New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  “I wish I had problems like that.”

  “Ohh?—Uhmmm. I’m sorry. Here you have to go to all these dreadful meetings. And I’m babbling about parties!” She tilted her head quizzically. “What business are you in anyway?” He gave her one of his phony cards. She studied it, intrigued, as she sipped her juice.

  “Why are you so interested in Dr. Ludwig?”

  He grudgingly shifted his attention.

  “We want to find out everything we can before we make any … business decisions. What can you remember about them you didn’t tell me yesterday?”

  “Let’s see. Yes. Initially I didn’t realize who I was renting to. At first it was a man named Walter Ventnor. You know, on the radio?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Then they told me his office was arranging it for Ludwig as a favor. Ventnor’s people were very upset when I wanted to withdraw. They were the ones who offered the deal.”

  “Which was?”

  “A whole month’s rent for a mere three meetings. I mean, they were put out and it seemed unduly spendthrift to refuse such a generous offer.”

  “Of course. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a month’s rent here worth?”

  “In August? Little over four thousand.”

  He involuntarily gagged. Incredible. That’s … what? Three times the average man’s yearly salary? Three new Packards?

  “Just three meetings? Seems a bit steep.”

  She seemed utterly unimpressed by the number. No big deal at all.

  “Oh, not really. Not that many good houses here. Not like the manor, anyway.”

  “And who paid? Ludwig or Ventnor?”

  “Ventnor paid for all of it.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, cash.”

  “Cash?” She nodded. “How’d they deliver it?”

  “Now that part was a bit odd. Bank courier came all the way up from Manhattan. Otherwise it was by phone or through the local agent.” He sat silent. “You find that interesting?”

  “Throwing money around like that? Absolutely.”

  “You really don’t like them very much do you?”

  “No, I don’t. I used to work in Europe. Saw them march into Prague. I couldn’t describe what it was like. When people found out I was an American they came up to me in the street offering me bags of cash for my passport or my help. A couple of men even offered me their wives. Can you imagine that? I mean, what kind of fear is it makes a man offer his wife to a total stranger?” He stopped and sighed. Daisy was silent. “The worst thing I saw was this one family. Jews, I presume. They panicked. The mother and father tied themselves and their children together and they all jumped off a roof.”

  She clearly was taken aback by the intensity of his answer.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined breakfast,” he said.

  “Not at all. It’s just … Why do business with them, then?”

  “We can’t avoid it.” She smiled, lifting her head up, quizzically waiting for him to elaborate. He wasn’t about to oblige. “I saw your reflection in the mirror when Ludwig was speaking. You didn’t seem to like what he was saying, either.”

  Caught off guard, she seemed confused by his question and slowly picked at her answer.

  “Oh. I don’t know. All that stuff about labor peace irritated me. Everybody’s got a right to try and make something of themselves. Isn’t that why we all came here in the first place? Get away from rotten old Europe, all that trouble, have a better life?”

  Daisy’s answer instantly switched the train of Hawkins’ thoughts to a different track. Yes, rotten old Europe, he thought. Millions had come here to get away from rotten old Europe. Away from feudal lords and petty feuds. Rotating drafts and ancient hatreds. Escape from everything he’d seen the last few years.

  “Everyone … yes. Everyone should have a right to a better life,” he said, almost in a whisper. He paused a long moment. “What about the people over there? Don’t they have a right to a better life, too?” Only it came out half-hearted. Or felt half-hearted. A question crossed his mind. Do I feel obliged to say that? Or maybe I expect myself to say that. What about my right to a better life? Maybe that was the real question.

  “Hawkins, you’re a very unusual businessman,” Daisy said.

  “I’m in a very unusual business.”

  “Now answer my question.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you so concerned with these people? Germany’s a long ways away.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not so sure anymore.”

  -51-

  Breakfast arrived. Hawkins buttered his pancakes, curiously watching Daisy dig into her steak and eggs with the vigor of a posh bricklayer. Suddenly she remembered something she wanted to tell him so eagerly she began talking with her mouth half full.

  “I just remembered. That man—Ludwig—is going to a party tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “Big annual racing ball—Mrs. Simpson-Saunders. Old friend of the family. I was invited a while back, of course.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced up coyly. “I don’t have an escort. She’s rather old-fashioned. No unattached ladies.” They both began probing delicately. “All formal, of course.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed formal parties.”

  “Yes. I do, too.”

  “Would you like to go with me? If the invitation is still open, of course.”

  “Oh, yes! I’d enjoy that. I’m sure it’s still open. Cassie and I, that’s her daughter, we went to Emma Willard together.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Why, thank you, Hawkins, how kind of you to ask.” She spoke as if he’d invited her in the first place, the epitome of genteel grace.

  “What kind of music will they have?”

  “Oh … probably one of those society sweet bands. Old people’s music.”

  “Ooooh.”

  She shrugged her arms and shoulders up, snapping her fingers and did a pouting, swaying mimic of a jitterbug sitting in her chair, waving her fork to an imaginary beat.

  “It don’t mean a thing—”

  He instantly jumped in. “If you ain’t got that swing—” and they both burst out laughing.

  “Just saw Cab Calloway at the Paramount.”

  “Oh, you are a hep cat! When I’m in the city my friends and I like to go up to the Savoy Ballroom.”

  “How marvelous.” Daisy’s smiling eyes and face filled his vision. Be so easy to slip off, take Kelly’s offer, leave it all behind. They both burst out laughing again as if the song was their own private code word. “In my line of work, I don’t get much time for that. You’re a city girl then?”

  “That’s right, never been big on country life. Shoot a little skeet, never real birds. A little boating and sailing, a little riding. Do the August meet, that’s it.”

  “You’re here for the parties then, the nightlife.”

  “That’s right. Love parties, night clubbing, smart cafés, music, dancing.”

  “Where do people go for entertainment around here?”

  “You can go over to the colored section around Congress Street—oh, Jack’s Harlem Club or the Tally-Ho, they’re swell. Or out to—” She seemed to catch herself, as if she lost her train of thought or something, “Oh, I don’t know, up and down Broadway.”

  “I see.”

  “You know, I don’t know much about you, Hawkins. Where do you live?”

  “The city.”

  “Any hobbies?”

  “Ah-umm. I guess not. Never had the time or been settled enough. I dabble in antiques a bit. For a time I covered the Continent out of Paris. Amazing flea markets. Les Puces de Saint-Ouen at Porte de Clignancourt. Acres and acres of it. Also at Porte de Vanves.”

  “Vous parlez français!”

  “Bien, naturellement. Et vous?”

  “J’ai appris le français à l’école. Ainsi je suis—um, um, rusty.”

  “Rouillé.”<
br />
  “Oui, rouillé. Never been to Paris is why. I’d love to see those marchés. Go to any galeries?”

  “They’re all over Paris, especially the Left Bank.”

  “What’s happening in modern art, it’s so exciting. You see a little bit, you just know you want to see more.”

  “New way of seeing the world.”

  “Exactly! Been to the new Modern in Manhattan?”

  “There’s a new museum in New York? Where?”

  “On Fifty-Third Street. Remarkable Picasso exhibit last winter.”

  “I was abroad. I’d love that. You winter in the city?”

  “Yes. We could go to the Modern!” She smiled brightly, but as she finished her sentence Daisy spotted someone across the tables. She stretched up in her seat and began waving and slowly calling, “Yoo-hoo, Chet! Chet-ly, over here, dear!” She turned to Hawkins. “Old friend of mine.”

  -52-

  The man from the meeting. Only now he’d changed into a loud houndstooth jacket and lost the tie. He had the same pinched, vacant expression. The moment he arrived at the table Daisy’s tone brusquely changed.

  “Chet, I’m mad at you. Look what happened!”

  Chet acted startled. “It’s not my fault!”

  “Is so. Ventnor’s your friend!”

  Chet finally recognized Hawkins’ presence, irritably glancing down at him. “Have we met?”

  “I was at Daisy’s yesterday. Roy Hawkins.” Hawkins stood, holding out his hand. Chet mumbled hello, inattentively and weakly shook it, then sat down, still obviously annoyed. “You know Walter Ventnor?” Hawkins said.

  “Yes. I’m a big supporter—”

  But Daisy wasn’t letting up.

  “It’s still your fault. You shouldn’t be recommending someone who’d traffic with a man like that.”

  “Hey! I was at that meeting, ‘trafficking,’ as you say.”

  “Well, a man ought to mind things.”

  “How would I know what was going to happen?”

  A horse raced by. Daisy abruptly changed the subject.

  “Ooh, is that Commander York?”

  Chet shook his head. “No, that’s Commander Penn.”

  It seemed Chet Branch, of the Branches of Park Avenue, Kentuck and Texas, was very rich, owned a large and successful racing stable and pulled a considerable amount of weight in Thoroughbred circles.

  “I thought Commander York was up today,” Daisy said. She sounded surprised, intrigued.

  Chet’s expression wound up in frustration and irritation, as if wires running through his face had been yanked out the top. “Naw—the idiots left a window open in the rail car. He caught a chill coming up.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad! Strange something so big could be so fragile, isn’t it?”

  Chet sourly looked at Hawkins. “They’re fickle, picky creatures.”

  Daisy determinedly pressed on. “That’s too bad. York was heavily favored. Does anybody know?”

  “No. We’re keeping him out of sight. We’ve entered Commander Penn in the second.”

  “But poor Penn, I didn’t think he was ready for a stakes race?”

  With that Chet’s face finally snapped to a real and intense focus, tightly clenching his teeth, curling his lip, his voice a low growl. “He will be.”

  Daisy lightly inhaled and laughed. “Ooh! Chetly, Chetly! Naughty-naughty.”

  “I’ve got this stakes race coming to me. I’ve had it coming to me for years!”

  “So the horseys get their morning glass of juice, too!”

  A knowing but somehow jejune smirk lifted Chet’s face. “That’s a laugh! If I’m not winning, I just change the rules so I do.”

  “Oh, by the way, Chet, Mr. Hawkins invited me to Millicent’s ball.”

  Chet’s face froze, the smirk vanished. He flushed slightly, barely glancing sideways at Hawkins. “Oh. I see.”

  Obviously, Chet had an interest in Daisy. And no wonder, Hawkins thought. As the conversation moved on the splendid morning soured bit by bit. Hawkins mulled the possibilities. Had Chet failed to ask Daisy to the party? Maybe she wanted to stir him up. Or punish him for the uproar at the house. She really seems interested, though. How can I compete with Chet? His money? His horses? There’s no way I can tell Daisy the truth. Don’t even know when my next payday will be. Worst of all, I’m lying about almost everything about me.

  What an impossible position. Like to punch the SOB. Then Hawkins got irritated with himself. What’s the point, decking such an insipid creature? It certainly wouldn’t take very much. That won’t help, either.

  “Will we see you there?” Daisy said.

  “Yes, I’m introducing Ventnor around,” Chet said.

  But you won’t be showing Daisy around, Hawkins thought. Let’s rub it in a little.

  “I’ve heard so much about him. I’d really like to meet him. Would you introduce us?”

  Pinned, Chet tightly glanced at Daisy. Then back at Hawkins. His irritated expression restored the morning’s glory.

  “Why not.” With a sharp gesture, he checked his gold watch. “I have to go.”

  Chet ambled off without another word.

  “What was all that—juice talk? What’s he mean, change the rules?” Hawkins said.

  Daisy giggled slightly. “Oops! Ahem—he’s—um—helping the horses out. You know, chemically. They call it juicing.”

  “Is that allowed? It sounds like cheating.”

  She smiled brightly. “Oh, I’m sure there’s a silly little rule against it somewhere. Chet hates to lose. He goes off his hinges when he does.”

  “I’ve seen what happens when people decide they don’t want to play by the rules. There’s no bottom.”

  “I don’t know about you, I know an opportunity when I see one. The betting windows just opened.” She gave him a little peck on the cheek. “See you at six!”

  Hawkins longingly watched her elegant profile disappear into the clubhouse. Then he poured himself another cup of tea.

  That conversation wasn’t idle at all, he thought. Not from the moment she heard about Commander York being sick. She knew Chet would be annoyed. Knew he would spill. Yes, played him perfectly.

  Don’t be a principled idiot, Hawkins thought. He took out his wallet, counted the money he’d made off Madame Delage’s vermeil set and headed inside to find a betting window.

  -53-

  Hawkins kept pacing up and down the newsstand, lying in wait, one eye on the elevator—Ludwig would be coming out any moment. He absentmindedly bought copies of the New Yorker and the Racing Form to fend off the impatient concessionaire. But he was thinking about Daisy. The idea he actually had a date with her was still sinking in.

  The elevator doors finally opened, exposing Ludwig. Hawkins wheeled around, head down, buried in the Racing Form. They nearly collided again. Ludwig seemed delighted to see him.

  “Why, Dr. Ludwig! Excuse me! How are you?”

  “Myself? Very well. Join me for breakfast.”

  “Aww, I’m sorry—I already ate. I was out at dawn watching the workouts.”

  “Dawn? You must be a serious horseman to get up so early. Join me for coffee then.”

  Inside, the tailcoated maître d’ promptly led Hawkins and Ludwig to a table for two. Dieter awkwardly, uncertainly stood by. Once he’d seated the “gentlemen” the maître d’, a tall, elderly black man with pure white hair and an aloof, aristocratic manner, beckoned Dieter with a remarkably long curled finger. He led him toward the kitchen to sit with the rest of the servants. It only took a split second for Dieter to fall in and follow. From the back Dieter’s neck appeared to flush a deep crimson, almost purple. That the former Hitlerjungen was going to be eating with the “Afrikaner” had to be part of it. Ludwig seemed delighted.

  “How are the meetings going, Doctor?”

  Ludwig grunted slightly. He deliberately set his menu down and leaned forward to confide in Hawkins.

  “I’ve been forced to cancel them aft
er what happened. I must thank you again. You saved us from a dreadful scene. At least the papers didn’t find out. It’s nice to know we have friends here.”

  “I try to make myself useful.”

  “Did you find the meeting valuable, for your valve business, I mean?”

  “The chief’s going to be very interested. But enough business. Have you been out to the track?” He detected a twinge of disappointment or irritation or both in Ludwig’s manner.

  “No, I’ve been too busy. My work here is too important. I—”

  “You ought to take time to relax. Every executive has to take care of himself. Why, I was saying to Chet Branch at breakfast this morning that—”

  “I didn’t know you knew Mr. Branch.”

  “Uh—yes—I know him.”

  “Then you are closer to us than I thought.”

  “Have you seen him today?” Ludwig shook his head no. “He gave me a tip on the races.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Now don’t tell anyone else.” Hawkins peeked over one shoulder, then over the other, eyes rolling from side to side as if eager throngs were listening. “You can keep a secret, can’t you?” Ludwig nodded. “If you’ve a few C’s loose, put ’em on Commander York in the first, to win. Here’s the scoop. All the insiders in this business know that Commander York’s been sick. Although—well, what can I say, that’s supposed to be privileged information. You know how that goes—”

  “I certainly do.”

  “They’re all buzzing about Commander Penn, instead. Chet entered him at the last minute. However, Penn’s only there to deflect attention from York, sort of like a magician’s trick—you know, misdirection. Penn’s never won anything. What’s really happening is Chet’s giving York a little help.” Hawkins broadly winked. “You know. Chemically.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not much of a gambler.”

  “I know what you’re saying. But listen—chance has nothing to do with this. It’s as sure as sure things get. As you said, who’s dumb enough to play a game where you don’t make the rules. Neither is Chet.”

  “Aaah—I see. That’s quite different. I will! It’s kind of you to share this with me.”