Standing in front of the New York Stock Exchange, Shane gazed up at the grand neoclassical building. The towering stone columns and intricate reliefs exuded power and stability, while the throngs of people moving in and out reflected the heartbeat of New York's financial world.
The open doors of the Exchange were like a giant mouth, inhaling and exhaling the hopes and fortunes of countless men and women. The air carried tension, excitement, and the subtle scent of sweat and ambition.
Inside, the trading floor was a riot of sound. Voices of order clerks rose above the clatter of telegraph machines, brass speaking tubes, and the constant movement of papers. The marble colonnade amplified every sound, crashing against Shane's eardrums like waves against a pier.
He fingered the crisp banknotes in his pocket—the distinct texture of nine $100 bills. The smell of cigars, ink, and human perspiration mingled, underscoring the raw energy of the market. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the flickering stock ticker, numbers crawling along as if daring human greed to keep pace.
Shane pushed through the crowded hall to the oak counter, his linen shirt damp against his back. The old broker peered over his gold-rimmed glasses, pen tapping impatiently.
"Margin trading? Wireless stocks require fifty percent margin now," the broker said.
"All cash for Westinghouse Electric," Shane replied, sliding the bills across the counter. "Market order, odd lots accepted."
From his past-life memories, Shane knew Westinghouse's acquisition of KDKA would soon send the stock soaring, potentially beyond $90 within weeks. The frenzy on the trading floor now was merely the calm before the storm.
The broker squinted. "$38 a share. Nine hundred dollars will buy 23 shares—commission covered." The pen scratched against paper. "Confirm trade?"
Shane nodded. The broker handed over a thin slip of paper. Shane traced the cursive letters: Westinghouse Electric. The ink warmed under his thumb, a tangible prelude to the windfall to come.
Outside the Exchange, a breeze carrying the faint scent of lily of the valley fluttered Shane's linen shirt. A flower girl on tiptoe tied a bouquet to the doorknob, the delicate white petals brushing his rolled-up sleeve.
Across the street, the afternoon sun reflected off an antique shop window, casting a golden line that framed Shane's tall, wind-blown figure. His slightly messy curly hair fell across his forehead, and a long-lost smile played at his lips, causing grey-blue eyes to sparkle. Passersby stole glances. From a phonograph shop, the lazy saxophone strains of Ain't Misbehavin' drifted over the pavement, startling pigeons perched on the gilded dome of the Exchange.
Shane carefully folded the Westinghouse certificate and tucked it into the secret pocket of his trousers. This slip of paper, dormant for now, would soon yield a fortune beyond imagination.
Tucking his shirt back into his waistband, he made his way toward the tram stop. Tom Duke would be waiting by the old clock stall near the docks—their agreed meeting spot.
The cicadas buzzed insistently along Stanton Street, blending with the clanging brass bell. Tom fanned himself with a newspaper Shane had bought.
"Hey, don't just stand there gawking," Tom said, patting Shane's shoulder. "Old Jack told me to warn you to stay careful these past few days."
"What happened?" Shane asked.
Tom glanced around, lowering his voice. "Last night, the Hand of Zion was robbed at Harper's Tavern. Two masked men, revolvers in hand, took over seven thousand dollars and some jewelry. Their guys are tearing through the streets, blaming the Brotherhood."
"Italians?" Shane scoffed.
"They won't admit it, but South Dock Street was turned upside down last night. Though this morning, Stern and Luciano met at Parker's Restaurant and called a ceasefire, with an audit. Same old story—some poor sap always takes the fall."
Shane didn't respond, his eyes lingering on the brass bell. Memories of Tony and his gang flashed through his mind. If not for Mr. Costa's timely intervention…
Tom folded the newspaper and tucked it into his pocket. "Anyway, we've got to be careful these days."
A week later, at dusk, the New York Harbor cranes cast long shadows. Shane and Tom walked on slick dock planks, the air thick with salt and rotting fish.
Tom tugged at his collar. "This weather's unbearable. Shane, we need to cool off and grab a drink."
"No problem," Shane said, wiping sweat. He led Tom down a narrow street lined with stacked items. At an inconspicuous grocery store, several empty wooden crates blocked the faded sign.
"This is your 'good spot'?" Tom asked skeptically.
Shane knocked on a hidden panel with three quick taps, then two slow ones. Eyes peeked through the opening.
"The bluebird sings," Shane said.
The panel swung open, and they stepped through a dimly lit corridor. Pushing open the final door, they were greeted by music and chatter—a world apart from the damp harbor outside.