Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  They danced by J. P. Morgan, Thomas Edison, and Charles Batchelor, who were conversing over cocktails, greeting the occasional intruder who came to pay homage.

  “I realize purple signifies power and nobility,” Mary whispered, “but dare I say J. P. Morgan’s nose pushes the proverbial envelope?”

  “It’s a rare skin disease.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Mary, if you are to get anything out of these men, they expect a certain behavior from women. You need to be pretty but harmless. A touch of savvy and they’ll shut you out faster than they would a vagabond.”

  Mary was disappointed. “I’ve dreamed of meeting Thomas Edison since I was a little girl, and you want me to play the fool?”

  “Are you aware of Machiavelli and his treatise The Prince?”

  “The ends justify the means, and my means is to deny my intellect.” She sighed. “Don’t mind me. You know what’s best, Chief. I’ll do as you say.”

  A man tapped Chief Campbell on the shoulder. When Chief Campbell turned, Mary was surprised to see Charles Pemberton, dressed in formal tails, looking even more handsome than he had at McGinty’s Tavern.

  “May I cut in, sir?” Charles asked, trying to squeeze as much Southern charm and tradition out of those few words as he possibly could. His request was followed by a silent pause until it dawned upon Mary that Chief Campbell was waiting for her reaction.

  “I know this gentleman. It’s perfectly fine…that is, if you don’t mind, Chief.”

  “Go right ahead. I have some arrangements to make,” he said, emphasizing this with a knowing nod. “And my wife is a great admirer of Edwin Booth. If I don’t obtain his autograph, I might as well not go home.” With that, Chief Campbell left the dance floor.

  Charles took Mary in his arms, and as they began dancing, he spoke his first words to her since that night at McGinty’s.

  “You’re a long way from Brooklyn, Mary.”

  “So are you. How are Tom, Dick, and Harry?” Mary was trying to rekindle their rapport. If it was a fluke or the result of drink, she wanted to know right away.

  “Green with envy,” he responded.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman in New York City.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t swoon,” she said. “In the Irish parts of Brooklyn, we call that blarney.”

  “Really? In Atlanta, we call it a hefty load of bull.”

  His response would have sent most women running. Mary, however, was delighted, and her spontaneous laugh signaled her approval. This man definitely had potential.

  Absorbed in each other, they danced past George Westinghouse, a fleshy man about forty years old with a large bushy mustache that stretched out to meet his longer, bushier sideburns. He was approaching Morgan and Edison’s clique with Nikola Tesla at his side. A prolific inventor, Westinghouse had made a good deal of his fortune when he revolutionized the railroad system by inventing the air brake at the age of twenty-two. To put it mildly, he and Edison were rivals.

  “Congratulations, Thomas,” Westinghouse boomed out, trying to cover the fact that being there brought him no joy. He offered his hand to Edison. “It’s a splendid tribute.”

  As Edison shook Westinghouse’s hand, he, too, remained cordial. “Thank you, George. Glad you could make it.” He wasn’t glad, but gladness was required of him.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Westinghouse replied, continuing their mutual-admiration façade. “You truly deserve it.”

  Tesla, who had little patience for social games, cleared his throat. Westinghouse switched to the purpose of their visit: making Edison squirm.

  “I believe you know Mr. Tesla,” Westinghouse said, indicating his companion. “I’ve just pledged Westinghouse funds to back his AC system, give you and J. P. a run for the money in the electrical market.”

  This was the first Edison had heard of the alliance, but he’d be damned if he’d give them the satisfaction of showing any concern. He smiled and shrugged. Morgan’s reaction was different. This was his home, his domain, and any attempt at encroachment was immediately challenged.

  “I always welcome competitors, George.” Morgan’s voice couldn’t have been calmer. “It makes success that much sweeter.”

  The dance music stopped, and the orchestra played a brief and loud musical fanfare. The conductor had an announcement to make.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have the distinct pleasure of presenting to you the Honorable David B. Hill, governor of the great state of New York.” Then he signaled with his baton and the orchestra played “Hail to the Chief” as Governor Hill, a thin, balding man with a thick mustache, walked out and waved to an applauding crowd. He held his hand up for everyone to quiet.

  “I’d like to thank the orchestra for the job promotion,” he said as he turned to them. “I’m not president, gentlemen…not yet, that is.”

  The crowd responded with laughter and applause.

  “But we are not here to talk about me tonight. Though our guest of honor’s research facilities are in a neighboring state”—Governor Hill stared in mock disapproval, generating many laughs, none heartier than the one emanating from Edison—“we’re forever indebted to him for his dedication, his generosity, and his genius. Tom.”

  Governor Hill gestured for Edison to join him, and thunderous applause followed. Edison motioned with his hands, implying that all the praise was too much, which it wasn’t. It was a large part of what drove him.

  Determined to ruin Edison’s evening, Tesla moved closer to him. “You know our system is superior,” he whispered. “Admit it, Thomas. You’re nervous.”

  “Poor boy, you still don’t know how this works,” Edison said under his smile as he waved to his admirers. “That’s my name the governor just called, Nikola, not yours.”

  It was hard to say what frustrated Tesla more: Edison’s seemingly cavalier attitude about the importance of scientific work or Tesla’s fear that Edison was right and that his reputation would always trump Tesla’s, regardless of their products’ quality. Tesla announced he had urgent business and then stomped off, adding extra satisfaction to Edison’s evening.

  The party resumed. Charles and Mary were now standing by the marble fireplace.

  “I’ve been reading in the newspapers about your meteoric rise since we met,” Charles said. “Congratulations, Mary.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t believe in congratulations until a person actually accomplishes something.”

  “Oh, my. Burdened with that requirement, many of the revered reputations in this room would vanish.” Charles took two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray. “Let’s drink to your future accomplishments,” he said as he offered a glass to Mary. “Only the best champagne for you.”

  Mary took the glass. “That’s awfully generous, especially since it’s free.”

  “If I had my way, we’d bathe in it.” Then Charles very gently took her hand and kissed it. When their eyes met, Mary felt a tingly excitement shoot through her.

  They were soon interrupted by the arrival of Chief Campbell.

  “Ah, Mary, I need to wrest you back from this charming fellow,” he declared, his look telling her it was time to get back to work. Mary and Charles made plans to meet for dinner at a later date, and as Charles watched them walk off, John Pemberton arrived, flushed with excitement over gaining an appointment with Edison. He noticed his son’s attention was elsewhere.

  “Another damsel in distress?” Pemberton inquired.

  “The damsel, Father, the damsel.” Charles raised his glass in a toast to Mary, then drank. Not used to seeing his son so intrigued by a woman, Pemberton was amused.

  As Mary and Chief Campbell headed toward Edison, he reminded her of the role she needed to play. It was not necessary. Mary was fully aware she was to act demure and uninformed in front of a man she greatly admired.

  Batchelor spotted Mary and Chief Campbell and immediately wh
ispered in Edison’s ear, filling him in on the situation.

  Chief Campbell spoke first. “Mr. Edison, may I present to you—”

  “No need for an introduction, Chief Campbell,” Edison interrupted. “Everyone in New York knows who Mary Handley is.” He extended his hand to shake Mary’s, then continued in a tone that could only be described as condescending. “The first woman to conduct a murder investigation. Congratulations, Miss Handley.”

  Normally, when people addressed Mary in that tone, a quick witticism would soon dispel their erroneous notion of her. This was different.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Edison. I don’t know how you men of science do what you do. You’re very much like magicians. That’s what you are.”

  “I often think we are, too, Miss Handley. I must confess that some of my inventions at times felt as farfetched as pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”

  They all laughed, then Mary interjected. “To be so accomplished and yet so modest; I am truly in awe.”

  “Thank you,” responded Edison. “And how is the investigation going?”

  Mary emitted her best exasperated sigh. “To be honest, I wish I could pull a rabbit out of my hat. The task before me seems quite daunting. The crime of murder is very complicated. Why one human being would actually want to obliterate another is troubling enough and, frankly, beyond me.”

  “I’m sure you’ll eventually catch on,” Edison said, casting a glance at Batchelor that indicated the opposite.

  Mary knew it was time to strike. Trying to look as helpless as possible, she stared into Edison’s eyes. “It would be so, so helpful if I could see Mr. Goodrich’s office.”

  “Consider it done,” he decreed.

  “And I do have a few teeny questions for you. Would it be at all—?”

  “Be delighted to. Arrange a time with Batch.” Edison gestured toward Batchelor, eager to move on to more fruitful conversations. He would painfully submit to her simplistic questions at another time. Doing otherwise could invite bad press, and he was acutely aware of how important his image was to himself and to his business.

  While Batchelor handed Mary his card, she glanced at Chief Campbell with admiration. His advice about handling these men was spot-on.

  Governor Hill joined their group with a request. “Excuse me, but I need to borrow the guest of honor for a few minutes.”

  Edison welcomed the interruption. The two of them retreated, and soon Chief Campbell and Mary found themselves heading for the exit, their mission accomplished.

  “Teeny?” Chief Campbell asked, giving Mary a look.

  “Please, Chief, I already despise myself enough.”

  And that’s when Mary saw it. Chief Campbell actually laughed.

  Alone in J. P. Morgan’s study with Edison, Governor Hill closed the door. “I’m under siege, Tom. I need to find a more humane method of execution.”

  “What, murderers are too good for hanging?”

  “It’s a new age. Bleeding hearts rule.”

  “Then inject the bastards with poison.”

  “I wish it were that simple. The hypodermic needle is far too new. We don’t want to hold back medical science by making the public afraid of it.”

  Governor Hill waited as Edison pondered the conundrum. He wanted to help. It was always convenient to have a high-ranking politician in one’s debt, though if necessity was indeed the mother of invention, Edison’s interest hadn’t reached that level. His mind wandered to his deeper concern: Westinghouse and Tesla. Then it suddenly all came together.

  “I may have a solution to your problem,” Edison announced.

  Another idiom was rumbling through his brain—“kill two birds with one stone.” One bird was doing a favor for Governor Hill. Two was destroying the competition for good. And the stone? Well, it was just an idea, but it had to be deadly.

  13

  No sooner had the Bowler Hat returned from Pithole than he was sent out on another assignment in Rock Springs, Wyoming. Even though he traveled in first class, it was a miserable six-day trip, because to him, any day he did not perform his duties was a complete waste.

  As the Bowler Hat stepped off the train in Rock Springs, it was hard for him to imagine that this little pile of dust they called a town had such a violent history. But it did. During the Rock Springs Massacre, white coal miners, incensed at the huge influx of cheap Chinese labor, had rioted and burned down a section called Chinatown. When the smoke cleared, twenty-eight Chinese were dead, and the governor of Wyoming had brought in the army to restore peace. Now it was three years later, and the army was still there with no end to their occupation in sight.

  The Bowler Hat had explicit instructions from the company. Everything had to be extremely low-profile. He was specifically told this could not be another Pithole.

  Zuckerman had complained to the authorities in Titusville. The Bowler Hat wasn’t surprised. A man had to do something when his wife was violated, or he could never be a man again. As it turned out, the inconvenience it caused was minimal. Small-town sheriffs and judges were easily handled. Still, the Bowler Hat got paid a large fee to make his work undetectable. The slightest reflection upon his employers meant that he had failed. They were businessmen who used words like “convince” and “persuade.” Violence was conveniently absent from their vocabulary, so they could deny any responsibility for it, not only to the public but to themselves.

  The Bowler Hat didn’t believe in excuses, and neither did his employers. He assured everyone that Pithole was an anomaly. He was sorely aware that this was his sole chance at redemption. He wouldn’t get another.

  In any case, his job seemed easy enough. A Chinaman was trying to forge a peace between the white workers and the Chinese. He needed to convince him to do otherwise. The Chinese were cheap nonunion labor. If they formed an alliance with the white workers, strengthening the labor union, they could force the company to pay them a decent wage. The company liked things the way they were.

  The Bowler Hat was hungry. He would find the best tavern in town, have a big steak, then go about finding the man everyone in Rock Springs called Wei Chung.

  Years earlier, when Wei Chung; his wife, Xin; and his daughter, Tina, left Brooklyn for San Francisco, it had been an especially difficult parting for Tina and her friend Mary. Wei was sure that Tina would feel better when she made new friends in San Francisco, and he was right. Tina blossomed, both socially and academically. She and Mary wrote religiously to one another for a year or so, then the letters gradually trailed off until they stopped completely. It wasn’t that they cared less about one another, but rather that their lives continued separately.

  The laundry Wei and his brother, Huan, started in San Francisco had been doing well and slowly building business year after year. Then tragedy struck. Huan Chung was delivering laundry to their biggest client, a large hotel. Huan ran for the elevator but only had one foot inside when it took off. There were no safety devices, and elevators flowed freely up and down even if a gate or door was open. In a matter of seconds, Huan was dead. He had been flipped upside down and had smashed his head against the hard hotel floor before tumbling down the elevator shaft.

  Huan’s widow, Lien, filed a lawsuit against the hotel. Wei knew it was a hopeless cause. They were Chinese, and the hotel owners were white. She not only lost the lawsuit, but the Chungs were also labeled as “difficult” and word spread not to do business with them. Wei’s efforts to save the laundry failed. He reverted to handyman work, and Xin went back to performing cleaning services.

  Around the time Tina got married and was employed as a teacher, the army was assuring the safety of Chinese workers in Rock Springs. The work was dangerous, but the pay was well beyond what Wei and Xin currently made. So they moved to Rock Springs, where Wei was hired as a miner and Xin got a job as a maid for one of the mine officials. Wei figured if the two of them lived cheaply for several years, they could save enough money to return to San Francisco. His dream was to open a store wher
e hardworking Chinese like himself could buy expensive items like washing machines by paying out the cost in small monthly installments.

  Wei and Xin paid the company absurdly high rent for a one-room wooden shack with an old stove that was part of a long row of shacks among many such rows in Chinatown. The slightest rainfall turned the streets into mud, and the cold winter air easily permeated the cracks of the shoddy construction. The communal outhouses were supposed to be cleaned regularly by the company, but it was done too infrequently. As a result, a foul odor often pervaded the air, especially on hot summer days.

  The Chungs shared their shack with four other Chinese miners who worked the night shift. With only one room for all of them, the fact that Wei and Xin worked a day shift (if one could call twelve-hour days a day shift) gave them the luxury of some privacy.

  Dusk was fading into darkness, and Wei was cutting vegetables for dinner. He heard a knock at his door, put down his knife, wiped his hands, and went to answer it.

  “Ah, glad to see you’re home,” the Bowler Hat said, greeting Wei with a smile.

  “I’m always home at this time,” Wei responded. He could tell this man wanted something. White men did not stroll into Chinatown without a purpose. Wei noticed his family necklace with the ancient charm was dangling from his neck, and he quickly tucked it inside his shirt.

  The Bowler Hat saw Wei Chung’s wariness and that it wasn’t just about the necklace. Although he did wonder why anyone would possess something of value while living in such dire poverty. But that was not why he was here. He focused on the Chinaman. He was observant and cautious. Idle chatter was useless.

  “Can we talk inside, Mr. Chung?”

  Wei stared at this man who somehow knew his name and reasoned that if there were complications, it would be better for him in Chinatown than in company territory. Wei stepped aside and let the Bowler Hat enter.

  When on a job, it had become second nature for the Bowler Hat to familiarize himself with his surroundings. Once he had found himself counting exits and possible weapons while at a gathering in the Rockefeller mansion. There wasn’t much to consider here: the front door and two windows, one on each side wall. Six flimsy cots were lined up against one wall, and an old stove was in the far corner with a table and four makeshift chairs in another corner. A deck of Chinese playing cards was on the table. He knew the Chinese liked to gamble, but he couldn’t imagine what these people possibly had to gamble with.