New York - The Novel

legal?” he suddenly blurted out.
    “It’s fine,” said Sean with a smile. “Trust me.”
    But Gabriel Love wasn’t smiling. He was giving him a very strange look, one that Master didn’t like at all.
    “You’re not going to let me down, are you?” he asked.
    “No,” said Frank, unwillingly.
    “Don’t ever let me down,” said old Gabriel Love.
    “He won’t let you down,” said Sean, quickly.
    Gabriel gave Sean a look. Then his face broke into a smile.
    The brandied pears arrived.

    The next morning, Frank Master ate his breakfast quickly. Then he went into the yard behind the house. The weather was still surprisingly warm, well into the fifties. An article in the newspaper had mentioned a storm afflicting the Midwest, but the forecast for the weekend was warm weather, turning cloudy with a few showers. At present the sky was blue. The little clumps of crocuses in the garden had all opened out days ago into a pleasing array of mauve and white and yellow.
    After pacing about in the garden for a little while, Frank decided to go down to Wall Street.
    This time, he took a cab—a mistake, as it happened. For as they reached the Lower East Side, they encountered a great fleet of laden wagons entering the city. The Barnum, Bailey and Hutchinson circus was arriving in town. He should have remembered. He must make sure he and Hetty took the grandchildren before it left. But the circus was blocking the streets, and it was some time before the cab could get through.
    Saturday mornings were usually quiet on Wall Street. But the market didn’t close until the middle of the day, and there were plenty of people about. Master walked into the Stock Exchange. A quick look at the floor told him that shares were trading moderately. He went up to a broker.
    “Anything happening?” he inquired.
    “Not much. Some Hudson Ohio stock was just bought. Nothing dramatic though.”
    “It’s a good stock,” said Master with a shrug.
    So Gabriel Love had made his trades. The trap was set. Master waited about for a while. The market seemed ready to end the week without excitement.
    What should he do? He’d been thinking about it ever since he awoke. His son’s advice had undoubtedly been sound: If in doubt, do nothing. He just needed to give his broker a different instruction before he left. Tell him not to sell at any price. Simple as that.
    On the other hand, if Gabriel Love’s deal was legal, the profit on his stock would be substantial. At one twenty, he’d have doubled his money. And it might easily go higher. It was tempting, no question.
    Was there really any reason to worry? Had he let his imagination run away with him at the dinner last night? For another twenty minutes, he hung around, unable to make up his mind. Then he cursed himself for a coward and a fool. The hell with it, he told himself. Be a man.
    He was going upriver tomorrow with Donna Clipp. No one was going to know where he was, and he was going to have a good time. And if Gabriel Love stirred up the market while he was gone, so much the better. His broker would sell, and he’d arrive back in the city a damn sight richer. Why the hell not?
    This was Wall Street. This was New York. And he was a Master, for God’s sake. He was big enough to play the game. With a feeling of manly triumph, he walked out of the New York Stock Exchange.
    He’d gone a hundred yards when he saw J. P. Morgan.
    The banker was standing on a street corner. With his tall top hat and his tailcoat, his unsmiling face and his barrel chest, he made you think of a cross between a Roman emperor and a prizefighter. He wasn’t fifty-two years old, but already he seemed to belong to the immortals. If J. P. Morgan wanted a cab, he didn’t hail one. He just stood in the street and, like a lighthouse, turned his eyes upon the traffic.
    And the great banker was directly in his path. He walked toward him. As he drew close, Morgan turned.
    “Mr. Morgan.” He bowed politely.
    He thought Morgan would acknowledge him—it would have been rude not to—but you couldn’t expect much, for Morgan was a man of notoriously few words.
    The banker gave him a nod. It was hard to be sure, but under his bushy mustache there might even have been a faint smile.
    Then, just for a moment, Frank Master had a foolish impulse. If only he could reveal the plan to J. P. Morgan. If only he could step into a saloon with the great man for a moment or two, sit down, tell him fair and square about it and say: