New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [378]
He was losing his balance.
Salvatore saw it even before Angelo knew it was happening, and he threw himself toward his brother. He was aware that the two Mohawks on Angelo’s left were moving also, but his attention was wholly on his objective. If he could just grab his brother’s jacket.
Angelo was going over the edge. He did not have time to right himself. His slim body twisted back, his hands searching for something to hold on to. But it was too late.
Then suddenly, just as Salvatore’s outstretched arms were thrown forward, just as he might have touched him, Angelo’s body shifted, abruptly, to the left.
The Mohawks had him. They were dragging him toward them, and holding him fast, thank God.
Had Salvatore not swiveled to look at the Mohawks, he might have kept his balance. But as he crashed to the edge, he slipped, tripped over the girder, and went headlong into empty space.
Salvatore Caruso knew he was going to die. As he felt himself go over the edge, he was able to think fast, and clearly. I am going to die like my sister Anna, he thought. He wanted to tell Angelo that he loved him, and did not hate him at all. But then he realized that Angelo had no idea of the shameful thoughts that had passed through his mind in the moments before. So that was all right.
Nine floors below hung the duckwalk. The duckwalk had a hard roof to protect the stone setters from any falling debris. If he hit that roof the impact would surely kill him, but wouldn’t stop his fall. He’d bounce off the roof, and then fall like a stone all the way down to the street. He must try to miss the duckwalk, and cry out as he fell, to warn the people on the sidewalk far below.
He heard a voice above cry out his name, “Salvatore.” It was Angelo.
There was only one thing he had not thought of. He realized it a moment later.
He was not falling as fast as he should.
When the wind strikes a tall building, its current is checked. It searches for somewhere to go. Often, it will go up. Just as the wind will rush up a cliff and blow you back if you look over, great up-currents of air chase the soaring facade of a skyscraper.
Now, as he fell, Salvatore suddenly noticed that Angelo’s sketchbook, which should have been below him, was rising, flapping like a bird, some way over his head. While the sudden gust from the west side had ripped the book from Angelo’s hand, great eddies in the changing wind had also caused a column of air to funnel up the eastern facade.
And now, like an angel’s hand, it took Salvatore as he fell and held him, then pressed him back against the framework of the building, so that he crashed with a thud onto an open parapet, three floors below.
The landing knocked him unconscious, and broke his leg.
It was a spring morning in 1931, a Monday, and William Master was dressing. He did not know why he should have opened that particular drawer—he hadn’t done so for months. It contained some old ties and a couple of waistcoats he never wore. Then he noticed the belt.
He pulled it out. The thing had been handed down in the family since God knows when. His father had told him: “Better keep it. It’s wampum. Supposed to be lucky.”
William shrugged. He could sure as hell use some luck today. On an impulse, he decided to put it on. Under his shirt of course—he didn’t want to look like a damn fool. Then he dressed as usual, every inch the successful man. If he was going down, he’d go down in style.
Anyway, you should never give up hope.
He went downstairs, kissed Rose good-bye, as if this were any other day, and walked out the door.
Joe was waiting there smartly, beside the Rolls.
“Good morning, sir.” Joe opened the door for him.
“Morning, Joe. Fine morning.” Comforted for a moment, he got in. Joe was a good man. He wondered if he’d be employing him much longer. Probably not.
As they went down Fifth, he gazed out at the park. A sprinkling of daffodils and crocuses had appeared on the grass.
He’d told Charlie he wouldn’t be needed in the office