from Central Park

BOOK I 1903 The Assassination

Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance, the heart is made better. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

—Eccles. 7:3–4

*Zero*

Well you might call this whole tale the story of Hannah's houses: the poorhouse, the whorehouse, the workhouse, the jailhouse, the crazy house, the outhouse, the almshouse, the house of ill repute, the mug house, the crimp house, the tenement house, the merchant house, the house of J.P. Morgan, the banking house, the trading house, the Senate house, the house of mirrors, the playhouse, the courthouse, the gambling house, the opera house, the clubhouse, the parish house, the house of assignation, the house of correction, the dead house, the parlor house, the panel house, the slaughterhouse, the shock and fall house, the Trinity house, the house of the spirits, the haunted house, the house of detention, the bawdy house, the governor's house, the doll's house, the funhouse, the counting house, the movie house, the death house, the fashion house, the house of cards, but above all, the house on Central Park.

* One*

November 13, 1903

A brazen Indian Summer sun bore down on the carriage lane of Park Avenue, New York, turning the white granite sidewalk into the proverbial street paved in gold. A man in his late sixties, top hatted with a neat gray goatee and bright blue eyes, a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his arm, stepped out of the beautiful amber glass-domed kiosk of the new IRT subway at 31st Street, having ridden the fastest, most modern and chic method of getting from Wall Street to what was then "uptown."

The gentleman had left the wood paneled, first-class wagon, with its plush velvet seats and glass electric fixtures, and climbed the marble stairs into daylight. He passed under the beautiful amber glass dome of the kiosk, lit a cigar, and then started towards his brownstone mansion at number 91 on Park.

He was a tall, handsome man, hair parted to the left under his beaver-skin top hat, an authoritative profile that spoke power and a very large nose, though nothing compared to that of the famous J. P. Morgan. He wore a dark greatcoat with wide sleeves and a short cape over the shoulders, a light gray morning coat, a high white-collared pale gray shirt and striped pants. He carried his newspaper under the same arm as he carried his nobly battered briefcase. His white spat-covered leather boots strode purposely towards home and the lunch his niece had waiting for him.

As he approached the low cast-iron fence protecting the flowerbed in front of his mansion, another man, nattily dressed in a short tweed jacket, baggy plaid canvas trousers and a bowler hat, stepped out of the shadows, making him stop short in surprise. He too was a good-looking man, with a graying handlebar moustache, clipped sideburns, and yellow sunglasses that glinted in the bright autumn light.

"Mr. Green?" he asked politely.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Andrew H. Green of 91 Park Avenue?"

"What is it to you? Get out of my way."

"You, sir, are a fornicator and a thief. You stole my Bessie from me with your millions! Turned Bessie Davis's head and bought her just like a slave, with your greenbacks and diamonds and furs. If it hadn't been for your slander, I would be a happily married man today."

"I beg your pardon, I don't know any Bessie Davis and if you don't get out of my path immediately, I will call the police."

"I loved Bessie Davis. You took her away from me and now you must pay."

The surprised Andrew Green saw the snub-nosed derringer in the man's hand lifted to eye level. He saw the gleam of the polished metal pointing straight at his head and behind it, the shadow holding the gun.

"Damn your fornicating soul," said the shadow, and fired pointblank into...