Crook Manifesto (Ray Carney, #2)(70)
Carney reached over to squeeze his son’s arm, like he did when the boy was little. These growing bones in there. John asked if he could see Midway with J.J. at the Loews 86th. It was the voice he used to hit up Carney for an advance on his allowance.
“The Charlton Heston?”
“It’s in Sensurround.”
Carney nodded. “You can’t hang out all night.”
The boy promised not to. Then grinned.
Leland clinked a tall thin glass with a spoon. The band cut out. It was Carney’s natural instinct to creep toward the door when people started speaking at events, to facilitate a quick getaway if necessary. He obeyed it.
Elizabeth wore a new, sheer white blouse with thin blue stripes that Carney had never seen before. She opened with an appreciation of how many people had shown up—“old friends, new faces.” The politically engaged and those making their very first contribution to a candidate. May handed out Women for Oakes buttons to those in front as Elizabeth explained why they’d started the group. “Everybody feels it—we have to get our butts in gear! The city’s falling apart. We have enough people hanging around on the corner, we need someone like Alex in our corner.” Carney had heard her practicing the speech that morning. He had often told her that she would’ve made a good furniture saleswoman if she had been so inclined, but there had never been much enthusiasm for a family business.
Leland took over the proceedings and remarked upon the great legacy of the Dumas Club, its storied contributions to Harlem’s political life. Raised a glass to the elder Oakes, taken from them too soon. “Often I’d see the light on in his office—you remember what a night owl he was—and pop in for some of his wisdom over a glass of port. He never failed to right the ship.” He pronounced upon the nature of time: “It seems like just yesterday I came downstairs—they must have been in kindergarten—and happened upon Alex and Lizzy playing doctor.” A number of people in the room chuckled. Elizabeth gave a disdainful shake of her head. John frowned and checked his father’s reaction.
“Now he’s all grown up,” Leland said, “a grown man with an impressive list of achievements, and eager to add to it—by fighting for all of us. Not just Harlem, not just uptown, but everyone from Wall Street to Washington Heights.” He grew misty. “Since his father passed, I hope I’ve been there for him, and now he wants to be there for us, in city hall.”
It was Oakes’s moment. He stepped to the microphone and flapped his arms to tamp down the applause. He had retained his football player’s frame when his cohort had softened into a lumpy middle age. Gray at the temples, dignifying him without undercutting his still-boyish face. The last few years, Oakes had sported a fashionable two-inch natural. He’d returned to his tight, wavy curls that harkened to an earlier age and which, it must be said, the girls and ladies adored. Oakes was fine-tuning his playboy image lately, informing the Daily News that he “hadn’t met that special someone yet” and “anyway, the City of New York comes first these days.”
Oakes smiled at someone across the room—wide maw, white-death chompers out—and Carney thought, Oh, he’s going to win.
The room quieted. The car radio interjected, “Toro mata rumbambero y toro mata.”
The candidate cleared his throat. He opened with a list of thanks and Carney started going over next week’s shipment from Sterling, rearranging the showroom in his head. Slide the Egon sectional over by the floor lamps, give up on this season’s DeMarcos, they weren’t doing any business. He rejoined the fundraiser when Oakes’s tone shifted to signal the conclusion. “Mr. Sutton has not announced he’s running for reelection. Who knows—he may have other ambitions. I’m concerned today with sharing my intentions—not anyone else’s. If Mr. Sutton does decide to run again—well, Manhattan will be a better place for our conversations about what’s next.” Oakes had preachified his speech patterns. Carney pictured Leland or one of the Harlem power brokers sitting Oakes at a school desk and forcing him to study the sacred Powell sermons.
Oakes wrapped it up. The Robert McCoy Trio eased into a tranquilized version of “Take the ‘A’ Train” that was more like “Take the ‘A’ Train When a Trash Fire Has Disrupted Service Up and Down the Line,” and the conversation resumed: assessments of the candidate’s performance, his chances, was there more food coming out. Carney gave John five bucks for the movies and when he looked up Alexander Oakes was in his face.
“Ray!” He executed a he-man maneuver but Carney’s hand had been mashed by all the best uptown bruisers over the years: It was a draw. “Glad you were able to step away from your store,” Oakes said.
“I am the boss.” What did he think, Carney was sweating over the books all night, guzzling Pepto-Bismol in an undershirt?
He nodded. “You’ve come a long way.” The edge of his mouth curled.
“How’s that?”
A campaign staffer tugged Oakes away and aimed him in the direction of Lyle Morrison, executive vice president of Freedom National Savings. Carney’s drink was empty, the glass warm from sitting in his mitt. Come a long way from what?
He’d stayed longer than he needed to. His family was on the other side of the room, separated by people. Carney tried to catch Elizabeth’s eye. Once again, the drummer winked at him. Right: Stan Hayes, three-card monte dealer and occasional second-story man. Three-card monte, drums, third-degree burglary—quick hands were an asset. They smiled at each other and Carney saluted. Two guys wearing their daylight masquerade. Well, they were not the only ones. The question of whether Stan was a thief who moonlit as a jazzman or a jazzman moonlighting as a thief was moot, as he was mediocre in both endeavors and Carney had his own midnight industry to worry about. He split.