by John Jakes
“Oh, I say, H.B., you’re not really suggesting we lower ourselves to that level and practice fouling?” The speaker was Portfield, who was a young grower with a starchy disposition but great riding skill. “We’re gentlemen. We play polo for sport.”
“What if we meet a club that doesn’t?” Mack asked. “Hellburner’s right—we’re novices when it comes to rough tactics.”
“We’ll never be in that sort of game,” Jeremy Fripp said.
“And if we are, we’re ready,” Clive said. “Grit will always win out, old boy.”
Mack doubted it, but he didn’t argue. He’d heard tales of vicious rivalries on the field, deliberate fouls intended to maim a horse or rider. There were stories of fatalities too. From the sidelines, polo appeared to be a game of stamina and speed, but little danger. Playing it, Mack found it exciting, but also dangerous, full of stunning physical shocks as players deliberately ran their horses into each other to control or steal the ball. So far there’d been no mishaps at the Riverside club, but that didn’t preclude them.
No reason to worry about it this afternoon, he supposed. The reds had won and it was time for socializing. He saw Carla escorting Jim Corbett into the pavilion and he noticed that she held tightly to his arm—so tightly that Corbett couldn’t help but feel her bosom.
Frowning, he dismounted and patted Jubilee affectionately. She was beautiful, fleet, and brave. He’d rub her down after he enjoyed a cup of tea.
Some of the gentlemen were still explaining the game or its history to their female companions, most of whom fluttered their eyelashes and pleaded bewilderment. Nellie would never playact so inanely, Mack thought, then reproved himself for thinking of her again.
“…goes back all the way to the Persians, m’dear. They played it to train their fastest cavalry. Why, they say even old Ghengis Khan’s Mongols played it—using the severed heads of prisoners for balls. Har-har.”
Mack unwrapped his mallet strap and walked into the pavilion ahead of Johnson and Portfield. They were discussing the club’s new grounds at Van Buren and Victoria avenues. There the club had temporarily leased two fine large lots, but they were having trouble financing a clubhouse and bleachers. Members argued about whether to raise money by charging higher dues or by expanding membership, which some of the club snobs like Portfield resisted.
Carla’s blue eyes sparkled as she brought Corbett his tea. She looked fresh and crisp in a skirt and blouse of white lawn. The blouse had a stiff high collar and a jabot embroidered with tiny orange blossoms. She’d abandoned her straw hat, her pleated summer cape, elbow-length gloves, and silk umbrella, all of them white too. White became her, flattering her sun-browned skin.
Mack worked his way toward his wife and his guest, pausing to smile and acknowledge compliments on the victory. Clive reached Carla and Corbett first. “Mr. Corbett, it is indeed an honor to have the world’s heavyweight champion witness one of our practice matches.”
Corbett looked uncomfortable with the fragile teacup. “I’m pleased that my friend Mack Chance invited me. But it’s former champion, remember.”
“Congratulations, darling,” Carla said to Mack. It was her brittle good cheer intended for others, not him.
“Thanks.” Mack squeezed Corbett’s sleeve to buck him up. It had been a sad and difficult weekend thus far. Corbett wasn’t the ebullient young man Mack remembered. He was depressed, withdrawn. Mack kept trying to find ways to get him to talk. “Tell us honestly, Jim. What did you think of what you saw?”
“I thought it was fine. You should have a match with a Bay Area team. There’s an excellent one at the Burlingame Country Club.”
“Is the club part of that new real estate development in the South Bay?” Carla asked.
“Yes, Burlingame Park. Mighty expensive place. Expensive and exclusive. The members brag that their polo field is better than the one in Newport. The team carries two or three paid players.”
“Surely none as good as our original Texas cowhand,” someone said, slapping Johnson’s back.
“Jim, it’s infernally hot in here,” Carla said. “Might we stroll while you tell me more about Burlingame?” She lifted the teacup from his hand, then curled her arm through his again.
Corbett wasn’t sophisticated, but he sensed the deep currents here, especially when he saw his host’s wife watching her husband with a smile so sweetly generous it approached a smirk. He stammered his answer.
“I think—maybe—I’d better see about a train. Don’t want to leave all the packing to Vera—”
“Oh, I’m disappointed. Can’t you spare me a few minutes? Of course you can. My father’s mentioned Burlingame, and a gentleman I know, Mr. Fairbanks, belongs to the club. I must ear everything…”
She swept Gentleman Jim out of the pavilion on her arm, teasing his cheek with her fingertips while she whispered something. The champion blushed.
Bunthorne’s wife, Mavis, a notorious gossip, rattled her cup on her saucer to attract the attention of the ladies around her. Mack overheard her say, “To whom is she married, my dears? Mack or Mr. Corbett? A stranger might wonder.”
“What a performance,” he said, livid. “You practically threw yourself at him.”
“I did not. You’re boorish to say I did.”
He’d drawn her away from the pavilion, down past the bleachers. The other players and spectators were moving to their buggies and coaches as swift gray clouds darkened the sun.
“I don’t care—I don’t like you flirting that way. Everyone saw it. At least they did once Mavis announced it in her megaphone voice. Jim was embarrassed.”
“He didn’t say so.”
“He’s too polite.” Corbett had left ten minutes earlier, driven to the Santa Fe depot by Johnson.
“You’ve been fretting about your friend’s state of mind all weekend,” Carla said. “I was only trying to cheer him up.”
“It looked like a lot more than that. Jim’s a married man. You don’t throw yourself at a married man. You were all over him, whispering and touching him—”
She laughed. Loose fluffy strands of her hair fluttered in the gusty wind. “You’re such a dreadful prude sometimes. I didn’t think you’d notice. You hardly notice me any other time.”
“Is that why you did it? To get back at me for some imaginary slight?”
“My. Such wounded innocence.”
“For God’s sake, Carla, stop this stupid game.”
“Who’s playing a game? You’re jealous. Jealous and nasty.”
Mack seized her wrist. “Carla—”
“Go to hell,” she said, tearing free and dashing past him along the chalked sideline. “Clive,” she called. “Clive dear, wait—I must speak to you.”
At half past ten that evening, Mack left his office. Villa Mediterranean was hushed, the electricity off for the night, the gas mantles trimmed low. At the polo field, while he rubbed down Jubilee and tended to his other ponies, Carla had persuaded Clive Henley to drive her home. She’d been absent for supper. Sleeping, her maid said.
Mack walked along the dim upstairs hall to the double doors of their suite. He took his hand from the pocket of his purple silk dressing gown and turned the knob.
The door wouldn’t open.
He tapped softly. “Carla?”
Silence.
He knocked again, louder. “Will you please unlock this? I was tired after the game. I lost my temper. I know it was just harmless flirtation. I want to apologize.”
Dresses, shoes, undergarments strewed the bed and the carpet. Trunks and portmanteaus, empty or half-packed, stood about the room. Carla sat on the bed watching the bolted door. Her hair hung in golden tangles, her bed gown of silk and lace pulled apart to show the heaviness of her thighs. With an unsteady hand she spilled more bourbon into her glass.
A little late, aren’t you? You’re always so damned wrapped up in yourself. In your polo ponies, your oil, your orange trees—every goddamned thing that touches your life but me. Ho
w can I get you to notice?
“A harmless flirtation, did you say?” She swallowed bourbon. Some of it ran down her chin, between her breasts. “Don’t be too sure, sweetheart.”
Her voice came through hoarse and thick. He felt sick; she was drinking again. He heard the bottle clink. “Don’t be too damn sure,” she repeated.
He grabbed the door handle and rattled it. “Carla, this is childish.”
For an answer he got another extended silence. It produced a rush of heat in his face. “I said open the door, damn it.” He didn’t knock this time; he pounded.
Huge silent tears washed the blacking off her eyelashes and it trickled down her face. You bastard. Why can’t you love me? Am I so worthless? Is she so much better?
He pounded again. “You want me to kick it down?” Crying, she lunged up and flung the glass at the door. It burst so explosively that a tiny splinter flew all the way back to her cheek. She gasped and pressed her skin. A perfect jewel of blood formed between two fingers as the last pieces of glass tinkled on the floor and bourbon ran down the carved wood door.
At the sound of the glass breaking, he jumped back. Then he slammed his palms against the doors. “Carla.”
Nothing.
He pressed his ear to the wood and heard what might have been a mutter or a muted sob. That and the broken glass defeated him, and putting his hands back in the pockets of his dressing gown, he walked away down the dark hall.
In his office, he lit the gas in the reading nook, a square alcove lined with ceiling-high bookshelves. It was his burrow, his lair, his retreat and place of inspiration.
Surrounding the large, deep chair were books of every kind, periodicals, all of the Los Angeles papers for the past four days, and copies of the San Francisco Examiner delivered by post twice a week.
In one corner he’d collected articles about steam yachts, descriptions of some of the greatest pleasure vessels in America. William Vanderbilt’s Alva. Morgan’s Corsair II. Namouna, the 227-foot beauty built and sailed by Gordon Bennett, the newspaper publisher. He had a whole file of engravings of Namouna’s period furniture, fireplaces, and elegant carvings and ornamentation; she was a mansion afloat. The descriptions and pictures were slowly shaping his own dream yacht. He’d made sketches and voluminous notes.
Another corner overflowed with his collection of stories and pictures about horseless carriages. They were the coming thing, no doubt of it. But inventors and designers still argued about the best motive power. Gasoline? Electric battery? Steam? And what did you call such a vehicle? There was endless dispute in the press—and no accepted name. Sometimes it was automaton, sometimes petrocar. Motorig. Mobe. Or motocycle.
Mack knew only that he wanted one. One of his favorite pastimes was rereading a long news account of the great race held in Chicago over Thanksgiving in ’95. Just one day after a bitter blizzard, six courageous drivers had raced their vehicles through rutted drifts from Jackson Park all the way up the shore to Waukegan and back. An Electrobat and a Sturges Electric competed against the “motor wagon” of the Duryea brothers and three German-built Benz cars. After more than eight hours at an average speed of seven miles per hour, the Duryea won. Mack sometimes shut his eyes and imagined himself careening along icy roads, gloved hand firm on the steering tiller, his other hand alternately sounding the foghorn or the brass trumpet. He wanted a horseless carriage; new inventions excited him. He yearned to be first to try them, own them, show them off. And he was beginning to have enough money to make it possible.
No dreaming of horseless carriages tonight, alas. A dreary but important legal document lay on the leather chair seat. He turned up the gaslight and sat down to read seventy-seven pages of by-laws and articles of incorporation for San Solaro Irrigation, Inc., a mutual water company formed under the Wright Bill. Mack planned to develop the town site eventually; the articles drawn up by Potter established a community water district to be owned by future residents—ten shares of stock per building lot.
He slogged through the dry paragraphs, his mind constantly slipping away, returning to Carla. Around half past one, he heard footsteps in the corridor. He jumped up, but his expectant smile vanished in a moment. The stride was too heavy—one of the servants?
Following a soft knock, Johnson stuck his head in. “Saw the lights. What’s the matter? Can’t sleep?”
“Work to do,” Mack said. Johnson yawned as he ambled in, bowlegged as ever. His knee joints creaked and his beard stubble showed, gray as his crinkly hair and ready for the morning razor.
“I was twistin’ and jumpin’ a bit m’self. Decided to stroll a while.” He poured two fingers of Mack’s best Tennessee whiskey. No permissions necessary; they were friends.
“Drag up a chair.” He did, gratefully, then slipped off his boots and sampled the whiskey. Mack poured some for himself; it was his first hard liquor in a long while.
“What was you readin’?”
“The water-company charter. Have to get through it. But I’d rather be drawing up designs for the yacht.”
Johnson chuckled. The gaslight put a convivial gleam in his green eyes. “Swear to God, Mack, I never seen anybody with such an appetite for tryin’ out new gadgets.”
Mack relaxed and put his feet on a stack of books. “Seems to go with the climate out here.” He sipped the whiskey. It warmed his belly but not his heart.
Johnson watched him. Finally: “You’re not feelin’ so hot these days.”
Mack concentrated on his glass. “Ever since the fire—”
“Oh, it ain’t the fire. We got that licked. Your pride took a whippin’ when you had to hire some of them slow-witted white boys, but Biggerstaff and me, we’re bringin ’em along. It’s somethin’ else.” A pause. “What?”
Mack shook his head. “You know me a little too well, Hugh.” He spoke slowly, uncomfortably. “Ever since the day I walked down from the Sierras and looked around and said, By God, I’ve made it, I’m in California—ever since then I’ve lacked for plenty of things. Sometimes a night’s shelter. Sometimes food. There was even a day here and there when I feared for my life. But I never lacked for hope. I kept opening that guidebook and I never lacked for hope. Not until lately.”
The office clock ticked loudly. Johnson slowly rolled the tumbler back and forth between his hard palms. He figured it would be good for Mack to get it all out. If he would.
“Things are bad with Carla…” Mack began.
“That’s no surprise, I’m sorry to say.”
“No, but I can’t seem to untangle them, either. Every time I try, I blunder.”
“Maybe that’s why you been so sore lately. Like a high-strung yearling feelin’ a saddle the first time.”
“You’re a candid bastard.”
Johnson shrugged a lanky shoulder. “If all you want is violins and geraniums, I’ll go back to bed.”
“No—stay. It’s just that—well, it’s tough to look at yourself and admit you’re failing.”
“Maybe it ain’t entirely your fault, Mack. You said Hellman warned you she wouldn’t take to marriage. Not very long, anyhow.”
“That’s true. She gets bored. I saw it start six months after the honeymoon.”
“That the reason she set the house girls to packin’ her baggage right after the game this afternoon—she’s bored?”
Mack sat up, alarmed. “She’s packing?”
“I had a cup of coffee in the kitchen ’fore I moseyed up here. ’Twas that bosomy little one told me. Nuncia—the one I keep tryin’ to bed. Nuncia said the señora is goin’ into Los Angeles in the mornin’. Plans to be there an’ shop for a few days.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.” Mack felt a rush of relief; for a moment he’d feared she was walking out for good. But the relief was quickly replaced by a feeling of insult, because she’d told the servants and not him. Given the scene at the polo field, he supposed he couldn’t blame her.
“Reckon you could hightail upstairs and put a stop
to it.”
He considered it, then said, “No, I’d probably make matters worse. A few days on her own may do her good, calm her down. I’ll wait and then go in town and patch it up. Pour me another drink.”
38
ON A MORNING FIVE days later, Mack took the Santa Fe to the city. He went first to the Los Angeles Litho Company, where the foreman brought in press proofs of the Calgold crate label featuring the old prospector. There were proofs of the separate plates—red, pink, dark blue, light blue, yellow, and black—and a composite proof of all six colors.
They discussed corrections, then Mack, voicing his enthusiasm, signed off on the changes and hurried to the Baker Block. There he spent two hours with Enrique Potter and the water-company papers.
When they finished, the lawyer said: “That priest you know opened an office in town. Only he’s no longer a priest. The Church excommunicated him. He’s got a girl with him.”
Mack asked for the address. It was a bad block in the south of town. Walking there in the mellow sunshine, he marveled again at the changes since the day he first saw Los Angeles. Most of the adobes and false fronts were gone, razed to make way for taller buildings of granite and brick. Trim electric trolleys with overhead poles shot along shiny rails in the center of asphalt streets. The look was that of a thriving city, not a cow town. It could have been mistaken for an eastern city, were it not for the mountains and, against their sunlit splendor, all of the hundreds of oil derricks pumping away north and west of the business district. They were ugly, Mack had long ago decided. But he liked the derricks—maybe because their gangly presence symbolized enterprise, money, taking risks: everything California meant to him.
Soon he left the more crowded streets with their eternal wandering flocks of tourists, most of them pale, some of them sniffling and wheezing. He was in the bad section; Anglo and Mexican riffraff eyed him from the cantinas. He took note but didn’t worry. The sawed-off Colt rode on his hip, under his coattails. He didn’t need it; his eyes and his demeanor kept the sidewalk clear in front of him.