Page 12 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire (The Hidden Hearts Collection #3)
Zeke ignored it. “Good evening, Decker. What the hell do you want?”
Decker looked a little taken aback and then emitted a laugh. “You don’t waste time on the social amenities, do you? Mind if I sit down?”
Without waiting for a reply, he settled himself into an armchair in one graceful, fluid motion. For all Decker’s suave manner, Zeke could tell the fellow was ill at ease. One foot, elegantly shod in black-and-white patten, tapped against the Oriental carpet.
Zeke perched himself on the edge of the desk. “Well?”
The single barked syllable caused Decker to start. He recovered, his lips twitching as he struggled to maintain his pleasant demeanor. “I know we have our differences, Mr. Morrison. But I had hoped we could sit down like a pair of reasonable men and discuss?—”
“Cut line, Decker. Why are you here and more to the point, who sent you? Boss Kroker?”
Decker stiffened with a semblance of affronted dignity. “Mr. Richard Kroker and I are certainly acquaintances. We are both privileged to be members of Tammany Hall. But I am not his lackey.”
Zeke sneered, not troubling to disguise what he thought of both Decker’s assertion and Tammany Hall.
Its members might drone on about the defense of liberties and the American way of life, and hold their silly initiation rituals, dressing like Indian braves, but for all that, the Hall was mainly a political machine, efficient, ruthless, controlling New York for the benefit of the sachems. The old days of Boss Tweed were remembered as bad, but under Richard Kroker’s rule, the city government had reached new levels of graft and corruption.
But Decker continued to deny that he was influenced by Kroker. “It was my own idea to approach you, Mr. Morrison. I am gravely concerned about a rumor that has reached me, that you have been supporting this man Addison.”
“It’s no rumor. It’s a fact. Stanley Addison is a bright young attorney, a good Democrat. He’ll make a fine mayor, don’t you think?”
“Not without the support of Tammany Hall.”
“There are other Democrats in this town besides your Tammany cronies.”
“Not enough to elect Mr. Addison. He is a reform candidate. They never do well at the polls. If you persist in contributing to his campaign, you will be flinging your money away, Mr. Morrison.”
“It’s good of you to be so concerned about my purse. It’s too bad you don’t worry more about the city treasury, which you Tammany boys have a habit of dipping into.”
Decker flushed bright red. “That remark, sir, brings me to the real purpose of my visit. Your candidate Addison has been making similar libelous comments, flinging about unfounded charges of corruption and graft. Since receiving your financial backing, he has become even more reckless in his speeches. He has even made some slanders against me.”
“And you, such an upstanding member of the community,’ Zeke mocked.
“The Commissioner for the Public Weal. A very comfortable little sinecure and profitable too. I can understand why you find Addison irritating, asking so many questions as he does, about what became of all the funds appropriated for new city parks, why, instead of libraries, the city gets more sweatshops and brothels.”
Decker shot dramatically to his feet. “Sir, your insinuations are intolerable. In another era, such words would have been grounds for a duel.”
“I’m a very old-fashioned fellow, Decker,” Zeke said, edging off the desk, doubling up his fists. “I’d be more than happy to meet you round back.”
As he stepped forward, Decker abandoned his blustering attitude. He retreated around the chair, resuming his ingratiating manner.
“Mr. Morrison, I am sure you are too fair-minded a man to accept all of Addison’s accusations without proof.”
“We’ll get the proof, never fear. We’ll dig it out if it takes every last cent of my own money to do so.”
A fine sweat broke out on Decker’s brow. “I don’t know why I should be singled out for this abuse. I have been an alderman for years and discharged my duties well, I might add. Ask our mutual friend, Mrs. Van Hallsburg, or inquire of any of my constituents.”
“Such as these?” Zeke asked. Turning, he produced from his desk the one book in his library that showed signs of being well worn—Jacob Riis’s photographic essay, How the Other Half Lives.
Zeke held the book out to Decker, rifling through the pages.
Stark images of poverty flipped beneath Zeke’s fingers—the slums, the brothels, the nickel-a-cup rotgut liquor saloons.
All those pictures in uncompromising black and white—the ragged children in the refuse-littered alleyways, the family of six cramped in one room, the withered old women; sitting on stoops outside tumbledown tenements.
All those faces so devoid of hope, seemed to stare at Zeke, haunt him with images of a life he had once known, scenes too well remembered, places he had tried to escape from and just forget.
Decker averted his gaze, refusing to look at the book. “I am hardly responsible for such misery, Mr. Morrison. On the contrary, I and my fellow Members at Tammany Hall have done much by way of charity to relieve the sufferings of these poor creatures.”
“Oh, indeed. You hand out turkeys for Christmas while you block any real social reform.” He slapped the book closed and dropped it back on the desk.
“I am sorry, Mr. Decker. With my full support, Mr. Addison will continue saying all those unkind things about you and your Tammany friends. With a little luck, we may even be able to arrange a congressional investigation into your activities.”
Decker ran one finger beneath his starched collar. “You can’t have considered, Mr. Morrison, the advantages you might find yourself from belonging to Tammany Hall. You have shipping interests. Arrangements might be made with customs authorities that you would find beneficial.”
What little patience Zeke had had for this interview reached its end. “Get out of here. Now!”
“On the other hand, Mr. Morrison, if you persist in this course, you may find yourself in a world of difficulties, For instance, I hope your fire insurance is paid up. The volunteer companies can be so slow in answering a call?—”
Decker’s words were choked off as Zeke collared him.
“Are you threatening me, Decker?”
Decker’s eyes dilated with fear, but he managed to gasp, “Only trying to give you some good advice.”
“You know what you can do with your advice.” Zeke raised his fist, but Decker was such a pathetic excuse for a man, white faced and trembling, a look of desperation in his eyes. Zeke contented himself with hustling him to the door. Opening it up, he thrust Decker out of his study.
“Give my regards to the boss when you see him,” he growled.
Decker made a last attempt at valiance when he was out of Zeke’s grasp.
But he muttered so low that Zeke caught little of words other than something about ‘would regret’ before Decker fled across the hall.
Zeke slammed the door behind him. He assumed there was no need to summon Wellington.
He doubted Decker would be tempted to linger upon his property.
Zeke turned back to the study, pushing aside velvet draperies to fling open the windows. Decker seemed to have left a bad odor in the room.
Zeke had met his share of thieves and con men in his day, shifty-eyed fellows who would slit your throat for a two-bit piece. But the knaves he most despised were the Deckers of this world, who hid their corruption behind a guise of gentlemanly respectability.
Still seething, Zeke flung himself down in the chair behind his desk and fidgeted with a glass paperweight. He needed to cool off a little or when Miss Kavanaugh appeared, he would greet her like a snarling dog.
It didn’t prove too difficult to curb his anger.
The more he thought about the session with Decker, the more he experienced a sensation of triumph.
When he had first decided to back Stanley Addison, Zeke had had his doubts about what the young lawyer could accomplish against the might of Tammany Hall.
But someone must finally have perceived Addison’s campaign as a threat.
Why else would Decker have been sent sniffing and groveling?
Addison ought to be apprised of Decker’s threats. Not that Zeke expected much to come of them. Decker was a paltry fellow, but Zeke wouldn’t put it past him to hire a couple of thugs to smash windows and that sort of thing. Scare tactics. But still Addison should be warned.
Zeke had reached for the telephone directory, preparing to do just that, when Rory finally made her appearance. She crept through the open study door with some nervousness. What was it about Zeke Morrison that unsettled her normal sense of breezy self-confidence?
Perhaps it was because she had never had anything much to do with a millionaire before.
But as Rory hovered on the threshold, she knew it was not the size of Morrison’s bank account that intimidated her, but the man himself.
The study was spacious, all oak paneling and leather-covered furnishings, but Zeke still managed to dominate the room.
He stood by a telephone box mounted on the wall, the receiver held to his ear as he leafed through the pages of New York’s slender directory.
Garbed in black evening attire, his Prince Albert coat contrasted with the whiteness of his starched shirt and high standing collar.
He looked strikingly handsome, but the formalness of his suit failed to civilize him.
He still presented an untamed appearance, dark and fascinatingly dangerous.
Detecting Rory’s approach, Zeke glanced up with a smile.
He beckoned for her to enter, waving her toward his desk, where some paper and an inkwell stood waiting.
He indicated that she should help herself while he continued his efforts to get the operator to connect him to the telephone exchange of a Mr. Stanley Addison.