Wednesday
He was at Cantillon’s house at nine the next morning. They walked to the Tontine, where the lawyer instructed him on the way the trading system worked and the plans the reformers had to create a framework of rules. Justy nodded his head and made encouraging noises, but all he could think about was what Drummond might tell him and what he might find in Duer’s papers. After a few hours, the lawyer dismissed him, warning him not to be late for lunch with Colley.
Justy sat on a padded bench in the Tontine’s lobby, listening to the din coming from the dining room, looking at the huge paintings on the walls and wondering what the tall, gaunt trader wanted with him.
“Do you mind if I sit?” Colley folded his long frame onto the other end of the bench. He looked around, as though seeing the lobby for the first time. “I saw you looking at these dreadful daubs. I don’t suppose Carrots has explained them.”
“No.”
He pointed. “That’s tobacco, that one is furs and that one indigo.” He turned around and nodded upwards. “This one is rice. It’s new. It replaced a painting of Whitney’s cotton gin. Do you know why they switched it?”
“No.”
“Because it depicted the people who pick the cotton and work the gin.”
“Slaves.”
“Slaves, indeed. The traffic in Negroes is no longer so much in fashion, you see. And the members were offended by the sight of such a repugnant trade.”
“It is a repugnant trade,” Justy said, feeling a little warm. “And the sooner all the states fall behind us and ban it, the better.”
Colley sat up. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
Justy reddened. “I do, Mr. Colley, but I must tell you that I’ve already suffered through a long lecture this morning. I don’t really want another one from you explaining why slavery is justified because it keeps cotton prices low.”
Colley laughed. “Very good. You saw through me. You’re probably wondering why I asked you to luncheon, too.”
“I’m fairly sure it wasn’t to eat.”
“It never is, young man. But we’ll eat anyway.”
The Tontine Club Room had the same high ceilings and windows as the lobby and was about the same size. Royal-blue curtains made of velvet hung from the ceiling every few feet, and there was a luxurious carpet of the same color on the floor. Pairs of large leather armchairs, each one flanked by a small side table, were spaced across the room. Some of them were occupied with people talking quietly or, in some cases, sleeping. Colley led the way to a table set with a large plate, heaped with sandwiches. He flopped into one of the armchairs, which creaked and wheezed like a set of broken bagpipes. Justy perched on the edge of the seat of the other chair, his back straight and his hands between his knees.
Colley raised his eyebrows. “You look as though you’re preparing for a lesson.”
“You don’t intend to school me on the benefits of slavery to the economy?”
“I feel I would be wasting my time. Your loyalties are quite apparent. Will you be attending the Manumission conference this week?”
“I hadn’t planned to.”
“Well, good. The pamphlets they’ve been putting about the place are calling for a boycott of all companies that still use slaves in any capacity.”
“I’ve read them. And I’m glad people are speaking out, at last.”
“You’ll be glad to see the economy collapse, too, then, I suppose. And see your own people starve.”
“My people?”
“The Irish. You have more to lose than anyone if the trade is abolished wholesale. Thousands of Negro workers, newly freed? They’ll sell themselves cheaper and drive your entire community into the poorhouse.”
“My community, as you call it, is already in the poorhouse. It would be difficult for things to be much worse.” He looked Colley in the eye. “I thought you weren’t going to give me a lesson.”
Colley held his hands up in mock surrender. “Forgive me. I just wanted to point out our particular brand of New York hypocrisy to you. Here.”
There was a decanter of red wine and two glasses on an occasional table beside his chair. Colley plucked the stopper out of the decanter, filled the glasses and leaned forward in his chair to examine the sandwiches. “Now let’s see. Roast beef, by the looks of it.”
The beef was thinly sliced and slathered in horseradish sauce that made Justy’s eyes water. He relaxed, sliding back a little on the warm leather of the chair, then looked up to see Colley watching him.
He waited. Colley ate and drank, watching him the entire time. Minutes passed. Justy knew he was being tested. He had used the same technique himself, a few times.
Colley put his glass down. “It’s unusual to meet someone so comfortable with silence.”
“I don’t believe in talking for the sake of it.”
Colley smiled. “And yet you wish to be a lawyer.”
Justy shrugged. “It’s what I studied.”
“Of course. And it is a noble choice of career. But if you really want to make something of yourself, I’d suggest an alternative.”
“Trading?”
“Indeed. Lawyering is all very well if your aim is to become a powdery politician or an inky-fingered bureaucrat. But if you want adventure … if you want excitement…”
“If you want money.”
“Of course. But don’t lawyers want money, too?”
Justy drank his wine and felt a pleasant tingling in the tips of his fingers. He allowed himself to sink back into the chair. The leather cushions molded themselves around him.
He had a sudden memory of a house in Dublin, owned by a lawyer in the emancipation movement. It had the same smell of leather and cigar smoke and the dark scent of good cognac. Justy had gone there to deliver a message for the Defenders. It was late, and the lawyer had given him dinner and a bed for the night. He remembered sitting at breakfast the next day, being waited on by several servants and feeling deeply guilty about it. The lawyer had looked at him over his newspaper and caught the look on his face and smiled. It was possible to do good and to live well, he had said. Justy felt the same sense of guilt now. Only the wine had dulled its edge.
“Buy low, sell high,” he said.
“And be sure you get a sniff of the fish before it’s wrapped.” Colley raised his glass. “You see? You’ve already begun.”
“What do you want from me, Mr. Colley?”
Colley raised his eyebrows. “Why should I want anything?”
“How often do you pay this much attention to lawyers’ clerks?”
Colley smiled. “Fair enough.” He leaned forward to refill Justy’s glass. “I wanted to talk with you because I knew your father.”
Justy felt the warmth drain out of his body.
“Carrots didn’t tell you?” Colley asked.
“No.”
“Well, I can’t say I knew him as well as Carrots did. Enough to say how d’ye do.”
Colley’s eyes were blank. Justy wondered if he should ask what he knew about his father and the business with Duer. But there was something about the tall black-clad trader that told him it would be like trying to squeeze venom out of a snake.
“Did you ever work with him?” he asked.
“We may have traded paper once or twice. He had a reputation for being an honest broker. Rare, in this business.” Colley smiled his thin smile. “I wonder if you’re cut from the same cloth.”