Coleman said, "Somebody was prodding him on. Who knows who? Maybe he went home and had lunch with his nagging wife."
Jim admitted this possibility with a nod. "They argued in the open, walking and shoving their way down Clay Street to Leidesdorff, where Charles Cora shot and killed Richardson, a federal marshal."
"The circumstances are unclear,” said Coleman, his turn to speak. "Some say Cora pinned the marshal against the building and pulled his gun, with the marshal telling him he was unarmed, and Cora shot him in cold blood. Others say the marshal drew first and Cora pinned his pistol arm to the building and shot the marshal in self defense."
Warner said, "The marshal was here to investigate the election process—all this ballot stuffing going on, how the Law and Order Party keeps control of the ballot boxes at the voting stations, and then tallies the votes."
Jim said, "I'm not sure what a federal marshal could do about the voting problem. Voting laws and enforcement are a state responsibility."
"Hah," said Coleman, disgusted about this. "The Democrat Party controls Sacramento. They won't do a damn thing, which was why we sent our complaint back to Washington."
Warner smiled at Coleman, changing direction. "The growth of families, schools, and churches in this city might close down some of the casinos, but I doubt they'll deal with the bigger issues of our corrupted government and their monopoly on power."
King said, "There's an editorial in the Bulletin tonight. I've tried to cover everything we're talking about. It's possible Richardson was already a marked man."
Warner hadn't thought of that possibility. "You think Cora . . ."
"No," said King. "I think Cora just did them an unintended favor. It'll be interesting to see how the trial comes out."
Mikhail said, "I have been reading the Bulletin in the mornings with my breakfast." Speaking to King. "You have an interest in a state currency?"
"Yes." King seemed happy to change the subject. "Banks and customs houses minting their own currencies opens the door to unstable weights and measures. This makes trading harder on everyone. I sent some sample coins to Augustus Humbert, the district U.S. assayer. He found them to be overvalued by two to three percent."
"Brilliant move, that." Coleman meant the opposite. "That's when the legislature put an end to private currencies and started the economic depression of 1851."
Coleman and King stared daggers at each other, stabs shared only by the closest of friends.
"Recession." King smiled, a concession. King's move had evidently damaged local commerce. It had, in fact, caused King's bank to close their doors for good.
Mikhail had read about this one in the salon of Silent Mistress, finally fitting the pieces together. He told King, "You are not afraid to stand up." He deeply respected King for this, knowing how dangerous his position must have been at the time; how dangerous was King's fight to keep the waterfront from the monopoly intended by dock and casino owners of today. "You are a banker, yes?"
King nodded, waiting for the rest.
"I know something of metal currencies. If I can help in some way, let me know."
In Russia, as in the rest of Europe, currencies were minted and regulated by various monarchies, never by private banks or customs houses, as had been the case in California.
Niet. No.
A people could not rule themselves.
Is impossible.
With no monarch, who would tell the people what to do?
God Himself?
MEN FROM THE SEA JAMMED into Abe Warner's Palace bar every afternoon and into the night, and why not? Cold outside, warm inside, tasty chowder, and hot buttered rum always warmed a man's body and soul.
Open now for three months, always interested in increasing his clientele, Abe Warner had been willing to take almost anything as payment. As a result, the Palace housed several large birds in cages, most of them from Brazil, and an assorted collection of carved whalebone called scrimshaw.
One sailor, drunk on hot rum, had given up his pet monkey in exchange for a visit upstairs with one of Madame Madeleine's girls.
One of Colonel Coleman's steamship captains had carried her and three of her girls from New Orleans. She kept all the money earned by her girls and half that earned by three Chinese whores Warner had purchased in San Francisco. So, when Abe had taken the monkey as payment for a visit with a French lady, Abe had paid Madeleine the full price, a quarter ounce of gold, worth about seven dollars.
Mikhail, by then, had established regular hours. He started work at 10:00pm when gambling was at its peak. Each stud poker table had a small bucket underneath, a depository for dealers to deliver the house percentages. Every faro banker was required to do the same. One table near the swinging doors leading to the bar was used for monte, played by Mexican patrons with plenty of money. They and the Chinese shooting craps on the stoop to the dockside door paid their share to the house without complaint.
Mikhail's job was to make sure everybody paid and nobody caused trouble. This was not difficult. Most of the gambling crowd came from San Francisco's upper classes.
Americans, Europeans, Mexicans, South Americans, and Chinese all liked the atmosphere at the Palace. None but Mikhail had come from Russia.
Odd, being near the bottom of an area called Russian Hill.
Odd, too, that the scrimshaw, paintings of near-naked ladies, squawking birds, monkeys on leashes, and an ever-growing population of spiders, would be so attractive to the city's upper class gamblers. Abe Warner's reputation for honesty had certainly helped the growth of their business. Quality wines, spirits, chowders, and ladies hadn't hurt.
In the other room, the population of drinkers came mostly from the sea. The dining tables hosted a mix of both populations and everybody received equal treatment, which Mikhail had come to know as San Francisco's way.
Upstairs had no social classes. All customers were men looking for the love of a woman, a still rare creature in San Francisco. Working downstairs, Mikhail could sometimes smell their perfume. Everybody could.
Mikhail's shift ended at dawn, when Abe locked up and set his two coolies to cleaning upstairs and down. They were never to bother the spiders, of course. That would mean bad luck. Other than those ever-present spiders, Abe Warner and Mike Zabel kept a clean house.
After getting off work, Mikhail always took a taxi to Bella Union, picked up Raul on the way, and they'd enter the kitchen door to the White Chapel Saloon together. They'd do a few helpful chores then eat breakfast together. This had become Mikhail's hour to read the previous day's Evening Bulletin.
This particular morning, a column by Jim King reported that Charles Cora had been acquitted of the murder of U.S. Federal Marshal William Richardson. King reported on widely held speculation that his woman, Belle, had hired thugs to intimidate witnesses and had bribed certain members of the jury. Locals familiar with events claimed Belle had been as much on trial as was her man, Charles Cora.
A day earlier, an article in the San Francisco Argus had reported, "This harlot who instigated the murder of Richardson, with others of her kind, being allowed to visit our theaters and seat themselves side by side with the wives and daughters of our citizens is an outrage."
The Argus bemoaned this as the future of the city, harlots and housewives intertwined in a briny lawlessness that would soon destroy the fabric of society.
Coleman's predictions had been logical. The housewives would win this one. The posh casinos and brothels would be shut down. It had already begun.
Customers at the Palace complained constantly of being removed from their pleasurable pursuits by the hounding abuses of their wives. Mutual respect did not exist. Gambling and whoring around could not survive against church, theater, and opera.
The Palace, being well removed from Portsmouth Plaza and from Belle Cora's famous brothel, had been isolated from the fray. If luck afforded, this sweep of morality might completely pass them by.
Ah.
Raul had finished eating.
Mikhail set the Bulletin aside and followed Raul into the back yard for his daily lesson.
Raul's current lessons covered the arts of what he called Asia Fighting. His years in the Portuguese Navy had taken him to Japan, China, Vietnam, Siam, and the Philippines.
He could use a bolo as well as Sally used a kitchen knife. Or, he could take it away with karate, a fighting skill he'd learned in Okinawa.
He had already taught Mikhail savate, a style of French kickboxing he'd learned in French Indochina, mixing this with wrestling and boxing skills learned in Siam.
While in Japan, Raul had spent a great deal of time with a Buddhist monk learning a wrestling skill called jujitsu, using the force of his opponent to advantage.
Though small, Raul was tough as anyone Mikhail had ever encountered. His tightly wound frame of solid muscle moved quicker than the eye.
Their daily workouts usually lasted until Mikhail had been punched, kicked, or thrown to the point of being senseless. Raul would always laugh, help him back to his feet, brush him off, and call it the price of knowledge.
Their bond of friendship had become strong.
After these workouts, Mikhail went to the Olympic Club Gym to work with John Drury, the heavyweight boxer Abe Warner had brought into the club. For the prestige of his membership, not to mention the cost to Warner, John delighted in teaching Mikhail the fine arts of bare knuckle boxing, rolling with a punch, and showing him how power in a punch came from the back foot being well planted.
John had taught him how to parry with the forward arm and shoot a jab, how to circle your opponent to the left, thereby avoiding his right, and how ring fights were usually fought in a ring out in the open, on grass, with regulated, spiked shoes for traction.
Mikhail's confidence had grown. He would not be meeting Tommy Chandler in an organized fight. There would be no ropes. There would be no spikes for traction on grass. They would probably meet on the street or in some kind of establishment where Raul's fighting arts would give Mikhail a real chance to win the return of his property.
Mikhail could pay, but Tommy Chandler would never give these up for past due rents. Their value far exceeded the money owed, even with extravagant interest.
He and Drury worked with the heavy bag three days a week, taking turns holding it. Drury's punches rocked Mikhail back with each blow. He always made sure Mikhail understood that the power had come from his back foot being planted firmly on the floor, left to left, right to right.
Mikhail punched with fists, elbows, knees, and feet, always keeping one foot planted for power and stability, hitting the heavy bag with force, sometimes lifting John off the floor with his elbow or knee.
After boxing exercises, with Downey in Sacramento, John Drury had taken his place in their group, tossing the medicine ball and running the track upstairs with Warner and Mikhail.
That morning, John said, "This kid's getting stronger, Mr. Warner. Still, going up against Tommy Chandler . . ." He shook his head and frowned, breathing evenly, running well.
"Chandler's a cocky son-of-a-whore." Warner huffed and puffed, struggling to keep up. "He won't be expecting what's coming his way."
Feeling uncomfortable with these two talking as if he were not there, Mikhail kicked up his heels, sprinted a final lap around the building, went downstairs, took a quick steam, took his cold mineral bath, and got dressed.
He needed to go by the mail wharf and check for possible mail, still hoping to hear from his uncle.
The postman watched him enter. "Good morning, Count. I've got two pieces for you, today." He went into one of many aisles of slotted shelving and came out with two envelopes, one much larger than the other. He slapped the heavier envelope onto the counter. "You need to sign for this one, and there's a return fee you need to pay for." He looked at the envelope. "Three dollars. I guess she wants to be sure you got it." He set both envelopes in front of Mikhail, where he could read them.
The smaller one had come from Weaverville and was written in SuLin's hand. The larger one had the flow and grace of a woman's hand, and carried the Romanov seal.
Mikhail's heart jumped. The Lady Catherine had remained in his thoughts and his hopes, though images of Molly had sometimes pushed her aside when he slept.
He signed the return notice, Count Mikhail Diebitsch Zabalkansky, paid the three dollars with brass coins minted at the new U.S. Treasury Mint in San Francisco, and stuffed both letters into his inside coat pocket. He would read them in private.
He quietly entered his room at the White Chapel where Raul slept. Billy sat at the table by the window, reading last night's edition of the Evening Bulletin. Both knew to be quiet, to respect Raul's slumber. They would talk later about Billy's reading and understanding of the newspaper.
Mikhail nodded hello and sat across the table from Billy. He took out both envelopes and set SuLin's aside, turning the larger envelope in both hands, anxious to see what she had written, but afraid to find out.
Was this an apology for what her brother had done? Or, was this bad news about his uncle? Or, maybe a warning about the grand duke.
Chance encounters in St. Petersburg between Mikhail and the duchess had thrilled his senses—glances across the room at one another, her smiles, the way she whispered secrets to her friends. She'd always glowed at the sight of him; looks that would cause any man to lose his wits and drool into his cups.
He slid his finger behind the flap, careful not to tear the paper, and broke the wax seal of the Romanov Dynasty. He opened the flap slowly, fearful, and wanting to see her again.
He slid three folded sheets of paper from the envelope and opened them slowly. Nothing had been written on any of them.
Billy whispered, "What's that about?"
"They are looking for me." He glanced at SuLin's envelope.
Chapter Eleven
Weaverville got cold in November. Snow had been falling for three days already. Chiang SuLin stored enough wood inside to keep the fire burning all day and night, but it was not a big enough fire to warm their whole cabin. Cold wind whistled through cracks too small to see. It was icy cold at night.
Her father's response to the intestinal illness at the laundry had well established his reputation as a healer in the Chinese community. Since then, young girls working in Hocker House had been coming to him, itching around their vaginas, with cuts on their faces from rough treatment at the hands of Sheriff Randy Bartow and his deputies, and two pregnancies.
One girl had been pregnant for four months before coming up to see him, complaining of strong pains in her stomach. Her baby had died in her womb and Chiang Po had taken it from her body. A sad day. A dead boy baby.
For many Chinese, girl babies were a burden. Selling daughters into slavery had been commonplace for centuries.
Chiang Po held this practice to be a dark stain on the Chinese culture, and his reason for never accepting payment from these girls. They had become slaves through no fault of their own.
Po felt shame for their families; shame for China. Wherever Chinese people lived, this was China.
Others in the Chinese community paid Po with food or clothing. The clothing had been folded and piled into a corner near the door or stuffed under the door to block the cold wind. Discarded clothing as payment had no worth. By receiving no real payment for medical services, Po had lost face. Food could be accepted without loss of face.
Only one patient had actually paid. On Monday and Thursday afternoons, her father had been treating the wife of Winston Bray, a local stone and brick mason with a gold claim down near the Trinity River.
Dr. H. B. Davison, the man who'd helped them when they first arrived, had been unable to ease this woman's recurring headaches. In desperation, and with the utmost secrecy, he had recommended Chiang Po.
Po treated Mrs. Bray near the fireplace, massaging her neck to relax her before inserting six needles in her neck near the base of her skull, slowly turning and gently tapping each needle with a bamboo wand
, guiding each to the exact depth.
SuLin prepared small pieces of waxed incense for her father to press onto the exposed tip of each needle. SuLin would then light each piece of waxed incense with a twig from the fireplace. Heat could then flow slowly into the needles and into the nerves deep inside her neck. The slow rise of needle temperature would not cause her severe pain.
SuLin always interpreted for her father, telling Mrs. Bray how this method would deaden the nerve endings that were causing her muscles to tighten. This tightening pulled a disk in her upper neck to one side. This had been the hidden source of her headaches.
In doing this procedure, it had been necessary for SuLin to unbutton Mrs. Bray's dress near the neckline and drape her hair away from her neck, making room for her father to work.
Po's massages would always put Mrs. Bray to sleep, bent over in a chair by the fire. Red marks on her skin from the heated needles always disappeared between visits. She had not once complained of having been burned.
In the middle of her Thursday treatment, the door burst open with a gust of cold air, chilling SuLin to instant shivers. It did not wake Mrs. Bray, slumped in her chair near the fire, neck and shoulders bare, sporting long needles tipped with smoking waxed incense.
Her husband, Winston Bray, stood in the open doorway, stiff as a statue, mouth twisted with fear. "What the hell are you doing?"
Not understanding Winston Bray's frightful question, Chiang Po stood, smiled, and bowed.
"Wanda?" Winston Bray leaned forward, his face twisted with fear.
Wanda Bray snored softly.
Winston Bray vaulted off the porch toward the snow-covered footpath. Rounding the big tree in front, he slipped and slid downhill through the forest in hip-deep snow.
Chiang Po closed the door and returned to his stool, closely monitoring the glow of smoking incense until they expired. He waited a few moments for the needles to cool and gently spun them out.
SuLin cleaned the needles and put them away, then massaged Mrs. Bray's neck and shoulders, buttoning her dress and slowly waking her.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 10