sweep of his giant paw. The grand movement instantly struck Byrne as out of place for a big Irish thug of a former cop. But he soon understood the man’s pride.
The interior walls of the Mr. Flagler’s private car were paneled in a light-colored satin wood and framed in hand-carved white mahogany that even without the aid of the electric lamps gave the place a feel of sunshine that was the polar opposite of the dark, polluted gray of the city Byrne had just walked through.
Passing through the sitting areas and a desk surrounded by shelves of gilt-bound books, Byrne was aware that he’d unconsciously pulled in his elbows and turned his hips as not to come even close to touching anything. The furniture was upholstered in decorative floral designs of greens and gold, as were the carpeting and curtains. Harris looked back with a raised eyebrow and warning tip of his chin to the gleaming bronze chandelier as he maneuvered his big head around its cut glass. Byrne looked up, even though he knew his own height did not in danger of touching the object, but he noticed when he did that even the Empire ceilings of the car were put him and decorated with gold leaf. His mouth must have been hanging open, for Harris cleared his throat and winked at the younger man’s show of amazement. As they passed through the dining area he saw the fireplace, flames dancing at a low level, which explained the warmth of the place. He’d barely had time to take in the opulence when Harris opened a door and they both stepped out onto the open balustrade at the opposite end of the car. The shot of cold in his nostrils caused Byrne’s eyes to water, and Harris let him take a second to adjust.
“That, my young detective, is Mr. Flagler’s sanctuary, and our number one duty is to keep out anyone that don’t belong inside.
“Mr. or Mrs. Flagler or his chief, Mr. McAdams, are consulted directly before any person is allowed to enter. You screw that assignment up, lad, and you’ll be off the train regardless of whether she’s stopped or still movin’, eh?”
“I understand, sir,” Byrne said, giving the sergeant his due respect even though he was still measuring the man.
“Good,” Harris said. “We run shifts on the fore and aft platforms when we’re stopped for loading or unloading and especially when we spend anytime overnight on a side track for any reason.
“Mr. Flagler considers number 90 to be his hotel room on the road so that’s the way we protect it and him.”
Byrne nodded, absorbing as he always did, and then working out a response if indeed a response was even called for.
“Protect from who?” he finally figured it best to ask.
“Ha!” Harris gave a snort, which Byrne was soon to realize was his standard guffaw at all things he understood and felt others didn’t. “From the same goddamn scalawags and supposed business moochers that you guard him from in the city, boy. ’Cept here they’re more brazen cause maybe they think since they’re on the same train as he is that he’s like their neighbor or something. Most of these wags wouldn’t dare walk up to the man’s house or office in the city but think they can come right through the train cars to his door and tap him for an audience.”
As a cop, Byrne had indeed once been ordered to provide “security” for the Flaglers’ mansion on Forty-second street, just a few blocks west of Grand Central on a night when a crowd of so-called protesters had gotten their courage up to march against the rich and powerful. After a minor scuffle with a knot of the more drunk and aggressive of them, it had been one of the more boring nights he’d spent on the police force. Yet he knew even now that the small legend of that night had somehow led to this very day.
“Then there’s the beggars and assorted nasties who try to push their way through when we’re at some common rail stop along the way down south,” Harris said. “But I don’t figure that’s going to be a
The interior walls of the Mr. Flagler’s private car were paneled in a light-colored satin wood and framed in hand-carved white mahogany that even without the aid of the electric lamps gave the place a feel of sunshine that was the polar opposite of the dark, polluted gray of the city Byrne had just walked through.
Passing through the sitting areas and a desk surrounded by shelves of gilt-bound books, Byrne was aware that he’d unconsciously pulled in his elbows and turned his hips as not to come even close to touching anything. The furniture was upholstered in decorative floral designs of greens and gold, as were the carpeting and curtains. Harris looked back with a raised eyebrow and warning tip of his chin to the gleaming bronze chandelier as he maneuvered his big head around its cut glass. Byrne looked up, even though he knew his own height did not in danger of touching the object, but he noticed when he did that even the Empire ceilings of the car were put him and decorated with gold leaf. His mouth must have been hanging open, for Harris cleared his throat and winked at the younger man’s show of amazement. As they passed through the dining area he saw the fireplace, flames dancing at a low level, which explained the warmth of the place. He’d barely had time to take in the opulence when Harris opened a door and they both stepped out onto the open balustrade at the opposite end of the car. The shot of cold in his nostrils caused Byrne’s eyes to water, and Harris let him take a second to adjust.
“That, my young detective, is Mr. Flagler’s sanctuary, and our number one duty is to keep out anyone that don’t belong inside.
“Mr. or Mrs. Flagler or his chief, Mr. McAdams, are consulted directly before any person is allowed to enter. You screw that assignment up, lad, and you’ll be off the train regardless of whether she’s stopped or still movin’, eh?”
“I understand, sir,” Byrne said, giving the sergeant his due respect even though he was still measuring the man.
“Good,” Harris said. “We run shifts on the fore and aft platforms when we’re stopped for loading or unloading and especially when we spend anytime overnight on a side track for any reason.
“Mr. Flagler considers number 90 to be his hotel room on the road so that’s the way we protect it and him.”
Byrne nodded, absorbing as he always did, and then working out a response if indeed a response was even called for.
“Protect from who?” he finally figured it best to ask.
“Ha!” Harris gave a snort, which Byrne was soon to realize was his standard guffaw at all things he understood and felt others didn’t. “From the same goddamn scalawags and supposed business moochers that you guard him from in the city, boy. ’Cept here they’re more brazen cause maybe they think since they’re on the same train as he is that he’s like their neighbor or something. Most of these wags wouldn’t dare walk up to the man’s house or office in the city but think they can come right through the train cars to his door and tap him for an audience.”
As a cop, Byrne had indeed once been ordered to provide “security” for the Flaglers’ mansion on Forty-second street, just a few blocks west of Grand Central on a night when a crowd of so-called protesters had gotten their courage up to march against the rich and powerful. After a minor scuffle with a knot of the more drunk and aggressive of them, it had been one of the more boring nights he’d spent on the police force. Yet he knew even now that the small legend of that night had somehow led to this very day.
“Then there’s the beggars and assorted nasties who try to push their way through when we’re at some common rail stop along the way down south,” Harris said. “But I don’t figure that’s going to be a
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