Read Online Brooklyn on Fire by Lawrence H. Levy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence H. Levy
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was a knocking at the door, which quickly escalated into more of a pounding.
Lazlo had been safely ensconced in his self-made cocoon over the past two decades and rarely experienced anything out of the norm or the slightest bit alarming. This was radically different and cause for concern. In a closet in the back of the shop he kept a rifle that was reputed to have been used by Benjamin Franklin when he was a military commander in the French and Indian War. It was a Brown Bess, a flintlock smoothbore musket that was over one hundred thirty years old, and besides not being absolutely sure that it was Franklin’s, more importantly at this moment, Lazlo had no idea whether it could still function. Still, he knew it would have to do. It could possibly scare someone off…he hoped. As the pounding increased, he got Brown Bess and was headed for the door when it occurred to him how unthreatening he looked in his kimono, holding an ancient musket in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. The only thing he could do to rectify the situation was to drop the toilet paper.
Lazlo’s rendezvous with the intruder was imminent. He reached for the doorknob and felt something he hadn’t felt since he was a schoolboy: fear.
7
C OLLIS H UNTINGTON, A NDREW Haswell Green, Alfred Chapin, and Hugh McLaughlin were sharing a booth in a saloon in lower Manhattan that was practically under the Brooklyn Bridge. It was meant to be a clandestine meeting, and as evidence that it was, McLaughlin hadn’t brought Liam Riley with him. None of them were familiar with the saloon, nor would they have chosen it as a place to dine and drink. The meeting place was a compromise, so that the two men from Manhattan and the two men from Brooklyn would be on neutral ground.
“Well, well,” McLaughlin exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day when a poor son of Irish immigrants like me would be sittin’ face-to-face with New York’s golden boy Andrew Haswell Green and the great Collis Huntington. God, America’s a wondrous country, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” responded Huntington, “and I bet you’ve found others naïve enough to fall for that humble immigrant crap.”
Both Green and Chapin were appalled at Huntington’s crude remark, but Huntington knew no other way to do business. He was fully aware that Chapin was just a puppet and that McLaughlin was the real decision maker. He needed McLaughlin to know right off that if he planned to shovel any shit, he’d better not throw it in Huntington’s yard. McLaughlin wasn’t unnerved, or at least if he was, he didn’t show it.
“As a matter fact, I have,” said McLaughlin calmly, “and they’re all in Brooklyn.” He paused for effect, then continued. “I heard yer family’s been here so long they greeted the pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. Ya may have forgotten how sturdy we immigrants are. By the way, is it true? Are ya part Indian?”
Thinking the insults had gone too far, Green quickly interrupted. “Gentlemen, we have come here to put aside our differences, not to create more.”
“Don’t worry, Andrew,” said Huntington. “This is just a mating dance we Indians do before the romance begins. Right, Hugh?”
“I’m already in love,” said McLaughlin, staring straight at Huntington, who returned his gaze. There was no way either of these two gigantic egos was going to give the other the satisfaction of blinking first.
After an uncomfortable pause, Chapin finally spoke. “Gentlemen, we have weighed the pros and cons of the situation, and I think it behooves us to explain why Brooklyn sees no advantage in becoming part of your city.”
“Brooklyn or you?” Huntington interrupted.
“We
are
Brooklyn,” McLaughlin quickly answered.
Concerned that, like two cocks trapped in the same barnyard, Huntington and McLaughlin would get lost in another standoff, Chapin jumped back in. “The fact of the matter is, our people like things the way they are. They have good
Lazlo had been safely ensconced in his self-made cocoon over the past two decades and rarely experienced anything out of the norm or the slightest bit alarming. This was radically different and cause for concern. In a closet in the back of the shop he kept a rifle that was reputed to have been used by Benjamin Franklin when he was a military commander in the French and Indian War. It was a Brown Bess, a flintlock smoothbore musket that was over one hundred thirty years old, and besides not being absolutely sure that it was Franklin’s, more importantly at this moment, Lazlo had no idea whether it could still function. Still, he knew it would have to do. It could possibly scare someone off…he hoped. As the pounding increased, he got Brown Bess and was headed for the door when it occurred to him how unthreatening he looked in his kimono, holding an ancient musket in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. The only thing he could do to rectify the situation was to drop the toilet paper.
Lazlo’s rendezvous with the intruder was imminent. He reached for the doorknob and felt something he hadn’t felt since he was a schoolboy: fear.
7
C OLLIS H UNTINGTON, A NDREW Haswell Green, Alfred Chapin, and Hugh McLaughlin were sharing a booth in a saloon in lower Manhattan that was practically under the Brooklyn Bridge. It was meant to be a clandestine meeting, and as evidence that it was, McLaughlin hadn’t brought Liam Riley with him. None of them were familiar with the saloon, nor would they have chosen it as a place to dine and drink. The meeting place was a compromise, so that the two men from Manhattan and the two men from Brooklyn would be on neutral ground.
“Well, well,” McLaughlin exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day when a poor son of Irish immigrants like me would be sittin’ face-to-face with New York’s golden boy Andrew Haswell Green and the great Collis Huntington. God, America’s a wondrous country, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” responded Huntington, “and I bet you’ve found others naïve enough to fall for that humble immigrant crap.”
Both Green and Chapin were appalled at Huntington’s crude remark, but Huntington knew no other way to do business. He was fully aware that Chapin was just a puppet and that McLaughlin was the real decision maker. He needed McLaughlin to know right off that if he planned to shovel any shit, he’d better not throw it in Huntington’s yard. McLaughlin wasn’t unnerved, or at least if he was, he didn’t show it.
“As a matter fact, I have,” said McLaughlin calmly, “and they’re all in Brooklyn.” He paused for effect, then continued. “I heard yer family’s been here so long they greeted the pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. Ya may have forgotten how sturdy we immigrants are. By the way, is it true? Are ya part Indian?”
Thinking the insults had gone too far, Green quickly interrupted. “Gentlemen, we have come here to put aside our differences, not to create more.”
“Don’t worry, Andrew,” said Huntington. “This is just a mating dance we Indians do before the romance begins. Right, Hugh?”
“I’m already in love,” said McLaughlin, staring straight at Huntington, who returned his gaze. There was no way either of these two gigantic egos was going to give the other the satisfaction of blinking first.
After an uncomfortable pause, Chapin finally spoke. “Gentlemen, we have weighed the pros and cons of the situation, and I think it behooves us to explain why Brooklyn sees no advantage in becoming part of your city.”
“Brooklyn or you?” Huntington interrupted.
“We
are
Brooklyn,” McLaughlin quickly answered.
Concerned that, like two cocks trapped in the same barnyard, Huntington and McLaughlin would get lost in another standoff, Chapin jumped back in. “The fact of the matter is, our people like things the way they are. They have good
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