Joe Hyman was right. The Masked Marvel turned out to be such a big draw that Jamie was putting money away in his bank account every week. It wasn’t only the summer people and the citizens of Galveston City who lined up to see him perform; they came from all over Galveston Island as well as from Houston and all the outlying areas. He was written up in the newspapers, a local celebrity. As Joe said, the rednecks came crawling out of the woodwork like so many vontzen, bedbugs, to challenge him. There was no end of suckers (also Joe’s word) willing to put up a five-dollar bill on the chance of matching or even beating him. Although no one even came close, Jamie worried about it happening. Not Joe. “You can’t win ’em all, boychik. If you think you can, you’re a fool.”
Jamie could count on Joe for a bit of advice to cover any situation. When women of all types and ages showed up after each show asking to feel his muscles, Joe wasn’t at all surprised. But he was critical when Jamie made late appointments with some of these ladies for almost every night of the week. Joe commented drily, “Just because they’re pitching, it don’t mean you always have to be there catching. The man who can’t let a few get away is trifling with nature. Didn’t your father ever teach you to throw a few back?”
With the summer drawing to a close and the beach season nearly over, Joe worked on Jamie to move on with him. He said he was thinking of heading for Florida as soon as the hurricane season there was over. “But Florida is the least of it. There’s a fortune to be made out there. Chicago. Atlantic City. Coney Island. We’ll grow your hair long and call you Samson the Great instead of the Masked Marvel. Or how do you like Hercules the Iron Man? What do you say, boychik? We’ll make you a sensation. Who knows? Maybe we’ll go to Europe too. To Paris, even. You’ll be an international attraction. Come along with me,” Joe urged. “Where is it written, after all, that you got to stay in Galveston? What are you, after all, a cowboy? An Indian? What do you want to do? End up on the docks lifting bales of cotton for a couple of bucks a day when you can be a real star?”
“I can’t go with you, Joe.”
“Why not?”
How could he explain to Joe that going around the world as a kind of freak attraction wasn’t what he had in mind as a future? That this would be fine for Yitzhak Markoff, or even for Wilhelm von Marx, but wasn’t at all right for James Markson ...
“I can’t, Joe.”
“All right. If you can’t, you can’t.”
But Joe was so downcast, Jamie knew that it wasn’t his moneymaking ability only that made Joe Hyman so reluctant to part company with him. Jamie sensed that Joe felt for him what he himself felt for Joe—affection, even a kind of love. If he himself was the son Joe had never had, then Joe was the replacement for the father who had turned his back on him, the father who hadn’t even cared enough to write.
“So tell me, Jamie, what are you going to do with yourself?”
“Thanks to you, Joe, I have quite a bit of money in the bank. Enough to go into some kind of business for myself.”
“And what business would that be?”
“I’m not sure. I have to think about it.”
Joe gave him a last bit of advice—this time about finding the right teacher to help eliminate Jamie’s accent. “In every town there’s always a well-educated girl who will be glad to help you. You’ll find her in some kind of theatrical group, maybe a glee club. Maybe a teacher who gives elocution lessons. There’s always one who’s lonely and eager to teach a handsome young man with your qualities.” He winked. “But watch out. That kind will kill you in bed, or else they’ll marry you.”
Joe Hyman was due to leave Galveston the ninth of September, and on the night of the seventh, a very hot and humid night, Jamie and Joe did their last show together. After the show they went to have a few drinks, a farewell celebration. It was well into the eighth before Jamie got to bed, and he slept late the following morning. For one thing, he was in a state of depression about his only friend leaving, and he slept to dodge that depression. When he awoke it was raining, but no more than a shower, and there was a nice breeze coming in through the open window. He went back to sleep, enjoying the drop in temperature.
An hour later he awoke to the sound of wind rustling around his room and the rain blowing in, in gusts. He shut the window, pulled on his pants and boots, threw on a shirt and went downstairs, intending to go down to the beach to enjoy the break in the weather, to feel the strong breeze blow through his hair and the mist upon his skin; to watch the waves roll in and break upon the white sand.
The landlady was shuttering all the windows. “Did you close your shutters, Mr. Markson? There’s a storm coming up. A big storm. If you were thinking of going out, you’d better change your mind real quick.”
“I don’t mind a little rain. I was going to take a walk on the beach.”
She laughed. “I know you’re the Masked Marvel but you’re no match for a hurricane, and that’s what it looks like is brewing out there.”
“A hurricane?” He was unbelieving. “It’s just a little rain and wind blowing up—” He had heard about hurricanes, but this? These Texans should see a Russian blizzard. “This is nothing—”
“Wait till you see them winds blowing over fifty, sixty miles an hour. They’ve been known to blow over a hundred. Come here,” she called him over to the window. “See those clouds—”
There was a thickening of clouds, low in the sky. “That’s a sign that it’s no ordinary storm. I saw clouds like that a few years back when I was in a house that blew away just like that—” She snapped her fingers. “Well, I have to see to my shutters.” She wagged a finger at him. “Now don’t you be stubborn. You stay inside! Listen to somebody that’s older and has had a little experience!”
As soon as she left the room, Jamie went to the front door. When he opened it, it was like magic! The rain stopped just like that! The wind became no more than a breeze again and the clouds parted and the sun shone out of a piece of blue sky!
Why, the storm had passed! It was all over, already! He went down the flight of stairs to the street which was nearly deserted. There were a few stragglers. A woman running through the streets, pulling three children of various sizes along with her. Here and there were men pounding nails into boards, covering windows.
Then, in a second, the wind picked up, changed from a breeze to gusts and the rain came down harder. He had to admit that there was something strange going on. The wind was crazy, blowing first in that direction, then in the other. The rain came down in squalls, a burst, then a lessening, then an outpouring. Then there was a bolt of lightning that ripped across the sky and with it a virtual blanket of rain, so dense he couldn’t see through it. Another bolt of lightning and there were objects flying through the air. He couldn’t see exactly what they were; the density of the rain was too intense.
Joe! Joe was sleeping in his little room behind the stall. Did he know enough to get out of the way of the hurricane? He had to get down to the beach and make sure that Joe had gotten out of there safely.
It was impossible to see at all now. He stumbled over what felt like a body. Then for a moment the rain lessened and he made out what he had tripped over. It was the woman he had seen dragging the three children, but now there were only two! They were lying under their mother as she cowered in the street. She looked up at him and screamed, “My baby! I lost her!”
Wildly, he looked around. He couldn’t see the child anywhere. He got down on his knees and yelled into her ear over the roar of the storm, “Get on my back and wrap your arms around my neck! I’ll pick up the children!”
“I have to find my little girl,” she wailed, not moving.
There was no time to argue with her so he scooped up all three of them in his arms, even as the woman fought him, staggered to his feet and made for the nearest building. But the wind kept changing course, pushing and pulling him, and the woman kept struggling within his grasp. “My baby, my little girl ...”
“I’ll go back for her,” he said over and over, reaching the stairs finally, shouting as he climbed them, so the occupants of the house would open their door. But it was impossible for anyone to hear anything over the noise of the wind, the rain and the blasts of thunder. He heaved his back against the door, almost splintering it until someone came running and opened it.
He ran back into the streets, now seeing, now not, not knowing even where to look for a child no bigger than a flea. If he found her, would she still be alive? But then he saw her, a tiny bit of debris, pinned against a wall by a chance figuration of fallen boards that shielded her even as they held her fast. She was crying but she was alive. A feeling of exhilaration flooded him, ten times more exquisite than when he had killed the Governor-General!
When he finally got near the beach, he was alternately striding and wading as the water line reached his knees, then rose to his waist. Then he was floating as he lost footing. There was flotsam rushing past propelled by the charging waters—boards, railings, pilings, an odd shoe, a doll, bodies. He wondered where they had come from; who had been out there on the beach today? The driving rains blurred the atmosphere and through the haze, he saw a wall of clouds, a moving mountain of waves, waves that appeared to be hundreds of feet high. He saw nature at the pinnacle of its power, stronger than a thousand like himself, stronger than a million Yitzhak Markoffs.
Another of the incessant bolts of lightning cracked across the all-enveloping sheet of clouds, and he saw, realized, that everything was gone—the seawall, the boardwalk, the Pavilion, all the stalls ... everything gone.
Joe!
By dawn, the clouds had broken, the water had drawn back into the sea, and a brilliant sun shone upon dark blue waters, laced and fretted with silvery foam. The estimate of the dead was between five and six thousand, mostly by drowning. Jamie Markson went down to the beaches again after having worked through the night, pulling, lifting and heaving, trying to beat the hurricane by wresting some of its victims back from the edge. But he never found Joe Hyman’s body. If there was a God, Jamie thought, He had spared that little girl but He had also reached out to take back into His now gentle heavens his only friend in America.
The next day Jamie Markson bought a horse and wagon and went about collecting whatever he could find that was salvageable from the wreckage wrought by the storm. The people to whom the salvage belonged were glad to sell it to him. For one thing, most of the junkmen were stealing it, and the ones who did pay offered only half of what Jamie Markson was giving. Second, in a day’s time word had spread how the Masked Marvel was one of the few who could be rightfully called heroes of the Galveston Hurricane of 1900.
With many wagonloads of salvage to dispose of, Jamie had two options; the first was to resell to one of the junkyards already in operation in Galveston; the second was to set himself up in his own yard. He was considering sites when he learned that he had a caller at his boarding house. His landlady came to summon him to her parlor. She was impressed and excited: “It’s Mr. Karl Hess himself!”
Jamie recognized the name at once. Karl Hess was the owner of the biggest junkyard in Galveston, probably the biggest in that part of Texas. It was the one he most likely would have sold his salvage to if he hadn’t decided to establish his own yard. “He’s a very important man,” the landlady gushed. “Some say he’s the real owner of the Galveston First Savings and Loan.”
To Jamie, Karl Hess looked more like a banker than a junkman. He was tall and portly, dressed in a proper business suit with a thick, gold watch chain draped across his vest, and his shoes were highly polished. With shoes like that, Jamie guessed, Mr. Hess most likely sat in an office and rarely ventured into the yard.
Karl Hess wasn’t a smiling man. Solemnly, he shook hands with Jamie and didn’t waste time in getting to the point of his visit. “I understand you have several loads of salvage to dispose of, Mr. Markson, and I also understand you’re looking at property with a mind to going into business on your own—”
At this point, Jamie realized that the purpose of Mr. Hess’s call was not to make him an offer for his junk. It was highly unlikely that a man of his importance, and dressed as he was, was in the habit of seeking out the scrap himself. So he must have come to try and sell me a piece of property. He interrupted, “If you’re here to sell me a lot, Mr. Hess, I’ll save you some time. I’m only looking to rent a yard. I’m not ready to buy. Besides, I’m not even sure I’ll want to stay in the junk business. I’m just sort of trying it out—”
“Hear me out, Mr. Markson. I’m not in the real estate business. I’m in the scrap business and I’m here to make you a proposition.”
He does want to buy my junk! Jamie almost laughed. It seemed incredible that a man of Hess’s stature would actually call on him just to buy a few wagonloads of junk.
“And it’s not just to make you an offer for your scrap. I’m proposing that instead of opening your own business, you come in with me. Galveston doesn’t need another yard. Mine is the only large operation. The others are of no consequence. Ragpickers,” he said with contempt.
“You mean you want to give me a job in exchange for my junk?”
For a moment, Jamie thought that Mr. Hess was actually going to smile, but it was no more than a twitch of his thick brush mustache. “No, not just a job, Mr. Markson. A share in the Hess yard—a five-percent share.”
Jamie stared at him. Did this man take him for an idiot? Did he expect him to believe that for a pile of junk he was going to give him a five-percent piece of his lucrative business? What’s the catch?
“Why would you want to do that, Mr. Hess? I don’t even know anything about the junk business. Not really. It was just that I saw all this wreckage lying around after the hurricane and I needed to do something— Why would you be willing to give a stranger you don’t know anything about a piece of your business?” Although he spoke in a low tone, his anger was beginning to mount. This big shot thought he was talking to some fool, trying to put something over on him, though he couldn’t figure out what it was.
“I’ll explain it to you, James Markson. For one thing, I do know something about you. I know that you saved lives during the hurricane and that you put your own life at risk doing so. I know that you’re courageous and tireless. All Galveston is impressed with you, not to mention their admiration for your feats of strength. And I’ve seen you perform, several times. You’re strong and in perfect physical condition. Even more, when I watched you perform, accompanied by my wife and daughter, we were all impressed with your integrity.”
“My integrity?” What’s the man talking about?
“Yes. I’m a skeptical man and what I expected to see in your act was trickery and hocus-pocus. But I didn’t find it. I found only a straightforward, honest presentation of your powers and saw that you gave your challengers every advantage, a fair shake.
“And I’ve learned through sources that you worked for the railroad in Milwaukee and in St. Paul, and that you were quickly made a foreman. That means two things to me—that you’re a hard worker and have leadership qualities. So, sir, in summing up, I find you brave and courageous, and of high character, physically strong and in excellent condition besides being willing to work hard and assume command. As for the fundamentals of the waste business, I’m sure you’ll pick them up in short time.”
Jamie’s anger at being taken for a fool had quickly subsided as Karl Hess enumerated all the qualities that made him desirable, but there was one question still unanswered as far as he was concerned. Before he could ask that question, Karl Hess held up his hand. “You’re wondering why I haven’t simply offered you a job instead of part of my business. I’ll explain because I want to be completely candid. I’m sixty-one years old and I have only one child—a daughter. In other words, I don’t have a son to take into my business. But since I’ve built it myself from nothing I care very deeply about it. At the same time, I’m expanding and I need someone to share the responsibilities with me, a man I can trust completely. Five percent is little enough to get that man. While I don’t want to extend false hopes, I want you to understand that I need a man who will be able to take over the business completely at some point in the future.”
He took the watch from his fob pocket and looked at it pointedly. “What do you say, Mr. Markson?”
Mr. Hess was not a likable man, Jamie thought, but he seemed to be frank and straightforward. And five percent of the biggest junkyard in the city was more of an opportunity than he had ever thought possible. After all, he wasn’t even twenty! How could he turn down such an opportunity? What do I have to lose?
He put out his hand and Karl Hess said, “Be at my office tomorrow morning at seven. I’ll have a contract ready. And be sure to bring those wagonloads of scrap with you.” Jamie looked quickly to see if there was a smile on Mr. Hess’s face at these words, or even one in his eyes. There wasn’t.
The Hess Salvage Company took up one square block and was as orderly as a junkyard could possibly be. The office was spare and meticulous. As soon as Jamie walked in, Mr. Hess handed him a contract. “How well do you read?”
“Pretty well.” That was one thing he could thank Jennie for ...
“Good. You can read your contract over immediately. I will leave you alone for a half hour. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the yard. When you’re ready to sign, I suggest that unless you’ve had your name legally changed to Markson, you sign it Wilhelm von Marx.”
Jamie was flabbergasted until he remembered that Mr. Hess knew that he had worked for the railroad so he would know under what name he had worked. And he had probably learned about the railroad from the post office. A thorough man. He wondered if Mr. Hess also knew that his name had been Markoff before it was von Marx. Well, he wasn’t about to ask him. Anyway, that was highly unlikely. He couldn’t have possibly traced him back to Staten Island....
“Have you had your name changed legally to Markson?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll have my lawyer start those proceedings for you ... that is, if you wish—”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. May I ask why you decided to change your name from von Marx to Markson?”
“I wanted to be a real American ...” Jamie mumbled.
“Good. Admirable. I too wanted to be a real American when I came from Germany so I shortened my name from Hessmeister.”
Jamie was astonished. Mr. Hess spoke an English that sounded perfect to his ears. “I thought you must be American-born. You haven’t any accent at all.”
“Of course not. I saw to it that I lost it and I suggest you do the same. You speak English surprisingly well. Your grammar is good but to speak English perfectly, you have to get rid of the German accent. You should see to it soon.”
“Yes, I intend to.”
“Excellent. Now I’ll leave you to your contract.”
Jamie began to read. The contract was made out to James Markson, also known as Wilhelm von Marx. Jamie smiled. Karl Hess was a very thorough man and, obviously, a smart one. Only a fool would deny that. But he wasn’t as smart as Joe Hyman. Joe had known the difference between a German accent and a Litvak one.
Mr. Hess returned precisely a half hour later, quickly checked Jamie’s signature on the contract and suggested that he walk around the yard and get the feel of things. Jamie did exactly this, walked around for an hour observing the secondhand clothes dealers bringing in their loads, the rag-and-bone men with theirs, the junk dealers with mixed loads of bottles and metal. Everything was weighed and the men were paid their few coins. Then, the workers would go through it all—separating the bottles from the metal, the tin from the iron, the wheat from the chaff. The bottles were washed before they were smashed, a sledgehammer was taken to the iron. Without even thinking much about it, Jamie picked up a sledgehammer and went to work.
He was at it for about an hour when Karl Hess called him into the office. “I didn’t take you into my business to wield a sledgehammer. I have men to do that for fifteen cents an hour.”
Jamie flushed at the reprimand. If Hess didn’t want him for physical labor, why had he stressed his strength and physical condition as one of the reasons he wanted him in the business in the first place? “I want you to observe all phases of our operation. Here, we have the files,” he pointed to some file cabinets, “of to whom we sell and from whom we buy.”
“I just saw from whom you buy—all those wagons pulling up to the weighing counter.”
For the first time Jamie saw his new partner laugh. “Those are the ragpickers, the penny-ante peddlers. If I counted on them, do you think I’d be where I am today? We buy from every large shop in the city, from every factory, from the docks, from the refineries, every industry in Galveston City. We send out our own wagons twice a week. The heart of the salvage business is the buying and the selling, not the things in between. All that must be done as efficiently as possible, of course, but buying and selling is what the salvage business is all about.”
Jamie chuckled. “Just like when you’re a cattle dealer. You don’t care about the in-between business of raising the cows—just the buying and selling.”
Karl Hess glanced at him sharply. “What’s this about the cattle business?”
“I headed for Texas in the first place because I wanted to deal in cattle,” Jamie confided. “Buying and selling. But when I arrived in Galveston, I realized I had come to the wrong place for the cattle—” He laughed, inviting Karl Hess to laugh with him at the preposterousness of the situation.
But Hess didn’t laugh. Instead, he asked rather sternly, “You mean you came to Galveston City and didn’t know it was a port city?”
“No.” Jamie laughed again, but not as heartily.
“Did you realize how close you were to Houston?”
“Yes, but what of it? Houston’s a large city and a port too. They certainly aren’t grazing cattle there.”
“Didn’t you ever look a few miles beyond Houston? There are plains there, Mr. Markson! Endless miles of plains with grazing cattle. Where did you think those men came from, who challenged you when you were the Masked Marvel? They were mostly cowboys, I’m sure.”
“I thought they were just boys, farmboys mostly.” His smile faded along with his voice.
Once again, he thought, he had looked no farther than his nose, had just accepted and gone along with whatever destiny or fate or whatever offered him. As a result, here he was—a junkman instead of a cattle dealer.
Well, at least he was a junkman with a part of the business and from now on, he vowed, he wasn’t going to take just what was handed to him. From now on, he would make his own destiny!
He looked up to see Karl Hess looking at him curiously. He wondered what Hess was thinking. Was he thinking that James Markson was a damned fool, after all? That he simply lay down and took whatever was handed to him? Well, if that was what he was thinking, he would find out differently. He would find out that he had chosen well when he picked him for a partner. He’d find out that Jamie Markson was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it.