were looking for an edge.
“Thank you. I think so, too. You know, our cities’ most valuable institutions are so dependent upon donations and yet there is so little work done understanding this infrastructure, this very personal, what should I call it . . . webbing of relationships.”
“Exactly so,” the elder exclaimed in a soft voice modulated by decades spent in silent reflection and examination. “Without entrepreneurship the libraries and other cultural institutions, such as museums and opera houses, would be lost.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I said, matching her enthusiasm with my own. “I know that every relationship developed in a system such as this one is personal, but I wanted to look at the different «€the diffkinds of giving.”
Poppy took off her glasses to underscore her interest.
“Like you, for example,” I said. “You must have had to develop all kinds of relationships in order to keep the doors of this system open.”
She nodded, maybe even misted up a little.
“It was hard work but I loved every moment of it.”
“Yes. I know it must have been both difficult and rewarding. I’m also aware that you can’t reduce a lifetime of experience into some equation to be passed on but . . . I was thinking of approaching the problem by looking at philanthropy and separating what they call old money from the nouveau riche.” I figured that my target was most likely the former.
“How interesting,” Poppy Pollis said. “That really is the major concern, you know. People just coming into their wealth are looking for a place among the wealthy, for recognition, whereas the old families have a traditional format that allows them to maintain their names, as it were . . .”
She went on to tell me that there were twelve important families in Albany’s history. Really there were only eleven but the society page had added the Sampson clan. Poppy considered the Sampsons a Johnny-come- lately bunch of car salesmen, but the newspaper people liked the idea of an even dozen so the Sampsons were included.
I had to sit through a lot of useless information, asking questions that I didn’t care about. I had my notebook, though, and took very complete notes. It was maybe forty minutes later when we came upon the Hull family.
According to Poppy, the Hull clan was, on the whole, a dynasty of debauchery. Maxim Hull was the great-grandfather. He helped to build the infrastructure of the modern Albany library system. It was said that he made his fortune as a bootlegger and smuggler along with Joe Kennedy back in the era of Prohibition. He also built the second-largest Protestant church in the city.
Maxim’s son, Roman, had always felt that he lived in the shadow of his father and tried to outdo him in every way that he could. At the age of fifty-eight he shot and killed an up-and-coming young race car driver, was deemed insane, spent four years at the Sunset Sanatorium, got out, and proceeded to marry the driver’s young widow. The marriage didn’t last but the memory of the scandal certainly did.
Bryant, Roman’s son by a previous marriage, was presented as the current head of the family. As far as anyone knew he was an upstanding citizen. He built the administration building at the Sunset Sanatorium, married an older woman named Axel or Jack-son or something, and had raised two beautiful children—Hannah and Fritz.
“Was the wife’s maiden name Paxton?” I asked, pretending to be looking up a note.
“I don’t remember exactly what it was, but I’m sure it wasn’t Paxton,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Of course I knew about the Hull family,” I said. “I thought that Bryant had married a woman named Paxton. I guess I was mistaken.”
E€„
37
There was a bank of public-access computers on the first floor of the library. It was easy for me to look up society page newspaper articles, which finally gave me the location of the Hull residence. The family mansion was on a private road, Road Royale, thirty- five minutes north of the city.
Getting to the entrance of the road took forty minutes from the library parking lot.
I told the guard that I was delivering an envelope for Mr. Hull from a man named Jacobi, one of The Twelve, as Poppy Pollis called them.
The guard wasn’t very concerned, and I saw why when I had driven about three miles down the pastoral country road. The Hull home was protected by a fourteen-foot-high electrified black iron gate that was topped with razor wire. It looked like the domain of a wealthy Third World oppressor, not the second cousins of the tyrant but the thing itself.
I stopped at the front gate and pressed a coral-colored button.
It was a beautiful day. Birds were chattering and the clouds hung around gracefully appreciating the deep wood as they basked in the rising heat.
“Yes?” a young voice asked over the intercom.
“Leonid McGill for Bryant Hull,” I shouted. I always shout when speaking into intercoms.
I was expecting another question but instead the gate rolled to the side as if my coming were prophesied in one of Poppy Pollis’s old books of Albany lore.
The house was a letdown. I was expecting a Russian battleship replete with cannon and high metal buttresses but it was just a house; a big house, a very big house—a mansion in fact. It was four stories and took up the space of half a city block but my imagination had led me to expect so much more.
It was an old structure built from gray stone—intended to last. The front door was set back on a large green porch that was lined with twelve-foot pillars of white marble. Walking toward that door, it felt as if I were walking into the maw of a great gray and toothed toad.
I RANG THE BELL and waited for a while. The front door was at least fourteen feet high and eight wide. A big brass doorknob was in the lower center space. I had been standing there for maybe three minutes when the huge plank finally swung open.
“Yes?” the fair-skinned, russet-haired girl-child said. I knew her face from the articles I had perused at the library, which her great-grandfather had helped to build. From my reading I knew that she was twenty years old. Hannah could have passed for fifteen but she ®€…had none of the awkwardness of an adolescent.
When she looked at me she caught sight of something that was a part of her imagination. She smiled at the phantom I represented as I grinned at her beauty.
“Leonid McGill,” I said.
“May I help you?”
“I wanted to see your father, Hannah,” I said.
“Have we met?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Is he here?”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“When do you expect him?”
“What is your business with my father, Mr. McGill?” This phrase I believed came from the instinctual caution of the wealthy.
“It’s a private matter.”
“Oh,” she said, pouting over the words. “Well . . . what do you do for a living?”
“Many things,” I said with gravity. “I work for myself, but always on someone else’s behalf.”
“That’s cryptic,” her college education said.
“We’ve just met,” I replied.
That got her to smile.
“Come on in.” She made a jaunty turn and led the way into the gray mausoleum.
Hannah traipsed down the entrance hall. She was wearing a tawny shift with an uneven hem that showed a lot of her powerful and slender legs. There was a city girl’s sway to her hips.
The hallway was lined with family portraits and pastel-colored doors.
We came to a room that was kidney-shaped and small. There was a burgundy couch and a matching chair arranged around a fireplace.
The girl gestured toward the chair.
“Please have a seat,” she said, or, rather, her breeding said with reflexive grace.
She flopped down on the sofa, pulling one foot up on the cushion.
I sat, taking care not to stare at her hamstrings.
“I want to be a pilot,” she said. This childish bravado I thought might be the real Hannah Hull. “What do you think about that, Mr. McGill?”
I hunched my shoulders and poked out my lower lip. “The sky’s the limit as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s pretty brave of you.”
“What’s brave about telling a young person that they can do something?”
“My father might be mad at you,” she said speculatively.
“I don’t owe him a thing.”
This answer so surprised Hannah that she sat upright and stared.
“Why are you here?”
“Do you know a Thom Paxton or a Willie Sanderson?”
“I never heard of Thom Paxton. I don’t know a Willie, either, but once we had a woman work for us, a cleaning lady named Sanderson. Lita Sanderson. I don’t remember her having a family. Who are these people?”
“One of them died seventeen years ago,” I said. “The other, Sanderson, tried to kill me maybe seventy-two hours back.”
“He really tried to kill you?” She moved to the edge of her seat.
“Really, really.”
“And you think my father knows something about it?”
“I think he might know something about Paxton
