Annapolis, page 77
“Don’t make it so simple,” said Jack. “Besides, the rest of the world knew the truth about Tonkin six months later. Lyndon Johnson told a couple of senators that our navy could’ve been shootin’ at whales, for all he knew.”
Ollie shook his head again. “Tonkin was the place where the politicians started lying to us.”
Jack patted him on the shoulder. “Ollie, politicians have always lied to us. Military men, too. Sometimes they don’t even know they’re lying.”
“Sometimes,” said Susan, “men make terrible messes.”
“Sometimes,” said Jack, “it helps to know this.”
Oliver nodded. “You cleaned up that mess on the Tien Doc.”
“Oliver,” asked Susan, “after all these years, why did you decide to tell it at all now?”
Oliver thought for a moment, as though the question had not occurred to him. “There’s a lot of truth-telling going on around here. So I gave Jack one more chance to write the truth about the Staffords. I’d say he did a fine job.”
A SHORT TIME later, the fire chief let them into the Fine Folly.
Strangely, the house seemed once more to be part of the eighteenth century. It was smoky and cold. Water dripped through the ceiling and covered the floors. But there was light flooding in at the back, filling the foyer and the great room and the library in a way that they had not been filled in nearly a hundred years.
Once more the grand staircase rose around a door that led to the outside, and beyond it rose the green copper dome of the Naval Academy chapel.
“Oh, Lord,” said Betty, looking into the room where Washington had danced, where Civil War soldiers had suffered and died, where Betty herself had met Aunt Katherine on the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. “Everything is ruined.”
“The plans for the institute are, at least,” said the admiral. “Without the addition, there’s not enough room for us. But it would seem like a sin not to fix this place up.”
“A terrible sin,” said Betty.
“I think we should restore it,” said Steve Stafford, who knew the Fine Folly only from what he had read in Jack’s book.
“Who’s we?” asked Oliver Parrish.
“All of us,” said Jack.
“We don’t really agree on much of anything,” said Oliver.
Jack looked around. “I think this place can stand up to a few petty arguments.”
Just then the fire chief and one of his men climbed up through the opening that led to the back of the house. “You folks might be glad to know that Simpson Church didn’t set the fire. It started back at the electrical box in the basement of the hotel section. Another job the owners put off for too long.”
“So,” said Betty, “it was just an act of God.”
Susan looked out at the bright sky beyond the ancient doorway. “Maybe you should say it was by the grace of God.”
THAT AFTERNOON, THE Annapolis pulled away from the sub tender in the harbor and headed back down the bay.
People who watched her from the dock of the ancient city were struck by how insignificant she seemed beside the big sub tender, at how graceless she seemed when surrounded by the sailboats and the nimble power boats skimming close for a look.
She was bound for deployment with the Sixth Fleet, operating in the Indian Ocean, near the Strait of Hormuz.
Intelligence reports and satellite photos indicated that two Kilo submarines, bought from the Russians by Iran, had been practicing mine-laying techniques in their own territorial waters. A well-laid series of mines across the Strait of Hormuz would throw the world into the same kind of turmoil that had drawn Steve Stafford to the gulf a few years before.
Americans knew nothing of this and might never know. If the time came, Steve Stafford would tell them. If not, he would continue to tell them that the fast-attack submarine and the carrier battle group were America’s first line of defense.
Retired Admiral Thomas Stafford would agree with his grandson. He would call for another Seawolf submarine , and a new generation of SSNs after that, a multibillion-dollar investment in our children’s future. The chaos theory among nations, he would write, demanded that we defend ourselves as staunchly as we could.
Susan Browne would make her film.
Oliver Parrish would continue to insist that we spend too much on submarines and airplanes, and on missiles designed to fly through windows, down hallways, and into beds.
Jack Stafford would just try to finish writing the story of his family, their follies, and all their fine achievements.
In the last scene, the Annapolis would reach the hundred-fathom curve. The officers would scramble down from the bridge. The hatches would be secured. The big submarine would begin its dive to classified depths at classified speeds, already listening for pirates.…
And after everything, that ancient house in that ancient city would still be sturdy enough to hold it all.
Turn the page for a preview of
CITY OF DREAMS
WILLIAM MARTIN
Available in May 2010
from Tom Doherty Associates
A FORGE HARDCOVER ISBN 978-0-7653-2197-8
Copyright © 2010 by William Martin
CHAPTER ONE
Monday Afternoon
Peter Fallon read the caller ID, pushed the Talk button, and said, “I am not moving to New York City.”
“That isn’t why I’m calling,” said Evangeline Carrington.
“But that’s where every conversation ends up.”
“Listen, Peter, I’m in a bookstore.”
“What are you doing in a bookstore?”
“Buying you a wedding present.”
“I have enough books.”
Peter was sitting in his office. Books everywhere. And in the outer office, more books. But not just any books: a Shakespeare Second Folio from 1632, a first edition of Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, a signed first of Tales of the South Pacific, the rarest Michener, three million dollars worth of books, all bought, sold, and brokered from the third floor of a Boston bowfront, above an art gallery that was above a restaurant.
“If you think I’m getting you golf clubs,” she said, “forget it.”
“I’d love a new Callaway driver,” he said. “We can play on the honeymoon. Nice golf courses in France.”
“Forget France,” said Evangeline. “I want you to come to New York.”
“See? I told you. This is where every conversation ends up. I don’t want to live in New York. And there’s a wedding in ten days. In Boston. There are details.”
“Name a detail that I haven’t already taken care of.”
“I have to put the dance tunes on my iPod. I have to shuck the oysters—”
“Peter, get serious.”
He sat up straight, as if she were in the room. “Okay. I’m all ears.”
“I’m in Delancey’s Rarities on Fourth Avenue, in the back. I’m going through a bin of engravings, because I know how much you like them, and this bag lady comes in.”
“A bag lady? In New York? There’s news. Does she smell?”
“Of rum. I can smell it back here. But she doesn’t sound drunk, or old, or especially derelict. That’s what’s got my attention.”
“Eight million stories in the naked city, babe.”
“She’s saying how Delancey is an expert in old money, and so is she, so they should team up, because she knows where there’s a lot of it, and if they work together—”
“Smart bag lady. She knows enough to go to Delancey. A major player in the scripophily market.”
“Scripophily?”
“Collecting old money. Antique stock certificates, bonds… it’s hot right now.”
“Oh, hey, wait a minute…”
Peter could hear Evangeline breathing. He could almost hear her listening.
While he waited, he clicked the Internet and glanced at the stock market. The Dow was dropping—and fast—in the last half hour of trading.
Then Evangeline was back. “The bag lady says she has something that’ll impress Delancey. But she’ll only show it to him on her turf.”
“She sounds batty. Don’t let her hear you or see you, or she’ll make herself your pain in the ass instead of his.”
“She can’t see me. I’m in the back. And she can’t hear me because I’m whispering, and Delancey’s playing his old-timey music.”
Peter could hear the music, too. “That’s Benny Goodman. The term is timeless, not old-timey.”
“Okay. Timeless. Now they’re talking about a room papered in old money. You know, Peter, I think we should see what this is about.”
“We?” Peter laughed. “Aren’t you always saying, ‘Peter,’ in that cold, calm voice you get when you’re pissed off, ‘Peter, I’m just a travel writer. Don’t be dragging me into your treasure hunts.’”
“Peter,” she said in a cold, calm voice, “ten days from now, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine, right?”
“Right.”
“You were the one who turned down the prenup. Right?”
“Right”—Peter put his feet up on the desk—“because I’m after your money.”
“So if this is something big, and it pays off, it’s community property. Right?”
“Right.”
“And it could make a helluva wedding present… wait a minute”—her voice rose an octave—“she’s showing Delancey a picture. Peter, this could be… something.”
“Right.” Peter tried to control a laugh. “Something.”
“I can see you smirking, Peter. Stop it. Oh, hey… she’s leaving. The bag lady’s leaving. Do you think I should go after her?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” Peter laughed.
“Peter, screw you.” And she clicked off.
PETER SPUN IN his chair and looked out the window.
He realized that if this marriage was going to work, he had to learn the difference between smart-ass and plain-vanilla ass.
He thought about calling her back, but he knew that would only make things worse. So he just pictured Delancey’s store.
Peter’s old mentor, Orson Lunt, once said, “Whenever you’re in New York, go down to Book Row. Stop in at the Strand, of course, then go to Delancey’s. It’s dark, it’s messy, but it’s a treasure trove. Look around, go through the bins, get to know Delancey, ask him as many questions as you can, but answer as few as possible, because he’s sharper than Gillette, and he doesn’t miss a trick.…”
Orson was retired now, but Delancey was going strong, the kind of guy who’d probably die in his store someday, get to heaven and go looking for Bill Shakespeare, just to ask him where he’d hidden the first folios. Then Delancey would figure out a way to come back to life, dig them up, and sell them.
Of course, Delancey had done pretty well in this life, too. He played the poor bookseller in the dumpy shop, one of the last holdouts on Book Row, but he also owned the building, and every year or so, he sent Peter an e-mail that went like this:
Dear Pete—
Strike one: Peter hated to be called Pete.
I’ve been doing business with a New York stockbroker who also happens to be a major collector. Considering his interest in our field, I think you might be interested in his services. Business to business, so to speak. This is some chance. He doesn’t take on many clients. And believe me, there’s no one in Boston who can match this guy’s heat.
Strike two: Peter had a Boston broker who delivered all the “heat” any investor could want, without New York’s high overhead or taste for two-hundred-dollar lunches.
So give it some thought. Minimum investment, five mil.
Strike three: for Peter to come up with that much money, he’d have to sell his inventory, his condo, his car, and he’d still be scrambling.
Peter often wondered what Delancey got out of the relationship beyond a loyal customer, and he almost called Evangeline to warn her about a sales pitch. But he knew she was too smart to fall for one.
So he imagined her walking from the back of the store, past the long bookshelves, toward the afternoon light flooding the front…
…AND SHE WAS.
She stuffed her cell phone into her purse and hurried through the American history section and up to the big windows that looked out onto Fourth Avenue.
The bag lady had left and turned south toward the Bowery. She was pushing a shopping cart full of boxes, bottles, a plastic trash bag, and a scruffy little dog.
Evangeline couldn’t see her face, just a dirty raincoat and a dirty Mets hat over a mess of dirty brown hair. Should she follow?
“Find anything?” Delancey said “find” with a New York accent that made it come out foiwnd. Though it was early May, he was wearing a gray wool sweater vest over a white shirt and skinny brown tie. And his comb-over reflected—literally—his talent in the lost male art of creating something out of nearly nothing but Vitalis.
Strictly old-school. That was what Peter said about Oscar Delancey, and he meant it as a compliment.
“I didn’t find any priceless engravings of Lincoln, if that’s what you’re asking.” Evangeline craned her neck to watch the bag lady rattling away.
“The Bowling Green, eleven o’clock tonight,” said Delancey.
“What?”
“That’s where I’m supposed to meet her.”
“Who?”
“I heard”—hoid—“you on the phone. Did you say hi to Pete for me?”
“Of course I did, and don’t call him Pete.”
“Did you tell him about the crazy broad who just left?”
Busted. Evangeline stepped back from the window and gave her blond hair a little flip. She knew that he liked looking at her. To a man in his late sixties, a woman of her age was just a kid. That was why she had worn a skirt and a heel. She always made better deals if Delancey was in a good mood. She noticed his eyes flick down to her legs, so she turned her foot to give him some calf. But when his eyes stopped at her chest, she folded her arms and said, “Of course I told him. A bag lady walks into a bookstore and starts talking about a room papered in money? How in the hell could I miss that?”
“I was talking about a room papered in money. I was telling her that I hear stories like hers all the time, about old grandmothers findin’ old bonds underneath old wallpaper in shitty old bathrooms on the Lower East Side, and if I go and look, I don’t find anything but old cock-a-roaches.” Delancey dropped into his chair and swung to his computer. “I’ll bet Pete told you to leave her to me.”
“He did, but if you’re not interested in what that bag lady—”
“Honey, she’s one of the reasons I put in a buzzer system.” He pressed a button beneath his desk and the door lock gave an electric hum. I’ve got one of the best inventories of rare books in Manhattan, and I never worry about the bad guys, but pain-in-the-ass old bums with B.O. drive me crazy, male or female.”
“So why let her in?”
Delancey shrugged. “Eh… I’m a soft touch. What can I tell you?”
“She showed you a picture just now.”
“An old house on the West Side. It was a fancy estate in Washington’s day. An eyesore in Lincoln’s. Torn down in Teddy Roosevelt’s. This is the second time she’s come in here with that cockamamie story. She tells me I have to meet her somewhere. Tells me a time and a place. But I don’t go.”
“Why not?”
Delancey gave a bigger shrug. “What do I look like? Stupid? I’m a businessman, for chrissakes. I’m not into cops-and-robbers stuff. Not like your boyfriend.”
“So why does she bother you instead of some other dealer?”
“Eh… she must read the papers before she sleeps in them.” He looked at her over his glasses, as if trying to decide how much to tell her, and said, “I sold a couple of old bonds to an uptown buyer and it made the papers.”
“Who?”
“Well, I wouldn’t tell you except that—”
“Don’t say you wouldn’t tell me except that you like my legs.”
Delancey chuckled. “I wouldn’t tell you, except that his identity was in the papers. My stockbroker. Austin Arsenault. You heard of him?”
She shook her head.
“I sold him two Revolutionary War bonds that he’s now trying to get the Treasury to honor. Gone all the way to the Supreme Court. It’s a big story in the scripophily biz.”
“Does this make you the scripophily stud?”
“Yeah. But the pretty girls ain’t flockin’. You know any pretty girls you could send my way?”
“Maybe.” Evangeline sat on the edge of his desk and swung her leg. “I also know that a room papered in money might make a pretty nice wedding gift.”
Delancey watched her leg for a moment.
She was playing him, and he knew it, and she knew that he knew it.
Then he said, “If you really want to meet this bag lady, have dinner with me tonight. Then we’ll see if she shows up.”
“And if she does?”
“I’ll split the commission. But half of nothing is still nothing.”
She stopped swinging her leg and offered her hand. “Deal.”
He took the hand and grinned. His teeth were stubby, mostly yellow near the roots, mostly white toward the ends, as if he only brushed halfway. “Bring a friend. And wear something that shows your… assets.”
“Good that you said ‘assets.’ If you’d said ‘tits,’ I would have been mad.”
“Well, you can show them, too, if you want to humor an old man.”
“You’re not old,” she said. “Just horny.”
PETER FALLON WAS asleep in front of the television when the phone woke him. He saw the green of Fenway. He heard the announcer’s voice: “Red Sox three, Yankees two.” He grabbed the remote and pressed Mute, then he picked up the phone. “It’s ten thirty. This better be good.”
“I’m having dinner with Delancey,” said Evangeline. “I’m in Fraunces Tavern.”
Peter could think of no more incongruous sight than the little building that sat at the corner of Pearl and Broad Streets, surrounded by the giants of Lower Manhattan. In Boston, you were always stumbling across redbrick reminders of the Revolution. But a third of New York had burned to the ground in 1776, and a lot more had gone up in the 1835 fire. And the rest had fallen to progress once the concrete march from the Battery to the Bronx had begun. In the whole fourteen-mile length of Manhattan, there were only four or five buildings where the sunlight still slanted through the windowpanes of the eighteenth century. Fraunces Tavern was one of them.
