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 A Terrorizing Demonstration On September 16, 1920, a terrorist attack against the Morgan Bank killed and injured many Americans. The perpetrators were never found. "A Terrorizing Demonstration" proposes a plausible explanation. An aptitude with higher mathematics earned him an enviable position at the nation's most powerful bank, but he soon lost it to petulance. "No good will ever come of you," said the paymaster as he tallied his severance, wagging an ancient finger. "Not by half are you as clever as you believe." A smirk on his lips, the young man departed the bank's gray, bunker-like offices. By the time he stepped into the bustle of Broad Street, he decided the events that had led to his dismissal required redress. He told himself neither the prissy clerk who declared his work ill conceived nor the secretary who deemed his advances untoward was worthy of his consideration. The creaking paymaster was a cross-eyed dolt. Soon he realized not even the attenuation of J.P. Morgan himself would compensate for the unwarranted assault on his character. By the time he reached Cortlandt Street, he knew that only the institution would merit the full force of his intellect in the service of his sense of Justice. Taking the Sixth Avenue El uptown, he began his withdrawal into what would be a lengthy period of unwavering purpose. When he returned to the corner of Wall and Broad streets twenty-one months later, on the third Thursday of September 1920, it was to execute a plan that, to his mind, was perfect… T.J. O'Neal Jr., a resident of Nutley, N.J., transported to lower Manhattan via the Tubes from Newark. He did so daily, endeavoring to complete the cross-word puzzle of The Newark Star before arriving at the Hudson Terminal. The twenty-minute ride was inevitably uneventful, for Mr. O'Neal traveled after the morning rush had ended. From his window, he saw the great concrete and sandstone towers of Wall Street, one rising higher than the next, as if climbing each other in competition for a gold ring hidden among the clouds. Though he had been a waiter at Ye Olde Chop House on Cedar Street for more than a decade, he still felt a jolt of amazement at the sheer audacity of the district, the intensity of its activity and its presumption of success. Today, a man carrying a tennis racket assumed the seat next to Mr. O'Neal, arriving at the moment the train slid to the under-ground. "Hello," said the black-haired man, who introduced himself as Fischer. Mr. O'Neal nodded politely, but in such a way to discourage further conversation. The puzzle beckoned. "I've seen you," said Fischer, adjusting his tennis racket. "You are amiable." Mr. O'Neal gripped his pencil and edged against the train's sidewall. "September," the man said, "in this, the year of our Lord nineteen-hundred and twenty, on the day you read in your newspaper that many police of the Old Slip Station have been reassigned." The waiter frowned, but did not turn away. He had heard rumor of a pending action by the New York Police Department against the Communist agitators marching at Brooklyn Rapid Transit Company headquarters and its assorted car barns. "On that day, you are best served to remain at home." The man nodded knowingly. "A dastardly deed. Chaos." The train eased its speed as it entered the Hoboken terminus. "I am in the employ of the Secret Service," he continued, "and I know whereof I speak." He stood as the train came to a halt, reaching high for a leather strap. Mr. O'Neal watched as the man tucked his tennis racket under his arm and departed. Originally published in Wall Street Noir edited by Peter Spiegelman. Published in Spring 2007 All stories © Jim Fusilli 2005. Reprinted with permission. For permission to reprint, contact the author at jimfusillibooks@aol.com. |