On the table, the flop: the ten, queen and king of diamonds, the two of clubs, and the three of hearts.
LaMontagne smirked with satisfaction. He took out the wad of cash lining his billfold and counted it. “Hundred and twenty,” he said, placing it all in the pot.
Charlie glanced at Street, who looked angry, even sulky, about getting himself into this spot.
“Care to call?” LaMontagne asked. “I’m sure Charlie can spot you a loan if you don’t have the dough on you.”
Charlie nodded, but Street, stony-faced, said calmly, “I’m fine, thank you.”
“A personal check will be acceptable, assuming it’s from a reputable bank,” LaMontagne said. But Street took the wad of cash in his pocket and proceeded to count it. Behind the ones were fives and tens, and quite quickly he plucked a hundred and twenty dollars from the pack, which left him with only two stray bills. He grudgingly threw them down on the table.
“Call,” Street said.
With exaggerated fastidiousness, his pinkie extended, LaMontagne carefully revealed the first of his hole cards: the ace of diamonds. Combined with the ten and the queen and king of diamonds, there was a chance he had a royal flush. Then he revealed the second of his holes: the jack of hearts.
He had nothing.
Street flipped his cards: two kings. He had three kings, three of a kind, which certainly beat garbage.
Charlie looked at Street, who was allowing himself to smile. “Jesus, I didn’t see that coming,” Charlie said.
“You’re not supposed to,” Street said.
“Too bad about that jack of hearts, Davis,” Strongfellow said.
“Fucking jack of hearts, the illegitimate son of the one true king,” said LaMontagne good-naturedly, watching Street pick up the cash from the pot.
“The illegitimate son,” Charlie said to himself. Street shot him a questioning look.
“Gentlemen, as delightful as this has been, I must bid you adieu.” LaMontagne stood, shook hands around the table, and made a beeline for the exit.
“Nice bluffing, Isaiah,” said Strongfellow.
“The angry Negro ruled by his emotions and unable to overcome his inferiority,” Street said, counting his winnings. “It’s a role white folk are always casting black people in.”
“He sure left in a hurry,” Strongfellow observed.
“Not enough of a hurry.” Street chuckled.
Charlie stood up abruptly and turned to Strongfellow. “Can I use your office phone?”
Charlie had phoned his new friend Sneed, the junior librarian, and wasn’t surprised to find him still at his desk after nine p.m. After placing two other calls, Charlie walked back to the library, where Sneed opened the door of the Thomas Jefferson Building to him, Margaret, and Sheryl Ann Bernstein.
“Thanks for doing this,” Charlie said, offering the librarian ten bucks.
“It’s fine, I’m usually here late anyway,” he said, rejecting the money.
Led by the librarian’s flashlight, they made their way through the dark empty halls of the enormous building, their steps echoing on the marble. Sneed took them down to the basement so they could walk underground to the Adams Building, where the members-only room was.
“Presumably you’re going to explain why we’re here, honey,” Margaret said.
“I didn’t get much of an explanation either,” offered Bernstein.
“We were playing poker and Davis LaMontagne referred to a wrong-suited jack as an illegitimate child of a king,” Charlie told them as they walked briskly through the library. “That reminded me that when Franklin went to England, he learned of the existence of Temple Franklin—his illegitimate son’s illegitimate son.”
“That’s right, and he eventually took custody of him and brought him back to the colonies,” Bernstein added.
“His illegitimate son had an illegitimate son?” asked Margaret.
“Some of the Founding Fathers took the term quite literally,” Charlie said drily. They had reached the Special Collections room in the Adams Building, and now they stood aside while Sneed unlocked the door.
“Some fascinating stuff in here, honey,” Charlie said to his wife as they made their way across the cavernous room. “The contents of Lincoln’s pockets the night of the assassination.”
“Spooky,” Margaret said.
“That’s what I said!” Bernstein told her.
Sneed unlocked the door to the members-only collection and stood aside to let them pass. “We officially close at ten, but you can stay here until midnight,” he said. “I have to shut the whole library down then.”
They waited for the door to close behind him. Bernstein thumbed through the photocopy she’d made of the collections binder, stopped, placed her finger on a page, and glanced up at Charlie. “So we’re looking for Temple Franklin?” He nodded. “Because there’s a file here under that name.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday, June 5, 1772
West Wycombe, England
Sir Francis Dashwood sent a special red gondola to collect Benjamin Franklin and other notables and whisk them up the Thames River to his estate in West Wycombe, thirty-three miles northwest of London. Franklin had no caretaker for his ten-year-old grandson, Temple, so he brought him along; others from the elite class—the Earl of Sandwich, the lord mayor of London, Prime Minister Frederick North, and the Prince of Wales—brought sons and entourages of their own.
Later in life, Temple would seek to fill in the blanks of his memories of the events there. It was from this attempt at a narrative that Sheryl Ann Bernstein now read, a fifteen-page description Temple Franklin had written recounting the experience, a mini-memoir. Charlie listened with rapt attention and Margaret took notes.
Benjamin Franklin, Temple’s grandfather, had first met Dashwood through letters, literally and figuratively. As postmaster of the colonies, Franklin corresponded regularly with Dashwood, the postmaster general in London. After a few formal exchanges, as each learned more about the other, they began letting their guards down. Dashwood knew that Franklin was a Renaissance man and a font of innovation; Franklin knew that Dashwood was a man of great influence and power. Moreover, rumors had made their way across the pond about Dashwood’s embrace of a life of debauchery and his secret club of the well-connected, where every desire was indulged. This was the group that Dashwood called the Friars of St. Francis Wycombe, or the Medmenham Monks—what some in the upper classes referred to in whispers as the Hellfire Club.
Their friendship blossomed during Franklin’s visits to England, first in 1757, when he arrived as a diplomat representing the Pennsylvania General Assembly, then in 1764, when he came to petition the king to make Pennsylvania a royal commonwealth, though his stay stretched for years.
Temple Franklin had memories of Dashwood greeting them all at the docks in June 1772 and informing them of the secret society’s password: “Do what thou wilt.” Afterward, Dashwood escorted him and his grandfather around the ornate grounds of what was once Medmenham Abbey but now had been converted into something quite ungodly. A meticulously maintained garden revealed itself to be, from the top of a tower, an enormous representation of a naked woman, with milky water spurting from the red flowers on the tips of two mounds, and water pouring from a shrub carved into a triangle. Ten-year-old Temple Franklin laughed heartily at that one, as did his grandfather, a brilliant man who nonetheless found humor in the ribald and scatological.