New York - The Novel

empty jetty, and a couple of men in oilskins, and an unlit lamp, swinging in the wind.
    And the rain.
    The rain made everything worse. Much worse. It had started quite early that morning, and despite the weather forecast, it had not cleared at all. A steady downpour churned the Hudson’s waters and drummed gloomily above the saloon, while from time to time men would appear from the engine room, report to the captain, and then disappear again.
    “It might be an hour or two,” the captain told him, at six o’clock.
    Frank had already, twice, asked him what was wrong. An oil leak, he was told, the first time. Then, a problem with the cylinder. The explanations made no sense. Normally, he’d have gone down there to see for himself—he was certainly as competent as the vessel’s engineer. But he was feeling too old and depressed, so he sat quietly and nursed his brandy. Most of the other passengers had retired to their cabins. Three or four sat together, chatting in the bar. But he didn’t feel like talking, and remained alone.
    At seven o’clock, he wondered whether to give up and go home. If he’d just been waiting for Donna Clipp, he’d have done so. But there was the matter of Gabriel Love and the railroad. He still had to absent himself from town. So he tried to think only of the profit he was going to make on the Hudson Ohio Railroad, refilled his brandy glass, and stared grimly into it for another hour. At this very moment, he reminded himself, up in Boston, Cyrus MacDuff was being told about Gabriel Love’s raid on his railroad. At least, he thought, someone out there is having a worse evening than me. Very soon, he supposed, MacDuff would be trying to send him a wire. And he wouldn’t be able to find him. This damned boat was his hiding place for this adventure. He might be lonely, but he was invisible. That thought cheered him up a little.
    At eight o’clock, the captain announced that they’d be leaving soon. Frank Master took one more, foolish look down the pier, then sat at a table and demanded a meat pie and a plate of vegetables. This, at least, was brought promptly.
    At nine o’clock, the captain whispered to him that the problem was fixed, and that they just needed to test the engine. Rather rudely, Frank said, “Tell me when it’s done,” and waved him away. He heard the engine start, then stop. Just before ten, it started again. This time it did not stop. A few minutes later, the vessel nosed out into the river, and was swallowed by the great, dark downpour.

    Donna Clipp had had enough. She would have left already, if it hadn’t been for the rain. As far as she was concerned that bastard Frank Master could go to hell in a handcart. It was past ten o’clock at night.
    His note had been clear enough.
    Dear Clipper,
    There has been a change of plan. Wait for me at Henry’s Hotel in Brooklyn.
    I’ll be there as soon as I can after three o’clock. We’re going to Long Island.
    I can’t wait to see you.
    F.M.
    Typical, she thought. He can’t wait to see me, but he ain’t coming. Men were all the same—and she ought to know. She’d known a lot of men.
    Some of them had had money. The older ones anyway—not much point in being with an older man, if they hadn’t got money. The question was, would they spend it?
    And that was what she found so contemptible about most of them, really. They had plenty of money. They weren’t going to live that long. There was no way they could go through the money they already had, yet they still saved it. Habit, she supposed. Skinflints.
    Oh, they’d spend a bit. Buy you a bottle of champagne, a fur coat, maybe. Presents, to keep you happy—or so they thought. Even pay your rent, if you were lucky. But give you what you really needed? They seemed to think that if you were poor, you must be stupid.
    She’d heard of women who’d been set up for life by older men. Heard of it, but never met one. Not girls like her, anyway. And why? Because men didn’t care. They didn’t respect you. They took what they wanted, but if you asked for anything in return they called you a gold-digger, or worse.
    That was rich people for you, in Donna Clipp’s opinion. Scum, really, when you thought about it. They might look good, but underneath, they were just scum. Worse than she was.
    It was ten at night, pitch black and pouring with rain, and she was sitting in this stupid hotel on the wrong side of the Brooklyn Bridge, and not a smell of her so-called lover,