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“How about Neverslip Manufacturing from New Brunswick?” asked Somers.
“Coulda been.”
“Do you have any idea which farrier might have bought it from you?”
“No. It could have been anyone.”
“What if that same farrier also bought this Neverslip shoe?”
The jobber turned the worn shoe over in his hands. “Coulda.”
Somers showed him the mark stamped in the wedge. “How would this get marked like this?”
“The farrier has his initials on a punch. Smacks it with a hammer to make his mark. He signs it. Like a trademark.”
“Do you recognize the initials RD?”
“Sonny, why are you asking all these questions?”
Asa Somers straightened his skinny shoulders and stood tall. “I am an apprentice Van Dorn private detective. We are investigating the bombing on Wall Street.”
“I thought the government does that. And the cops.”
“Could he be one of your customers?”
“Could be.”
“Do you remember the farrier’s name?”
The jobber shrugged, as if deciding that Somers was an earnest lad who posed no threat to his customer. “His name is Ross. Ross Danis.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know where he sleeps these days. He used to be farrier and blacksmith on Mrs. Dodge’s estate ’til they let him go.”
“For what?” asked Somers, whose own firing by the Coast Guard still stung despite his wonderful new job with the Van Dorns.
“They say Mr. Dodge,” snickered the jobber, “was getting green-eyed, if you’re old enough to know what I mean.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Dodge was jealous of Mr. Danis’s attentions to Mrs. Dodge?”
“The lady was smiling like she hadn’t in years.”
“Where would I find Mr. Danis when he’s working?”
“Seeing as he just bought himself a spanking new Boss leather apron and a fresh set of Disston rasps, he’s probably shoeing horses at the Monmouth County Fair—unless Mr. Dodge is in attendance.”
• • •
“BUT WHAT of the revolution?” asked Fern Hawley.
She was staring sullenly at an untouched glass of genuine champagne that had been poured for her by former heavyweight champion Jack Johnson, the owner of Harlem’s Club Deluxe.
Marat Zolner had hoped a late-night outing would take her mind off Yuri.
“Bootlegging,” he reminded her again, “is our path to revolution.”
“Yuri didn’t think so.”
