He reminded Wong that accepting an advance was a promise to deliver.
Wong reminded the stranger that he had promised to pay whatever he needed.
“Five thousand dollars when the job is done. Will that do you?”
“Very good, sir.” Then, feeling unusually bold because the stranger truly needed him, Wong asked, “Are you an anarchist?”
“Why do you ask?” the stranger asked coldly.
“Anarchists like dynamite,” Wong answered.
“So do labor strikers,” the stranger answered patiently, proving that he truly needed Wong Lee and only Wong Lee. “You know the expression ‘the proletariat’s artillery’?”
“But you do not wear workman’s clothes.”
The Wrecker studied the Chinaman’s battered face for a long minute, as if memorizing every scar.
Even though the laundry counter separated them, Wong suddenly felt they were standing too close.
“I don’t care,” he tried to explain. “Just curious,” he added nervously.
“Ask me again,” said the stranger, “and I will remove your other eye.”
Wong Lee backed up a step. The stranger asked a question, watching Wong’s battered face as if testing his skills.
“What will you need to make the biggest bang possible out of twenty-five tons?”
“Twenty-five tons of dynamite? Twenty-five tons is a lot of dynamite.”
“A full boxcar load. What will you need to make the biggest explosion?”
Wong told him precisely what he needed, and the stranger said, “You will have it.”
On the ferry back to Manhattan Island, Charles Kincaid stood out on the open deck, still muffled against the cold wind that scattered the coal smoke normally hanging over the harbor. He could not help but smile.
Striker or anarchist?
In fact, he was neither, despite the fear-mongering “evidence” he had taken pains to leave behind. Radical talk, rabble-rousing posters, diabolical foreigners, the Yellow Peril that Wong Lee’s body would soon furnish, even the name Wrecker, were all smoke in his enemies’ eyes. He was no radical. He was no destroyer. He was a builder.
His smile broadened even as his eyes grew colder.
He had nothing against the “favored few.” Before he was finished, he would be first among them, the most favored of all.
21
ISAAC BELL AND ARCHIE ABBOTT CLIMBED ON TOP OF A BOXCAR filled with dynamite to survey the intercontinental freight terminal that carpeted Jersey City’s Communipaw District. This was the end of the line for every railroad from the West and the South. Freight cars that had traveled two and three thousand miles across America stopped at the New Jersey piers one mile short of their destination, their way blocked by a stretch of water known to mariners as the North River and called by everyone else the Hudson.
The boxcar stood on the powder pier, a single-tracked wharf reserved for unloading explosives. But they were close enough to see the main terminal that thrust into the Hudson River on six-hundred-foot finger piers. Four freight trains were strung out on each pier waiting to be rolled onto sturdy wooden barges and floated across the river. They carried every commodity consumed by the city: cement, lumber, steel, sulfur, wheat, corn, coal, kerosene, and refrigerated fruits, vegetables, beef, and pork.
A mile across the water, Manhattan Island rose out of the smoky harbor, bristling with church steeples and ships’ masts. Above the steeples and masts soared the mighty towers of the Brooklyn Bridge and dozens of skyscrapers, many newly finished since Bell’s last visit only a year earlier. The twenty-two-story Flatiron Building had been surpassed by the Times Building, and both were dwarfed by a six-hundred-foot steel frame being built for the Singer Sewing Machine Company’s new headquarters.
“Only in New York,” boasted Archie Abbott.
Abbott was as proud as a Chamber of Commerce promoter, but he knew the city inside out, which made him Bell’s invaluable guide.
“Look at that boat flying the flag of the Southern Pacific Railroad even though she is three thousand miles from home plate. Everyone has to come to New York. We have become the center of the world.”
“You’ve become a target,” said Bell. “The