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Then she turned around in the cramped space and started crawling back to the saloon as fast as she could. The last thing she wanted was to be wiring the other end of the copper cable to The Hook saloon’s ground wire when a thunderbolt struck the harpoon lightning rods on the roof of the widow’s walk.
—
Isaac Bell was making the rounds of his men guarding the oil docks—the huge piers on the Kill Van Kull where the refinery was loading tank ships with kerosene, gasoline, and naphtha—when a puff of icy air announced another squall sizzling in from the Upper Bay. In the middle of the tight little storm he saw one of his chartered steam launches heading for the dock. Its bow was weighted down by Grady Forrer, who stood gripping a coiled line and ignoring the rain.
Bell stepped forward, Forrer threw the line skillfully, and in a moment they were conversing in the partial shelter of a loading shed. “One of my boys was rereading the assassin reports,” Forrer bellowed over the wind, the falling rain, and the huffing of several steam engines. “He reminded me that we learned that Bill Matters was moving up the ladder when he was invited to join a Standard Oil Gang private venture.”
Thunder echoed down the tank-covered hills. A bolt of lightning lit the rooftops of the city. Another bolt blazed over the tanks above the city and landed harmlessly on a lightning rod.
“It made him one of the boys to partner up with Averell Comstock and Clyde Lapham, even though it was a sort of joke subsidiary.”
“What kind of joke?”
“Shares in a Constable Hook saloon.”
“Here?”
“Across from the front gate. They named it The Hook.”
Bell bolted into the storm.
Forrer raced alongside him, slipping and sliding on the oily path. “Comstock and Lapham are dead. Matters is in jail.”
“Leaving Nellie to ‘inherit.’”
—
Nellie Matters was finishing connecting the copper cable she had strung from the naphtha tank to the heavy wire that grounded the saloon’s lightning rod. The thunderstorm raging outside was the biggest in days. The sooner she could let go of the highly conductive cable, the better.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
One of the bartenders had come down the stairs they’d been specifically ordered not to.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“What are you, an electrician?”
Her bag was open. The Savage and its telescope wer
e in the bottom, still wrapped in their horse blanket. But tools were out. She said, “You’re not supposed to be down here.”
He finally recognized her as “Eddie,” the nephew of the new owner.
“Sorry, Eddie. Where’s your uncle? Haven’t seen him around.”
“Went to Atlantic City to get away from this heat.”
“What are you doing?”
“My uncle wants this wired here.”
“What for?”
“Why don’t you ask him when he gets back?”
“Something fishy’s going on.”
“What are you talking about?”
