Central park, p.1
Central Park, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by S.A. Morelli
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Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-8229-3189-3
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-8229-3190-9
eBook ISBN: 979-8-8229-3191-6
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY- SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
H
ow could she just disappear? Without a word? Without a clue?
Just the year before, Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia had opened the World's Fair at Flushing Meadow Park, proclaiming it “The World of Tomorrow.” Yet, that sweltering summer of 1940, the war on the horizon was the only true promise for tomorrow. Poland had been blitzkrieged, the Low Countries had been rolled over, and France had fallen to the might of the German thirst for conquest. England had only recently removed its troops from harm's way at Dunkirk. The Battle of Britain was being waged in the skies over the white cliffs of Dover, as Winston Churchill was promising “to fight to the end, on the beaches, in the streets, and in the hills.”
Despite what was transpiring in Europe, the City of New York was unusually serene, upbeat almost, seemingly oblivious to the pain being inflicted in far off lands. The Depression was all but over, thanks to Franklin Roosevelt and his New Deal. No one wanted to think about war. That was for the newsreels. People were working; they were spending money again. The bars were hopping, the dazzling shows were lighting up Broadway, and the baseball pennant races were capturing imaginations everywhere. The celebration of life was on, albeit with the unsettled understanding that peace and prosperity could be stricken down at any moment by the march of fascism.
Tommy McCabe Martin was living the dream. He was young, he was exceedingly good looking, and he was exceptionally brilliant; a confident second year lawyer at one of the most prestigious law firms on Wall Street, Sullivan and Cromwell. He was a hard worker, undistracted, smart as hell, and tough, real tough. And yet, he was not afraid of a good time. They called him “Mac.” Alone in the big city for the past year, at heart he was a country boy from Poughkeepsie. He still found Manhattan intoxicating, in his abating naiveté. It was alive; so was he. Mac was set to conquer his own world. As was his way, he would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
Mac had met her, Sara Mandakovich, just the week before, in a prominent conference room on the twenty-eighth floor of the law firm. He had strutted into the meeting with an air of confidence, in his blue poplin suit, button-down Brooks Brothers white shirt, Liberty of London braces, and a matching silk tie. It was already stifling at ten in the morning. The windows of the conference room were open, a warm breeze competing with the composure of those already in the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the young lady across the polished mahogany conference table, in the company of two older gentlemen. Sara reached across the table to shake his hand, introducing herself.
She was lovely. Dressed in a tailored, unbuttoned, off-white linen suit, with a lavender silk blouse open at the collar, revealing nothing but a promise. She sat back down in a heavy damask chair abutting the conference table. Her dark hair was fixed upon her head, but for one dangling strand down the side of her alabaster face. The little gold hoops hanging from her delicate ears accentuated the simple gold chain draping across her long neck. The make-up was understated, yet skillfully brought forth her best feature, her captivating deep blue eyes, which seemingly sparkled with unabated excitement.
It was not every day that Mac encountered a beautiful young lady at the stuffy Wall Street law firm. Apparently, he surmised, she was there to assist an emissary from the Russian Embassy, translating his words to one of the senior partners at the firm, John Foster Dulles. Mac understood it concerned the Russians wishing to purchase land upon which to build a new consulate, which would be an interesting feat considering that the Russians had recently signed a non-aggression pact with Germany, and that they appeared threatening to invade Finland themselves.
Mac shook the hand of the swarthy Russian diplomat.
“It is a pleasure, sir,” remarked Mac, as he sat down at the table with Sara and the gentlemen.
The Russian clearly wished himself an Englishman, dressed in a light blue striped seersucker suit, a white plain collar shirt, and a big paisley red bow tie. As sophisticated as he tried to be, his ruddy face, his vodka induced red bulbous nose, and his desperate need of a manicure, belied his intent, and was a certain contrast to the polished American attorney with whom he sought to do business. John Foster Dulles was tall and robust; the kind of guy that spent time in a barber chair each week. He wore a gray lightweight wool Brooks Brothers suit, a white classic shirt, with a Harvard club tie. His black wing tips were buffed to a careful shine, in sharp contrast to the Russian, who looked as though he had worn his shoes in a muddy gulag field. Dulles was sharp, and careful in his dress. He was obviously old money, and it showed. Mac wanted to be like his mentor in the way he dressed, in his gentlemanly mannerisms, and in his incredible success.
As impressive a figure as was cut by John Foster Dulles, in his traditionally appointed conference room surrounded by all his books, Sara Mandakovich still captivated the space with her poise and her beauty. At least in Mac's eyes. Her voice was melodious, as she translated for the older men, the sounds of a singing nightingale on a summer eve. Her perfume was light, but delightfully filled the air with a hint of a soft flowery sweetness. Mac found himself hopelessly distracted by the entire package brought to the table by Miss Sara Mandakovich on that hot summer morning.
Sara looked down at the red Persian carpet on the hardwood floor, blushing, clearly sensing his obvious interest. Nevertheless, she was professional, with a flavor of subtle coyness. Mac looked down at the yellow legal pad he had retrieved from the wooden credenza when he had realized that she had caught him mesmerized. He was embarrassed, but he recovered nicely as he started to take notes of the conversation between the two older gentlemen. Her words were music to his ears, still he deftly kept his composure. Dulles and the Russian looked caught up in what they were discussing, seemingly unaware of what was going on between the two young people. It was not like Mac to be distracted, but he was clearly smitten with this Miss Mandakovich.
“Mr. Martin are you getting this all down,” questioned a clearly perturbed Dulles. “We will need you to draft a general understanding as to the scope of our proposed engagement.”
Apparently, Dulles had noticed Mac's journey into fantasyland, tapping a pencil on the mahogany table after chastising his young associate.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dulles,” Mac said, shaken out of his distraction. “I have taken down everything that has been discussed about the need for Federal approval, and the part the law firm would play in that objective. I will have something on your desk by this afternoon.”
“Very well,” replied Dulles, seemingly doubtful in his intonation.
The Russian smirked, nodding his approval. Clearly, the Russian emissary fully understood English, and perhaps had brought Sara along with the very intent of causing a distraction. He took a sip from the china coffee cup in front of him, more to hide his contentious smile than to quench his thirst.
At the conclusion of the meeting, they all stood, and engaged in niceties. As Sara shook Mac's hand across the conference table, she held on a little longer than necessary, sending electricity through his entire body. Her softness caused him to blush again, the heat rushing up to his face. She smiled, and she looked down once again, before turning to thank Mr. Dulles for his hospitality. Mac took leave of the room, his heart throbbing in his chest. Lingering in the hallway a few minutes, he studied the file in his hand, more as a stall than to satisfy any interest he had in the file.
After what felt like an eternity, Dulles walked out of the conference room, with the Russian, and then Sara, in tow. As she walked by Mac, now with an off-white velvet feathered hat on her head, she winked at him, and she surreptitiously slipped a folded note into his hand from her elegantly manicured fingers.
The biggest smile came to Mac, seeing it was a telephone number. He looked up in time to see her turn to catch his reaction, her hat flapping in response to the sudden movement of her head.
He mouthed, “I will call you tonight.”
Little did Mac know; his world had just changed forever.
CHAPTER TWO
T
hat day seemed to drag on forever. Mac kept to his office, working on the agreement requested by Mr. Dulles, while thinking of Sara Mandakovich. In between his written sentences, he would daydream out of the sixteenth-floor window, watching the stockholders across the street in their own offices.
Hard to believe just ten years ago these guys were jumping out of their windows.
Time had brought enough prosperity to make things seem much better to the young Wall Street lawyer with his promising future in front of him. Mac was living in a world that was much different than the one that existed a decade earlier. Sure, war was a threat, but at this point, few could see Nazism for what it truly was. It was, after all, being portrayed in a clever disguise, projecting a desire for peace to the outside world. People believed what they wanted to believe.
It is so hot, so hot. Mac loosened his tie and collar, while still gazing out of his office window.
Although the windows were open, the noise of the street permeating his little, but comfortable office, it did not help much with the stifling heat. Mahogany window frames, a few pieces of traditional furniture, matching lithographs of eider ducks hanging on the taupe-colored walls, a space befitting a young lawyer at one of the country's most prestigious law firms. He had been recruited from the halls of Harvard little more than two years before, having graduated second in the Class of 1938. He had played defensive end on the Boston College football team before he went to law school, and his taut, imposing physique remained prominent. He was wined and dined until he signed on the dotted line, as they say, then the law firm threw him in the library to pay his dues. He had put his time in the books, dutifully passing the bar exam, learning his trade, and now he was ready for more. In fact, he craved excitement.
The past two years could have been worse. Mac was making what was big money at the time, and yes, he did have a job. The pain of the Depression was still a near enough memory, even for the young buck sitting in his posh Wall Street office. His junior associate status slowly developed into more responsibility. He was permitted to go to court now, by himself, albeit mostly to adjourn a case, or to present a silent presence on the part of the firm. At least he was in court, which was more than most new attorneys could say at Sullivan and Cromwell. He was also now permitted to sit in a room with a client, even if he had been instructed not to open his mouth under any circumstance. The thing was he looked good, and he was taught to bill for his time, whether he opened his mouth or not.
The past year had brought great changes, for Mac, and for the world. While Germany was enveloping most of Europe in flames, Mac was able to find himself a shabby chic apartment on the Upper Westside, West Eighty-Sixth Street, just off Central Park West. He was on the fifth floor with an exquisite view of the back of the brownstones on West Eighty-Seventh Street. Not very glamorous, but entertaining, particularly when he had nothing better to do but to casually snoop on his neighbors.
These first years were all about the law, after all. Each day was long, and there was very little opportunity for any kind of social life. He would get into the subway on Central Park West by six-thirty each morning. The crowded ride to Wall Street was long enough to read the entire front page of a newspaper being held up by a sitting passenger in front of him, while he stood, holding on to the wooden hand grips for balance. It was pretty much his only semblance of an exposure to what was going on in the world, as busy as he was learning the legal trade. He was acutely interested in world affairs, however, even if they were not touching him directly. Mac was savvy enough to realize that eventually the war would reach the shores of America. He was already planning on how he would jump in, despite his being unsure if he could kill another human being. He was hoping that Mr. Dulles could get him involved in Naval Intelligence, as rumor had it that his mentor was spending more and more of his time on such matters.
Mac would be in his office by seven-thirty, with his head already in his law books. His sensible, sixty-something year old secretary, Mrs. Appleton, whom he shared with another associate, would bring him his coffee in fine china, as was the practice at the firm. Mrs. Appleton was too good to him, and he knew it, but Mac made sure to tell everyone how lucky he was to have her. Her interactions with Mac clearly suggested that she thought he could use some mothering, he being twenty-six years old, fresh from upstate New York, by way of Boston. He was no rube, but he was still young. “I have taught him everything he knows,” she was fond of saying with a laugh, but it was pretty much true. Mac knew nothing from time sheets, intercoms, proper attire, or office politics. Mrs. Appleton did know, and she shared her sage knowledge with him, for which he was eternally grateful. He regularly brought her flowers as an expression of his appreciation, for which she had told him was “very sweet, but totally unnecessary.” Yet, he knew she was charmed, and most grateful for his thoughtful demonstration.
He would leave his office each day well after the close of business, choosing to walk uptown many nights, rather than riding in the smelly, sweltering summer subway. It was a seven-mile walk, but it not only passed the time, but it was also entertaining.
One day I will own these streets, he would dream, as he walked past the courthouses on Centre Street. I will be the best trial lawyer ever.
And he believed it. Mac prided himself on being the best at what he was doing. It was his way. He was confident, self-assured, and perhaps appearing a bit arrogant to those who did not know him well.
He would cross Canal Street, north to Little Italy, where he felt the most at home in the big city. Despite his adopted last name, his swarthy good looks made him unmistakably Italian. His father, Giuseppe Martini, was an immigrant from the north of Rome, here in this country since he was a young boy. His mother, an Irish-German beauty, Margaret McCabe Martini, was the daughter of a New York City Police Detective, who so looked the part that he was cast in early crime movies from time to time. His parents, deeply affectionate with both their son and with each other, were both Romance Language professors at Vassar College in upstate Poughkeepsie. Mac had shortened his last name to Martin in law school, as he was smart enough to realize that the only Martini that would be acceptable at a Wall Street law firm was served in a chilled glass. His parents were not amused, but they understood, given their own experiences in the stuffy world of academics. Different languages were spoken in the home, mostly Italian, at times French, and some English. Mac naturally became fluent in all three.
On his walks, he would listen to the Italian being spoken on the streets in Little Italy, occasionally taking the time to pleasantly surprise people by responding in their native language. He may not have dressed like them, in his fine lawyer suits, but his heart was Italian. He quickly became known on the streets, respected for his genial good manners, and his friendly disposition. His passion was unmistakably worn on his sleeve, and this made him even more welcome in the Italian neighborhoods. He found speaking Italian enjoyable, and it kept up his fluency.
