and it’s spillin’ across the lake to what they’re callin’ West Palm Beach. The county surveyor already wacked the place out into mapped lots and streets while it was still farmland. Sound familiar?”
Tenderloin nodded to his companion from Bushwick.
“Just like Brooklyn,” he said.
“Right-O,” said Tenderloin. “And while the Vanderbilts got the east shore line for their mansions early, the rest of ’em got the Cross Roads.”
Byrne sat back and watched the trio’s eyes, especially those of the Italian. Were they optimistic boys, or angry ones? He knew that the man he was paid to be guarding was not only considered an oil magnate and a railway magnate, but the phrase “robber baron” had also been used to describe him. Flagler had built his destination hotels down the east coast of Florida at a time when there wasn’t a damn thing south of Jacksonville.
“Not that you’ve got anything against the ones first in line,” Byrne said, not even attempting to be coy. The man from the Tenderloin began to laugh.
“Hell no, Pinkerton. We ain’t got nothin’ but admiration for your boss Mr. Flagler back there in car ninety.” He then leaned in conspiratorially. “People bigger’n us been following the old gent around for years, tryin’ to figure where he’s going next so’s they could jump up the price of their land or buy it out before the mighty Flagler arrives.
“Fact is, the old man did it himself the same way. Promised to take his railroad all the way to Miami, he did. Even the state legislature knew money and progress would follow. They gave him eight thousand acres of right of way for every mile of track the old fella built. He’ll have millions of acres free of charge by the time he’s through.”
Numbers had never been Byrne’s strong suit, but he was no fool. And he now realized his assessment of the shyster from the Tenderloin district was far too low. The man had done his homework.
“Don’t matter who’s first,” he said. “There’s plenty of Florida to buy and sell. The railroad and new hotels just make it easier for the pigeons to follow, if you get my drift. No, Pinkerton, we got no quarrel with old Henry, long shall he live.”
Tenderloin reached into his jacket for a small flask, a gesture followed by the other two, and the tiny mob tossed back a toast.
“It’s not the likes of us small-timers you’ve got to worry about, Pinkerton,” he said. “It’s the big players like the high falutin’ Mr. Faustus up there in the smoking room you should have your eye on. He’s more of a danger than any of us will ever be. Listenin’ to his Peter Funk sermons on the right way to live will lead ya to doin’ nothing but starvin’ to death while he builds his church on your back.” Tenderloin bobbed his head once, statement served. Conversation ended.
Byrne had risen then and unconsciously slipped his hand into his pocket where his fingertips found the confederate coin. He wasn’t worried about Faustus quite yet. He’d heard his brother do the carny barker’s routine and the preacher’s harangue and the bait-and-switch patter enough to spot a puller-in. No, Faustus would be one to watch, but right now he figured he’d ingratiated himself enough with these lads to ask his question:
“So, you boy’os ever run across a man name of Danny Byrne?”
The three looked again at one another. Admitting to knowing a man who wasn’t present to a Pinkerton was not something any one of them would do lightly. It would be akin to ratting someone out on the streets, and it always stunk of trouble that could come back on you.
“About my size,” Byrne pressed on. “Bit more red in his hair and a few years older.”
The one from the Tenderloin studied Byrne’s face with even more intensity than he already had.
“People change their names down in Florida,” he finally said.
“Aye, and elsewhere,” Byrne replied and added a grin.
They all nodded in ascent.
Byrne tipped
Tenderloin nodded to his companion from Bushwick.
“Just like Brooklyn,” he said.
“Right-O,” said Tenderloin. “And while the Vanderbilts got the east shore line for their mansions early, the rest of ’em got the Cross Roads.”
Byrne sat back and watched the trio’s eyes, especially those of the Italian. Were they optimistic boys, or angry ones? He knew that the man he was paid to be guarding was not only considered an oil magnate and a railway magnate, but the phrase “robber baron” had also been used to describe him. Flagler had built his destination hotels down the east coast of Florida at a time when there wasn’t a damn thing south of Jacksonville.
“Not that you’ve got anything against the ones first in line,” Byrne said, not even attempting to be coy. The man from the Tenderloin began to laugh.
“Hell no, Pinkerton. We ain’t got nothin’ but admiration for your boss Mr. Flagler back there in car ninety.” He then leaned in conspiratorially. “People bigger’n us been following the old gent around for years, tryin’ to figure where he’s going next so’s they could jump up the price of their land or buy it out before the mighty Flagler arrives.
“Fact is, the old man did it himself the same way. Promised to take his railroad all the way to Miami, he did. Even the state legislature knew money and progress would follow. They gave him eight thousand acres of right of way for every mile of track the old fella built. He’ll have millions of acres free of charge by the time he’s through.”
Numbers had never been Byrne’s strong suit, but he was no fool. And he now realized his assessment of the shyster from the Tenderloin district was far too low. The man had done his homework.
“Don’t matter who’s first,” he said. “There’s plenty of Florida to buy and sell. The railroad and new hotels just make it easier for the pigeons to follow, if you get my drift. No, Pinkerton, we got no quarrel with old Henry, long shall he live.”
Tenderloin reached into his jacket for a small flask, a gesture followed by the other two, and the tiny mob tossed back a toast.
“It’s not the likes of us small-timers you’ve got to worry about, Pinkerton,” he said. “It’s the big players like the high falutin’ Mr. Faustus up there in the smoking room you should have your eye on. He’s more of a danger than any of us will ever be. Listenin’ to his Peter Funk sermons on the right way to live will lead ya to doin’ nothing but starvin’ to death while he builds his church on your back.” Tenderloin bobbed his head once, statement served. Conversation ended.
Byrne had risen then and unconsciously slipped his hand into his pocket where his fingertips found the confederate coin. He wasn’t worried about Faustus quite yet. He’d heard his brother do the carny barker’s routine and the preacher’s harangue and the bait-and-switch patter enough to spot a puller-in. No, Faustus would be one to watch, but right now he figured he’d ingratiated himself enough with these lads to ask his question:
“So, you boy’os ever run across a man name of Danny Byrne?”
The three looked again at one another. Admitting to knowing a man who wasn’t present to a Pinkerton was not something any one of them would do lightly. It would be akin to ratting someone out on the streets, and it always stunk of trouble that could come back on you.
“About my size,” Byrne pressed on. “Bit more red in his hair and a few years older.”
The one from the Tenderloin studied Byrne’s face with even more intensity than he already had.
“People change their names down in Florida,” he finally said.
“Aye, and elsewhere,” Byrne replied and added a grin.
They all nodded in ascent.
Byrne tipped
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