Chapter 13.
Stan found the rocking motion of Mr. Vanderbilt’s New York Central Railroad train and the sound of the wheels clacking against the rails very soothing. The broad expanse of the Hudson River was on his left as the train headed north.
He was glad to be leaving the city in the heat of summer; even with the recently invented electric fan, which Stan had eagerly purchased earlier this year, his rooms were uncomfortably warm. Opening the window provided a meager relief, but at the cost of the sounds and odors of the city penetrating the interior.
The city was not a healthy place to be in summertime. Epidemics of typhus, cholera and typhoid fever had all occurred at one time or another in recent years, a natural outcome of crowding so many people into limited space.
With the Market in summer doldrums and his sightings of the elusive Barbara Moore non-existent, he had little regret at leaving for some fresh country air. Though, to be fair he was not exactly headed for a rural homestead surrounded by farms and forests. No, he was headed to Saratoga Springs, home of the famed racecourse and the place to summer for lovers of equestrian sport, both those of high society and more modest types such as himself.
This was going to be a particularly interesting, and, Stan hoped, profitable racing meet, as the track had just been acquired by the famed gambler, Gottfried “Dutch Fred” Walbaum. Walbaum had gotten his start running brothels and gambling houses, before purchasing the Guttenberg race track in New Jersey, a locale famed for not being averse to any type of shenanigan that could affect the outcome of a race.
Stan had been there a few times and seen things that had shocked even someone as jaded by shady practices in horse racing as he. Those visits had been quite profitable for Stan, and he could only hope Walbaum would be tolerating and even encouraging such practices at Saratoga.
The train had pulled into the rail yard at Poughkeepsie where it took on additional passengers as well as additional coal and water. Stan marveled at the recently constructed Poughkeepsie Bridge, a true engineering marvel, built with backing from the industrial giants Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick. Its seven spans totaled over a mile in length from one shore to the other and its deck towered over 200 feet above the river.
After that, Stan enjoyed a fine lunch of roast chicken with potatoes and spinach accompanied by a glass of a very good Burgundy. Soon, the train was approaching the state capital, Albany, from whence it continued onward alongside the Erie Canal, DeWitt Clinton’s great project from early in the century, which had made New York into the Empire State, the leading state in the nation.
It wasn’t far from there to Schenectady, home of Mr. Edison’s General Electric, whose shares had made Stan some of the money to pay for this excursion. There, he transferred to another train, which wended its way north, through pastures where horses and cows grazed to his destination.
From the Saratoga Springs train station it was but a short hansom cab ride to the massive Grand Union Hotel, the largest hotel in the world, able to accommodate 2000 guests at one time. Stan knew that there had been a well-publicized incident back in 1877, in which a Jewish man and his family had been denied entry. The management that had taken over in the meantime had disavowed any such policy. Still, just to be on the safe side, Stan had registered as Stanley Gould and was shown to his room without incident.
He had arrived too late to catch more than the tail end of that day’s racing card, but, nevertheless, he strolled through Congress Park and past several blocks of grand gingerbread cottages on Union Avenue, which were the summer homes of very well-heeled horse lovers from cities all over the Eastern Seaboard.
Soon, up ahead, loomed the gates of the impressive wooden race track. However, Stan didn’t enter the grandstand, which was filled with gentlemen in summer-weight suits and ladies in their finery.
Instead, he crossed the street to the stables and greeted some of the jockeys and trainers he knew from down in the city. One could learn a lot from watching them grooming and exercising the horses that were slated to run in races over the upcoming days. One could learn even more by slipping a silver dollar or two to a few of them with whom one had particularly good relations.
Satisfied that he had laid the groundwork for a profitable next few days, Stan returned to the hotel to bathe before descending to the massive dining room of the hotel, which, he had been told, was big enough to serve 1200 people at one time. He couldn’t vouch for that, but there was certainly a large crowd. The noise was quite loud, but the food was good and he was able to put the din aside and concentrate on making his selections for the following day’s races.
After dinner, he decided to stroll over to the neighborhood known as Willow Walk, a seedy area, filled with saloons and brothels, frequented by gamblers, gangsters and prostitutes-in other words, just the kind of place where Stan felt at home.
It was a warm evening and the whores were out on the street corner in their finery, in a way, not all that dissimilar from the ladies at the racetrack that afternoon, though perhaps somewhat more revealing of their charms.
An acquaintance of Stan’s at Morris Park, who had been to Saratoga the previous summer, had recommended a certain address on Spring Ave., where he had advised Stan to request the services of one Katie Emerson, whose skills in the oral department he assured Stan were second to none.
Passing up numerous invitations shouted at him from porches and open windows or whispered into his ear from the street corners by women ranging from the quite attractive to the rather shop-worn, he slowly made his way to the address that had been recommended to him.
His knock was answered by a woman who could have been Rose Callahan’s older sister. She ushered him into the parlor, offering him a beer, which he gratefully accepted.
“Your establishment has been recommended to me very highly by a gentleman who visited last summer,” he told her.
“Well, I always like to send them away with a smile on their faces,” she replied, winking at him.
“He particularly enjoyed his time with a certain Katie Emerson and I am hoping that she might be available to pass a bit of time with me.” Stan couldn’t help noticing that the woman’s face had taken on an odd expression when he had mentioned that name.
“Oh, sir, I am very sorry. I suppose you hadn’t read about the case, then.”
“What case might that be?” Stan asked.
The woman got up and went into the next room. She returned carrying a yellowing copy of the local paper from back in May. The banner headline read: “Prostitute Shot to Death on Spring Ave.”
The reporter proceeded to lay out the details of the sordid affair. The shooter was one Martin Foy, a racetrack gambler and occasional stable hand who was Katie Emerson’s common law husband. He had grown jealous of her consorting with other men-something she could hardly avoid given her profession- and shot her on the street just a few doors down from where Stan sat.
Foy had been tried within a few weeks of the crime and sentenced to death, not surprisingly, since the crime had been committed in front of several witnesses and the victim had lived long enough to identify him. He was presently awaiting transfer to the State Penitentiary at Dannemora where the electric chair (another of Mr. Edison’s inventions) awaited him.
“Well, that’s quite a story!” Stan said, as he handed the newspaper back. Now that he had read it, he did recall having read something about the case in the papers down in the City, but he hadn’t really paid much attention, as he had been too occupied with his fruitless quest for Miss Moore as well his stock trading.
“It certainly provided a bit of excitement for us!’ the madam exclaimed. “Now you see why you can’t have Katie.”
“Quite so,” Stan said. “Would you have another young lady with similar skills?”
The woman laughed. “So you heard about what she could do with her tongue?”
Stan blushed. “Yes,” he said.
“Well, then you might want to give Susanna a try. You won’t be disappointed.”
Stan thought for a moment. He had no other plans for the evening and he was already here. The price, $ 7, was cheaper than what he had been paying at Rose Callahan’s though he would not be spending the night.
Susanna was a blonde from Albany, not a brunette from Minnesota, but she was presentable enough, so Stan followed her upstairs.
Much to his delight, she turned out to be quite skilled with her tongue work, whether she had learned it from Katie or acquired the knowledge on her own. She licked slowly around the head of his erect cock, then gave the shaft a thorough tongue bath.
She kept him at the peak of desire for what seemed like an hour, though was probably closer to ten minutes, before finally making him shoot his essence into her mouth, which she proceeded to swallow as though it were the nectar of the gods. Stan had a big smile on his face as he made his way back to the hotel, where he slept very soundly.
The next morning, as the hostess was leading him down a long aisle in the dining room, he happened to glance to his left. There, a few tables in from the aisle, was a large man with his back to Stan, tucking into a plate of bacon, eggs and biscuits. Beside him was a young woman. Suddenly she looked up from her bowl of oatmeal. There could be no doubt. It was Barbara Moore and she was staring right at him!
