“Back to the Web.” Hotchkiss disappeared behind the counter. He returned a few minutes later. “Born 1901. Congressman from the Third District of New York. Assistant secretary of war. Served on House Un-American Activities Committee, as an aide to the un-American Joseph McCarthy. Harold Jacklin was a regular Nazi.”
Hotchkiss kneeled and pulled out the bottom drawer of the same cabinet-number four. Finding the proper microfilm, he quickly had it up and on the screen of the nearest reader. “Let’s see here: 1901. Nope. Not here. You sure he’s a native New Yorker?”
“His family was a member of the Four Hundred along with the Morgans, the Astors, and the Vanderbilts. They were as New York as New York gets.”
“A regular Knickerbocker, eh? Let’s check out up through 1905.”
Ten minutes and several runs to the microfilm cabinet later, they were no better off.
“Don’t worry,” said Hotchkiss. “We’re just warming up.”
Jenny took a seat at the machine next to him. “Where else might we find records on him?”
Hotchkiss considered the question. “Police census of 1915,” he said after a minute.
“Well?” Jenny asked, smiling now with excitement, rather than duty.
Hotchkiss stood rooted to the spot.
“Come on. Let’s find it,” she said. “I thought we were just warming up.”
“Sorry, lady, meter’s run out.”
Jenny handed over her last twenty. “This is it,” she said, keeping ahold of the bill as Hotchkiss tried to wrest it from her. “This takes me to the end of the line.”
Hotchkiss snatched the bill. “Deal.”
Bolting to his feet, he marched off like a man on a mission, disappearing into the stacks. He returned carrying a pile of moth-eaten leather ledgers. “Here we go,” he said, plopping them down on a table nearby. “These here are the census books. Remember, back in 1915, they didn’t have computers or database software. Everything was done by hand.”
Jenny opened the top book. Each page was divided into several columns. Name farthest on the left, followed by street, occupation, sex, age, and citizenship status. “Return of Inhabitants” was written across the top of the page in swirling Edwardian script. “We’ll be here all night.”
“Not necessarily,” said Hotchkiss. “We know where Harold Jacklin lived when his son was born. If we’re in luck, his father lived at the same address.”
With Hotchkiss’s help, Jenny found the ledger containing the names of those people who had lived on Park Avenue in 1915. The list ran to three pages. There, at 55 Park Avenue, the address listed as Harold Jacklin’s residence on his son, James’s, birth certificate, was written a different name in neat but faded script. Edmund Pendleton Jacklin, born April 19, 1845, occupation noted as banker. And below it, that of his wife, Eunice, and their children: Harold, fourteen, Edmund Jr., twelve, and Catherine, eight.
“Pendleton… that you?” asked Hotchkiss.
Jenny nodded.
“Eighteen forty-five,” said Hotchkiss, chewing on his lip. “Now things get interesting.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Stanley Hotchkiss shot her an offended look. “I never renege on a deal. Besides, you’ve got me caught up in this stuff, too. Okay, 1845. It was the Dark Ages back when it came to record keeping. They didn’t have regular hospitals. We can’t check there. Everybody was born at home.”
“What about birth certificates? We know when Edmund Jacklin was born.”
“No go. The city’s index of birth certificates only goes back as far as 1847. We just missed the boat.”
“Are there other censuses?”
“There’s the jury census that was conducted in 1816, 1819, and 1821, but that won’t help. We know they couldn’t be in the same house at 55 Park Avenue, because no one was living that far up Park back then. New York only had about thirty thousand inhabitants.” Hotchkiss tilted his head and stared into the blinding maw of the fluorescent lights. “Newspapers,” he said. “If your family was as hotsie-totsie as you say, there would have been a birth announcement.”
“What was the paper back then?”
“Our best bet would be the New York American. Besides, it’s the only one we have on file.”
More microfilms were dredged up. Hotchkiss scrolled to the days following April 19, 1845. “I don’t see a thing,” he said. “We better move upstairs.”
Jenny stood, anxious to get wherever they needed to go quickly.
“No,” protested Hotchkiss. “I mean upstairs like going to Washington. The federal census. The government conducted a census every ten years. We’ll try 1850. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s a crapshoot whether the information we need was ever transferred from their papers to the database. The upside is that it’s alphabetized.”
Hotchkiss led the way behind the counter and pulled up a chair for Jenny to join him at the computer terminal. Hotchkiss logged on to Ancestors.com, accessed the federal census of 1850, New York State, Manhattan, then entered the name of Edmund Jacklin. There were two of them, but only one was five years old. Edmund P. Jacklin, son of Josiah Jacklin, age thirty-two, Rose Pendleton, age twenty. Address: 24 Wall Street.
“Do you have city directories here?” asked Jenny. City directories were the phone books of the age, listing the names, addresses, and occupations of the citizens, likewise by street.
Hotchkiss looked surprised that she knew about them. “Sure thing. What year do you need?”
“Seventeen ninety-six.”
“Don’t you want to look at the year he was born? Eighteen eighteen?”
“No,” said Jenny. “Humor me.”
A woman called out Hotchkiss’s name and shouted something about his finishing up whatever he was doing, and getting the place ready to close up. Hotchkiss didn’t answer. Instead, he went off to retrieve an original city directory. He returned with Annum 1796. The leather-bound volume was in brittle condition, and barely half an inch thick. “You do the honors,” he said.
Jenny handled the book with due care. She turned each page gingerly, noting the paper’s thickness and quality, the gold leafing on the edge. Quickly, she found Wall Street. There, living at number 24, was Nathaniel Pendleton, alias Scotch Nat.
And living next door, at number 25, was Alexander Hamilton, his best friend.
Thick as thieves, Simon Bonny had said.
Jenny lowered her eyes. It was real. Bobby Stillman’s club was real.
49
It was five o’clock. Time for the “Follies.” James “Scotch Nat” Jacklin hurried across his office and turned on the television. Each day at 5:00 P.M., the Pentagon broadcast the announcement of contracts to be awarded by the air force, army, and the navy live over a closed-circuit feed. Around the office, the broadcast had been dubbed the Five O’clock Follies. As so many companies in Jefferson’s portfolio depended on government contracts, Jacklin liked to watch when he could. This afternoon, however, viewing was compulsory. No fewer than four of his companies were set to learn the decision on contracts totaling a billion dollars. For two of them, the decision was critical. Winning the bid would ensure a profitable future. Losing it would force them to close their doors and shut down operations. Jefferson would have to write down the value of the investments to zero.
“Cigars, gents?” Jacklin asked, holding out a box of his favorite Cohibas. “These things always bring me good luck. Come on, don’t be shy. You, too, LaWanda.”
Seated with him were several of his closest counselors. Lamar King, former army four-star and deputy chief of staff. Hank Baker, who’d chaired the SEC for ten years. And LaWanda Makepeace, his newest hire and the cement behind the Trendrite deal. The men accepted a cigar. Mrs. Makepeace politely declined.
The Pentagon spokesman stepped behind the dais. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We have quite a few contracts to go over this evening, so I’ll get started right away…”