Downey pushed around Mikhail, his temper up, leaning toward Warner. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Mikhail faced Downey, calming him. "John, if the state condemns some of the docks and these two rascals buy them up, they can then use taxpayer funding to replace them with their limestone blocks. They'll own, dock by dock, the entire shipping industry of this city."
Coleman said, "I may not be able to afford to bring my cargo in here. We'd have to anchor off Santa Cruz, bring the cargo in by longboat, oceans and tides permitting, and mule it across the mountains. Or, ferry it over from Oakland. If that were to happen, we'd need to petition the state to dredge out sufficient waters for our ships. Most of Oakland's too shallow."
Without warning, the floor to the Olympic Club dropped from under Mikhail's feet and bounced back up, rolling with a sideways motion. The building rumbled like distant cannon fire.
Mikhail dropped to the floor and looked up, instinctively protecting his head with both arms. When the shaking stopped, the other men stood around Mikhail and smiled, all of them trying not to laugh.
Warner said, "Your first earthquake?" He smiled at the others. "They come and go. You'll get used to it."
"I have doubts about this one." Mikhail climbed back to his feet and followed the others across the gym.
Coleman said, "Don't let Warner fool you, Mikey. First time he felt one of those tumblers he shat himself."
They all chuckled, filing into the long room where they undressed and grabbed towels, heading into the steam room. Their exercise cloths would be picked up by Chinese coolies and aired before returning them to their lockers on the other side of the gym. They washed everyone's gym cloths once a week, always overnight.
While they steamed and bathed, their street clothes would be carried across and hung in the posh dressing rooms near the front office. The coolies were rarely seen and Mikhail thought nothing of it. Everything had been carefully designed for the comfort of club members.
Wooden benches had been terraced much like the saunas of Russia and Ukraine. Fresh-smelling steam forced sweat from every pour in Mikhail's body.
Speaking privately to Mikhail, Warner said, "I spoke with John Drury. You can show up early and he'll give you a workout, teach you the ropes."
"Thank you." Mikhail had asked Warner to find someone who could teach him to box. Drury was a locally known heavyweight. He would probably move slower than Raul, but he would know this sport of boxing.
James King nudged Warner. "How's that property you bought?"
Speaking to the group, Warner said, "The Palace doesn't officially open until next month. We'll serve chowders, steamed clams, raw oysters, cold beer, and hot buttered rum. I'd love to have you boys in as my first guests."
Downey said, "When?"
"Today, for lunch. I've had a clam chowder on the stove since early this morning."
JAMES KING WAS GETTING ready to open a new newspaper, the Daily Evening Bulletin, for which he would be the editor. He'd make it some other time for lunch at the Palace.
Coleman and Downey had both claimed to have important business that needed their immediate attention. Mikhail suspected they did not trust Warner's cooking skills.
Mikhail would risk his palate and inform the others later.
Coleman made his money in shipping but his office was on the second floor of the Mining Exchange, one of the city's best hilltop locations and not far from Warner's Palace at the end of Meigg's Wharf.
Meigg's Wharf was uptown, near North Beach, far from the Barbary. San Francisco's upper class took their families to North Beach for weekend excursions. Kids loved the fun attractions.
Nearing the waterfront, Warner said, "I bought this building six months ago. The bar downstairs is nearly finished. Upstairs is my apartment and some spare rooms. Don't quite know what to do with those. I do know this city needs women."
Mikhail smiled at this. "Da, yes. I have seen very few. Even the ugly ones are treated like royalty."
The taxi stopped at the foot of Meigg's Wharf and they climbed out. Warner tossed a coin to the driver and led Mikhail down two steps from the brick-paved street to the wooden wharf. A long wooden building was the first of many buildings near the land end of the wharf. Buildings lined both sides of the wharf and extended far into the bay, strewn with shoppers, wagons, ships, and horses.
Warner found the key and opened one of three doors. The dark interior had too few windows.
A good smell of chowder filled the air and Mikhail discovered his hunger. "Smells tasty."
Warner smiled and motioned to a table with a white tablecloth and five chairs. "Sit."
Mikhail sat.
Warner's tall plug hat seemed a permanent fixture on top of his yellow hair. It was easy to see him walking in the darkness behind the long, marble-topped bar. He tied on a white apron, bent, and pulled up two large bowls under the back bar.
Unpainted vertical wood slats made the framed paintings of women easy to see. They'd been painted in flowing white silk negligees.
A spider had spun an elaborate web between two support posts overhead, somehow not out of place.
Warner took the lid from the top of a large cooking pot, dipped the ladle deep, and filled both bowls. He set the bowls on a serving tray near their table, returned the lid to the pot, and added spoons and biscuits onto the tray.
Mikhail stood, took one step to the bar, and delivered the tray to their table. "Da, this smells good."
Warner leaned across the bar, both brows up. "Hot buttered rum or cold beer?"
"Cold beer, if you will be so kind."
Warner drew and carried two foam-capped beers around the open end of the bar, set them on the table, and smiled like a proud papa. He sat and took a drink of beer.
Mikhail sat and drank half a glass of beer, cool and refreshing. Warner grabbed two biscuits, crumpled them into his chowder, and picked up a spoon, waiting for Mikhail.
Mikhail crumpled a biscuit into his chowder and took a taste. "This is not borsch." He smiled. "Is joke. This is very tasty."
Warner tasted his chowder and his left brow jumped up. He liked it, too. "The day we met, you said something about being a count or something."
"Yes. This means nothing here."
"Don't be so sure about that. A title could be helpful to some. It might add a more respectable public perception to a man's particular business." Warner looked at Mikhail, waiting for a response.
Mikhail had nothing to say.
"I came here from New York with the rush of forty nine. I was a butcher by trade. That's where the plug hat comes from." He licked his spoon clean and touched it to the rim of his hat. "I got work at that meat shop across the street." He poked his spoon toward a brick building across the street from the wharf. "I worked hard, saved my money, and bought this building. It took me these past six months to repair some windows, clean the place up, and build that bar. This here location is next to North Beach. That's where the upper crust of this city's population comes to play, mostly on Sundays. This is a good location for attracting such a population." He still wanted a response.
"If you are asking me to do something for you, you must be plain spoken about this."
"If you're a count back there in Europe, you probably know what liquors to stock for attracting the higher class patrons. The proper wines and such."
"I am Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky."
"Exactly. Is that Prussian, Austrian, Polish, or what?"
"Niet! I am Russian. I thought you already know this."
"Ah, yes. Russian. It's not really polite here to ask a lot of questions about one's past. That's why I never asked before. I leave John Downey to ask questions, but I rarely listen to the answers."
"My family has served the czars of Russia for many generations."
"What happened? How'd you wind up here, living by the charity of the good widow?"
Mikhail thought this an insult and set down his spoon, ready to stand and walk out.
Warner's brows drew together, perplexed by Mikhail's resentment.
Okay.
What had happened had happened, though he knew not why. "I am not quite certain. I was attacked by the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaievich."
"For what?"
"I do not know. For gallantry in action, I was to be honored with the Order of St. George in the Third Degree at a reception for the grand duke. I simply invited his sister for a waltz."
"What's this honor you're talking about?"
"The Order of St. George in the Third Degree? This grants me certain titles previously earned by my father." Talking and thinking about these events from his past rekindled Mikhail's frustration. "I saved the grand duke's life and the lives of many of his men. He is such a fool with tactics."
"So, you asked this lady for a dance?"
"Yes. The Lady Catherine. She was evidently insulted by my gesture. Her brother, the grand duke, pulled his sword and viciously struck at me."
I hate this, not knowing.
He pointed to the scar above his eye and changed his tone. "He cut me here. In self defense, I pulled my dress sword and fended off his next thrust. A simple twist of the blade sent his sword to the floor. He grabbed a pistol from one of his guards and shot me." Mikhail touched his ribs. "He stepped up and would shoot again, but I swung instinctively with my sword and chopped off his hand."
"Holy moly. And, that's when you took to your heels?"
"My uncle took me to the waterfront in Vladivostok and put me aboard Silent Mistress. He gave a good sum of gold to the captain, who dumped me in the hold with Chinese peasants. Luckily, a skilled Chinese doctor and his daughter extracted the ball and nursed me back to health. I arrived in port with gold and a valuable sable coat and cap.”
"And?" Warner knew there was more.
"I was invited to a bath and shave and entered a building on Pacific Street Wharf, a very dark and small vestibule, where I was bludgeoned and robbed of my money. When I awoke, I found my way to Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse."
"You got the bottle and stopper and wound up at Chandler's." Warner nodded and drank some beer. "That cur thinks he's the middleweight champion of the Americas."
"Yes. He put me on credit and forced me to sign the association agreement. When Sunrise made port, he tried to force me to sail. When I refused because I did not owe that much, he seized my sable coat and cap and my dress sword, all items of high value. The coat and cap were gifts from my uncle, symbols of high status in Russian culture."
"And?"
Da, there is more.
"I wakened under the docks being eaten by crabs. I crawled out near the White Chapel Saloon. If not for . . ." His throat froze, thinking of Molly's charity, her taking care of him still, how he would be dead without her, how he would be dead without SuLin and her father, and how he'd lost everything he had once taken for granted. Heat rushed to his head and tears pooled in his eyes.
"God's got a stiff sense of humor, pushing you around like that." Warner had said this as a kind of joke, trying to lighten Mikhail's despair.
It did not.
Warner changed direction. "Look, let me make you a kind of partner here. We'll let the word out you're who you are; that you'll be ordering the liquors and wines. That's sure to drum up business. Come on, let me show you the rest." Warner jumped up, excited, his chair skidding across the floor.
Warner's energy invigorated Mikhail. He followed Warner past the far end of the bar, through swinging doors and into another large room. Tables had been arranged around a circular staircase and potbellied stove, big enough to heat the whole room. It had not been lit.
Warner said, "This room's for gambling. Faro and stud poker are popular here. If we get some Mexicans in, they like to play monte. Chinese like the dice. The house gets three percent of every pot, so we'll need to find banks we can trust."
"Banks?"
"Yes. Banks are the dealers in faro. Everybody bets the line, betting on where a black king will land. You'll see. For stud poker and monte, we need to hire dealers we can trust."
Warner scrambled up the stair with infectious enthusiasm.
Mikhail followed at a more controlled pace, two steps at a time.
The dark hallway had three doors on each side and a door at the far end. Warner opened one of the side doors, a small bedroom with a mat on the floor under a small window. A spider web controlled a corner near the ceiling.
"What about these spiders? I saw another one downstairs."
"Against my nature to tear down something one of God's creatures worked so hard to build. It'd be bad luck."
"You want upper class patrons?"
"I do. It's just that . . . Well, I worked so hard getting here myself."
Mikhail blinked. He would not argue this point.
"If we can bring in some women, maybe from France, it'll be a top money maker. Nobody will give a wink about a couple of spiders."
Mikhail felt uncomfortable. "I know nothing of this business. I have never used a prostitute."
Warner's grin said he doubted this one.
Mikhail felt stupid. "Perhaps I should." He would like to taste a woman's passionate embrace, too old not to have already done so.
Warner slapped him on the back, a friendly slap, and turned him toward the stair. "I've seen Tommy Chandler fight. He's a natural pugilist, head like a stone. John Drury might be able to take him, but John's twice your size. I don't care how many lessons you take under the London Prize Ring rules, Tommy's going to drag your face in the dirt. If you go against him, you'll need a better plan."
Chapter Ten
Through their daily meetings at the Olympic Club gym, Mikhail and Warner conferred with Colonel Coleman regarding the acquisition of quality wines from Spain and France, along with brandy and cognac from France. The colonel was familiar with the French labels of brandy and cognac, but knew nothing of wines, so Mikhail created a list and the colonel assured them what they requested could be located in either New York or New Orleans. He would give the list to three of his captains to insure a regular delivery schedule.
When it came to the ladies, Coleman and Downey acted as though they'd never heard of prostitutes. The mention did, however, begin a discussion of events that had taken place during the past few days.
With all of them now sprawled across the steam room benches, Coleman said, "It all started three nights ago, November 15, at the American Theater. The play was Nicodemus; or The Unfortunate Fisherman. I doubt anybody remembers or cares what the play was about, there was such a stir coming up from the pit.
"The wife and I were seated in the front balcony directly across from Charles Cora and the madam, Belle Cora. I don't think they're actually married. She just uses his name." He blinked and looked at his hands, collecting his thoughts.
"Anyway, when the lights came up for the intermission, men from the pit started howling and pointing up at the balcony. This brought Belle to the attention of our ever-growing, socially conscious citizenry, who started jeering. I don't know exactly why, but Marshal Richardson got into an argument with Charles Cora, a very successful gambler.
"Anyway . . ." Coleman hesitated again, forming his thoughts.
James King interrupted, going too slow. "You see, the marshal and his wife, not a particularly attractive woman, were seated directly behind Belle and Charlie Cora. She thought all this jeering was being directed at her, which offended her deeply.
"When she discovered the real target was Belle, she flew into a tantrum and blamed her husband, General William Richardson, for having brought her to such a disgraceful event.
"Richardson, being more than a little puffed up on spirits, as was his fashion, asked the Coras to leave. When they flatly refused, Richardson summoned the theater manager.
"The manager explained that the Coras had paid for their seats like everybody else and refused to eject them.
"Appalled by this decision, Mrs. Richardson dragged her husband from the theater in a huff. Suc
h a public defeat evidently offended Richardson. After all, he was a federal marshal."
Coleman said, "I was telling this."
Jim waved his hand. Okay.
"After all, I was there." Coleman smiled at King. "Anyway, the whole theater, mostly men who visit Belle's sumptuous parlor house . . ."
Warner nudged Mikhail and smiled. ". . . at the corner of DuPont and Washington," sarcastically implying these two men of being in no way ignorant of such places.
Coleman raised his voice, retaking control of the storytelling. "The men in the theater all cheered. Belle made a victorious curtsey from the balcony and the lights went down for the second act.
"Then, day before yesterday, Cora and the marshal ran into each other on at least two occasions, once in the street and again in the Cosmopolitan Saloon. Words were exchanged, attempts at reconciliation were made by mutual friends, drinks were ordered, and more words were exchanged."
"Then, yesterday . . ." said King, taking over the discussion with a defiant look at Coleman."Probably being prompted by his offended wife, Richardson went on the prod, searching saloon after saloon, boldly announcing his thirst for vengeance while satisfying his thirst for drink at every stop. Whether or not he was carrying a gun is still in dispute. So, when he finally ran into Cora on the street, again being surrounded by mutual friends, he apparently forgave the man. For exactly what, I still don't understand."
Coleman said, "All Charlie Cora did was bring his lady to a play. Only a year ago, that would have been no problem, but this city is rapidly changing. Wives and families are flooding in here, now. Before you know it, they'll start closing down casinos and brothels.
"My wife nags me constantly to clean this city up." He shook his head in surrender, mentally discharging certain freedoms he'd previously taken for granted.
Jim King said, "Back to Charlie Cora and the marshal." He smiled at Coleman. "They visited two saloons together, shared some drinks in harmonious discourse, and parted ways.
"Two hours later, Richardson stumbled into Cora in front of the Blue Wing Saloon on Montgomery Street and accosted him anew.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 9