Christopher Reich
The Patriots' Club
Copyright © 2005 by Christopher Reich
To Richard S. Pine,
with gratitude
PAST
A warm wind blew off the East River, gathering dust, dander, and droppings off the street and swirling the noxious mix into the air. The two men turned their faces from the gust, before resuming their conversation.
“As always, you exaggerate,” the general was saying. “Really, you must calm down. Your temper will be the end of you.”
“I hardly think so,” replied his colleague, shorter by a head. “Look around you. The country’s being torn apart. Gangs of ruffians storming courthouses in the West. Farmers in Pennsylvania lobbying day and night to cut taxes, and King Cotton in the South wanting nothing to do with us at all. We’re being drawn and quartered.”
“With time, we’ll sort out their grievances.”
“With time, the republic will cease to exist! The country’s already grown so large, so diverse. Walk up Broadway and all you hear are foreign tongues-German, Russian, Spanish. Everywhere you look, there’s another immigrant. I’ll give you a dollar for every native English speaker you can find.”
“I do recall something about your being from abroad.”
The shorter man had long ago learned to ignore the ugly facts of his parentage. He was a lawyer by trade, trim and compact with a Roman senator’s nose and pale blue eyes. “We’ve lost our sense of purpose. The war brought us together. These days, it’s every man for himself. I won’t stand for it. Not after all we’ve sacrificed. We need a firm hand to set things right. One voice. One vision.”
“We have the people’s voice to guide us.”
“Precisely the problem! The vox populi cannot be trusted. They’re a rabble.”
“They are Americans!” protested the general.
“My point exactly,” came the disgusted reply. “Have you ever known a more quarrelsome bunch?”
The general began to pace, his gaze fleeing down Wall Street and landing on the busy docks. Every day more ships arrived. More new souls treaded down the gangway to populate this boundless land, each with his own customs, his own prejudices, his own traditions. Each with his own priorities; priorities that were, by nature, selfish. What could they bring but discord? “And so?”
The lawyer beckoned him closer. “I have an idea,” he whispered. “Something to help you.”
“To help me?”
“The Executive. The country.” He laid a hand on the general’s arm. “A way to get around the vox populi. To maintain order. To see your will be done.”
The general gazed down on his associate. They had been friends for nearly twenty years. The younger man had served as his aide during the war. He had shown himself to be courageous under fire; his counsel wise. He was to be trusted. “And what might that be?”
“A club, sir.”
“What kind of club?”
The lawyer’s eyes flickered. “A patriots club.”
1
Thomas Bolden checked over his shoulder. The two men were still a half block behind. They’d kept the same distance since he’d noticed them soon after coming out of the hotel. He wasn’t sure why they bothered him. Both were tall and clean-cut, about his age. They were respectably dressed in dark slacks and overcoats. At a glance, they appeared unthreatening. They could be bankers headed home after a late night at the office. College buddies hurrying to the Princeton Club for a last round before closing. More likely, they were two of the approximately three hundred guests who had suffered through the dinner given in his honor.
And yet… they disturbed him.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” said Bolden. “What were you saying?”
“Where are you going to put it?” Jennifer Dance asked. “You know… in your apartment?”
“Put it?” Bolden glanced at the large sterling-silver plate cradled in Jenny’s arms. “You mean I’m supposed to keep it on display?”
The plate looked like the one awarded to the women’s singles champion at Wimbledon. This one, however, was engraved with the words “Thomas F. Bolden. Harlem Boys Club Man of the Year.” He’d won plaques, medals, scrolls, and trophies, but never a plate. He wondered what joker at the club had thought it up. Curling an arm over Jenny’s shoulders, he drew her close and said, “No, no, no. This beautifully crafted hunk of lead is going straight into the closet.”
“You should be proud of it,” Jenny protested.
“I am proud of it, but it’s still going in the closet.”
“It doesn’t have to be the first thing you see when you walk in. We’ll put it someplace discreet. Maybe on the side table in the hall leading from your bedroom to the bathroom. You worked hard for this. You deserve to feel good about yourself.”
Bolden looked at Jenny and grinned. “I feel fine about myself,” he said. “I just don’t want to be reminded how great I am every time I go take a leak. It’s so… I don’t know… so New York.”
“ ‘It ain’t bragging if you can do it,’ ” Jenny said. “Those are your words.”
“I was talking about dunking a basketball. Now, that’s an accomplishment for a thirty-two-year-old white male who fudges about being six feet tall. Next time get a picture of that, and I’ll put it on the table leading to the bathroom. Framed even.”
Nearing midnight on a Tuesday in mid-January, the narrow streets of the city’s financial district were deserted. The night sky hung low, gray clouds scudding between the skyscrapers like fast-moving ships. The temperature hovered at forty degrees, unseasonably warm for this time of year. There was talk of a major storm system hitting the Eastern seaboard, but the meteorologists looked to have it wrong this time.
The annual gala benefiting the Harlem Boys Club had ended thirty minutes earlier. It had been a ritzy affair: white tablecloths, champagne cocktails, a four-course meal with fresh seafood instead of chicken. Bolden had been too nervous about giving his speech to enjoy the event. Besides, it wasn’t his style. Too much backslapping. Too many hands to shake. All that forced laughter. His cheeks felt like a punching bag from all the busses he’d gotten.
All in all, the event raised an even three hundred thousand dollars. His cheeks could take a little roughing up for that kind of change.
A drop of rain hit his nose. Bolden looked up, waiting for the next, but nothing followed. He pulled Jenny closer and nuzzled her neck. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the two men were still there, maybe a little farther back, walking side by side, talking animatedly. It wasn’t the first time lately that he’d had the sensation of being followed. There’d been a night last week when he’d felt certain someone had been trailing him near his apartment on Sutton Place. And just today at lunch, he’d been aware of a presence hovering nearby. A nagging feeling that someone was eyeing him. On neither occasion, however, had he been able to put a face to his fears.
And now there were these two.
He glanced at Jenny and caught her staring at him. “What?”
“That’s my Tommy,” she said with her all-knowing smile. “You’re so afraid of letting it go.”
“Letting what go?”
“The past. The whole ‘Tommy B. from the wrong side of the tracks’ thing. You still walk as if you’re on the mean streets of the Windy City. Like a mobster on the lam or something, afraid someone’s going to recognize you.”
“I do not,” he said, then forced himself to push his shoulders back and stand a little straighter. “Anyway, that’s who I am. It’s where I come from.”
“And this is where you are now. This is your world, too. Look at yourself. You’re a director at the snobbiest investment bank on Wall Street. You have dinner all the time with politicians and big shots. All those people didn’t show up tonight for me… they came for you. What you’ve achieved is pretty damned impressive, mister.”