Lair of Dreams

“Isn’t this the berries?” Henry asked Ling, but her shining eyes said it all.

The microphone squawked with Marlowe’s first word. He put a hand to his chest in apology and humility, and the crowd laughed and loved this, too. And then his words echoed across the promised land of Queens, as if cast toward the future. “Ladies and gentlemen… men… en… I am pleased to announce… ounce… ounce… a marvelous step forward for American… can… greatness. A celebration of our heritage… age… age… and our great prospects for prosperity… perity… and progress… gress. The Marlowe Industries Future… ture… of America… ca… ca Exhibition and Fair… fair… fair!”

The winter sun gathered what small warmth there was in her cold light and tithed it to Jake Marlowe’s shining, smiling face. Fresh cheering erupted as Jake Marlowe exited the stage and made his way to a clearing, where he peeled off his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and posed with a shovel atop a weedy mound. “Gentlemen, we are like Prometheus, creating a legacy from the clay of the earth.”

His shovel bit into the soft, wet ground and the flashbulbs popped, immortalizing the moment. Balloons were released; they floated up to the sky as if claiming it. The band took up a rousing rendition of “The Stars and Stripes Forever” while Jake Marlowe strode through the crowd, shaking hands and tousling the hair of children as the reporters tried to keep up, their shoes sinking into the grasping mud of Queens.

“Will the fair really open in only three months?” a reporter asked.

“You may bank on it.”

“But that’s awfully fast, Mr. Marlowe. Even for you.”

Marlowe grinned as he offered a peppermint to a ringleted, blue-eyed child nestled in her father’s arms. “Can’t be done. My three favorite words—to disprove. We have a thousand Marlowe Industries employees, models of modern efficiency, working to make certain that it does. The American business model is the best model.”

“Only a man as rich and ambitious as you would break ground in the dead of winter.”

“I’m not afraid of the weather, only of not going after what I want.”

“Speaking of that, what do you think about the unions and this business out at the Hibernia mines?”

Marlowe kept walking, working the crowd as he answered. “The notion of the union is fundamentally un-American. At Marlowe Industries, we believe in a fair wage for fair work among fair men.”

“Catchy. That your new business slogan?”

Marlowe winked. “It might be.”

“When are you going to get married?”

“When I find the right girl.”

“I got a sister—in the right light, she’s a beauty!”

Everyone laughed. They were buoyant with good times and hopeful possibility. T. S. Woodhouse pushed his way through, pad and pencil in hand, and sidled up to the great man. “How do, Mr. Marlowe. T. S. Woodhouse of the Daily News.” Woodhouse sneezed twice into his handkerchief. “Sorry. Caught a nuisance of a cold.”

“You should be taking Marlowe VitaHealth Tonic. Good for what ails you,” Marlowe advised.

“I’ve been taking Irish whiskey for what ails me. Just one question for you: Will Diviners be included in your Future of America Exhibition?”

Marlowe’s smile wavered. “No.”

“Why not? Aren’t they evidence of the unlimited American future?”

“They’re evidence of something, all right—chicanery. In the greatest nation on earth, we have no need for flimflam or hocus-pocus. We believe in opportunity and the power of the self-made man.”

Fresh cheers went up. T. S. Woodhouse waited for them to subside. “Sure, sure, who doesn’t love a Horatio Alger story? But you’re not a self-made man, are you, Mr. Marlowe? You came from old money.”

“Leave him alone!” a thick-necked man in a Shriners fez growled.

“What’re you, one of those Bolsheviks?” someone else cried and gave Woodhouse a small shove.

Marlowe put out a calming hand. “Now, now,” he admonished. But as he turned to Woodhouse, his anger was evident. “I made my own way. My family money didn’t create those inventions. Nor did they test-fly all those new aeroplanes or run trials on lifesaving medicines. I did.”

“But your family’s money helped finance them,” Woodhouse said, sneezing.

“My family’s fortune was lost during the war, as you well know. Every last cent of it. I was the one who rebuilt it. In fact, I surpassed it. That’s the American way.”