The end of the war had initiated an unprecedented economic expansion, which was in turn italicized by a degree of national self-confidence almost impossible to fathom today. America believed in its future, and as it usually did back then, it watched New York to see how life could be lived.
Expectations are falling short, however, as a smallpox scare threatens the populace's longevity. The government claims to be taking steps to respond, but between the paranoia and pollution following the industries that powered the war machine, some simply choose to wear masks.
Beneath the hurrying streets, where newsboys peddled daily papers, a pristine subway system welcomed 2 billion passengers, the most ever. The price of a seat, or at least a firm grip on a leather strap? One nickel, the 2011 equivalent of 49 cents. At Grand Central every evening at six, New Yorkers with deeper pockets and distant destinations boarded the Twentieth Century Limited along “the quay”—the Twentieth’s own platform, garlanded with a carpet of crimson and gray. At the head of the train, the Henry Dreyfuss–designed beauty of a locomotive strained at its leash, ready to charge west.
New York is never perfect, and it wasn’t in 1947. Residential segregation was ubiquitous; even the new rent-stabilized Stuyvesant Town was closed to hybrids and unmarried 'pures'.
Mayor William O’Dwyer would soon skip town on the wings of a convenient ambassadorship just before a vast corruption scandal erupted in the NYPD.
But the Wonder City, as some contemporaries called it, had never been, nor ever again would be, quite as wonderful as it was in that postwar dawn. Penn Station still soared. Harold Ross still edited The New Yorker. And one of that magazine’s treasures, E. B. White, would soon write, “No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.” In 1947, the luck was here for the taking.
Down in the city below the ever growing skyline, through the busy streets and buzz of everyone’s day, a party for some of New York’s higher class was under way. The place, Palladium Ballroom, just above the Rexall drugstore, currently having been rented out for a large dinner of one of the biggest families in the city that never sleeps, the Khalil’s. Their money and business, despite the controversy that hovers over them, still secured them the right to use the distinguished dancehall. There were big names and known bands in attendance, with one of them being an up and coming artist, Johann Wulffe. An esteemed gentlemen from Germany and a fan of American swing and jazz who was trained in classical music, started when he arrived at Ellis Island, playing on the street until someone had come across him. They learned of his musical talents and began putting him through the music industry, starting small with local theatres and small time shows before he started making his bigger debuts, some of which encompassing his orchestrated style of play. But for today, it was for those who wanted to swing, jive and let loose. The party had been well under way. Laughter, music and chit chat about life were well heard coming from the place. The
host of the event took the mic after the final song from the previous group, applauding them as they left the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a round of applause for Benny Goodman and his orchestra!” The next band began setting up. Most of the members in somewhat bright clothes. “Alriiiight now ladies and gentlemen, it's time for our newest and brightest up and comer to the scene. All the way from Germany, it's the one, the only...Johannnn!”
There was no hesitation into the start of the first song. Shortly out came a rather tall figure in a somewhat baggy looking pinstripe suit and his signature fedora, a smoke in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.
”Alright you crazy cats and dogs out there. Arooo...I want you up out of your seat and gliding on your feet. Let that rhythm Just remember one thing…When you hit the dance floor you better be jumpin jaaaaack~” Segwaying into it, Johann himself began to let the rhythm flow through, tapping his foot while he held the mic, his cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth. He watched as some of those in the hall, mostly the wives, dragging their husbands or boyfriends onto the dancefloor. He glanced through the crowd as the song progressed, even stepping of the stage with the mic to dance with a few people before returning once more to the stage. Amongst the crowd however, he did take notice to a few he seemed to gain an interest for. One in particular was seated at the guest of honor’s table.
Elsewhere in the city, in the darker part of it, rested a small tavern called The Hole. To those on the outside, it looked simply like a tavern but in fact was neutral ground for gang members. It helped smuggle guns, drugs and launder money from anyone willing ot pay for their services. Despite its involvement with gangs, it remained low key for the most part, distributing its earnings through legitimate funds, stocks and charities that were handled by other gangs’ investors as well as their owner. Its head bartender, Sullivan, handled most of the services, making sure they were completed in an orderly and time efficient manner. Currently he stood behind the bar, serving drinks to some of the members their.
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