off the long, narrow corridor at a point midway between the front foyer and a vestibule leading to a back door with an elaborate stained-glass window.

About ten feet back of the parlor and perhaps six feet from the vestibule, there was a large dark recess in the opposite wall. The well of a rear staircase, he suspected. He kept his eye on it. He had no idea where Louis would appear—or if he would. But for several moments now, he’d had an eerie feeling that someone was lurking in the recess. Hesitating there—perhaps hoping he’d desert the hall.

Could it be his cousin?

The presence of the unseen observer only heightened his fear and uncertainty. He’d brazened his way into the Universal Club by using Louis Kent’s name and pretending a familiarity that didn’t exist. Now he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He was beginning to think he was foolish indeed to believe he could stand up to one of the directors of the line—or even speak his mind in a coherent way.

He was uncomfortably conscious of the fetid stench of his wet overcoat. He must look a sight. Certainly he looked out of place in this quiet, elegant corridor where blue light shimmered.

A faint squeak by the back stairs. He was virtually certain someone was there. He turned and walked into the parlor—but not far.

He heard the footsteps distinctly. Two long strides took him back to the hall. A short man with a walking stick was hurrying toward the vestibule. He darted a look over his shoulder.

Gideon’s heart pounded. Recognition was instantaneous.

The bearded man averted his head and rushed on toward the stained-glass door. Afterward Gideon never knew where he found the courage—better, the idiotic audacity—to go charging down the hall in pursuit. Perhaps it came from an unconscious realization that he’d never again have such an opportunity.

“Mr. Gould?”

The short man broke stride. Gideon’s mouth went dry.

“Mr. Gould, wait. You’re one of the men I want to see.”

The man hesitated. Then he turned around. Gideon almost winced under the impact of the piercing dark eyes. The cover of
Leslie’s
had sprung to life.

He hadn’t realized Gould was so small. Five foot six or seven inches. The financier spoke softly, but with more than a hint of strain. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, sir.”

“No, I don’t believe—
wait!”
Gideon lunged for Gould’s arm as he started away.

Gould panicked, wrenched out of Gideon’s grip. At the front end of the hall, footsteps quickened to a run.

“Let go of him!”

Someone seized Gideon’s shoulder, flung him against the wall. Pendants on the gas fixtures tinkled.

“Jesus, Jay, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

Dots of color appeared above Gould’s beard. In the stairwell Gideon glimpsed two heavyset men watching. Where had they come from?

There was confusion on Louis Kent’s swarthy face; Gould’s anger seemed chiefly directed at him. Gideon forced himself to say, “You’d better listen to me, Mr. Gould”—the short man ignored that, giving Louis another furious glance before starting for the stained-glass door again—”unless you’d care to have it noised about that you frequent whorehouses.”

Jay Gould stood absolutely still, his head tilted back slightly. When he turned, his lips barely moved. “Is this your relative, Louis?”

“Jay, I’ve never seen him before! I don’t know—”

“Will you stop repeating my name like a parrot?”
Gould glowered past Gideon’s shoulder. In the front foyer, two round-eyed girls ducked out of sight. Suddenly Gould stalked to Gideon and pushed him toward the parlor. “In there! I don’t discuss
anything
in hallways!”

Gideon tried to walk calmly, straight to the center of the parlor. Louis, distraught and sweating, fumbled at the sliding door. He couldn’t seem to locate the handle. Gould thrust him aside and closed the door with a thump.

Two trimmed gas jets cast a blue light much weaker than that in the corridor. Gould seated himself at one of the marble tables, his gloved hands planted on the head of his stick. Louis leaned against the door, breathing noisily.

“Identify yourself,” Gould said.

“My name is Gideon Kent.”

“You
are
this gentleman’s cousin?”

Gideon could barely nod. He tried to remember the financier was as mortal as he. The remark about a whorehouse, a sudden inspiration prompted by Jephtha’s comment on Gould’s personal life, had given him Gould’s attention. He must take advantage of that.

“Mr. Kent and my father are actually second cousins—”

“State your business.”

Gideon’s voice steadied. “I’m employed in the Erie yards over in Jersey City.” Louis inhaled sharply. “I’m a switchman. Since the first of the year, two men—friends of mine—have been in serious accidents while on the job.”

He was perspiring. But he dared not stop. “One lost both legs. The other was killed, just this week. Both left dependents. Families that now have no income. They did your work, Mr. Gould. I want”—on an impulse, he doubled the figure he’d had in mind—“I want twenty thousand dollars for each family.”

“Twenty thousand?”
Louis gasped. He started to snicker. A gesture from Gould cut it off.

“Let me correct one thing you said,” the financier murmured to Gideon. “You
were
employed by the Erie line. As of tonight, that connection is severed.”

“Of all the lunatic demands!” Louis exclaimed.

Astonishingly, Gould chuckled. His black eyes remained fixed on Gideon.

“You have brass, Mr. Kent. I’ll give you that. But in all sincerity, I must tell you that your cousin’s word—lunatic—barely covers it. No railroad, including the Erie, pays money to those who are killed or injured while on duty. The risk is a condition of employment. You’re very foolish to think otherwise”—he leaned forward—“unless you’re some sort of union rabble-rouser. But we have no union that I’m aware of.”

“Perhaps it’s time you did.”

Louis started to slide the door back. “This has gone far enough. Let me whistle up the boys—”

Gould’s raised glove checked him. “I want to hear the rest.”

“I’ve said my piece, Mr. Gould. Except for this. You make plenty of money from the Erie. A fortune, I’ve heard. You can afford something for the families of two men whose lives were wiped out while they were working to fatten your bank balance.”