Justy and Hardluck walked slowly down the stairs to the mezzanine above the lobby. It was crammed with petitioners hoping to see the Mayor, who once a month held a special session to hear appeals against City rulings. A long line snaked around the ornate stone floor, men and women of all sorts, from wealthy merchants in fur-lined coats to servants dressed in their black-and-whites. Everyone was chattering, complaining, hurling insults, laughing. The noise was deafening, like a huge waterfall, amplified by the acoustics in the high-ceilinged lobby. Justy had the impression of a hundred birds in a nest, all with their beaks wide open.
Hardluck was staring at the paper in his hand.
“Can you read?” Justy asked.
“A little, sir. The Rikers like their people to have their letters.”
“So you know what it says. You’re free. You don’t have to answer to anyone, anymore.”
The big driver had tears in his eyes. “I’m grateful, sir. But—”
“I know, you said before, you’re frightened about making your way. But I believe you will, carriage or no. So until you get your feet under you, you’ll stay at Hughson’s, on my account.”
“I can’t let you do that, sir!”
“It’s the least I can do. I burned that carriage, after all, and my intent was to give it to you.”
“I’ll pay you back, sir. I promise you.”
Justy grinned. “I believe you would, but there’s no call. Now, there is one more thing for you to do here. It might be better if you were dressed, but this can’t wait.” He was still holding the second envelope. He took three sheets of paper from it. “You need a new name.”
“Sir?”
Justy held up his hands. “I’m not saying Hardluck isn’t a perfectly good name. It’s your name. But you need a surname to go along with it. For legal purposes.”
“What name should I use?”
“Many freedmen use the name of their former master. But I’m not sure how you’d feel about being called Riker.”
“Flanagan, then?” Hardluck looked doubtful.
“I’d be honored, Hardluck, but I think it should be a name of your choosing.”
“And it can be anything I wish?”
“So long as it’s signed by the registrar and a witness in good standing.”
Hardluck thought for a moment. “Cross,” he said. And suddenly there were tears in his eyes. “Because the Lord Jesus has delivered me out of bondage.”
The registrar’s office was on the mezzanine level. He was not busy, so they had the papers signed immediately. Justy left copies of the name change and the certificate of emancipation with the registrar and took copies for himself. As they walked down the stairs to the lobby, he folded Hardluck’s documents into an envelope. “Keep them with you always. There are slave-catchers here, men who will try to snatch you off the street and sell you back into bondage if they can. These freedom papers are your surety. If you lose them, or anyone takes them, you can appeal to the Hall. They have records here, as you see, and you can have a copy made by the scrivener. Or come to me. I will keep a copy, and I can vouch for you.” He smiled, and put out his hand. “Mister Cross.”
Hardluck’s hand was rough and strong, ridged with calluses from handling ropes and reins. It was like grasping the branch of a sun-warmed tree. His smile was so wide, it looked as though it might split his face. “Hardluck Cross.” He rolled his name around his mouth. “It sounds well?”
“It’ll be a hit with the ladies at chapel, I’d say.”
Hardluck’s eyes opened wide as the world opened up before him. And then he laughed, a deep, booming sound, like a bass drum pounding, and the crowd in the lobby of the Hall went quiet and stared at the man on the stairs, in his grubby gray shift and scuffed white shoes, whose life had just begun.
All trace of the previous day’s storm had been swept away. The sun glittered in a brittle blue sky, and the wind was a knife, slicing up Broad Street from the docks. New Yorkers hurried up and down Wall Street, some swathed in scarves and hats and heavy coats, others hugging themselves in their summer rig, taken by surprise by the sudden onset of autumn.
Justy had no overcoat, but he didn’t have far to go. He let gravity pull him down the hill to the Tontine Coffee House, and then up the flight of teak steps to its front door.
There were no limits to when traders could do business in New York, but many of the city’s money men liked to decamp to their country homes on a Friday afternoon, and return late on Monday morning. So the Tontine was quiet, but Justy was gambling that Tobias Riker would be there, taking stock of the news that Umar was dead, and doing the necessary business as quickly as possible.
The grand foyer was empty, and as Justy passed the dining room, he saw just two members seated at the table, reading newspapers and sipping coffee. Riker was in the Club Room with two others, their chairs drawn up tight around a small table cluttered with empty cups. Justy stopped just inside the doorway and looked around. The room hadn’t changed at all since he had last stepped inside it. The royal-blue rug was like a cloud under his feet. The air smelled of polished leather, from the armchairs, and cedar, from the precisely cut wood piled up beside the fireplace.
He waited until Riker raised his head and looked at him. The man was the image of his son, with the same sharp face and widow’s peak. But the hair was grayer, and the eyes were harder. He barked at Justy, “You are?”
“Flanagan. Mayor’s Marshal.”
The eyes watched him for a moment. “City business?”
Justy thought about that. “Yes.”
“Then it can wait until Monday.”
“No. It cannot.”
The two other heads turned. Riker stood up. He was immaculately dressed in a subtle navy-blue suit of fine worsted wool, coat, breeches, and vest. His shirt and cravat were made of white silk, and there was a gold pin with an onyx stud thrust through the knot of his tie. It was his only concession to fashion. Everything else about him was sobriety personified: the buttons on his coat were black, and he didn’t even wear one watch chain, let alone two.
“Flanagan. Yes. Of course.”
Justy watched him approach, his shoes silent on the soft carpet. He was thin and narrow-shouldered and a few inches shorter than Justy, but he carried himself like a much taller man. Close up, he looked like someone who enjoyed all the pleasures of life. His cheeks and nose were veined and even his immaculate tailoring couldn’t hide the hard ball of his potbelly. His eyes were pale blue and his face was narrow and pointed, like a fox.
“And what can I do for you, Marshal Flanagan?” The bark was gone. The voice was smooth.
“Your scrap is come untwisted, Mister Riker.”
“My scrap?”
“This scheme of yours, to secure land before the commission gives its report.”
Riker raised a thin eyebrow. “That’s quite a charge, Marshal. Have you any evidence?”
“Plenty. Your extortion of Mister Shard. His frequent trips up to the Mohammedan compound in your carriage. The sales contract documents in the recorder’s office signed by John Absalom. Also known as Umar Salam. Sales that include loans from your bank. I wonder if we issued a writ of subpoena to your executives what we might find.”
Riker shrugged. “I am not familiar with a Mister Shard. He sounds like a most unfortunate creature, to be preyed upon so. But I can assure it was not by me. And this talk of my carriage? Carriages are easily confused. Doubtless he has, or has been using, a carriage similar to mine. As for the Millennium Bank being involved in transactions that you claim are dubious, again, that has nothing to do with me. I am the majority shareholder in the bank. I am not privy to its doings, nor am I familiar with its clients. But by all means, do question the executives. And do it now, if you wish.”
He stood to one side. The men who had been sitting with him were now standing. One was the picture of a Wall Street man, tall and lean, with a long face like a bloodhound. He wore a sharply cut black coat, and small powdered wig. The other was Charles Shotwell, looking fleshy and ruddy, as though he had just come in from the cold. The razor cut still showed, thinner now, but still livid across his cheek. He was dressed in a lovat coat and tan breeches. The single watch chain running from his middle waistcoat button to his right fob pocket looked even tighter than the last time Justy had seen it. The banker thrust his thumb into the vacant fob and flashed Justy a nervous smile.
Riker’s smirk was the image of his son’s. “It doesn’t look as though you have much evidence after all, Marshal. In fact, it seems as though you have been wasting your time. New York’s time. I shall have words to say to the High Constable at the next budget meeting. He is a strong proponent of a policing force for the city, but if your efforts are any example, it strikes me that would be a monumental waste of money.”
“You will not be attending the next budget meeting, Mister Riker.”
“I shall not? Why not?”
“Because while I may not have evidence enough to convict you in a court of law, I have more than enough to destroy your reputation. I have friends among the newslettermen. And you have left a juicy trail for them to start sniffing after. I shall point them in the right direction, and they will piece it all together. Some will dismiss the reports, but there will be an inquiry. And when Jake Hays starts uncovering evidence, you’ll be cooked. I’m sure you can call in enough favors to keep yourself out of court. But you won’t be able to erase the stink of corruption. That’ll be too much for most of your peers in the city. They’ll vote to have you removed from the Council and all other roles of influence. People will stop doing business with you. You’ll be a pariah. You’ll be banished to your bankrupt estate. Or perhaps to your wee island.”
Riker stared. His eyes were glassy and hard, like a snake’s. Justy expected to see a forked tongue appear between his lips at any moment. “What do you want?”
“I want you out of New York, but I’ll settle for having you out of New York’s business. I want you to retire from public life. From the City Council. And the Planning Commission. And any other public offices that you hold. If you resign all of your duties on Monday morning, I’ll forget everything I know, and you’ll never hear about any of this from me again.”
Riker didn’t blink. Justy could almost see the mind racing behind the marble eyes.
“And my contracts with Mister Absalom?”
“So you don’t deny them?”
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
Justy shrugged. “Keep them. Deal with his heirs. If you can find them. I don’t give a damn how much money you make, I just don’t want you befouling my city.”
Riker nodded, as unruffled as though he was discussing a point of order in the Council. “A moment, if you please.”
He went back to the cluster of chairs and huddled with Shotwell and the long-faced man. He spoke for a long time. The long-faced man shook his head, vehemently. Shotwell looked stunned. He pulled his watch out of its pocket, glanced at it, then tucked it away again. He said something, and then the tall banker pulled out his own watch. They all nodded.
Riker walked back slowly towards Justy. He stopped a few feet away. “Very well, Mister Flanagan. I shall resign all my commissions on Monday morning. In return, we shall consider this case closed. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“In that case, our business is concluded.”
“Not quite.”
“What?” Riker’s jaw was tight.
“Your carriage.”
“What about it?”
“I want it. The cab, and the horses with it.”
For the first time, Riker looked surprised. “I’m not giving you my carriage.”
“In that case we do not have a deal.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple, Mister Riker. I want your carriage. Today. Consider it a commission, if it makes it easier for you.”
“The carriage.” Riker stared. “And then we are complete?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. I will inform my driver. You may collect it from here this afternoon.”
He was on the point of turning away, when something stopped him, as though another part of him had taken hold. He leaned close, baring his teeth. “You will regret this.”
“Just as Chase Beaulieu did?” Justy leaned in, so that their noses were almost touching, and he could see a yellow tint in the bloodshot whites of Riker’s eyes. “You got him the job so you would know what the surveyor’s recommendations would be. You thought he was a dolt, but he was cleverer than you expected. He pieced it together. And you killed him for it.”
“Chase Beaulieu was a drunk. He fell in the river and drowned.”
“So everyone says. Even his father. But you and he and I all know the truth.”
The snarl became a sneer. “You claim to know a truth, yet you have no evidence.”
“No. But that might change, if a story came out. The family might decide a postmortem is appropriate after all. And who knows what truths we might uncover then.”
Riker blinked, and his eyes seemed to clear. He swayed backwards, the emollient, persuasive part of him now back in control. He gave a bland smile. “Good day, Mister Flanagan. I hope never to see you again.”
Justy nodded. “The feeling, Mister Riker, is mutual.”