New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [374]
Salvatore had just put some ham and mozzarella on a piece of bread when he looked out over the edge of the building again. A few floors above, the stone setters were at work on the outer face of the building, on a duckwalk suspended from above. Just below him was another line of suspended scaffolding, to catch anything that fell, and about fifteen floors below that, a second line of netting. There had been very few injuries on the huge site so far. Nobody had fallen off the outside.
He was gazing down at the netting far below when he caught sight of Uncle Luigi. He was standing, perilously, in the middle of Fifth Avenue while the traffic went past him. He was waving his arms like a lunatic.
The news had come. It didn’t take Salvatore long to reach his uncle, who embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“The child is born, Salvatore. All is well.”
“Bene. Another girl?” Angelo and Teresa had produced a baby girl within a year of their marriage. They had called her Anna.
“No, Salvatore. It’s a boy. A boy for the Caruso family.”
“Perfetto. We shall drink to him tonight.”
“You’d better.” Uncle Luigi beamed. “He will be called Salvatore. They want you to be his godfather.”
William Master didn’t go straight home that evening. Walking up Fifth, he paused by St. Patrick’s Cathedral. At the moment, the city appeared to be quite untidy—there seemed to be building sites wherever you looked. Down on Thirty-fourth, the Empire State Building was the tallest edifice going up, but the biggest construction site was surely the huge complex that ran for three blocks all the way from Fifth Avenue to Sixth, which John D. Rockefeller, Jr., was developing single-handed. Master had no doubt the finished article would be wonderfully elegant, but it was going to take years to complete, and until it was done, the area opposite St. Patrick’s was going to be a big mess.
On Fifty-second Street, he turned west and walked a few yards to a doorway on the north side of the street. He needed a drink.
The 21 Club had only been there since the start of the year, but to those in the know, it was already the place to be seen. Charlie had taken him there soon after it opened, for its owners were the two young men who’d run the Fronton speakeasy down in the Village. Having moved uptown, they’d finally settled at number 21 West Fifty-second Street, a much tonier address than where they’d started.
In the big downstairs room, you could sit at one of the booths round the walls and have a drink in peace. If the 21 Club was ever raided, the police might have some difficulty locating the liquor—it was behind a concealed, two-and-a-half-ton metal door, in the basement of the house next door.
William sat quietly and nursed his drink. He was glad to be alone. Charlie was coming round to dinner that evening, and he’d be glad of his company. But there were still things he hadn’t told his son. Things he hadn’t told anybody.
Damn it, the market couldn’t keep going down forever. But if it didn’t pick up soon, he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.
When he got home, Charlie was already there. He kissed his wife, and she gave him a friendly smile. He was glad of that.
He’d been sleeping badly for a month now. Sometimes he’d been so restless that he’d retired to the couch in his dressing room, to let Rose get some sleep. It had been some time since he’d made love to his wife. Partly he’d just been too tired; but more than once lately he’d tried, and been unable. She was very nice about it, but these failures hadn’t helped his morale.
Their supper passed pleasantly enough. They talked of this and that, but nobody mentioned the markets. They had fruit for dessert, and as Rose was cutting an apple, she casually remarked: “I’m going to need another hundred thousand dollars for Newport. You don’t mind, do you?”