Authors: Elizabeth Adler
“Dan, old fella,” he said out loud, still laughing. “If only you could see your brother now, you would never believe it.
And
I’m being served a cooked supper at six-thirty
prompt”
He was still smiling when he fell asleep.
Eileen Malone was famous among the struggling members of the acting profession. They knew that her house was clean, her food plain but good, and that it was served in generous quantities. “I’ll not starve anyone,” she often said as she handed out generous portions of mashed potatoes
and cabbage and cutlets, and on Sundays, her special roast beef. “Not when my own family and countrymen have died from it,” she would add feelingly, watching as her satisfied boarders cleaned their plates.
When her husband died seven years after they were married, Eileen found herself to be that rare phenomenon, a childless Irish widow with no sons to take care of her in her old age. She knew she would have to make her own living. Pulling herself together, she sold her small house and with the money saved and a loan from the bank she had bought a bigger one nearer Broadway where she knew she would always be able to keep her dozen rooms filled.
Life was not without its harsher moments: getting money out of actors was not easy, which was why most landladies snubbed them. But Eileen had a soft spot in her heart for a good-looking man and besides, they kept her entertained with their stories. She knew all the latest Broadway gossip and they made her feel a part of their world. She was forty years old, well endowed, and of a motherly disposition.
She supposed it was Finn O’Keeffe’s innocence that appealed to her as much as his good looks, because even in that suit, he was a very handsome young man. There was just something about him, a lean, urgent hungriness—not just for food, but for life—that struck her heart a hammer blow.
“I have this instinct for talent,” she would often announce, looking piercingly around the supper table at her boarders. “Didn’t I predict my boarder Ned Sheridan’s success? And wasn’t I right? Isn’t he at this very moment on tour with a successful play? Believe me, that’s only the beginning. That young man is destined for great success. And when he returns he’ll come back to stay at Mrs. Malone’s again. Nowhere else will do.”
Her boarders would stare at her, hoping her perspicacious gaze would mark them out for success in the same way it had Ned, but it was only Finn who gave her that same feeling. Not Maria Venturi, the young actress from the third floor back who was three weeks behind with the
rent and would be out on the street come next Friday if she did not pay. And not the Marquand sisters who were French and flirtatious and played in reviews, kicking their legs and showing more than they ought—but at least they paid their rent on time. And not any of the other would-be playwrights, vaudevillians, and actors who lived permanently on the edge of “success,” haunting managers’ offices by day and the Broadway bars by night, eking out their money and always hoping for that lucky break.
“Mr. O’Keeffe is different,” she told her boarders, introducing him when he appeared promptly at six-thirty for supper. “Mr. O’Keeffe is going into the money business.” They glanced up interestedly at that magic word “money” and she gave Finn the seat of honor on her right, well away from the French girls who flirted automatically with any man, no matter how old or unattractive. “But does not everyone flirt?” Corinne Marquand had asked innocently when Eileen had warned her about it. Blond, pretty Corinne had her eyes fixed on Finn now and Eileen was watchful as the emaciated little maid deposited a brimming bowl of soup in front of each of the boarders.
“What exactly does it mean, ‘the money business’?” Corinne asked, directing a charming smile at Finn. “It sounds so
masculine.”
“It’s to do with stocks and shares,” Finn explained, returning her smile. “I’m to work for James and Company, the brokerage house.”
Everyone had heard of it and they stared respectfully at him, wondering how much he would be earning.
“And what will you do there, Mr. O’Keeffe?” Eileen asked.
“I’m to learn the business, ma’am. Mr. James will be spending more time in New York and he is to teach me himself.” Even Eileen was impressed then and Finn decided he had better not tell them he was just a jumped-up stablelad and coachman, and that out of the charity of his heart Mr. James was giving him an opportunity to better himself. And he had better not fail, he told himself grimly.
This was his chance and he knew from bitter experience that opportunities did not come twice.
After dinner he went back to his room. He undressed and hung his clothes carefully on the brass pegs and turned down his gas lamp. With his head on a duck-feather pillow and clean cotton sheets against his skin, he drifted off to sleep as easily as if he had gone to heaven. And he didn’t dream about New York or Eileen Malone or Corinne Marquand, or even about Mr. James and the brokerage house where he would begin his new life the next day. He dreamed about Lily, the same way he always did.
H
E WAS UP WITH THE DAWN
and ate his breakfast, cooked by the little maid-of-all-work, Peggy, at six-thirty. No one else was around, not even Mrs. Malone, and when Peggy put the huge plate of corned beef hash in front of him, he tackled it enthusiastically and asked her where everyone was.
“Actors keep different hours from the likes of us,” she informed him. “They work nights—when they’re working, that is.”
She poured him some more coffee and leaned against the sideboard, watching him eat. Peggy was another redheaded, freckled Irish girl, the daughter of immigrants. She was painfully thin with sunken eyes and skin as transparent as skim milk. Eileen Malone had promised her family she would feed her, as well as pay her five dollars a month and her room—which wasn’t really a room, it was just a wedge of attic partitioned off from the cheapest room in the house, which was occupied by Miss Venturi.
But, poor waif though she was, Peggy’s city sophistication was greater than Finn’s: she knew the working habits of actors and actresses, the names of the latest plays and musical shows and who was in them, as well as the price of the seats and the names and locations of every theater. “I’d like to be an actress one day,” she said wistfully, filling his cup again.
“Well, good luck to you, Peggy,” Finn said, getting up,
satisfied, from the table. He had a full belly and a great day to look forward to. “Can you direct me to Wall Street?” he asked.
She looked doubtfully at him. “You’ll not be thinking of walking? It’s an awful long way.”
“No matter.” Finn shrugged. Hadn’t he got his fine new boots to walk in? And wasn’t the sun shining? Besides, he was intent on saving every cent he could. She told him the directions, and picking up a cane from the stand in the hall, he twirled it around his fingers and danced down the steps into the street.
The sun was hot and the humidity soared unseasonably upward and Wall Street was farther than he had thought. By the time he reached James and Company’s palatial gleaming glass-and-mahogany front doors he was red-faced and sweating from the heat, his new boots pinched and he was nervous because he had lost his way and he was ten minutes late.
The top-hatted doorman looked suspiciously at him; but he was Irish, and when Finn explained who he was he wished him luck and showed him in.
The room was marble-floored and lofty. Chandeliers sparkled overhead despite the fact that it was daytime, and sunlight peeked in in colored ribbons through stained-glass windows. Polished desks with ruby leather tops were arranged along the length of the rooms. There was a green-shaded brass lamp on every one, and at every one sat a pinstriped young man.
The chief clerk at the big front desk had brilliantined hair, spectacles, a smart black suit, and paper-white hands. He looked as though he had never seen daylight and had been buried in an office his entire life.
He looked Finn up and down with a look of distaste as Finn explained who he was.
“Not
a good beginning,” the chief clerk said, glancing at the big round clock on the wall that said a quarter to eight. “In the future you will be at your desk by seven-thirty.”
He showed Finn into Mr. James’s office. Dazzled, he
stared at the Oriental carpets and the oak-paneled walls hung with portraits of stern-looking men.
“Welcome, my boy. Welcome.” Mr. James shook his hand warmly. “O’Keeffe is my personal protégé,” he told the chief clerk. “Give him a desk outside my door, next to my secretary. Introduce him to all the staff and tell them I expect them to cooperate in helping Mr. O’Keeffe learn our business.
“All you need to do for the first few weeks is watch,” Mr. James told Finn. “Wander around, look at everything. Be curious, ask questions. And if there’s anything you do not understand, then come to me.”
Finn sat nervously at his desk waiting for someone to tell him what to do, but the chief clerk had disappeared and everyone else had their heads bent over massive ledgers.
Remembering Mr. James’s instructions, he got up and wandered through the aisles, looking from left to right at each desk as he passed, but no one even glanced his way. At least not when he was passing they didn’t, but he knew they were watching him. He could feel their eyes on his back. Then he heard whispering and a ripple of subdued laughter.
He swung around and stared hard at them, but every head was bent industriously over a ledger and he turned away puzzled. He walked slowly on and then he heard that snicker again.
His Irish temper rose. Thrusting his hands angrily in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and stalked the aisles threateningly. One more snigger and he’d punch ’em in the nose, each and every one of ’em. He’d take on the lot, so he would, and he’d show ’em.
Jayzus, boyo,
he warned himself,
remember you’ve got one up on these miserable clerks. You are Mr. James’s protégé and what you were before doesn’t matter. This is your big chance! Keep your fists in your pockets and use your head for once.
He swung around and confronted them. “I’ll beat the lot of you, you pasty-faced little bastards,” he said in a low, menacing whisper. “Just remember this. I am here at Mr.
James’s personal invitation, and you are not.” Their heads shot up and they stared at him with astonishment. Whistling jauntily, he walked to the nearest desk and told the clerk to explain to him exactly what he was doing.
Mr. James’s secretary reported the incident to him and Mr. James reported it to his wife over dinner that night. “The boy came in wearing a funeral suit, clutching his derby to his chest, and looking for all the world like the Irish country hick,” he said, smiling. “And I threw him out there, just as he was, into the lions’ den. ‘Make or break,’ I thought. They gave him that city-slicker treatment and the first thing he did was let them know that, greenhorn or not, he had the edge on them, because he was my personal protégé. Now
that’s
what I call smart, Beatrice. Mark my words, he’s a very clever young man and we’ll make a gentleman out of him as well as a banker.”
From then on Finn took a trolley to Wall Street and he was at his desk every morning before seven. He knew that all he had was his ability to read and write and his own intelligence, and that his fellow workers were educated. But to his surprise, as the first week passed and then the second and then the third, he realized that, in the world of money, his qualifications were all that were needed.
And
the right patron, of course.
“Money is important,” Mr. James said, personally handing him his salary check for the first, exhausting month. “Obviously the money you have just earned can be exchanged for goods to that value. But, and I emphasize that
but,
O’Keeffe, as you have seen these past few weeks, money can also
make
money.
Every dollar you earn can earn money for you.
You don’t have to manufacture anything. You don’t have to create anything. And the more money you amass, the more money you earn. I have opened an account for you with James and Company’s bank and suggest you put as much of that salary check into it as you can, so it can gain interest, and then we’ll think about investing it properly.”
Finn thought Mr. James’s philosophy for making money
was even simpler than his brother Daniel’s about the shop, but he had other plans for his money. He had quickly learned that if he was going to play their game he would have to look like the players—only better. He went to the smartest tailors in Manhattan and boldly told them he was Mr. Cornelius James’s personal protégé and that he wished to be measured for two fine suits of clothes.
“I am putting myself in your hands,” he announced grandly, sinking into a chair while obsequious sales clerks swarmed over him, showing samples of worsteds and shirtings, silk ties and handkerchiefs, silk socks and fine leather boots, overcoats and smart hats. They measured him for everything and he told them that one suit and six shirts must be ready within a week, and no, he could not wait any longer. He told them authoritatively that he would pay forty dollars down and the rest on credit and they said they were honored to have his custom. And feeling like the million dollars he knew he was on the road to making, he strode from the shop.
He went to a barber on Broadway and had a decent haircut and a luxurious shave and then, smelling faintly of bay rum, his hair smooth and his mustache immaculate, he headed for Delmonico’s, where he bought himself a celebratory drink. Then he made his way home to Eileen’s.
“There’s a gentleman waiting for you in the parlor,” Peggy told him importantly. “I wasn’t sure whether to let him in or not because he looked such a ruffian, but he said he was your brother.”
Daniel was standing in the doorway, filling it with his bulk, and Finn’s eyes almost popped out of his head with the shock. It was a wildman he was looking at: Dan’s long, curly red hair mingled with his straggling beard, half hiding his face; his collarless shirt had burst its buttons and his old tweed jacket had holes at the elbows. His decrepit cord pants were held up with a pair of bright new scarlet suspenders and a scarlet kerchief was knotted flamboyantly around his neck. But the blue eyes twinkling from beneath his bushy red eyebrows were Dan’s all right!