Adam Sternbergh - Shovel Ready

I wait and watch from across the street.

I used to ride this route, back when I lived in Brooklyn, back before Times Square, so I can remember when neighborhoods like these were basically sponges to soak up all the excess cash sloshing over from across the river. All these grand old brownstones, bought up and gutted. Scaffolding like skeletons. Blue tarps like funeral shrouds. Crews of Mexicans tearing out the drywall. Armed with hammers. Wearing dust masks. Eating lunch on the stoops, dusted white.

Haunting these houses like ghosts.

No one ever wanted to keep the insides of these old houses. Just the facades. That’s what they always said about brownstones.

Good bones.

So it was out with the old, in with the expensive-and-new-designed-to-look-like-it’s-old. Gut renovations. The insides torn out and tossed in a dumpster out front.

I know, because I used to pick up all the trash.

But then disaster struck and Brooklyn got seedy. Now gangs of men with masks and hammers might still visit your brownstone, but they’re not coming to renovate your kitchen.

Still, a few stubborn holdouts hang on. Wall Street types like Lyman Harrow, who can’t stomach the thought of ever running from anything. Everyone leaves, Lyman Harrow hires security. Everyone scurries, Lyman Harrow hunkers down. Lyman Harrow, his butler, and his four armed guards. And he assumes his money should function like a moat.

Which, in his defense, most of the time, it does.

Wall Street types. Funny to call them that.

Given there’s no such thing as Wall Street anymore either.

A nurse comes. She’s an unusually pretty nurse.

Rings the bell. Butler answers. Honest-to-God butler in white tails and everything.

Disappears behind a heavy door.

This seems straightforward enough.

I ring. Same butler.

I’m here to see Mr Harrow.

Regarding?

It’s about his niece.

Follow me.

The butler leads me inside and up a curved staircase. The whole place is wood, highly polished, like it’s all been carved out from the trunk of one giant dead tree.

At the top of the stairs, the butler motions for me to stop. I glimpse that same pretty nurse disappearing through a different doorway down the hall. Her hands held high. Elbows at an angle. Like she’s prepping for something sterile.

Butler’s short but solid. Brazilian maybe. Built for more than polishing silver. Not a linebacker but definitely the kind of guy who, if you ever find yourself in a cage with him, he’s the one who winds up walking out.

Holds up a white-gloved hand. Asks politely.

Arms out please.

He gives me a quick once-over with a metal-detector wand. Traces my outstretched arms. Brushes my coat pockets.

Wand squeals.

He reaches a white-gloved hand gingerly into my coat pocket and pulls out a metal Zippo lighter. Flicks it open, fires it, then snaps it shut and places it on a silver tray on a table by the door.

Swipes again. Down each inseam. Over my boots.

Wand squeals.

I shrug.

Steel-toe.

He seems satisfied. In any case, he’s mostly just putting on a show. He wants to let me know that, in this house, he’s the last line of defense, and he’s got more skills on his résumé than just answering the door.

Stows the wand back in its stand.

Turns a gold knob the size of a softball.

And in we go.

Lyman Harrow turns from his windows, which look out over Manhattan.

You have a view like this, you don’t give it up. Am I right?

The furniture is mahogany. The smell is old library. The carpets are the expensive kind. With patterns.

He opens his arms. He offers drinks. I decline.

Well, what can I offer you then?

Your niece. Grace Chastity.

You’re too late. She’s already gone. My brother sent you, I assume.

That’s a fair assumption.

It’s the only reason I let you in. Apologies for the security. But you know. The rabble. City is thick with them.

Not a problem.

Harrow’s half-hidden behind a huge desk, which is bare, save for a bottle, half-emptied. He pours himself another cognac, his glass as big as a fish bowl. Overall he has the unkempt air of the weird rich. Gray hair past his collar, slicked back with something greasy. Sweatpants and a crisp tuxedo shirt, untucked and open at the throat. Can’t tell if he’s halfway to getting dressed or just all the way to no longer caring. Then again, it’s a classic tapper uniform. Perfect attire for the beds. And sure enough, he’s got a luxury model tucked away in the corner. Which also explains the nurse I saw.

He sips.

Do you know why my brother sent you?

I hoped you’d tell me.

Well, he’s plenty mad at his daughter, I know that. Mad enough to send her running to me. And to send you after her. And so on. I assume you’ve met Mr Pilot.

Not yet.

Okay. You will. In any case, Grace rang my bell. Came from those dirty encampments. But I haven’t even spoken to T. K. in ten, eleven years. And I haven’t seen Grace since she was a toddler.

Swirls his cognac, which looks expensive even from across the room. Sniffs it.

Glances up at me.

She’s not a toddler now, I can tell you that.

I take it you and T. K. aren’t close.

No. Especially once I made it clear to him I had no interest in the family business.

Which is?

Heaven, of course. At least ten generations of holy men. Harrows were converting seasick sailors on the Mayflower . Then savages in the new world. Then anyone who’d listen. It was a bull market. We Harrows sell heaven, that’s our business.

Another sip.

Or, at least, we sell tickets.

But not you.

My brother and I both grew up to be carnival barkers in the end. We just wound up working in different carnivals. If I’m going to wail and pray and fall to my knees, I prefer to do it at the stock exchange.

And what about your niece?

What about her?

Did you help her?

Oh. No. I’m afraid not.

Why not?

I am among the, I don’t know, five hundred richest men in America. And T. K. is at least twice as rich as I am, and commands an obedient army besides. If he’ll do this to get to her, send you and whoever else might follow, what do you think he’d do to me if I tried to keep her from his clutches?

More cognac.

I don’t need that trouble. Not for a little girl. My only goal was to get her off my hands as quickly as possible. My hands and my conscience.

So then what.

She spent the night. I owed her that much. She’s family after all. Then this morning I introduced her to a couple of men. I found them on the Internet.

What kind of men?

Not the nice kind, I’m afraid. Man with a van, that sort of thing. There were two men, actually. And they did come with a van, as advertised. I think they make it their business to find jobs for little girls.

You know where they went?

I didn’t ask.

What about the van?

Hard to say. It was black. Or blue. Black or blue.

Drains his drink.

No offense, but I don’t generally take to interrogations by my brother’s hired helpers. Not Mr Pilot. Surely to God not that maniac Simon. And while you seem perfectly pleasant, Mr—

Spademan.

Mr Spademan, I can honestly say I don’t think I’d like to see you again.

Understood. Thanks for your time.

And thank you for stopping by. Say hi to Mr Pilot for me, when you do meet him. He can’t be too far behind you. As for me, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to return to my bed.

His unit sits in the corner of the study, tucked away, like a treadmill, though one that obviously gets a lot of use. It, too, looks out over Manhattan. It’s titanium, part coffin, part luge sled.