Steeplechase, page 2
“Be ‘totally over’ it somewhere else, sweetie,” the attendant groused. “I got a line to move.”
“Don’t talk to my girl that way,” Tom said with a puffed chest. “Or do you want to discuss that ‘somewhere else’?”
Jen rolled her eyes.
“Do you always have to make a scene?” she fumed at him. Turning, she made to exit the line. Tom took her arm.
“Wait—this is the Cyclone! I’m not leaving till I ride it!” he said.
Jen peevishly opened her purse and pulled out a ticket. “Then take mine and do it alone. Look for me from the top. I’ll be getting on the ride called ‘the subway’—also known as the D train back to the city.”
As Jen flounced away, Tom started after her, and then hesitated as the attendant folded his arms and wryly looked at him.
“So who’s the boss, lover boy?” he cracked.
Tom angrily shoved the ticket into the attendant’s hand and walked to the nearest car. He sat down heavily on the wood seat, causing the rickety contraption to rattle and groan.
Another worker snapped the safety bar across Tom’s lap and slapped the side of the car to signal it forward.
Tom sat sullenly as the coaster loudly started up. He involuntarily gripped the bar as the car moved high above the park, and then higher still, so that he could see all over the island—Surf Avenue came into view, and then Neptune Avenue. Finally, in the distance, the faint lights of Manhattan appeared on the horizon.
The sheer pleasure of the view renewed Tom’s excitement as the car started climbing an impossibly steep incline. He looked down at the park grounds and scanned the crowd. At the entrance to the attraction, he spied Jen’s shining blond hair; she was sitting on a bench, smoking and staring up at the ride. Tom broke into a relieved smile.
As the car rounded the top, he bellowed “Jen!” so loudly that nearly everyone below glanced up—including Jen. “I love you!”
She ruefully shook her head and, breaking into a grin, gave him a thumbs-up.
Exhilarated, Tom threw up his arms in anticipation of the coming plummet downward. He roared extravagantly again as the car went over the top. But as it jolted into its descent, Tom’s knees slammed up against the safety bar—which snapped like a toothpick. Almost immediately, he was flung upward like a launched missile.
From below, Jen watched in disbelieving horror as Tom tumbled out of the car and sailed against the nighttime sky.
“Tom!” she screamed. Others in the crowd also screamed—in both horror and helplessness as the teen’s body flipped lightly through the air, over and over again, and then began its awful race to the ground.
Chapter 5
Katie stepped onto the boardwalk and made her way through the muted early evening crowd. Her head still hadn’t let up with its pounding punishment, so she dug into her purse and pulled out a small silver flask. She gave it a good, hard look, and then, groaning softly, shoved it back into her bag. She forced herself toward the park’s newest coffeehouse, the Java Joint, which she had yet to try because the next-door bar always won out.
Before she could enter, the sound of running footsteps made her turn. A bushy-haired, out-of-breath rookie cop staggered to a stop in front of her.
“Katie! Been an accident,” he gasped. “I’ve been looking all over for ya!”
“Whoa, Frankie! What’s going on? Where?”
“On the Cyclone. That’s all I know.”
“Oh, hell,” she sighed, and looked inside the coffeehouse; a hopeless twenty-person line stood between her and the counter.
“Okay, okay, I got it.” She grimaced. “This is not going to be my day.…”
She and the junior officer hurried down the boardwalk and saw an ominously large throng of people at the base of the massive Cyclone ride.
The crowd surged forward and back. Katie struggled to push her way through until a heavyset cop spotted her and, reaching out his hand, roughly pulled her toward him.
“Thanks, Carlos. What happened?”
“It’s bad, Silver. One of our most venerable rides finally gave out, just like everyone has been saying it would. Young guy went flying. Right in front of his girlfriend.”
He nodded toward a teenager who sat on the ground, stunned, as an emergency service team attended to her. The attendants tried to lift her toward a gurney, but she just looked around, wild-eyed.
“No! I told you, I am waiting for my boyfriend. He wouldn’t just leave me!” she said angrily.
Katie sighed deeply. “Oh, God…”
Steeling herself, Katie knelt down in front of her. She gently took the woman’s hand in hers and pressed it to her chest.
“Your boyfriend’s gone, honey. I’m so very sorry.”
The woman closed her eyes, and her whole body shook. “He can’t be! I was such a bitch to him right before.…”
Katie slowly lifted her up off the ground. She put her arms around the stricken woman, shielding her from the gaping crowd.
“Can I take you to the hospital?” Katie asked. “What’s your name, honey?”
“J-Jen.” She looked at Katie, beseeching and lost. “Take me anywhere. Just get me out of here.”
As Katie drew Jen toward the ambulance, flashbulbs momentarily blinded both women. An aggressive young reporter with a deep tan and gleaming white teeth stepped forward, mic in hand.
“Troy Madison with The Herald,” he said to Katie. “You head up security detail here. Any idea how something like this could possibly have happened on your watch?”
Katie flashed a furious look and hissed, “Get out of here. Show some respect—since you clearly don’t have any compassion!”
Madison reached over to pry Jen out of Katie’s arms. Katie blocked his grasp with her left arm, causing her bag to slide off her shoulder and onto the pavement. The contents spilled everywhere—with the flask landing right at the newsman’s feet.
Picking up the flask, Madison held it out to Katie. “Maybe you’ll reconsider. Give me an exclusive or…my report might have to include a rundown on all evidence found at the scene.”
Katie narrowed her eyes. “Get out of our way.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”
“And I’m doing mine,” Katie said as she led Jen to the ambulance. “While I still have one, anyway,” she muttered to herself while climbing in. The vehicle took off with a wail.
Chapter 6
Considering how little sleep she’d had, Katie didn’t look nearly as bad as she’d expected to when she peered into the mirrored doors of the elevator. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, but her strawberry blond hair was at least cooperating and falling nicely around her heart-shaped face. It had been a brutal night at the hospital, spent trying to comfort the distraught young woman while also fielding nonstop calls from her employers.
She stepped out of the elevator and into the sleek office lobby. A harried receptionist pointed to a conference room where a meeting was under way. Taking a deep breath, Katie stepped in and saw exactly what she expected: a noisy group of sixty-year-old white guys. Barely acknowledging Katie’s presence, the men continued a conversation of one-upmanship regarding real estate.
“SoHo’s dead. East Village is where it’s at now,” barked one guy as he wolfed down a heavily buttered bagel.
“Keppleman, you’ve been yammering about the East Village for twenty years. Gentrification passed right over and landed in Williamsburg.”
Mickey Shears, easily the most suave at the gathering, with a full head of brilliant white hair, stepped forward.
“Thanks for coming, Katie. I know you had a rough night,” he said as he pressed her hand. “Gentlemen, this is Katie Silver. She leads security detail at the park.”
Katie smiled at the round of disinterested nods.
“Katie grew up right on Brighton Beach—her father still works at the park. He’s been at it thirty years, right, Katie?”
“Thirty-nine.”
Bagel Guy spoke up. “Let’s cut to the chase. There have been four major-league accidents in the last year, and now a death. I’m sure you’re doing a great job at the park, sweetheart, but—”
“I’m actually not much of a sweetheart,” Katie said through gritted teeth. “Just fair warning.”
“Ah, jeez, ’scuse me for being politically incorrect. The point is that the accidents keep coming, and nobody can stop them at a place that old. Not you, not me, not anybody. The place had its time, but it’s over.”
Katie turned to Shears. “I’m sorry: what does that mean?”
Shears sighed. “I know you have a long personal attachment to the park, Katie. And you’ve done a hell of a job. Now we need you to keep doing it and keep everything orderly for the next few weeks while the sale goes through.”
“What? You can’t shut down the park,” Katie protested. “Not after all these years!”
Keppleman barked out, “Yeah, yeah. The hot dog was born there. Irving Berlin was a waiter at the Pavilion. No one cares, honey. No one.”
Katie gaped at Shears. “So what’s it going to become? Lofts? Condos? A megamall?”
“Whatever the highest bidder wants it to be, sweetheart,” Bagel Guy said. “We’re real estate investors, not a cultural heritage committee.”
Shears gave the distraught Katie a reluctant nod of confirmation.
That slight movement of Shears’s head sent the dazed Katie spinning out of the conference room, down the elevator, out of the lobby, and onto the crowded avenue. She walked among the bustling people at a slow pace while trying to collect her thoughts. She couldn’t imagine a world without the park. Without the roaring Cyclone or the elegant Pavilion or the cold hot dogs or the sticky cotton candy or the sliding elephants—
Katie stopped dead, causing perplexed and angry passersby to glare at her as they had to move around her. She did an immediate about-face and headed across the avenue. Dodging traffic, she whipped around the corner and stopped in front of the New York Public Library.
An hour later, Katie was leafing through a dusty binder full of yellowed newspaper clippings. Frowning, she was about to close the binder when something caught her eye. She looked and then leaned in and stared with disbelief.
“But I’ve never even heard of this! How the hell could I dream it?”
She asked herself that question again and again as she rode the subway home. It just didn’t make any sense. Climbing out of the Stillwell Avenue exit, she looked up to see that the park’s comfortingly familiar lights were blazing in the falling night. The sight warmed her and she absently wandered in their direction, down to the boardwalk.
Settling on an empty bench, Katie reached into her bag and pulled out her auxiliary flask. She was dimly aware that the Scotch wasn’t going to change a thing but took comfort where she could find it. She looked out again at the twinkling lights and thought about how they would soon be extinguished. Forever.
Spent and discouraged, Katie fell back against the bench and shut her eyes to stop her spinning mind. But even the insistent pull of sleep couldn’t hold back what she had seen in the old newspaper article dated June 12, 1907:
CONEY ISLAND CROWD STUNNED
Steeplechase Park Amazes with Elephants on Waterslides
Never-Before-Seen Attraction; Reports of Women and Nervous Persons Fainting
Chapter 7
Coney Island, 1907
Even by the rock-bottom dress standards of the crowds at Steeplechase Park, Corrigan leaned against the racetrack fence looking like a bum. He wore a torn coat and a filthy slouch hat and had a burned-out cigarette butt dangling from his mouth. He looked exactly like what every mother told her kid he’d become if he took up gambling.
He slowly ambled toward the entrance to the attraction and then paused before a huddled group of gamblers. Approaching them, he pushed back his lumpy hat to reveal jet-black hair.
Corrigan gave the tough-looking mugs a gullible smile.
“Get in on the action, fellas?” he asked.
“Beat it, pal,” one of them barked without even looking at Corrigan.
“Got some money to lose,” Corrigan said.
Again, the gambler snarled without looking up. “Jeez, you deef?”
“In both ears.”
Laughing despite himself, the gruff gambler yanked out a knife and whirled around to point it at Corrigan.
“Then maybe seein’ this will help. Capisce?”
From the stands, Katie gasped.
Corrigan stared at the knife and then burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny, pal?”
“Just like a dumb guinea,” Corrigan retorted.
At this, all three gamblers jumped to their feet. The gruff guy couldn’t believe his ears.
“What’d you say?”
Corrigan yanked a pistol out from under his coat. “I said, ‘Just like a dumb guinea,’ bringing a knife to a gunfight.”
All three gamblers took a step back.
“Now, gents, I’m riding in the next Steeplechase race. Number three. Happens to be my lucky number. I’m betting fifty dollars on myself and my trusty steed. Any takers?”
The gamblers reluctantly nodded, and then concluded their transaction. Corrigan headed over to the makeshift stables where mechanical horses flew up and down on an undulating roller coaster with human jockeys guiding them. The whole thing had been perfectly designed, down to the satin jockey uniforms given to the riders and the bales of hay for the “horses” at the track’s starting point.
“There’s still room on the Steeplechase, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer bleated through his tinny megaphone. “Still time to buy your ticket for the ride of your life! Combines the fun of the merry-go-round with the pure thrills of the Chutes—with the added excitement of a gen-u-ine horse race!”
Confidently nodding to his fellow riders, Corrigan climbed aboard his mechanical horse, gave it a pat, and spat out a wad of chewing tobacco. He quickly reviewed the parallel individual tracks that made up the roller coaster’s course; it wasn’t a large structure, but it had more than enough dizzying peaks and valleys. Corrigan tested out the levers that controlled his speed and brakes and liked what he felt.
A deafening whistle sounded and the gates exploded open.
“And they’re off!” the announcer screeched. “They break in a pack.…Now number seven falls back.…It’s one, three, and four taking the lead!”
Fueled by his excitement, Corrigan rode his steed up the highest incline of the coaster and then dashed down the other side, fighting number 4 for the lead through the tracks’ swooping highs and lows. The wildly enthusiastic crowd shouted its approval every time one of the riders bested another.
Nearing the finish line, Corrigan and number 4 glared at each other as they came up to a wicked bend. Suddenly, Corrigan felt his steed lurch sharply left. Looking down, he saw that his front wheel was wobbling loose.
Corrigan shoved his body to the right to balance out the hurtling vehicle, causing a shower of sparks to fly due to the shifted pressure of the wheels on the track. The crowd gasped. With his horse barely sticking to the track, Corrigan knew that he couldn’t make the bend at his current speed. He reluctantly grabbed for the brake and yanked hard.
Nothing.
His steed raced directly into the coming curve.
Chapter 8
Katie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The man’s mechanical horse was shedding sparks like a fireworks display and yet he still wasn’t braking. He was clearly suicidal. Her mouth gaped as she watched him head into the bend—at the same speed as the rider next to him.
As the two riders hit the curve, the man stood straight up on his steed and wrenched his body forward. The shift in weight corrected his horse’s imbalance just long enough for him to clear the sharp angle. He kept his body rigidly forward down the last stretch of the track. The front-load dynamic gave him the momentum to shoot across the finish line less than a foot in front of number 4.
The crowd erupted into cheers—which turned to gasps when everyone realized that the man couldn’t stop. He shot past the finish line and headed back toward the coaster’s first incline. Darting a glance to the side, he took a fast assessment of the space from the track down to the ground. Using all his strength, he shoved his body off the hurtling ride. Then he plummeted like a rock down the side of the track.
As the audience shot to its feet, the man fell directly into one of the decorative haystacks. The impact sent him up and over to the side, where he deftly rolled on the ground to a quick stop. Above, his riderless steed raced up the coaster incline to the very apex—and then sailed off the tracks and into the night air amid a shower of sparks.
Besieged with hearty backslaps and congratulations, the man shrugged and casually dusted himself off. The trio of gamblers pushed through the crowd.
The gruff one narrowed his eyes at the man. “Nice racket ya got goin’, bud.”
“Beginner’s luck!” the man enthused. “Now, you boys aren’t going to be poor sports about this, are you?” He patted the gun outlined in his shiny jockey’s jacket. The none-too-happy gambler scowled, slowly counted out some bills, and thrust them into the man’s right hand.
“Thanks, gents.” The man smiled. “Now I’m afraid you’re under arrest. This is a family place; gambling isn’t allowed in the park. Signs posted everywhere…if you could read. All yours, Murdoch!”
The man gave a signal to a somewhat stooped uniformed cop who was half hidden behind the stands. Murdoch in turn signaled two other cops tucked away in the shadows; they quickly grabbed the startled gamblers.
“Jake, you takin’ this undercover work kinda far, ain’t ya?” Murdoch exclaimed as the furious trio was led away. “Almost got sick watching ya take those turns! You one crazy son of a—”
Murdoch stopped short when he spied Katie approaching with an intent look in her eye. He cleared his throat and tipped his hat to her. He then shot an approving glance her way as he patted Jake on the back.
