Manhattan Voyagers. Thomas Boone's Quealy
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a speakeasy after the Temperance Movement foisted Prohibition on the country in 1920. Thanks to a peephole in the door and making outsized payoffs to the local police precinct house, business boomed. When the stock market crashed in 1929 and the Great Depression reared its ugly head, he had accumulated sufficient illegal profits to weather the storm during the desperately hard decade of the 1930s. National prosperity eventually returned with the start of World War II and the Bull & Bear became a veritable gold mine as Wall Street entered an era of unparalleled profitability.
Rumor also has it that a stout and argumentative ex-politician by the name of Winston Churchill often dropped by the Bull & Bear for drinks in the late 1940's while on lecture tours. Almost penniless at the time, this lion of a man had been reduced to giving public speeches for pocket change in order to put food on the table for his family after the ungrateful British voters back home kicked him out of 10 Downing Street as a thank-you for having saved the country from Adolph Hitler.
The coincidence that Hilda's pet dog happens to be an English Bulldog, and also answers to the name of Winston, lends much credence to this rumor. Hilda remains cagey when queried about the matter, however, and will neither confirm nor deny the story.
In the suburbs, business deals are often consummated on exclusive golf courses in-between holes. The island of Manhattan doesn’t have any golf courses, exclusive or otherwise, so business deals here are generally concluded in-between drinks, frequently in upscale watering holes near Wall Street such as the Bull & Bear Tavern.
The clientele today is comprised mostly of stock analysts, brokers, portfolio managers, financial advisors, traders, underwriters, venture capitalists, mergers & acquisition specialists, and private equity investors. Some of them are glitterati, household names in their professions, renowned far and wide throughout the grandiose capitals of Europe and Asia as mavens and stock market seers. The vast majority of the bar’s customers, however, aren’t well-known wheeler-dealers at all; instead they are mid-level cogs in the great financial colossus called Wall Street.
It makes no difference to Hilda what a person’s status in the world of business may be; she treats all customers the same; that is, if you check your testosterone at the door and conduct yourself with decorum, you will be treated as royalty. Start trouble, however, and big-shot or not, the burly Russian bouncers will toss you out the front door on your ear faster than you can say:
SELL IN MAY AND GO AWAY!
The welcome mat is always out for people of all stripes at the Bull & Bear, even those currently under indictment by Federal or New York State prosecutors for high crimes and grave misdemeanors; on the belief that here in America a person is considered innocent until judged guilty in a court of law by a jury of their peers, and until all appeals are exhausted. Convicted felons, on the other hand, are barred from entry; as is the entire penny-stock crowd on the theory that this business is inherently corrupt no matter what the law says.
Hilda, a lapsed Lutheran, has earned a well-deserved reputation for her eccentricities and this is manifested in two bar policies she instituted shortly after taking over. These have been the object of widespread commentary in the media:
--- Unlike other bars in the Financial District, and possibly in the entire civilized world, the Bull & Bear Tavern is closed and locked up tight as a drum every March 17th on St. Patrick's Day, the busiest day of the year, by far, for most bars when green beer and Irish whisky is consumed in prodigious quantities by all races, creeds and ethnic groups under the Sun.
--- And there is no HAPPY HOUR at the Bull & Bear, not ever. Instead, there is an exclusive discount program for senior citizens who are regular customers that is unique in the bar business. Beginning at the age of 62, a 20% discount kicks in on all their drinks; at 70, the discount increases to 50%; at 75, it increases to 75%; and finally, at the age of 80, a customer gets to drink absolutely free for the rest of his or her life, no matter how long that turns out to be.
Jacob ‘Jake’ Gilmartin, 99, the bar’s oldest regular, hasn’t paid for a Bloody Mary in nineteen years. If you work out the calculation – based on his usual quota of two Bloody Mary’s per day – it comes to a total of 13,832 complimentary drinks. At a weighted average cost of $7.00 per drink, this amounts to almost $100,000. No other drinking establishment in the world can boast of treating seniors so well. Seniors are, however, expected to tip bartenders and servers the standard 20%, the same as they would if they were paying full price for their drinks.
Hilda has taken plenty of flak from Alcoholics Anonymous, the World Council of Churches, the New York State Liquor Authority, and from assorted muckrakers and do-gooders on the grounds that this policy encourages seniors to drink more than is good for them. Even the morally insensitive liquor industry lobby remains sharply divided on the issue.
The powerful AARP, the American Association of Retired Persons, on the other hand, has remained conspicuously silent on the subject. Thus far, thankfully for Hilda’s sake, her brilliant attorney and regular customer, Myron ‘Mickey’ Cohen, age 81, a former litigation partner at the law firm of Knuckleman & Crusher, has successfully defended her against the many legal actions taken to force her to abolish this long-standing policy. His services are provided pro bono, without charge, as he claims to be acting on behalf of the public good.
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The Great Whore
Eddie Felton cast a long, distorted shadow as he walked purposefully up Wall Street past the tourists taking pictures of the cordoned-off NYSE building with a giant American flag draped across its front columns; past the road blocks, canine teams and the helmeted police armed with assault rifles; past the hot dog and falafel vendors; past the Con Ed workers surrounding an open manhole from which plumes of hot steam were pouring out; past young mothers pushing baby carriages; past middle-aged fathers with gray hair in second marriages to trophy wives pushing baby carriages; past a 28 year old bond trader who had earned $10 million yesterday on a single transaction; past UPS deliverymen in short brown pants unloading brown parcels from a brown truck; past the pedigreed dog-walkers; past the ever-hopeful Job Fair attendees; past the innocent-looking pickpockets on the watch for their next mark; past the red-coated Downtown Alliance workers sweeping rubbish from the curbs; past a Gordon Gekko impersonator with a shiny forehead on his way to perform at a bar-mitzvah party; past the clusters of office workers in shirtsleeves sneaking cigarette breaks; past the black Senegalese selling fake Rolex watches out of their cheap briefcases; past the newest female partner at Goldman Sachs carrying a Chihuahua in her handbag entering Hermes; and finally past a panhandler with hairy underarms who gave him the middle finger and told him to EAT SHIT! when he declined to drop any coins into his proffered tin cup.
Believe it or not, prior to 9/11 you could easily park your Beamer or Merc near the exchange with no problem, but not anymore; almost all of the immediate area is in lockdown mode for the foreseeable future, maybe for the remainder of the century. In front of Federal Hall he spotted a tastefully dressed, well-coiffed woman in her late fifties parading back and forth, wearing a small sandwich board announcing she was searching for a job as an administrative assistant. She grasped a stack of resumes in her hand that she seemed only too eager to give out to any prospective employers passing by. Unfortunately, there weren’t many takers. A few steps away, directly in front of the statue of George Washington, ten out-of-work men and women were hoisting signs proclaiming:
A JOB IS A RIGHT! I WANT TO WORK!
The sightings immediately saddened Eddie. While the NYSE building has been a magnet for angry demonstrations railing against rich bankers and the rowdy, unchecked capitalist system since it was erected in 1903, never before in all his time living and working in the Financial District had he witnessed such desperation on the part of middle-class people who were willing to publicly humiliate themselves in a desperate attempt to land a job. Surely it had to be a sign of the hard times that lay ahead for the nation.
He turned the corner on New Street towards the Bull & Bear but stopped midway up the cobblestone alley because he saw the figure of the Cormorant peering down at him from atop a lamppost.
“Are you following me again?”
A