New York - The Novel

run him for mayor of New York and nearly pulled that off too. Soon the damn fellow was going to run again. In the meantime, with the help of his Tammany Hall friends, Wood had his finger in every pie in the city.
    “Might I ask your own name, sir?”
    “O’Donnell is my name, sir. But in anything I say, I am speaking for Mr. Wood.”
    “And what is the nature of your business with me?” Master inquired.
    “You might say it is political, sir,” the Irishman replied.
    Surely, Master thought, his visitor couldn’t imagine he’d support Wood for mayor.
    “I suppose you know, Mr. O’Donnell,” he said evenly, “that I’m not a great friend of Tammany Hall.”
    “I do, sir,” the young man answered coolly, “yet I believe that you and Mr. Wood have an interest in common.”
    “And what might that be?”
    “Parcel of lots on Thirty-fourth Street, west of Broadway.”
    Master looked at him in surprise. It had been six months since he’d bought four lots on that block for future development, and he was still deciding what to do with them.
    “You’re well informed,” he remarked drily.
    “Mr. Wood is also thinking of purchasing in that block,” his emissary continued. “But there is a problem. It seems that a certain gentleman owning property there is desirous of starting a rendering plant.”
    “A rendering plant?”
    “Yes, sir. Grinding up carcasses from the slaughterhouse. Dead horses, too. Amazing what you can get out of them. Good business, they tell me. But messy. Not good for other property owners.”
    “Not at all.”
    “Bad for you, sir. Bad for Mr. Wood.”
    “And what can we do?”
    “Fight it, sir. We believe there’s a legal remedy, though lawyers are expensive and courts take time. More efficiently, you might say, one or two of the aldermen might be persuaded to deny the permit.”
    “To vote it down?”
    “We think the problem can be made to go away.”
    “I see,” said Master reflectively. “But that would cost money.”
    “There, sir,” said the emissary, “you come to the nub of the matter.”
    “And my contribution would be …?”
    “A thousand dollars.”
    Then Frank Master threw back his head and laughed.
    “Cigar, Mr. O’Donnell?”
    Frank Master didn’t mind a bit of corruption. Give a man’s son a job, and he’ll do you a favor later. Give a theater manager a tip for a good investment, and he’ll send you tickets for the opening of a new play. These were the kindnesses that made the world go round. Where did corruption become a vice? Hard to say. It was a question of degree.
    He’d thought he knew most of the Tammany Hall tricks. Apart from the basics, like the small bribes for permits, or the larger bribes for contracts, the big stuff was to be found in the padded contracts. Supply the city with food, say, for the poor. Add a percentage to the true invoice. Split the difference with the man who gave you the contract. Continue it year after year. Hard to detect, harder to prove, almost impossible to prosecute—assuming anybody even wanted to. Over time, the money could be huge.
    But this trick of O’Donnell’s was new to him. As they lit up their cigars, he gazed at the young man benevolently.
    “Nice try.”
    O’Donnell looked at him sharply, but said nothing. “Thousand bucks is a pretty good shakedown,” Master continued amiably.
    “The threatened plant …”
    “Doesn’t exist, Mr. O’Donnell.” Frank Master smiled. “I’m used to paying the city boys for this and that. But the threat of a non-existent rendering plant is a refinement I admire. Do many people fall for it?”
    Sean O’Donnell was silent for a moment or two. Then he gave his host a charming smile.
    “Between us, sir?”
    “Yes.”
    “An amazing number.”
    “Well, my respects to Mr. Wood, but I’m not one of them.” O’Donnell considered the new position. “There’s one problem, sir. I wouldn’t like to return to Mr. Wood empty-handed. It’s not a good idea.”
    “I suppose not. What’ll he take?”
    “Five hundred, minimum.”
    “Two fifty.”
    “Won’t do, sir. You know he’s quite likely to be mayor at the next election.”
    “And you’ll be stuffing ballot boxes?”
    “Of course,” said Sean cheerfully.
    “Two hundred for him, and the same for you.”
    “You’re most understanding, sir.”
    Frank Master rose, left the room for a minute, and returned with a bundle of banknotes.
    “Cash acceptable?”
    “Certainly.”
    Master settled himself