Second Street Station (19 page)

“Of course. And you’ll do it. I know you will.”

She hated seeing him like this. Charles had so much to offer but so little confidence. He needed to find his calling and realize his worth. She was sure that in time she could help him do that. Mary’s motherly instinct surfaced. She cradled his face in her hands and brought him to her, soothing him with kisses on his forehead, on his cheeks, trying to caress away the hurt. Eventually their lips met. It was like an explosion. A passion erupted inside of her, a passion she had never felt before. Mary knew it was too soon for them, even by her unconventional standards. Maybe the drink had lowered her resistance, or maybe she just wanted to, but as their clothes started to come off, she welcomed it.

It was Mary’s first time. She was confident, at times cocky, in many areas, but lovemaking was not one of them. The mystery of what it was like, if it would please her, if she would please him, were questions still to be answered.

Charles was a patient and gentle lover who saw how anxious she was and did everything he could to make her feel at ease. Unlike many men, he truly cared about her enjoyment and not just his. However, when he entered her, the amount of pain she experienced was greater than she had expected, and her instinctive grunt told him so. He stopped. She was actually relieved that he had, but she felt insecure and lied, telling him that everything was fine.

Not too much longer a wave of pleasure washed over the pain. It didn’t erase it, but the word “stop” didn’t occur to her again.

The next morning Mary and Charles made love again. This time she felt less pain and more pleasure.
I guess this lovemaking does have some merit,
she thought as she smiled at him, signaling her satisfaction.

The fact that a woman like Mary could care about him, possibly even love him, lifted Charles’s spirits. When he left that morning, he had a sense of well-being he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was fortunate, because his father would need his support. He had proclaimed this day to be his finest hour, the day when he would present his invention to the “greatest inventor of all time.” What John Pemberton didn’t realize was that he was also selling to arguably the best salesman of all time.

“Coca-Cola contains cocaine, but not a drop of alcohol,” he explained to Edison and Batchelor in Edison’s office. “A temperance movement is sweeping our nation. We’re primed to usurp the business of the coca wines, and millions will be ours.”

Pemberton smiled at Charles, who was sitting next to him with a pitcher of Coca-Cola in his lap. Pemberton knew he was doing a great job. There was much more to explain, but he paused for questions. He had no intention of monopolizing his conversation with Edison. That would be arrogant on his part.

“Sorry, Pemberton, not interested,” was Edison’s curt retort.

Pemberton blanched. Surely Edison had misunderstood something. He rose. “Please, Mr. Edison, wait. I…You see, I, too, consider myself a scientist. Not like you, there is only one you, but…”

Pemberton gestured to Charles to hand him the pitcher of Coca-Cola. Charles shook his head ever so slightly, urging his father not to proceed. He had studied Edison throughout his father’s presentation, and he could see that Edison didn’t have the slightest interest. But his father would never consider surrendering so easily. He had fought in the Civil War and still believed the South could win the battle when Sherman was burning Atlanta. He took the pitcher from Charles, then picked up an empty glass that was sitting near Edison’s bottle of Vin Mariani. His hands shook as he poured a glass of Coca-Cola.

“I worked hours on end, day in and out, searching for the right formula. I had the cocaine, the cola, but I needed the taste. Then,
miraculously—by
accident mind you—I spilled carbonated water into the mix. The result? Well, you’ll see.”

Sweat was pouring down Pemberton’s brow as he offered the glass of Coca-Cola to Edison. Edison stared indifferently, first at the glass, then at Pemberton, who helplessly stood there, not knowing what to do. The awkwardness increased as the seconds ticked away. Charles rose, gently took the glass from his father, put it on the desk, and then relieved him of the pitcher.

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” he said, then guided his father out the door, any sense of well-being Charles had felt earlier dashed along with his father’s dream.

“That could’ve been had for pennies,” Batchelor exclaimed after they had left.

“People expect me to change the world, not serve them fountain drinks,” Edison said as he turned to examine some papers on his desk.

“Speaking of which,” said Batchelor, already on to other business. He knew not to fight Edison once his mind was made up. “Our men have finished examining Tesla’s coil technology.”

Edison eagerly looked up. This was a subject in which he had great interest.

“As you thought, extraordinary. The possibilities are endless.”

“Too bad Nikola’s not a team player.”

“Should I get the men to work on it?”

Edison shook his head. “Too risky with what’s going on. Try Europe. I’m sure some young scientist will jump at the chance of working with Thomas Edison.”

Their business completed, Batchelor left, and Edison returned to his papers. He spotted the glass of Coca-Cola on his desk and decided to take a sip. He nodded his head; it had a pleasing taste. He shrugged and returned to his work.

The Bowler Hat was at work. It wasn’t his usual work. There were men of means who needed a man they could trust to carry out certain delicate errands, and his employers had secured him a job with one of those men. The errands weren’t difficult, but they needed to be accomplished discreetly by a reliable man. He thought the work was beneath him, but it still buoyed him considerably. It meant his employers did value him and want him to mend. That knowledge alone made him eager to go back out in the field, but he knew he would have to prove himself first.

As he entered the bookstore and looked around, he saw a preponderance of women. Women read more than men, and he wondered why. He decided it was a way for them to live out their fantasies while men like him lived them out in everyday life. The Bowler Hat approached a woman who was perusing the shelves.

“Hello, I work for Mr. J. P. Morgan. Mr. Morgan is ready to see you now.”

Without turning, the woman responded, “And what happens if I’m not ready?” After all, J. P. Morgan had avoided meeting with her for quite a while now. Then she saw the face of the stern, humorless man before her. “Yet it appears I am.”

And so Mary Handley left with him.

J. P. Morgan’s carriage was larger than Mary’s apartment; at least that’s how it seemed. As carriages went, it fit comfortably into the classification of “gigantic and absurdly ornate.” Mary looked around, marveling at the indulgences of the rich. “The pleasures of plenty,” she remarked, indicating the carriage. “A most enticing narcotic. I can see it becoming quite addictive.”

The Bowler Hat didn’t respond. He had a job to do, and he had no delusions about its importance. He was essentially a delivery boy at the beck and call of J. P. Morgan. True, a well-paid delivery boy, and one who commanded respect, but no more than that. Delivery boys didn’t overstep their bounds and engage in idle chatter. Nothing good could come from that.

Mary scrutinized him as he sat opposite her. Out of place in this environment, he appeared more military-stern than butler- or footman-dour. An air of danger surrounded him.

“How did you know where to find me?” she asked.

“Like I said, I work for Mr. J. P. Morgan.” And he stopped there.

If he has verbal skills, he’s loath to use them,
Mary thought. She was curious to know who he was, his background, and the details of his life. She didn’t deem the information essential, merely a mental exercise similar to her curiosity over Senator Conkling’s ill-fated stroll during the Great White Hurricane. This man did look very familiar though.

“I can’t help feeling we’ve met before, Mr….”

“We haven’t,” he responded, not willing to fill in her blank and give her a name.

“Is it possible I saw your picture in the newspaper?”

“You didn’t.”

Mary decided to drop the matter.
People with an air of mystery about them usually attract more attention than they deserve,
she thought, and turned to look out the window.

J. P. Morgan was intently watching a wrestling match. The matches were scheduled regularly at the New York Athletic Club to entertain its elite membership. Morgan enjoyed attending. He understood there was more to it than muscle. Strategy was key. Yet in wrestling, as in life, there was no substitute for brute strength.

Right now, strategy was winning. A smaller wrestler had the upper hand on a man who was much larger. The ring was brightly lit, and the surrounding stands where the spectators sat were in shadows.

George Westinghouse wasn’t surprised to find Morgan there. He had planned on it. Trading jibes with J. P. was one of his favorite pastimes. What good was all this money if you couldn’t have a little fun? He sat down next to Morgan, who, though aware of his presence, didn’t acknowledge it.

“Rumor is, we’re in for an upset, J. P.,” Westinghouse began, referring to the wrestling match. Morgan’s answer was a mere shrug. Westinghouse had planned to wait awhile before bringing up business, but he lacked the patience. So, as the match on the floor continued, the one in the stands began with Westinghouse initiating the first volley.

“Quite a show Tom put on the other day.”

“Yes,” replied Morgan. “Set you back a bit, I trust.”

“No need to fret. I have the superior technology, and whether it’s one year or ten, you’ll eventually come to me.”

“Married to that firebrand Tesla for a decade. A hefty price to pay.”

“I doubt he’ll be around for the long haul. His passion to see his creations implemented is also his weakness.”

The manager of the club appeared out of the shadows and whispered in Morgan’s ear, delivering the news of his guest’s arrival. Morgan nodded, and the manager left. Westinghouse sensed Morgan’s imminent departure and delivered his coup de grâce.

“Of course, a turn of events could change our fortunes more rapidly. Rumors abound of improprieties and even murder.”

As Morgan rose to go, the larger wrestler lifted the smaller one in the air, threw him to the ground, and pinned him. Morgan calmly pointed to the wrestlers.

“So much for rumors. Good day, George.” And he left with the satisfaction that he once again had gotten the better of Westinghouse.

Mary and the Bowler Hat sat silently in the study of the New York Athletic Club, surrounded by leather furniture, wooden tables, and walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Their relationship continued to lack any sign of conviviality, and the quiet had begun to make Mary uncomfortable, a rare condition for her. The Bowler Hat showed no signs of unease. In fact, he showed no signs of any feeling at all.

Upon first meeting J. P. Morgan, people usually behaved in three distinct ways; there were those who fawned, those who cringed with fear, and those who combined the two. Yet relief was what Mary conveyed when he let himself in. She shot up from her seat, approached him, and shook his hand.

“Ah, Mr. Morgan.”

“Miss Handley, glad you could make it.”

His job done, the Bowler Hat headed for the door, his only communication a slight glance at Morgan to see if anything more was required of him. It wasn’t, and he left. Mary couldn’t resist commenting.

“Chatty fellow.”

“Yes, sometimes it’s impossible to get him to shut up.”

Mary laughed, and Morgan gestured for her to sit. Not wanting to make her feel too at home, he had pointed to a straight-backed chair. She sat.

“I thought women were not welcome in here.”

“An advantage of my position. People like to please me.” Morgan was in his club, on his terms, and was dealing with a woman. He had every reason to feel in total control. That’s why, when he opened a humidor that was resting on a nearby table, he felt comfortable ceding personal courtesies.

“You mind?” he asked.

The shake of Mary’s head indicated she didn’t. In the unlikely event that she had minded, Morgan would have smoked anyway. He took out a cigar and lit up.

“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get to the point. Do you have any idea why someone would murder Charles Goodrich?”

As Morgan sat in a cushy club chair facing her, he rattled off possibilities. “Jealousy, greed, profit. Aren’t those the usual motives for murder?”

“I was hoping you’d be more specific.”

“Let’s not play games, Miss Handley.” He flicked cigar ash into an ashtray. “I’m fully aware Mr. Goodrich left a journal behind.”

Having been summoned now made sense to her. Morgan wasn’t granting her an interview. It was he who needed information.

“News travels fast from West Orange.”

“Another advantage of my position. People tell me things.”

“Could it be you’re also concerned with the journal’s contents?”

“Incentives other than self-preservation do exist.”

“Like what?”

“Leverage.”

He reached for a decanter filled with brandy on the table next to him. When Mary declined a drink, he poured himself one. Morgan held up his cigar and brandy glass.

“Brandy and a good cigar. I don’t know who first thought of the combination. A true inspiration.” He took a sip and breathed out a long, satisfied “Ahh.” Morgan had deliberately digressed from their conversation. He wanted her to know that he was in charge and that he would only give her information when he decided it was time, and then only if he wanted to.

“I need Tom for his creativity,” he said. “Yet I despise need. Need is weakness.”

Mary was now certain of the purpose of this meeting. “With the journal, you can pull his strings and make him dance like a puppet.”

“I see you’re quick on the uptake.”

“Greed is not hard to decipher.”

Morgan wasn’t fazed in the least. He stood, took another sip of his brandy and a big puff on his cigar, and then stretched out both his arms, gesturing expansively.

“With that in mind, Miss Handley, this is your lucky day. ‘I am such stuff as dreams are made on.’ ”

“ ‘We,’ ” Mary corrected him. “Your quote from Shakespeare, it’s ‘we are such stuff,’ not ‘I am.’ ”

“Well, Shakespeare didn’t know me.” Morgan paused for emphasis. “You may want to be the first policewoman. I can arrange that. It appears you’re an avid reader. You may want to open a bookstore. Consider it done. Choose your fondest desire—”

Mary interrupted him in the middle of his oratory. “I don’t have the journal, Mr. Morgan.”

He didn’t hesitate in the least. “You are pursuing it. It’s an odds game, and I prefer them stacked in my favor.”

Mary quietly studied Morgan, a man blessed with all the excesses of life, and was overcome with sadness. She rose quietly.

“You’re one of the most powerful men in the world. You have money for a hundred lifetimes. When will you have enough?”

“Oh Lord, you’re one of those.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

As far as Mary was concerned, there was nothing more to be said. If Morgan possessed information concerning Charles Goodrich, he didn’t care to divulge it. She started to leave, but Morgan had no intention of yielding control. He was the one who had called this meeting, and he would be the one to end it.

“It’s rather easy to take the moral high ground when you’ve accomplished nothing.”

Mary stopped and listened as he steamrolled ahead.

“Men like Jay Gould, Andy Carnegie, John Rockefeller, and me transformed this country from being a cow’s teat sucked on by Europe to being an industrial power. It took guts, it took fortitude, and it involved unspeakable risks. We damn well deserve whatever we can grab.”

Mary viewed Morgan’s diatribe as a
rationalization
for his abuse of power, and she had no intention of letting him get away with it. Her response took on a mocking tone. “Thank you for the lesson in ethics, sir.”

Morgan winced. Ethics be damned. Everyone was out for himself. How could this child not have realized it by now? Besides, when J. P. Morgan benefited, so did everyone else.

“When our success trickles down, do you honestly think people will care how much we profited?”

“You imply it will rain gold, yet we know that at best it’ll be a mild drizzle of pennies.”

“How could you possibly know?” he harrumphed.

“Because that’s all you could bear to let slip through your fingers.”

If she hadn’t insulted Morgan earlier, she was sure she had now and thought it would be prudent to leave posthaste.