by John Jakes
“—so let’s conclude this business.”
“Yes, sir,” Phelan said, so meekly he could barely be heard. Carter held his breath, fearing that at any second the reprieve would be withdrawn. But it wasn’t. With a sweeping gesture of his stick, the blind man went on.
“And get rid of the body. We’ve enough of them on the streets of this town as it is.”
“Be happy to take care of it, boss. But”—Phelan licked his lips, unconsciously began twisting a button on his jacket—“I do need to clear up one or two details.”
“Be quick about it. I told you Mr. Kent’s feeling poorly. And night air tends to give me catarrh. Mrs. Buckley is always nagging me to stay indoors after dark.”
Nervous, the older officer asked, “Can you just give me a concise account of what happened?”
Though clearly irritated, the blind man did so, starting with Carter’s shout of warning. “I expect ordinary footpads would have run for it. But an outcry wasn’t enough to drive Charlie off. As I told you, he bore a grudge. He also knew, as do all my associates and employees, that I always carry a sizable roll of cash. He didn’t intend to leave until I was dead and the cash was in his pocket. Despite Mr. Gram’s best efforts, he might have carried out his plan had it not been for this young man’s intervention.”
“Jumped Schmidt and fought him off, did he?”
The blind man chuckled. “No, Phelan. He talked him out of it.”
The officer’s brows shot up. “What did you say, sir?”
“I said Mr. Kent talked Charlie Schmidt out of his violent reprisal. He did so with the finest flow of blarney I’ve ever heard. Mr. Kent gave Charlie no time to think, and bombarded him with some very impressive threats about being a detective in plainclothes. A detective patrolling these streets under the authority of something called a municipal writ. Mr. Kent said this fictitious writ gave him power to summon a posse and hang Charlie on the spot. No smart fellow would have believed it for an instant. But of course when someone’s smack in the middle of robbery and murder, he’s heated up and not thinking clearly. To that you must add Charlie’s inherent stupidity. Mr. Kent bamboozled him just long enough for us to get out of the scrape.”
Carter was stunned to hear the blind man speak with such obvious relish. Buckley had acted as if he were telling a humorous story, not describing a crime.
Phelan was insistent on one point, though. “I’m afraid you still haven’t told me who killed Schmidt.”
Carter tensed. Again Buckley waved his stick. “Oh, Mr. Gram did. By then he had recovered from blows that took him out of action temporarily.”
The acknowledgment of guilt obviously didn’t worry the frail man. He didn’t even turn around, just continued to rub and poke his head. The gray-haired policeman twisted the jacket button so hard the thread broke. He was afraid to speak, but finally did so.
“Boss, you know that because of what you’ve just told me, I’m required to put Mr. Gram in the lockup overnight. I don’t want to do it, but the law explicitly—”
“Come by the saloon in an hour or so,” Buckley interrupted. “I have a supply of orders of discharge. I keep them for emergencies like this. I’ll sign Judge Toohy’s name and then Mr. Gram won’t be inconvenienced.”
Phelan let out a huge sigh. “A fine solution. That way, I needn’t even take him in.”
Forge the name of a judge to a legal document? Carter couldn’t believe a man would publicly announce his plan to do such a thing. The laws of logic didn’t seem to apply in San Francisco, though. Buckley’s statements caused no comment among the crowd left at the scene.
Several men had already departed, their curiosity satisfied. One burly fellow prodded the corpse with his boot, and then made a joke about it as he and a companion strolled back up the hill toward the Coast. Carter didn’t consider himself overly scrupulous, yet he was appalled. As Buckley had suggested, death was evidently a common occurrence in the city, right along with circumvention of the law.
Suddenly Phelan seized his arm. “I’ll also need some information about you, Kent. Place of residence, in case we have further need to contact you—”
The man’s peremptory tone angered Carter. “I don’t have a place of residence. I just arrived today.”
Phelan whipped his club up over his shoulder. “Damn you, don’t speak smartly to me, or—”
There was a swish and a loud clack. The blind man’s cane had blocked the policeman’s stick in midair. Buckley was furious.
“Phelan, you’re taking advantage of your authority and harassing a stranger. Evidently I didn’t make my wishes sufficiently clear. This young man assisted Mr. Gram and me, and we’re in his debt. If you need to reach him, follow the instructions I already gave you. Come to the saloon! I also suggest you permit us to go on our way at once. Unless, of course, you’re bucking for a new job with some hick department down the peninsula—”
The blind man’s eyes seemed to fasten on Phelan’s and hold there. “If that’s your wish, Phelan, it can be arranged.
“Boss, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you—”
“That’s quite correct,” the other broke in. “You didn’t think. Which is why you’re fifty and still a foot patrolman. Mr. Kent—Alex—come along. I don’t want the damned catarrh.”
And, displaying all the wrath of a king insulted by a commoner, he moved majestically down the sidewalk, his stick extended six inches in front of him to tap and test the way.
iii
Carter fell in step beside Alex Gram. Phelan caught up with them, clutching the bodyguard’s arm.
“Gram, I can’t afford to lose my job. I’ve a big family to feed. Try to fix it, for God’s sake. Put in a good word—”
“I’ll do what I can, but you angered him. He doesn’t get angry very often. Bring some cash around. That might placate him.”
“How much should I bring?”
“As much as you can get together. Even then I can’t promise he’ll relent. You’ll just have to take your chances.” Gram put his hand on the policeman’s shoulder and rudely pushed him aside.
The policeman didn’t protest, just redirected his wrath at those people still loitering by the corpse. He ordered them to move along or face arrest. One man laughed and Phelan struck him twice with his billy. A friend dragged the man away before Phelan could do more damage.
Gram kept an eye on Buckley as they walked. Presently he said to Carter, “It isn’t far to the saloon. You look like you could use a drink and a meal.”
“Both.” Carter nodded. “But more than that, I need a place to sleep. Mr. Buckley was right. I’m not feeling very good.”
“There’s a stable near the saloon. The owner owes the boss a favor—” Gram stopped, waiting for Buckley to negotiate the drop-off at the next corner.
“Will there be any more trouble because that man got killed?” Carter asked.
Once Buckley was across the intersection, Gram moved on and finally answered, “Not a whit.”
Carter shook his head. “Seems incredible.”
A chuckle. “You are new in town. You don’t know who he is, do you?”
“Obviously someone with influence—”
This time Gram laughed aloud. “Yes, you might say. You might say that a man who runs his party’s central committee, decides which way the primaries will come out, and tells a majority of the city supervisors how to vote has influence. Let me give you a fast introduction to local politics, Kent. My employer’s a pal of Senator Hearst and every other important office holder in California. No, I’ll put that a better way. They’re pals of his—because they never stop needing what the boss can deliver on demand. Extra ballots. Our price is five dollars a vote or ten dollars for a straight ticket. That includes a little cream on the top for us.”
“You mean your boss can always find as many votes as someone needs?”
“Usually.” Gram nodded. “But he isn’t just my boss. He’s the boss. Remember that.”
“I will. Whe
re do you get the extra votes?”
“Wherever we can find extra voters. Flop houses. The drunk tank. Sometimes we use our own stalwarts to vote names from the cemeteries or the obit columns. Hell”—an amused shrug—“in an election a couple of years ago, the boss came up short. But there was a French warship in port. We rounded up half the crew and voted them. Believe me, Kent, nothing important happens around here without the boss okaying it first. If your sister wants to teach in the San Francisco schools, the fee for the job is two hundred dollars. Every municipal job has its price. That isn’t to say the boss doesn’t have a conscience. He does. His father came here from Ireland, and he knows what it means to be poor. He hates the damn gougers who run the railroads. He wants the streets to be safe for everybody. And he’s a prince to work for. If you’re loyal to him, he’ll always be loyal to you. Altogether, I’d say he’s the most powerful man in the city—probably the state. They don’t call him the Caesar of the Democracy for nothing;”
Carter was impressed. Sick and worn out though he was, he felt a stir of hope. His luck might have taken a favorable turn at last.
CHAPTER X
STEAM BEER
i
CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEYS SALOON ON Bush Street was a gaslit place full of cigar smoke, beer fumes, and noisy, cheerful men. The moment Buckley walked in, he was besieged by a well-dressed man and four others in much shabbier clothing. All obviously sought favors.
Buckley waved his stick to acknowledge greetings from several customers. Then he took the five supplicants into an office at the rear. The door closed.
In about two minutes, one of the poorly dressed men emerged. He was grinning. The others came out at short intervals. All looked satisfied except the prosperous-looking gentleman, who was the last to appear.
Buckley shouted at him from the office door, “—and tell your cronies at the Southern Pacific never to approach me again with that kind of filthy scheme. Otherwise the push may visit their fancy Snob Hill palaces some night!”
Pale, the man fled. Carter was leaning on the beautiful turned rim of the mahogany bar. Gram stood next to him. Buckley walked to the bar and stepped behind it. “What was that about?” Gram asked.
“Ah, one of their high-toned officials messed with a conductor’s twelve-year-old daughter. The girl’s mother was pimping for the child in the hope of furthering her husband’s career. The father found out, immediately quit the S.P. and pressed charges. Now the railroad wants me to spring its man from the clink. I said I’d be damned if I would. Men like that should rot in jail and burn in hell. When I expressed that view, the rogue who was just here grew a trifle testy. I told him to shove his five thousand dollars up his rosy ass.”
Buckley had hung his coat on a rack and rolled up his sleeves. Now he tied a white apron around his waist. “The fellow threatened me then. It was at that point that I threw him out. He won’t be back. They know better than to tread on Boss Buckley. Mr. Kent—?”
“Right here, sir;”
“Feeling any better?”
“Since we came inside, much.” But he still didn’t feel good.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
An embarrassed laugh. “I confess to both.”
“Well, we usually have some dabs on the stove in back.”
“Dabs, sir?”
Buckley spaced his index fingers a few inches apart. “Small Pacific coast flat fish. Very succulent when properly broiled.”
Carter swallowed. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Buckley, fish isn’t a favorite of mine.”
“Boiled beef, then. And something to drink—and perhaps a chance to put a little money in your pocket?”
Carter’s excitement overcame his caution. “That would be very welcome, too.”
“Where are you from, my boy?”
“Boston.”
“Ah! A good Irishman’s town. Nearly as fine as New York, where I grew up. By the way, what may I pour you? The hard spirits sold in this establishment are safe to drink.”
“You mean, they aren’t elsewhere?”
Gram laughed cynically. “This place is an exception in town. A rare exception.” He snapped his fingers at another bartender. It was obvious to Carter that the man didn’t like being ordered about that way. With a sullen stare, he passed Gram a quart of whiskey and a glass.
Meantime, Buckley continued. “Depending on whether a saloon owner wants you dead in order to rob you, or alive in order to ship you out to some heathen port, you’re liable to find your drink laced with opium or laudanum or chloral. That kind of thing gives San Francisco a foul name, but we can’t seem to eliminate the practice, much as we try. There are a few places you can safely enjoy yourself. I run one of them.” He gestured to the gleaming bottles ranked behind the bar. “Name your poison—no, wait.”
A smile spread on his pink face. Without hesitation, he extended his hand and plucked a schooner from among a dozen arranged on the back bar. Taking two steps to the left, he pulled the handle of a keg tap. Beer spouted into the schooner.
“Since you’re new to the area, you must sample this,” he said.
Carter drank. “That’s delicious.” He wiped his upper lip and set the schooner on the bar. “I’ve never tasted any beer half as good.”
Buckley nodded. “I venture to say you haven’t. That’s a special brew unique to the city. San Francisco steam beer.”
He went on to explain that ice, required for conventional brewing, hadn’t been available when San Francisco boomed at the time of the Gold Rush. What little ice there was had to be brought all the way from the mountains. So a canny brewer had formulated a beer which could be manufactured without refrigeration.
Carter barely caught half of Buckley’s remarks. He was feeling increasingly feverish, and the walls seemed to ripple like windblown cloth. The beer didn’t help matters.
“Barley,” the blind man went on. “And malt and hops only—no rice or corn.” Then came something about “Steam mash bubbled up by what they call krausening, a natural carbonation process.” The rest of the explanation was lost on him.
His next sip was a tiny one; he was again afraid that he might pass out. He rubbed his eyes and stared at a fat bronze cupid holding up the milky globe of a gaslight behind the bar. Slowly the cupid’s navel came into focus. By the time it was sharp, he felt a little better.
Gram noticed his drawn look. “I think the lad needs food more than he needs steam beer, boss.”
“Coming up!” Buckley sent another bartender hurrying to the kitchen. It was the same man who’d brought Gram his whiskey. He didn’t act resentful when Buckley gave the orders.
“Let’s sit down at that corner table,” Buckley said. “You needn’t worry about a place to sleep. I believe I can persuade Hanratty’s Livery to accommodate you for a night or so.”
The blind man emerged from behind the bar, obviously familiar with the dimensions and placement of all the fixtures and furniture; he never bumped into a chair or a guest as he led the way to the secluded table. As he sat down, he chuckled.
“A municipal writ. Glorious! If there isn’t such a document, there should be. I’ll have to speak to the supervisors about it. There are twelve of those gentlemen. Seven of them can usually be counted on to vote as I ask. Sometimes I can even swing nine if it’s necessary to override the mayor’s veto.”
He laid smooth pink hands on the tabletop. A waiter arrived with a plate of steaming beef surrounded by thick slices of brown bread. Carter tore a slab of bread in half and stuffed the pieces into his mouth. Buckley continued to smile, but a hard tone came into his voice.
“As you may have gathered, Mr. Kent, a great many matters affecting the municipality are discussed in these somewhat unlikely quarters. So are some things pertaining to the state and the nation, for that matter. My enemies call this place Buckley’s City Hall. I consider that an honorific, not an insult. Because I’m a busy man, I can always use helpers who don’t allow scruples to interfere with their duties o
r diminish their party loyalty.”
Carter cut and ate the tender beef as fast as he could. With his mouth full, he asked, “You’re talking about the Democratic Party, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but to anyone on the inside of San Francisco politics, that’s incidental. I’ll explain what I mean in a moment. From your voice I’d guess you to be in your twenties. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That was the decade in my life when I discovered my passion for politics. My first job in San Francisco was conductor on a North Beach horse car. From that, I rose to the eminence of tending bar at Snugg’s, a very cosmopolitan saloon on the lower level of Maguire’s Opera House on Washington Street. At Snugg’s, murder was not infrequent. But a great many fascinating and influential men congregated there. I was soon on a first-name basis with gamblers, actors, and politicians of both parties. Of the lot, the politicians seemed the most worthy of emulation—at least to my impressionable eyes.”
He realized what he’d just said and laughed—this time it had a melancholy sound. “In those days, you understand, I could still see.”
Gram poured another stiff shot of whiskey. He’d obviously heard the story before. He looked bored. Carter wasn’t. The blind man fascinated him. Behind the deceptively congenial face, Carter sensed the presence of a man to whom weakness was loathsome and defeat a mortal sin.
“Soon I was busy involving myself in local politics. My training ground was the Fifth Ward. I learned how to drag votes out of boardinghouses as well as less savory places. I developed a knack and a liking for all the rough work that accompanies a primary which comes out the way someone wants it to come out. Within a couple of years I’d built a reputation as a handy fellow to have around. Of course I had a splendid group of tutors. Republicans, every one of them.”
“You mean, you didn’t start out a Democrat?”
“Indeed not. My best mentor in the Fifth Ward was a young Republican who attended Harvard. Bill Higgins is his name. He still runs the party here in San Francisco: In any case, there came a time—oh, twenty years ago now— when I decided that if I wanted to continue to move ahead in politics, I’d need to work for myself. So I could apportion my time as I saw fit. I left town and went up to Vallejo to establish myself as an independent businessman. I opened a saloon. It wasn’t an entirely wise decision. It was consumption of spirits which later caused me to lose my sight.”