Through the two years of his sacrificed engineering degree, a few things had concerned Morris enough to awaken his interest, and two of those were the engineering marvels of New York’s — largest fully enclosed, decorative space in the world— Grand Central Station, and the Brooklyn Bridge.
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Chapter Twelve
Transferred
New York City
5/4/15
10:11 AM
Taking twenty minutes wording the telegram to the bank in Loveland as Morris wanted it worded stating the purpose for his thirty dollar good faith payment; the procedure for the actual transfer of the funds and another fifteen minutes for the confirming return telegram from Loveland National Bank, leaving but twelve and a half dollars after this—there and back and there—Western Union procedure.
Thinking tickets for The Mikado would probably be no more than three or ‘maybe’ three and a half dollars each... 10:52 AM
In a row of like black Model T Ford Cabs parked along the Grand Central curb, it took Morris a minute to find the one cab with the flag up signifying it was customer occupied, or in this case …
“Ben…” tapping on the window, awaking the man that had fallen asleep waiting for Morris to return. Jerking upward and rolling the window downward. “Yes sir!” Rubbing his eyes. Where to?”
“ Sorry I took so long. You know where the ‘49th Street Theatre’ is?”
“I do!”
“Need to get a couple of tickets for tonight; then back to National City Bank.”
Pulling from the curb, the cab made a sharp ‘U’ turn returning from the direction they had come about an hour and a half earlier. 10:40 AM
Entering the ‘Box Office’ door, finding no one at the desk, Morris rang the small bell— bringing the sharp scent of tobacco smoke along with her— “‘Morning..” an older woman coming from a back room said in a raspy voice “...how can I help you?”
“ ‘Morning… I’d like two tickets for The Mikado for tonight, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Perusing a large diagrammed chart atop the desk.
“Had a rush on tickets since that ship docked yesterday and all I’ve left is row eleven,‘stage left’ in the mezzanine.”
“Those good seats?” Morris asked.
“Pretty good...” the raspy voiced woman said “...them’s all I got anyway.”
“I’ll take them.” Opening his wallet. “How much?”
“Four-fifty each.”
Knowing in London they were thought of as one step above vaudeville. “Lot of money for Gilbert and Sullivan, you think!”
Taking the two five dollar bills and handing a dollar change along with two tickets to the man.
“Sorry…” she said—wanting nothing more than to finish the cigarette she’d left smouldering in an overflowing ashtray, along with another slug from that half finished pint of gin she’d left in the back room, and then to hang the, ‘Sold Out’, sign on the door, lock up and go home “… enjoy the show.”
Dropping the dollar and two tickets into his coat pocket alongside the other dollar and six train tickets. “Thank you!” 11:03 AM
“Hey, Ben!”
“National City Bank?”
Enjoying this — almost like a rich man having his own chauffeur. A rich man with but three dollars in his wallet and pocket. But not for long! “Yes…” Morris said “...go to the bank.” 11:28 AM
“Don’t stop right in front, Ben…” not wanting Agnes to see him getting out of a cab, if she should happen to be looking in his direction “...pull up to where I found you this morning.”
The Motel T moving to the next corner, stopping and beginning to get out…
“Sit still, Ben. Don’t need you to keep opening the door for me.”
“Want I should still wait?”
“Yes. Still have …” including this, then back to Grand Central and Western Union, then on to Anton Geneasta and returning here “... four more stops.”
11:32 AM
Pushing the heavy glass door open, stepping into the bank, from across the expanse of the vestibule Morris saw Agnes attending a customer and when her eyes momentarily lifted from the counting of currency, seeing him, her eyebrows lifting in a silent question as he waved his hand more so in acknowledgement then a statement signalling he was here to attend to business.
Turning to his right, taking but seconds to reach the desk of, “Morning, Mister Baker.”
Turning from the papers on the desk, remembering the man but not the name, “Good morning.”
“If you remember…” showing him the keys to lock box 1313 “... I was here yesterday requesting the use of one of your deposit boxes.”
“Oh, yes! You’re Mister, uh….”
“Pinowskiz.”
“Yes, Mister, ‘um’?’. Did you want to get into the vault today?”
“I do. And also who can I see about making a wire cash transfer to an out of state bank?”
Taking his long shank Master Key from a desk drawer. “I’ll be able to assist with that.”
Once more following Baker into the huge steel vault, Morris stood to the side as— using the ‘master’ key that opened the vault cover— pulling the deposit box out and handing it to Morris, once again the banker led the way to the small, private room.
“When you’re finished here…” in an extreme business like tone “... come see me for that cash transfer.”
Nodding his head in an ‘okay’ gesture; waiting until the door closed, he then removed the wallet from his inside jacket pocket, putting four of the thirty hundred dollar bills into it, and one additional hundred into his trouser pocket.
No longer having a use for it, before opening the door the money belt was dropped into a trash basket alongside the desk.
Twenty-five hundred dollar bills held in hand, Morris waited for five minutes until Baker finished whatever business he’d been conducting with the extremely well dressed woman sitting along side..
Business concluded, nodding her head at Morris as she stood, her vacated chair instantly occupied.
“So, you’ll be wire transferring funds from your account here to…?”
“Funds aren’t from any account I have here.” Placing the stack of hundred dollar bills onto the desk before Baker. “Well, unless you mean from your safe deposit box t…” tapping the stack of bills “...to here.”
This an extremely usual transaction as funds were usually transferred from one existing account to another in a different location. Ruffling the bills. “How much you got here?”
“Twenty-five hundred that I’d like to be wired to…” removing a card given him with the relevant wire transfer information by the Western Union man “...Loveland National Bank.”
“Any message to go with this?”
“No need. They’ll know what it’s for… Oh, yeah, remind them that they’re to wire their response back to Western Union in Grand Central Station, Please.”
“You do know, don’t you, Mister, ‘uh’, that we do not offer this type of service to anyone, unless they have an account with us.”
Looking and sounding more an undertaker than a banker, disliking this man’s superior attitude, but yet not wanting him to think too much or to remember too much, which was the reason he did not want to spend a minute longer at National City Bank, or even at Bertha’s Boarding Hotel because by now the twelve hundred Lusitania’s passengers could be roaming all over the city.
“I do have an account here, Mister Baker…” hoping he’ll buy this “... and the reason I want the response to my twenty-five hundred dollar transfer is because I have important business to attend to and it will be easier and quicker for me to receive the response at Grand Central.” 12:03 PM
“Hold on.” Standing, taking the mound of hundred dollar bills with him, crossing the room— because Baker would always rather speak to a male teller than that woman— “ ‘Winkler’, look up a Morris, uh...Pin-ow-skiz; see if he’s got am account with us.”
Having trouble with the name. “Go to the ‘P’s”! Baker said.
Opening a number of ledger pages. “Ah, yes…” Winkler said, tapping the entry with a fingernail “...here he is.”
Looking over the man’s shoulder, Baker saw that there had been a number of wire deposits over the past three years totaling ninety-six dollars of which twenty had been withdrawn just yesterday.
Satisfied, “Here…” Baker said “...deposit this into the man’s account.” Counting the bills one by one until all twenty-five, hundred dollar bills lay on the counter before the teller—who first gave Baker a ‘National City Bank’ deposit receipt with ‘Two thousand’-five hundred’ ‘$2,500.00’ hand written receipt. Then once again, bill by bill, counting, Winkler placed all twenty-five bills into the hundred dollar slots in his cash drawer. 12:21 PM
Baker’s next stop to the bank manager who placed the wire transfer instructions to Western Union New York City Headquarters.
12:28 PM
“All right…” Baker said, returning to Morris who had been sitting patiently waiting for the completion of the call to Western Union authorizing the wire transfer of twenty-five hundred dollars— With the case number 8-15-0030-007 to Loveland National Bank —The last three case numbers signifying any return communication to be directed to the 007 Western Union sub station, Grand Central Station, New York, NY. 12:33.
Standing, shaking hands with Baker. “Thank you.”
Pleasure doing business with you, Mister, uh…”
“Don’t worry about it.” Morris said.
12:38 PM
Waiting five minutes in her short line. “Agnes, Hi!”
Once again a quizzical look coming to Agnes’ face.
“Look…” reaching into his coat pocket, attempting to separate the two single show tickets from the two stapled packs of train tickets and two single dollar bills “...I’ve got our tickets for the show tonight…” not willing to be noticed by any of Bertha’s quests “...that begins at eight, so I’ll pick you up at, oh say…” going by Bertha’s strict six o’clock dinner call “...six O’clock. Okay?”
Pick me up? A sense of levity coming to Agnes. Noting no one waiting in line behind Morris, motioning him to come closer. In a surprising pleasant voice, softly sung, the hit song on the radio.“ ‘I'll be down to get you in a Taxi honey, you better be ready about half past eight. Now dearie don't be late, I want to be there when the band starts playing’.” Laughing. “My room’s two doors down, you going to pick me up in a taxi ‘dearie’?”
This woman’s humor — in the eyes of the beholder— this woman’s beauty hitting Morris as none had ever before, reinforcing his planned step five.
“No, Agnes…” smiling “...no taxi. It’s just that I want us to have a really nice dinner and not have to rush to get to the theatre.”
“Alright. You park the taxi at my door, toot the horn, and I’ll be right out.”
A thought coming to him that he was sure will tend to confuse Agnes, but knowing he would never be back in this city, and seeing as the cash transfer had been made.
“Before I leave, Agnes, I would like to close my account here.”
Absolutely confused, and having the idea that he’d be leaving tomorrow, and unsure of her reaction when they say ‘goodbye’.
Said a bit coldly. “I can do that, Morris.” Checking the ledger sheet, then going into the cash drawer, removing Morris’ remaining seventy-six dollars and sliding it to him from beneath the teller’s bars.
“Thank you…” having a hard time not saying ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’ “...I’ll see you at six, then.”
“Yes. You know where to find me.”
Sensing a change in her attitude. “I know this…” making an all encompassing motion“… might be confusing, but I think it’s all for the good and I’ll explain…” as much as I can “...tonight.”
12:45 PM
In the bank for better than an hour,“Ben…” awakening him “...back to the station.” Shaking his head to clear the cob webs. “Station?” The cabbie questioned.
“Yes. ‘Grand Central’.”
1:11 PM
Asking the Western Union attendant, “You’ve a telegram for me.”
“Your name?” The man in the by now well recognised tan uniform asked.
“Morris…” still sounding strange “...Pink.”
“You’ve identification or a case number?”
Taking the information card from his trouser pocket with the Western Union case number and the outgoing and incoming instructions given him near exactly two hours ago.
Searching a stack of incoming telegrams waiting to either be personally picked up, or hand delivered to the addressee… “ ‘Pink’…” the man said “...here you are, handing Morris the four by six, light beige telegram reading:
Received: ‘ Western Union Sub Station, 007 Grand Central Station, New York, NY:’
Loveland National Bank, Loveland, Ohi0:
$2.500.00 received & entered into account of M. Pink.
W.E. Forester
1:27 PM
The confirming telegram ensconced alongside the five one hundred bills within his wallet within his inner jacket pocket.
Step four completed!
Knowing where his fifth step was to lead him, but,“Ben…” thinking, everything falling so neatly in line, including meeting Agnes, everything going so well something’s got to happen!
Morris’ intention was to find a jeweler crooked enough to purchase the eight diamonds without questioning where they had came from, and most importantly who it was that was in possession of the eight diamonds and then take the first train out of New York City bound for anyplace in mid-America. But then he met Agnes and Charlie Tenner and purchased, of all things, a hardware store in, of all places — although wanting to get lost in mid-America—Loveland, Ohio might be as good as anyplace else and anyway, Thinking: The deal is done and my money is in the bank in Loveland and tonight I’ll see if she wants to come with m, to… ‘The lifelong commitment to this woman — that he’d known but for twenty-four hours— if she agrees, foremost on Morris’ mind.
“Ben…”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know…” bewildered with what he’d done and accomplished between yesterday and today and where the commitment to and with Agnes is leading him “...just drive a while.”
“Anywhere you mean?”
“Yes.”
Bringing the Model T to life, pulling from the curb. “You see the Brooklyn Bridge yet?”
Through the two years of his sacrificed engineering degree, a few things had concerned Morris enough to awaken his interest, and two of those were the engineering marvels of New York’s — largest fully enclosed, decorative space in the world— Grand Central Station, and the Brooklyn Bridge.
Responding to Ben’s question: “No, I haven’t…” Morris said “...but I’d sure like to. How far is it?”
“Lower Manhattan, four – five miles, about twelve, fifteen minutes.”
1:48 PM
Standing next to the Model T in the parking area alongside the bridge, the sun at his face, Morris wasn’t sure he could see across the Brooklyn Bridge’s 1,595-foot main span which —on May 24, 1883, the bridge’s opening day— was considered to be the longest bridge in the world.
The towers built of limestone, granite and cement. It’s deck, supported by steel cables, carries both automobile and pedestrian traffic which, as the bridges builders had accurately predicted: “in a crowded commercial city such as New York, would be of incalculable value representing a landmark in the nineteenth century’s technological achievements.
A shadow of the quantity and quality of engineering value that went into the construction of this worldly marvel incalculable in the mind of Morris Pinowskiz AKA Morris Pink causing an urge to do something. To hold a tool, a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. To make something. To do something constructive.
I’ve a hardware store! He reminded himself. A place of tools and nuts and bolts and nails of all sizes. This mornings masturbatory remembrance of Agnes coming to mind. And a woman I think...a woman I love!
Having crossed this bridge — in going and coming hundreds of times, the Brooklyn Bridge no longer a novelty to this New York city taxi cab driver, but more so a convenience— waiting in the automobile for the man to make up his mind and to tell him ‘where to next’.
“Ben…” he asked “...you know where the ‘Diamond District’ is?”
“Over on 47th Street?”
Hating to expose himself again. Hating to make contact with anyone that might remember him.
But!
Crook to crook!
Morris Pink’s vacillating step five no longer vacillating.
What a wonderful rendition of a very carefully planned day to get everything done, snatch up Agnes in passion and head for an unknown future as a hardware store owner in Mid-America where nobody would ever find a criminal named Pink.
But I believe that Morris was not the only one who came with a criminal record to the United States in those days and remade themselves into, sometimes, solid citizens. Or, remained crooks and plundered as they traveled west or settled in a place like the Diamond District… Full of crooks.
One of your best stories so far. I know exactly what Morris feels like he has to do in the Diamond District.
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