A man should have a safe big enough to hold his secrets, Moskowitz had told him. This would do for now.
Elizabeth and the kids arrived and he corralled Rusty into taking a picture. Rusty knew his way around the Polaroid Pathfinder, had one himself. Coney Island was a favorite trip for him and Beatrice and he had several beach shots tacked up above his desk. Rusty walked Carney through the process step-by-step as he posed them out front. “You have to wait,” he said. “You can’t pull the backing off too soon.”
“I have to be more patient,” Carney replied.
It turned out wonderfully. Carney and Elizabeth stood side by side, May and John in front. May mustered a serviceable smile. John’s wide-open eyes betrayed the strain of standing immobile, but you had to really look to notice it. Behind them, beyond the plate glass, the fall season’s floor models were barely visible in shadow, like lithe animals emerging from tall grasses. The sunlight transformed the sign’s letters into a regal proclamation.
Marie picked up a suitable frame a week later and the photograph remained on the wall of his office for many years. The reminder of this day gave Carney a boost when he felt rotten.
“See?” Rusty said. “It’s easier than you think.”
Carney thanked him and they walked west to the park.
“How is your father holding up?” Carney asked.
“It’s not good,” Elizabeth said.
To be sure, these were times of tribulation for much of the Negro elite. The Harlem Gazette, Duke’s local nemesis, was very fond of the photographs from Miss Laura’s apartment. Once again, you didn’t have to sell people on fucking over Duke; the proposition sold itself. The Gazette published three of the photos in Friday’s edition, front page, and teased another release for Saturday: banker’s bizarre love nest. The naughty stuff—and Laura’s face—was covered with black stripes, which let one’s imagination compose its own salacious truth.
It was natural for a fellow to lie low after that, especially one as vain and controlling as Wilfred Duke. The last time he was seen was on Thursday, when he left his Mill Building office. Candace, his secretary, reported nothing out of the ordinary.
The Gazette published what came to be called the “Safari” series on Saturday. The accompanying articles quoted disgruntled Carver customers as they described how Wilfred Duke had ruined their lives, stolen their homes from under them. The photographs, even obscured, proved a neglect of mental hygiene; the customers’ words testified to a moral corruption overall.
On Monday the newspapers covered Duke’s disappearance, and on Tuesday they reported that Duke had embezzled the funding capital for the charter of Liberty National. Duke had raised more than two million dollars from early investors, most of them upstanding members of the Harlem community, his friends and business partners and club buddies for decades. How much the banker absconded with was not immediately evident; an early accounting suggested he’d made off with most if not all of the seed money. The cops sent out an APB over the wire. The Dukes owned a property in Bimini; Bahamian authorities were on the lookout.
Carney and his family waited for the light to change. “He and Mommy might have to sell the house,” Elizabeth said. “He tied up all their money in Liberty and they were already overextended. A lot of their friends put their money in, it was so surefire. Dr. Campbell told my mother they might have to file for bankruptcy. It’s just so stupid.”
“Who’s stupid?” May asked.
“Your grandfather and his friends,” she said.
Carney said, “You’re pals with someone for so many years, you think you know them.”
“Of course he took their money,” Elizabeth said. “He’s always been a crook.”
“It’s a big deal to break out like that and start your own thing,” Carney said. “I should know. He must have been under a lot of pressure.”
In Miss Laura’s apartment that night, the execution of the plan had made him queasy. It didn’t feel like revenge, it felt like debasement; he had descended rungs into the sewer and become another shabby player in the city’s sordid theater. Pornographers, hookers, pimps, peddlers, killers—these were the fellow members of his new ensemble. Add to that: embezzlers.
But this—this felt like revenge. Sustaining, without flaw. It was the sun on your face on a Saturday afternoon, it was the world smiling briefly upon you. He hadn’t foreseen Duke lamming it, but was not disappointed with this turn. Not just one man, but a whole lot of them, where it hurt. It was unfortunate that the banker would never know it was his setup, but that was the deal from the get-go. Had Pierce invested? Carney should ring and see if he’s available for lunch. He’d have information that wouldn’t be in the papers. Who got hit the hardest, who’s on their last legs. It had been too long since they’d had a meal together.