California Gold

by John Jakes

Mack and Heney reached the window in time to see an open black touring car pass in the street. Abraham Ruef was enthroned behind his chauffeur, flanked on each side by several cardboard shirt boxes. Ruef basked in the sunshine, and the happy state of his world. Mack thought the Boss’s eye roved upward to the Bulletin windows as he caressed the shirt boxes. The touring car chugged out of sight behind a horsecar.

  “Do you know what’s in those boxes?” Older asked. “Just fifty thousand dollars in cash, the first installment of Pat Calhoun’s quarter-million bribe to get the overhead trolley lines. We got word of it day before yesterday. Someone in the East telegraphed the fifty thousand to the mint, and one of Calhoun’s boys took delivery. He exchanged the gold for cash at Fairbanks Trust. Ruef bragged that he’d pick up the cash personally this morning.”

  “Pick it up where?” Heney asked.

  “The offices of Calhoun’s trolley company.”

  Mack’s hazel eyes clouded. “Brazen son of a bitch.”

  “When a man becomes that powerful, he sometimes starts to believe he’s invincible,” Heney said. “It might make our task easier.”

  “Don’t underestimate Abe,” Older said. “He’s a brainy little crook. In occasional moments of weakness, I admire him.”

  “Not I,” Mack said with that cloudy look still in his eyes.

  Francis Heney squeezed his arm. “We’ll put him away. It may take months, or years, but Abe Ruef’s finished.”

  “I trust you, Francis. But I’ll believe you when I watch them escort Ruef to San Quentin.” Mack reached for his hat.

  “Sure you can’t join me to meet Hiram Johnson?”

  “Not this time. I’m running down to Monterey for the rest of the week.”

  Older rolled his tongue in his cheek. “Nellie Ross lives down that way, doesn’t she?”

  “So I’m informed,” Mack answered with a smile. “Actually the first purpose of the trip is to try out my new automobile.”

  Older snatched the cigar from his mouth. “You have another new one?”

  “A beauty. She came off the boat from Liverpool Monday. I read a report on this model from the Olympia Auto Show over there. She cost me a thousand pounds at the curb in Manchester, and Lord knows how much to ship by sea. She shines like the morning. Henry Royce built her; he calls her a Silver Ghost.”

  Anticipation kept Mack tossing all night. At six he jumped out of bed. While he was shaving, Little Jim walked in. Father and son both wore nightshirts, but there the resemblance ended; Jim grew fairer, more like his mother, every year.

  “Where are you going today, Pa?”

  “Down the coast. I hope I’ll see Nellie.”

  Jim thought about that. After a silence he said soberly, “Is Nellie a whore?”

  Mack nicked his cheek and swore. He pressed a hot towel against the bleeding cut. “No, she is not. Who taught you that bad word?”

  Jim examined his bare foot. “Oh, some boys.”

  “What boys?”

  “Boys I met on the street.”

  “Well, stay away from them. And don’t repeat that word, do you understand?”

  Little Jim gave his father a sad, cold stare and left.

  “He’s hanging out with roughnecks,” Mack protested to Johnson at breakfast. “The wrong kind of youngsters.”

  “What’s he to do? Some of the right people ain’t around most times. ’Sides, a little exposure to the streets won’t hurt him none.”

  “The hell. He isn’t eight years old yet.”

  “What of it? My friend Jack, when he was seven he was roughhousin’ on the Oakland docks. Drinkin’ hard liquor too.”

  “Jack London’s a sot. Besides, he’s a writer. You can’t believe half of what a writer says. I’m going to order Angelina to restrain Jim. Forcibly, if need be.”

  “Oh, Mack, good God—”

  “And you keep it in mind if you see him trying to leave the house. I won’t have him roaming around San Francisco like some orphan.”

  “He’s a smart boy. Tough, in his own way. He can take care of—”

  “You heard me. If you’re my friend, you’ll go along.”

  Johnson regarded the man at the far end of the enormous dining table. “I’m your friend. But sometimes you make the job goddamn hard.”

  57

  THE ONE-HUNDRED-MILE auto trip took most of Thursday, but it was a joy rather than a trial, thanks to the great silver car. She measured fifteen feet, weighed thirty-three hundred pounds, developed between forty and fifty horsepower from her six-cylinder engine, and could carry seven. Her silver wheels were wooden, with pneumatic tires, and she had four forward gears plus reverse.

  The car was operated from the right front seat, but Mack found that no great inconvenience once he got used to it. He was repeatedly thrilled by the feel of rumbling power coming through the steering shaft to the wheel rimmed in fine polished wood. The automobile lived up to all the manufacturer’s claims; she was indeed quiet as an electric sewing machine or an eight-day clock.

  At dusk on Thursday, he pulled up and parked in a rutted lane near Nellie’s cottage. Whipping off his goggles and cap; he ran the rest of the way. He knocked on her door, tapping his foot.

  The curtains were closed on the cottage windows. He knocked again, louder. After the fifth try, he circled the cottage on foot, then simply stood there, crestfallen.

  Presently he tramped back to the Rolls-Royce. In the distance the surf boomed, a lonely sound. He was an idiot not to have written or contacted Nellie beforehand. He’d assumed she might say no to a visit announced in advance, and had relied on personal persuasion when he arrived on her doorstep. Now he faced a long trip back to the City, and he didn’t look forward to it. He was tight with physical need again. He ought to get something more than this from his weekend.

  Suddenly he recalled what was nearby: the Del Monte Hotel and Resort. What the hell—why not spend a few hours in the enemy’s camp?

  The Southern Pacific built the first Del Monte in 1880. Cholly Crocker was the guiding spirit, arguing that a society resort near the ocean in Monterey would fill up trains that were running nearly empty in those days. He was correct. In a parkland of 126 acres, artfully planted and enhanced by secluded paths and classical statuary, the Del Monte soon attracted the City’s best crowd.

  She was a wondrous three-story wedding-cake place, gleaming white with green shutters, winding exterior staircases, and turrets and spires crowned with American flags, California flags, and the railroad’s own ensign. Actually this was the second Del Monte, a duplicate of the one that burned in ’87. The owners had not tampered with success.

  Mack put the Silver Ghost in the auto park, passing the attendant $20 to be sure no one touched it, and took a suite for three nights. The clerk didn’t recognize him, which was good; might be damned embarrassing to be seen enjoying himself on railroad property.

  He was in a dismal mood, and warned himself against drinking too much. Changing to a blazer and white flannels, he stretched his solid-gold watch chain across his vest and fastened his cravat with a stick-pin diamond big as his thumb.

  He ate lunch on the lawn, at a white iron table under an umbrella. The hotel was busy, crowded with cheerful, expensively dressed ladies and gentlemen. Having politely turned down an invitation to join a group for lawn bowling, he sat in a white wicker chair on the great veranda, where a unit of Ballenberg’s Society Band played hits of the day: “Sweet Adeline,” “In My Merry Oldsmobile,” “Hello, Central, Give Me Heaven,” Victor Herbert’s “Toyland.” The Herbert piece touched him with a sudden melancholy. What was he doing wasting his time among idlers?

  Inside, at the arrangements desk, an officious gentleman booked carriage tours to the beach, the cypress groves, the Spanish mission ruins in Carmel. As Mack stood studying a leaflet on the seventeen-mile scenic drive, he fell into conversation with a plump blond woman who reminded him of Carla. She was a Miss Francie Howell of Denver, recently divorced. By five-thirty he and Miss Howe
ll were sweatily making love in his suite.

  After dining together that evening, they waltzed in the ballroom, again to the strains of Ballenberg’s band, whose members had exchanged military tunics for tails. They met and chatted with three young naval officers in dress blues; their warship was anchored in the Bay.

  That night they made love again. Next day, when they played croquet after breakfast, Mack discovered that Miss Howell was a determined competitor and expert shot. He had to fight hard to race through the wickets and beat her; losing to a woman was unthinkable.

  He bought a bathing costume at the hotel shop. Miss Howell had brought hers, a very daring Parisian suit of striped tights, which elicited scandalized stares from some other guests when they went to bathe in one of the heated saltwater tanks. Proper female bathers wore modest blouses, ankle-length skirts, and stockings. Mack swam on one side of the soupy warm tank, Miss Howell on the other; a heavy net properly divided the sexes.

  It proved to be a relaxing if inconsequential weekend. On Sunday morning, waking while his companion slept beside him, he decided he couldn’t waste another hour, and would leave right after breakfast. The divorcée had been suitably ardent, but she wasn’t Nellie. And San Francisco nagged him. There was always work.

  There was always Jim.

  He knew how to deal with the work; he understood less and less about how to cope with the boy. What he did with the best of intentions seemed to anger his son, and Jim’s reactions and reticence angered him in turn. What was the answer?

  He wouldn’t find it lying in a bed owned by the Southern Pacific. He kissed Miss Howell’s cheek and dressed.

  Mack nosed the Silver Ghost down the winding drive. It was shaded by huge old cypress trees and the air smelled fresh and salty. A beam of sunlight between the cypresses flashed from the brass lamps of a massive dark-green auto coming up the drive. He identified a White steamer.

  And then the driver. First by the tiny mustache below the goggles, then by the well-tanned features.

  The driveway wasn’t wide enough to accommodate both autos. Each gave way a little, and then halted side by side with right-hand tires off the road. The White hissed and trailed vapor; the Silver Ghost clicked like a loom shuttle quietly operating in the next room.

  The automobilists leaned toward one another to speak, Mack at some disadvantage because he drove from the right. Fairbanks plucked off his stiff-billed cap and smoothed his auburn hair. “I heard you were in the hotel. The implacable reformer and railroad foe visits the Del Monte. Pity we didn’t photograph it. What’s this you’re driving, a tin-plate bread box on wheels?”

  “A new model Rolls-Royce.”

  “Ah. English. An American car isn’t good enough for you? Looks slow as an elephant.”

  “Faster than that paraffin-burner, Walter.”

  “Would you like to put that to a test sometime?”

  He snapped it out so fast and with such ferocity that Mack laughed. “Have you been lying in wait with that invitation? Yes, you have. Ever since the polo match. Or longer. Eh, Walter?”

  Caught, Fairbanks thumped his steering wheel. “Yes or no?”

  “Certainly. Anytime you say.”

  “Next Sunday. That’s April fifteenth. I’ll be down here again—”

  “I can arrange it,” Mack said. Maybe Nellie would be home.

  “Just your auto and mine. My secretary will send particulars about place and time. Agreeable?”

  “Sure.” Mack leaned back, letting stray sunshine warm his brow. He felt fine suddenly, finer than he had all weekend. He couldn’t help grinning, but it was done with a certain deliberation, because it goaded Fairbanks. “Delighted, in fact. Just prepare to get your ass whipped, Walter.”

  And, with a wave and a clashing of gears, away he went.

  Fairbanks leaned over the back of his seat. Through a cloud of sunlit steam he watched Mack negotiate the next downward bend.

  At the lower edge of the property the road narrowed to one lane on either side of a stone bridge that spanned an ornamental lagoon. Mack slipped the Silver Ghost through the tight space and accelerated on the straight road beyond. Fairbanks saw his dust. A sudden cramp in his gut brought a gasp of pain.

  Friday afternoon: a sultry, overcast day. Mack switched on the electric lamps in the garage. He’d been at work on the Silver Ghost since 8 A.M.

  Yoshimo Okada had demounted the spare tire that rode upright on the right running board. This allowed him to unlatch the toolbox built in beneath it. There was a similar toolbox on the left side, and Yosh had both lids raised and was checking the contents against a list. He’d taken off his shirt and singlet an hour ago. The garage smelled of grease and sweat.

  Mack’s forehead dripped. In the driver’s seat, he was examining and testing every control. He pumped the clutch, then the foot-brake pedal that worked with the transmission to aid steering. A large lever on the outside right braked the rear wheels for stopping.

  He reached for the gear lever, located outside between the door and the brake, and shifted from first back to second, over and down to third, up to fourth. He tested the magneto switch, even honked the bulb horn.

  On his knees beside the left-hand toolbox, Yosh raised his head and grinned. He was tired, Mack could see. He decided they’d better close up and rest the remainder of the day; they’d be driving all day tomorrow, Yosh following in the Cadillac with extra tires, tools, and fuel tins. Already Mack felt a tightness in himself. He was putting more importance on the race than he should. Somehow he couldn’t help it.

  “Did you disconnect the governor, Yosh?”

  “No, sir, I do that right before the race.”

  “Then that’s about all we—”

  He stopped, hearing a familiar sound on the back stair that came down from the floor above. Jim’s left foot, scraping the risers.

  The boy entered the garage and gazed at the great silver car with an expression of awe. “Hello, son.” Jim responded with a small wave.

  “Mist’ Jim,” Yosh said cheerily. He wiped his greasy hands on a cotton rag. “How you today?”

  “All right, Yosh.” The boy came a little farther into the garage. On the packed-dirt floor, his foot didn’t scrape so loudly, but it left a trail where it dragged. From behind the wheel Mack stared at that. The sight of it hurt.

  Jim sat down on a crate of spare spark plugs. “Pa, can I go with you down to Monterey?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I want to watch you race.”

  Mack opened the half-door and jumped down. The raised silver cartouche glinted under the tin-shaded lights.

  “I’ll be away a few days. After the race I’m going back to Carmel to visit Miss Ross. She wasn’t home last week, and I’m really eager to see her.” He reached for Jim’s hair to ruffle it. “I promise you, this’ll be the last trip for—”

  Jim jerked his head away from Mack’s hand, and Mack’s face lost its look of good cheer. The boy darted behind the crate and then to the open door of the garage. He gazed at the dull sky, having taken himself as far from his father as he could without leaving.

  Yosh’s dark eyes jumped between Mack and the boy. With attention to the rag, he finished wiping his hands, cleared his throat. “I be back. Excuse me.” He ran up the stairs into the mansion.

  Jim stared at Mack with unhappy eyes.

  “You don’t care that I want to see you win the race.”

  “Of course I care, Jim.” Mack picked up Yosh’s rag and worked at some grease on his fingers. “But you’ve got to keep up with your studies with Professor Love. Angelina will take good care of you while I’m gone. She always does.”

  Doggedly, the boy said, “Why don’t you ever want me with you, Pa?”

  Mack wasn’t prepared for such a direct question. He approached his son, watching closely for signs of temper or withdrawal. “Jim, I’ve explained before. I want the best for you—a good education at a fine college like Stanford. That means you just can’t ta
ke time away from your lessons.”

  “I hate them.”

  “What? You used to like reading and doing math problems. What’s changed?” He knew very well what the answer was; anything he liked, Jim disliked.

  The boy was stubbornly silent.

  “Well,” Mack said, “regardless of how you feel about your studies, they’re necessary.”

  He wasn’t selling it. He saw it in Jim’s angry pout, the sudden wetness of the deep-blue eyes. Westward, far away, thunder bumped.

  “You just make all that up because you don’t want me around.”

  “That’s not true. And when it comes to your education, your future, I mean every—”

  “Who’s going with you to Monterey?”

  “Yosh. To help me with the car.”

  “Is Miss Emerson going? That whore?”

  Mack’s hands dropped to his sides, clenched. “I’ve told you before. Don’t use bad language. Especially a word like that.”

  “Miss Emerson’s a whore.”

  “Jim, stop it. And stop crying. I’m tired of your sass and your constant rebellion. I won’t have it anymore.”

  “That’s all you care about, hanging around whores.”

  “You’re making me angry.”

  He jutted his jaw. “Whore.”

  “Jim.” Mack grabbed and shook him.

  The boy danced up and down, pulling against Mack’s hand, wrenching. “Whore, whore, whore, whore.”

  Mack let him go and slapped him.

  Tumbling back against a wall stud, Jim smacked his head and almost sat down in the dirt. His tears seemed to dry up instantly. He clutched the stud, watching his father as if he couldn’t believe, couldn’t comprehend his cruelty.

  Furious with himself, Mack stretched out his hands. “Come here. I didn’t mean to blow up and—”

  Jim ran under his hands as fast as he could with his dragging foot. Mack heard him on the stairs, struggling—fleeing.

  Mack picked up a silver-plated wrench and twisted it. Suddenly he struck out. The blow left a deep dent in a stud.

  He walked to the garage door to watch the storm gathering over the rooftops. The wind flung trash along the gutter. Yosh tiptoed in and they went to work, closing up, saying nothing.