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.
* * *
***
The city was being tested. It was always being tested and emerging on the other side in a newer, stronger version for having been laid low, but everyone forgot this from time to time and so they were quite distressed by the latest manifestation. Distressed by the crime wave, which was very alarming, and the empty city coffers, which caused such misery, and the general state of wrongness, which left few unscathed and most navigating personal labyrinths of despair. They had been prepared for the latest calamity by rehearsal disasters big and small, but it was hard to remember that in all the hustle and breathless rushing here and there.
Carney for his part was attuned to an improvement in consumer sentiment. Your basic glimmer. Furniture sales—sectionals in particular—were up over the same time last year, the showroom not so gloomy in the afternoons. There had been solid growth in scores and rip-offs over the last three quarters, with a lot of activity in the rare-gem sector, a leading indicator of market optimism. Take Andy Engine. He hadn’t hit up Carney in two years and then strutted in yesterday with a sample case full of Afghan lapis that lay on the black velvet bed like holes punched through to a perfect blue universe. “Fell into my lap.” Martin Green took them off Carney’s hands and once Carney paid off the thief, there was time to grab a sub and be home to catch Rhoda.
On his way to meet Andy Engine, Carney returned to the site of the tragedy. He’d made a detour to see the building before the fundraiser. It tugged at him still, and he had time.
The city continued to burn, night after night. Not Fifth Avenue, but Harlem, Brooklyn, the South Bronx. 371 West 118th Street had been a four-story tenement presiding over the northeast corner of Morningside Ave. Behind its blackened exterior, fire had eaten its guts. At half past nine last Thursday night, a clock timer activated an incendiary device. The firebomb had been set in the rear apartment on the top floor to allow the fire to spread before it could be detected from the street, near an air shaft so that it was well fed. The room had been doused with gasoline. No one lived in 371. The landlord, Excelsior Metro Properties, cut the heat and power last winter to chase away the holdouts, then stripped the plumbing and electrics, anything salable.