The Deed by Keith Blanchard

Author:Keith Blanchard
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2003-10-16T04:00:00+00:00

WALL STREET, 1:35 P.M.

“I don’t see it,” said Jason.

“Keep looking,” Amanda instructed. “Try not to focus so much. Let your mind wander a little.”

They were standing at the northeast corner of Broadway and Fremont Street, facing north, having traced a wiggly westward path from the seaport following some map in Amanda’s head. Three corners of the intersection were pinned down by stately brick office towers; a fourth featured a pointlessly small corporate park. Here, peasants—have a tree.

“Look uptown,” she suggested.

“I am looking uptown,” he replied. “I need a hint.”

“Don’t look so hard. What do you see?”

“I see taxicabs and limousines,” he said. “I see pedestrians, traffic lights, skyscrapers.”

“That’s it,” she said. “Now put it all together.”

“Manhattan.”

“Well, no,” she chastised. “Zoom in a little.”

He shook his head and folded his arms. “I don’t care what it is anymore.”

“Come on. What do you see?” she coaxed slowly, as if speaking to a child.

“I see Broadway,” he said, annoyed.

“There ya go,” she replied, following his gaze uptown. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Jason glanced upward from the busy street to the crooked line traced by the tops of the tall buildings on either side, revisualizing Broadway as a deep canyon cut through skyscraper blocks.

“This is the oldest street in Manhattan,” said Amanda.

“I thought you said Water Street was the oldest street.”

“No,” she replied patiently, “I said that was the first street built by the settlers. Broadway is an old Native American warpath—it predates the white settlement by hundreds of years. Maybe thousands. Come on,” she said, as the light changed, taking his hand and leading him south across the street.

“I love that Broadway was a warpath,” said Jason.

“Know what that means?” asked Amanda. “Tribal lands in this part of the country tended to be laid out in east-west swatches,” she explained. “Roads that went from east to west, within one tribe’s domain, were called paths of peace. North-south paths crossed into different tribes’ territories, so they were called paths of war.”

A few more turns and a little more small talk later, they came across a part of town he did recognize. As they neared the corner, he could see the New York Stock Exchange two blocks uptown. “‘Wall Street,’” he read off the sign. “Financial capital of the world. Lots and lots of cash.”

“Do you know anything about Wall Street?” she asked.

“I think that unless I blurt something out,” said Jason, “you can safely assume that I don’t know anything.”

She pouted. “Don’t get testy; I’m trying to make this fun.”

“It is,” Jason assured her. “It’s very fascinating.”

“Well, we’re not just surveying your property; I’m trying to prepare you for the detective work to come. So anyway, Wall Street.”

“Didn’t there use to be an actual wall here?” he remembered suddenly.

“Good,” she said. “It was put up by Peter Stuyvesant, New York’s famous one-legged governor, after this or that native uprising. The Indians would come down Broadway”—here she turned uptown—“with furs, and be let in through the wall, where they’d trade them with the Dutch for seeds, pipes, guns, et cetera.

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