California Gold

by John Jakes

  “Well, I figure I better. He’s your flesh and blood, but you don’t have but a few scraps of time to give him. When you do take him out, you treat him like some little girl’s china doll.”

  Mack held his temper. “What I wanted for Jim before and what I want for him now are different things. He’s crippled.”

  “He ain’t a freak. He’s a healthy, growing young ’un. Every time you coddle him, you make him remember what’s wrong with him, ’stead of what’s right. He don’t like that, and I don’t blame him.”

  “He’ll have to put up with it. I have only one son and I mean to take care of him.”

  “You ain’t doin’ it proper—”

  “I don’t need your advice and I don’t want it.”

  Johnson pulled his Texas hat lower over his bushy gray brows and stomped back up the wharf. “Guess we got to go home now, Jim,” he called. “Ain’t my idea.”

  When Mack went to Jim’s room to say good-night, the boy was quiet, almost sullen. Mack insisted on a hug, and Jim complied with a hooking motion of his small arm, a light, fast hug, to let Mack know he didn’t like Mack’s discipline.

  Nevermind. The boy was fragile. Look how easily he’d been injured at Richmond Field. Mack refused to risk it again. One of these days Jim would understand, and thank him.

  As he went upstairs, a distant telephone rang. Alex Muller hurried to find him.

  “Mr. Older is calling.”

  “What is it, Fremont?” Mack said when he answered.

  The voice came over the wire faint and scratchy. “It appears the Bulletin has printed one too many stories about Abe Ruef and his cronies. About an hour ago, our publisher was attacked on the street by unknown assailants.”

  “Thieves?”

  “They took nothing. They beat Crothers with lead pipes and ran away. It’s doubtful that he’ll live.”

  In November 1904 Mack voted for Theodore Roosevelt and argued with Nellie over the merits of national and local candidates. She was particularly strong for Judge Alton Parker, a Democrat Mack disliked. He said with some heat that she would probably vote Democratic if the party ran a name from a tombstone. She said, “Oh, enough. I’ll be happy to discuss voting when you arrogant males condescend to permit me to do it.” Which immediately ended the conversation.

  R. A. Crothers of the Bulletin surprised everyone and survived his savage beating. The incident heightened tensions between the Ruef machine and the few who dared to speak against it or ignore its authority. As the year closed and the new year began, the struggle focused in the issue of the French restaurants.

  Back in the spring of ’04, Police Commissioner Hutton had launched a campaign against San Francisco’s own peculiar institution, announcing that French restaurants were open houses of assignation and a menace to public morals, and proposing the revocation of their liquor permits.

  For several months the other three members of the police commission board refused to go along; Hutton’s brand of puritanism didn’t fit the style of an easy-going port city. But things changed toward the end of ’04. Members of the cooks and waiters’ union tried to organize one of the largest of the restaurants, Tortoni’s. Union business agents hired two men to eat supper there, then request introductions to the ladies working upstairs. Presented with depositions detailing what went on at Tortoni’s, the members of the police commission board now were forced to act, and they refused to renew Tortoni’s license. By early January 1905 the commission had refused to renew the license of a second French restaurant, Delmonico’s.

  “I had a call about it at six o’clock this morning,” Margaret said to Mack. “From Pierre Priet of Marchand’s. He’s terrified we’ll all be run out of business. The others are just as scared—Tony Blanco at the Poodle Dog, Jean Loupy at the Pup, Max Adler at the Bay State. They want to organize a French restaurant keepers’ association. Each member will be assessed, and the association will hire a specialist to cure the illness.”

  “A specialist? What are you talking about?” Mack said. They were dining under the fake Tiffany electric in her quarters next to Maison Napoleon.

  “I’m quoting Pierre. He was practically gibbering. We’re all supposed to contribute enough to raise five thousand dollars immediately, and another five thousand for next year. To retain Dr. Ruef. That’s what Pierre called him—Doctor.”

  “Good God. What did you say?”

  “I told Pierre to go to hell, I’d pay no graft for a legitimate liquor license.”

  “That’s a dangerous stance, Margaret.”

  “I run a business patronized by some of the best men in San Francisco. City officials eat here. They go upstairs with a wink and smile. Do you think I’m going to be threatened by a bunch of hypocrites who suddenly decide I’m a fine source of boodle? The answer’s no. That’s what I said in my letter.”

  Mack’s fork clattered on his plate.

  “You wrote that in a letter? Let me see it.”

  “I don’t have it. I mailed it to the Bulletin this morning.”

  “I’ll call Fremont right awa—”

  “Mack, sit down. I simply said City Hall was extorting money from businesspeople, and Ruef was behind it.”

  “You don’t say that kind of thing in San Francisco, Margaret. Not publicly. These people are powerful, and they’re vindictive. Look what happened to my son. To Crothers—”

  “I don’t care, and furthermore it’s too late. The letter’s gone. I stand by it.”

  “I admire that. But you’re taking a hell of a risk.”

  She patted his hand; her fingertips lingered. He was frowning, too worried to notice.

  “You’re kind and sweet to concern yourself,” she said. “I think it’s needless. They may harass me, but that’s all. A woman is still safe in this town. Even a woman like me.”

  54

  ACETYLENE HEADLAMPS DUG TUNNELS of light in the evening fog as the Model A Ford putted around the corner onto Mission Street. The eight-horsepower car had a single seat under a folding top. Painted black, it resembled a motorized buggy. A second, identical Ford appeared. A man and woman crossing Mission to Maison Napoleon gawked at the autos, which were still not all that common.

  The first Model A parked in front of Margaret Emerson’s flat. The second stopped behind it. There were two men in each vehicle, men of some size, trying hard to fit in the single seats and present themselves as gents by wearing derbies and velvet-collared coats.

  The passenger in the first Model A was in charge. He was a hulk with a huge mustache waxed in points. Jumping out, he signaled to the men in the other auto, then trotted up the steps to Margaret’s door. He tested the handle, then signaled again. The two men from the second auto took up positions in front of the flat while the first man and his driver moved quickly to the entrance to the French restaurant.

  The man in charge studied the foggy street. A horse-drawn cab passed with a clatter and glimmer of lamps. There was no other traffic.

  “In we go,” he said with a smirk that hid his state of nerves.

  The little bell rang over the door. Margaret broke off her conversation with guests at a rear table and glided to the front, menus in hand. Only three tables were filled on this rather foul night; she was happy to see more customers, and showed it with her brilliant smile.

  “Gentlemen, good evening. Table for two?”

  The first man snatched off his derby. He was burly, with the sort of round face she associated with butchers or brewers. His dark eyes shone as brightly as his waxed mustache.

  “We can take care of our business right here, Miss Emerson.”

  Margaret’s palm prickled. The second man kept glancing at the front door. Fearful of interruption?

  “You have the advantage of me, gentlemen. Would you be kind enough to tell me your names?”

  The mustached man stepped close enough to brush the arm of her white shirtwaist. The touch felt unclean somehow, though the man’s breath was heavily sweet from gin.

  “Let
’s just say we represent the police commission.”

  Her heart raced. A waiter came from the kitchen with two dinners on a tray. Though she tried to warn him with her eyes, he devoted himself to his customers, bowing and smiling as he served the plates.

  “May I see some credentials?”

  “That isn’t necessary,” said the mustached man. “We want to inspect your liquor permit.”

  “You know I don’t have one that’s current. I told the last boodler who came in here that I’m not paying five hundred or a thousand dollars for a license.”

  “You can’t operate without one.”

  “You mean I can’t operate without kicking into a slush fund for Ruef. I work too hard for my money to throw it away on bribes.”

  “Bribe is a nasty word.” He grabbed her wrist. “You used a lot of nasty words in that letter in the paper.”

  She wrenched away, and a couple seated nearby glanced up from their plates with worried looks. Softly, Margaret said, “Get out of my restaurant.”

  “You mean your whorehouse? You better pay what’s asked, Miss Emerson, and you damn well better stop signing your name to letters full of lies.”

  Margaret felt a strange terrified flutter in her throat. The byplay about the license was a sham. These two had come for another purpose, and nothing she said or did would divert them. Panicky, she called to the waiter, now hurrying to the kitchen.

  “Red, please step in the back and telephone—”

  She stopped. Telephone the police? They’d never respond. Not in time. “No, never mind.” The waiter hesitated, puzzled.

  “I’m sorry about this, Miss Emerson; it’s just orders,” the mustached man said with a smarmy piety. He waved; she noticed for the first time that he wore tight gray leather gloves. “Bruno, go to work.”

  The other man pulled his right hand-from his overcoat, and Margaret saw a flash of blue gun metal. “Be careful, everyone,” she cried to the patrons.

  The first man caught her arm and whipped it like a rope, throwing her into the wall. Josephine’s framed portrait fell off and the glass broke. Then he pounded a fist in the small of her back, and Margaret dropped to her knees, gasping.

  Bruno leveled his blue revolver. The waiter dropped his tray with an anvil clang while diners flung themselves from chairs, shouting and exclaiming. Holding his pistol in both hands, Bruno began to shoot out the lights over the tables.

  Margaret’s cheek scraped the wall, her head spinning. The pain from the blow to her back was brutal. She heard the little bell ring, then the mustached man’s shout, “Give me that ax and get to work next door.”

  Next door…?

  Margaret bit her lip and pushed away from the wall, then fell back again dizzily. Bruno kept shooting. Glass showered the tables and the diners trying to crouch underneath. Someone passed a fire ax through the front door. The mustached man hacked the door until it splintered. Then, with a looping blow, he struck Napoleon from his pedestal, bursting the bust into hundreds of small pieces.

  The waiter had darted into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. There was plenty of light for the two men to do their work. Bruno reloaded and shot at the ceiling. A girl upstairs screamed. The mustached man attacked empty tables, shattering china and goblets and tabletops with the fire ax.

  Next door, Margaret’s mind cried out. She crawled toward the door, struggled to her feet, and pulled it open. The tiny bell rang again. Cold foggy air swept over her.

  “The bitch ran out,” Bruno shouted.

  Panting, slipping, railing, and lurching up again, she managed to reach the little covered porch outside her flat. Electric light streamed through the open door. She heard them breaking things inside.

  Earlier, anticipating a cozy end to the evening, Margaret had lit a small fire in her hearth, then carefully placed a screen in front of it. There were two other men in her flat, men wearing identical overcoats and derbies. They had flung the screen aside and one of them had a baseball bat.

  She ran into the parlor just as he swung the bat and demolished her gold-plated mantel clock. Springs uncoiled with pinging sounds, parts flying everywhere.

  “You bastard, leave my things alone.” With both hands she grabbed the man’s collar. He struck backward with the bat, hard. She clutched her knee through her skirt and fell in a chair, hair undone, tears of fury streaming from her eyes.

  She was most conscious of the noise and their huge nightmare shadows. In the dining room, the second man overturned the table and then levered a leg back and forth until it loosened. He snapped it off, took a stance, made sure she saw, and used the leg to hit the fake Tiffany shade.

  The electric bulbs survived the blow but pieces of colored glass fell, flicking specks of colored light across the walls. Twisted strands of lead hung from the fixture. A few more pieces of glass dropped, plink, plunk.

  Looking for something else to destroy, the man reached under the table and pulled out the fine lace cloth, then ripped it in half like a rag.

  Margaret’s mind sank into incoherence. She struggled from the chair, hand raised. “Please, don’t damage that, it was my mother’s, I can sew it back together, just please don’t—”

  She sensed, heard, movement to her left. The man at the mantel swung the bat, the thick end smashing into her stomach. There was no corset beneath her skirt to protect her, and the pain was sudden, huge, felling. She flailed backward against her breakfront, her wildly swinging arms shattering the glass, spilling china. Glass cut her wrists as she went down again and blood ran over the buttoned white cuffs of her shirtwaist.

  “Something special?” said the man in the dining room. He came into the parlor with the torn tablecloth in his fist. “Not no more.”

  He tossed it in the fireplace. Margaret screamed.

  They finished quickly. Everything important or valuable in the parlor and dining room was ruined. She heard shoes scrape on the walk as they hurried away, then a chugging of autos.

  In the hearth, the tablecloth caught fire.

  On hands and knees, she crawled toward it. Glass littered the carpet. She was dizzy, disheveled, close to fainting, but kept crawling. She bit down on her lip and kept crawling, heedless of gashing her palms on glass.

  It seemed a mile to the hearth. Glass tore her shirt and lacerated her knees. She left a bloody trail on the carpet, but at last she felt heat on her face. Closing her eyes, she wept against the coming pain, then plunged her hands into the grate, stifling a cry. She pulled out the burning tablecloth, smothered it against her filthy bloody shirtwaist, and fell on it to put out the flames.

  She was found that way, unconscious.

  At the hospital they treated and bandaged her. She had a broken kneecap. A great livid bruise marked her flat belly. The two physicians on call agreed that there might be serious internal injuries, but they couldn’t tell as yet.

  When she could speak, she asked for Mack. He rushed to her bedside and stayed twelve hours, leaving only to use the washroom or telephone the police department.

  He telephoned nine times. Of course the detectives couldn’t locate or even identify the perpetrators.

  On a Saturday in March 1905, California Chance steamed out through Golden Gate. Following the owner’s instructions, Captain Norheim set a course for ten miles offshore, and there cruised in a long continuous oval.

  Under a white awning on the stem deck—an awning marked with the JMC cartouche—Mack’s three Chinese stewards set out a buffet luncheon of oysters, paté, and other delicacies. It was a bright, invigorating day, a splendid day to cruise the ocean. None of the guests really cared.

  Mack had invited three: Fremont Older, the former mayor Jim Phelan, and Rudolph Spreckels, four years younger than Mack himself. Rudolph was a tall, sturdy chap with a high forehead, the handsomest of the brothers. And he knew he was handsome; he bore himself with the unconscious arrogance of a prince, lounging in his canvas chair with his white flannel trouser legs crossed. Mack socialized with Rudolph but didn’t
especially care for him. He did respect Rudolph’s wealth and his family name—and he could overlook almost any character flaw if the bearer hated the Ruef machine sufficiently.

  “They wrecked everything,” Mack said when the discussion began after lunch. California Chance left only a slight purling wake in the smooth sea. Shadows of gulls chased back and forth on the awning.

  Older chewed his cigar. “I know that. I printed the story.”

  “You didn’t print anything about her mother’s tablecloth. Torn, burned—ruined.”

  “I’d say she was lucky to escape with her life and minor injuries,” Rudolph remarked.

  “Minor injuries?” Mack lit a cigar and snapped the match overside. “People are injured in different ways, Rudy. That piece of Irish lace meant more to Margaret than her own life nearly. I can help her rebuild her place; I will. But money won’t restore that heirloom. Money won’t erase her memories of what they did to her. We sit here fuming and arguing and meantime the machine hooligans do anything they damn please. They extort money from businessmen. They attack a decent woman—”

  “Oh come, Mack,” Rudolph Spreckels said. “A lot of people would question your use of the word decent.”

  “By God she is a decent person. They brutalized her. Don’t be a fucking hypocrite. Have you never visited a prostitute?”

  Rudolph turned away to study the sea.

  “Now, now,” Jim Phelan said. “We’re not adversaries, we’re in agreement. Seeking remedies here, in privacy.”

  “That’s right—I’m sorry,” Mack said.

  “Yes,” Rudolph muttered.

  “The issue is, how do we get rid of this crowd?” Mack said. “There’s hardly a thing they haven’t touched or corrupted. The water situation, business permits—now the trolley mess—”

  “It’s a mess, all right,” Rudolph said. “I’m told the Boss informed United Railroads that the regular monthly retainer of a thousand dollars was not enough to guarantee a favorable decision on the overhead lines. Pat Calhoun has to come up with a bonus.”

  Older bit on his cigar. “How much?”

  “A quarter of a million. Cash.”