Blackstone and the Wolf of Wall Street Read Online Free Page A

Blackstone had ever seen in his life.
    There were Chinese towers and Moorish domes, castles painted in gaudy colours, swings which hung from a fulcrum dizzily high in the air, and a huge wheel which turned with majestic slowness while its passengers jabbered and pointed excitedly into the distance.
    â€˜Welcome to Coney Island, the entertainment capital of America,’ Alex Meade said complacently. ‘Bet you ain’t got anything like this over in old England, Sam.’
    No, they hadn’t, Blackstone admitted to himself. It would never have occurred to the English to indiscriminately borrow bits of half the cultures of the world and lump them in all together on one garish site. And yet, he had to concede, it somehow worked.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Sam, you’ll soon catch up with us,’ Meade said, in a kindly tone.
    And they probably would, Blackstone thought. Give it a few years, and staid Southend-on-Sea would probably look just like Coney Island.
    The streetcar juddered to a halt, and the conductor announced they had reached the terminus.
    â€˜There’s our ride,’ Meade said, and pointed to a black police department carriage which had a white-haired uniformed police sergeant standing next to it.
    The sergeant said his name was Walter Jones. He immediately reminded Blackstone of the wise old sergeants he had known back in London, and when Jones informed him, as they were getting into the carriage, that he’d been policing Coney Island for a long, long time, the Englishman was not in the least surprised.
    â€˜It was no more than a village when I started out,’ Jones said, as the carriage left the shops, the bars, the vaudeville houses and the amusement parks behind it. ‘Kinda peaceful and slow.’
    â€˜And then the railroad and the streetcars arrived,’ Meade said.
    Jones nodded. ‘And everything changed for ever,’ he said, with just a hint of sadness in his voice. ‘The railroad came in ’89, the first amusement park – Captain Paul Boyton’s Sea Lion Park – opened in ’95, and now it seems like the whole world wants to spend its money on Coney Island.’
    â€˜When did William Holt buy his house here?’ Blackstone asked.
    â€˜Must have been 1893,’ Jones answered.
    Blackstone and Meade exchanged a knowing glance– that was the same year Holt decided to became a hermit, the glance said.
    â€˜Tell us about it,’ Meade suggested.
    â€˜Well, Mr Holt bought the house – it’s called Ocean Heights – from the van Ryans. They were a real old Coney Island family, and very well-liked. But, it has to be said, they’d let the place go to rack and ruin. So the first thing Mr Holt did was to have it ripped apart.’
    â€˜Ripped apart?’
    â€˜Yeah, more or less. He pretty much rebuilt it from scratch, which made him real popular round here.’
    â€˜How so?’ Meade asked.
    â€˜Well, he didn’t bring all his workers in from the city, you see, which is what the high muckety-mucks usually do. No, sir, he employed local men. And when the house was finished and ready to move into, he employed local folk to run it for him, too. Matter of fact, the only people who work there that ain’t from Coney Island are that butler of his, and – of course – the Pinkertons.’
    â€˜Of course,’ Blackstone agreed.
    But he was thinking, who – or what – are the Pinkertons ?
    A number of improbable possibilities flashed fancifully through his mind:
    Fred and Lily Pinkerton, a famous music hall act he personally had never heard of, but who were now exclusively employed to entertain the Holt family.
    Members of an obscure North American Indian tribe.
    A sect which had broken away from the Dutch Reform Church.
    â€˜Any time you’re ready, Sam, I’m more than willing to help you,’ Meade said, with barely concealed amusement.
    Blackstone sighed. ‘All right,