Over the period of her treatments, Mrs. Bray had become more and more relaxed. Today, she stretched her arms, smiled, flexed her neck, and stood, happy with Po.
She opened her purse and presented Chiang Po with a brand new twenty dollar gold piece. She smiled at SuLin. "This isn't enough, I know. We've spent a fortune with Dr. Davison and more down in Sacramento. I never got anything but a bunch of powders that made me feel stupid or sleepy. As soon as they wore off, the headaches came back.
"From the first day, your father's treatments made me feel better. I haven't had any pain now for over a week; none at all." She smiled. "It's a miracle."
SuLin translated Mrs. Bray's comments for her father.
He smiled and mentioned future visits.
"My father say, two more visits and those nerve ends will not anymore pull the muscles in your neck. No need to come back again. Only twice more times."
"One more week." Mrs. Bray smiled and turned her head, showing no signs of discomfort.
The door burst open again.
Sheriff Randy Bartow filled the open doorway.
One of his deputies and Winston Bray stood on the porch behind him. Bray said, "Wanda, you all right?"
"Of course I am. Better than ever."
Bray's face flooded with relief. His thin smile apologized. He helped his wife into her heavy coat and led her out past the sheriff. "Sorry I bothered you, sheriff."
"No bother." Randy Bartow stared up and down on SuLin.
She hugged her body and turned, feeling dirty all over.
Bartow and his deputy stepped inside and closed the door. The sheriff said, "Pack it up." The deputy swept through both rooms, packing Chiang Po's medical case with anything that looked like medical supplies. He closed the case and carelessly tossed everything else into a burlap sack.
SuLin swallowed her fear and blinked away her tears. "What you do? How we help people now? How we live?"
The sheriff said, "Tell your pa he can cut, stick, shred, and hack all the Chinese people he wants. Be my guest. Only, he needs to pay a state business tax of thirty dollars a year, in advance." He smiled at his deputy, thinking more bad things. "Up here, we got a fee of one hundred dollars a month to practice medicine, no matter who's your patient."
He stared at Chiang Po, knowing Po could not understand. Anybody could see the bewilderment in Po's eyes.
"If I catch you treating another white person, I'll strip your cloths off, cut off that ponytail, and hang you from that tree next to Hocker House."
He smiled at SuLin, tongue licking back and forth like a snake. "If your pa can't pay the state tax, tell him I'll buy you for thirty dollars. I usually pay no more than twenty for Chinese girls. You won't need to wait on anybody but me. You'll belong to only me. You come along down to Hocker House, I'll waive the local fee of a hundred dollars a month." He nodded toward Chiang Po. "Tell him."
She told her father they would need to find more herbs from the forest and said nothing of the sheriff's offer to buy her for the fees he'd just demanded.
Where is my Russian count?
Is he still alive?
Would he help?
MIKHAIL FOLDED SULIN'S letter and slid it back into the envelope.
Billy had been watching him read, always eager for information about anything. "That looks important." Teaching this boy to read had opened a mind filled with questions.
"Just some Chinese I used to know." What did she expect him to do against a sheriff and two deputies?
Billy spoke quietly. Raul was still sleeping. "Can we talk about the Bulletin now?"
"Da. Yes."
"I've been reading about this Bulkheads business. He keeps writing about it like everybody is supposed to know what it means."
"The Bulkheads is a term used to describe a proposed project for the waterfront. The purpose is to stop sand from drifting into the bay. If this happens, it could block ships from coming into the docks."
"Why is the Bulletin so steamed up about it?"
"James King of William is the editor over there. He knew Matthew O'Brian, the widow's dead husband. Mr. O'Brian was a civil engineer who spoke out publicly about the project, saying the engineering behind it was nonsense. According to Matthew, there is no sand drifting into the bay. This sand has been here for thousands of years and will be here for thousands more."
"Wasn't he one of the casino owners? Isn't it the casino owners who want to build this project?"
"Yes and yes. Some of his friends think he was murdered for speaking out against this monopoly of casino and dock owners."
"Wait." Billy looked more confused. "I don't see any of that in the Bulletin. All they talk about is how bad it would be to have this . . ." He referred to the article in the Evening Bulletin. "Here it is. 'This cartel being in control of the waterfront can only breed corruption and greed.'"
"This is what cartels usually do. They form monopolies so they can manipulate and control markets. If they control markets, they can set how much money they will all make. There is no competition. They claim this project is too big for the government; too costly. These men are very wealthy already. This is much like the czars of Russia. This is what they do." Mikhail shrugged. It was not so bad.
"Don't you want to stop this? Don't you care?"
Mikhail had no answer for this one.
In Russia, the czars had always controlled those sectors of commerce they wanted to control. Who could stop them? Smart citizens always found ways to prosper.
Ah, I keep forgetting.
"James King of William is my friend. You want to work for the Evening Bulletin?"
A FEW BLOCKS OVER, near the end of Pacific Street Wharf, Dink Watkins and Justin Murphy stood behind the bar in the downstairs parlor of Tommy Chandler's Boardinghouse. Everybody but Tommy called it a saloon.
Dink and Justin had finished rounding up indebted sailors and Tommy had signed them onto Crusader, as bad a death ship as Sunrise. Now Tommy's upstairs rooms were mostly empty.
Dink and Justin had proven their value, both in bringing sailors into Tommy's and hustling them onto ships. Tommy had given them a room to themselves with a small share in his profits, enough for a whore now and then.
Tommy's cooking was boring, but free: not bad-tasting whenever Dink chugged a few beers with it.
Tommy had gone out with orders that Dink was to serve free beer to the men trickling in through the open front door, longshoremen and casino crews from Bella Union, El Dorado, and the Empire. Dink knew most of them. Not too many wanted beer. They mumbled and stood around, wondering why they'd been ordered to meet at Tommy Chandler's.
Neither Dink nor Justin could say.
Already well after dark, about fifty men had gathered in the saloon.
Tommy walked in with a well-dressed man of stout stature. Gray hair flowed over the tops of his ears, with red hair on top. He looked like he usually wore a hat. His hair had been nicely brushed out and combed. A right smart gentleman, he was.
Chandler led the man up four steps to the first stair landing and stopped. "Gentlemen." The saloon fell quiet. "As you all know, we've an election coming up. We've been pretty good, so far, at keeping the Law and Order Party in power."
A few mumbles rose from the crowd—men congratulating one another; some back slapping.
Chandler's hands went up, asking for silence. "However, our strong-arm tactics got the attention and ire of some of the local press and raised concerns over there in Sacramento. No worries there. Our party controls the California State Legislature."
Cheers erupted around the room.
Tommy threw up his arms, begging for quiet. "That said, some of our local opposition complained back there to Washington. That's why Marshal Richardson got sent out here, to watch the election process and report back."
"He should have stayed back there in Washington," shouted Jack Darnell, a faro dealer at Bella Union. "Just look where he is now."
Dink and Justin joined in the laughter. Everybody kn
ew that Charlie Cora had been acquitted.
"Just the same," shouted Chandler, both hands up, trying to restore order.
The room grew quiet.
"Just the same, his death and the acquittal of Charlie Cora have prompted the State Legislature to debate the issue. To belay any state interventions, some of our friends over there are talking about consolidating the city and county governments. Mayor Van Ness . . ."
The saloon exploded at the mention of the mayor's name, with loud cheers and whistles.
Tommy threw up his arms and waved for silence.
Some of the men laughed and continued to jostle.
Tommy's eyes narrowed angrily, looking from one man to the next. The laughter stopped quickly. Everybody knew of Tommy's temper.
Tommy said, "Mayor Van Ness thinks this legislation will pass and that the city and county will come under a board of supervisors. That's why he asked me to bring in James Casey, here." He poked a thumb toward the other man.
"He's from the County Board of Supervisors." He slapped the graying redhead's back. "He's also the editor of The Sunday Times. He'll not only show us how to work the polling stations more efficiently, he'll also take up our cause with his newspaper. For your benefit, and as a favor to the mayor, allow me to introduce James P. Casey." Tommy pushed Casey forward and stepped back.
Casey grabbed the rail with both hands and looked around the room, making eye contact with many of the men as he spoke. "Men, what we're going to learn over the next couple of weeks is how to control the ballot boxes and thus control the count. There's no need to bully people on the street. We'll take men around from polling station to polling station, and we'll cast ballots for Law and Order at every one of them. Then, to insure victory, we'll open those boxes ourselves and count those votes. Why, if the opposition gets fifty votes, I'd be very surprised."
The room burst into uproarious laughter.
Chandler stepped up and looked man to man at many of them, wearing his angry look.
The room grew quiet.
Casey said, "At the same time, we'll be running articles in The Sunday Times about how upright and sensible our public policies are for all of our citizens. I've already formed a Political Slogan Committee to come up with catchy names and phrases we can print up on posters and spread around before the upcoming elections. My article in the paper on Sunday is titled, Sacramento Blockheads Have No Say Over San Francisco's Bulkheads."
Men cheered. Everybody liked the slogan.
Casey continued speaking, but Dink stopped listening.
Tommy Chandler moved through the crowd toward the bar, his eyes fixed on little Dink.
DINK WATKINS HAD BEEN following James King of William from his apartment on Washington Street up to the Olympic Club gym at the top of Post Street for three days. At least Tommy had hired a taxi for as long as they needed, keeping poor Dink out of the cold rain. After about two hours at the Olympic Club gym, King always went straight to his newspaper office.
He'd spend an hour or so with his newspaper, then he'd dine at Dante's Italia across the street from his office. After another hour or so at his newspaper, King would take a taxi back to his apartment where Justin took over for the night, watching from Bruce Hudson's apartment, which was a bit uphill and across the street from King's apartment.
A thin, cold mist covered the waterfront when Dink left Tommy Chandler's that Sunday morning, the mist rolling slowly toward the bay. For the first time in a week, it looked like the sun might break through.
James King of William might come out for the sunshine and go to some public place—someplace where Tommy Chandler and Jim Casey could confront him in public and throw his lies about the Law and Order Party back into his lying face in front of witnesses.
Dink hated following a rich man without being able to pluck him clean, but Tommy had ordered him to stay out of sight and not get close. At least Dink had some of Tommy's money in his pockets.
He took the taxi uptown, the fog clearing, and he reached Washington Street under bright sunlight.
Bruce Hudson, a member of the city police department and loyal party man, had been happy to help. His apartment was perfect. From Bruce's second floor bay window, they could look right down into King's apartment building.
Hudson's apartment was cold and dark, that morning. Staying quiet, Dink turned into the front parlor where Justin had curled up under a blanket, comfy as can be in his stuffed chair by the window, feet up on a stool, snoring like a steamer.
A copy of last week's Sunday Times on the floor gave Dink an idea. He snuck over, quietly tore a long sliver of paper off the Times, and used it to tickle Justin's nose.
Justin's lip curled up. He shifted sideways and resumed his snoring.
Dink tickled Justin's ear.
Justin slapped at it, too slow, and Dink went back to tickling his nose. Justin snorted and sat upright, rubbing wildly at his nose, probably hurting himself. He pinched his nose, rubbed his face with both hands, and grabbed the arms of the chair to stand. He didn't realize Dink had arrived.
Dink said, "Hope he didn't step out on you." He dropped the sliver of paper to the floor from behind his back.
"How long you been here?"
"How long you been asleep?"
"Not long enough." Justin stood and stretched, looking down across the street.
"Hope he didn't go out on you."
"Nope. He's still there."
"How do you know that?"
"That's his window, right there on the corner. The shades are still down."
The shades were up on the first floor window, but the second and third floors were down.
They stood slightly uphill and across the street, straight in line with the third floor window of King's apartment. They'd never be seen, standing well back in the shadows of the room.
Morning sun burned hot on King's bay windows across the street.
The shades went up and King's wife stood in the sunlit bay window, nice-looking, for having had so many kids. She looked down on the street and up at the sun, not across the street at Dink and Justin.
Justin scratched his backside. "Told you."
A few minutes later, James King of William walked out onto the front stoop of the apartment building, trotted down the front steps, and strolled downhill toward the corner.
"See you later." Dink rushed outside to follow.
By the time Dink reached the street, James King had already vanished around the downhill corner.
Dink hurried downhill to the corner and stopped.
King stood in front of a news stand, reading a fresh copy of the Sunday Times. Chandler and Casey had been reading the Evening Bulletin every night.
Everybody wanted to know what their opposition had to say.
King stepped into a taxi.
Dink turned uphill and waved.
Dink's taxi had already started downhill. The driver knew the routine. He stopped at the corner, eyes on little Dink.
"Don't follow too close." Dink climbed aboard.
Chapter Twelve
James King of William liked spending Sundays with his wife Charlotte and their five children. That particular Sunday, with the sun out, he would have loved taking them to North Beach, where his three boys zoomed through the carnival attractions. Today, he'd made too many important appointments.
Rumors had been spreading, about city and county governments colluding in advance of consolidation legislation in Sacramento. City and county governments had both been corrupted by private interests seeking to control the local economy. To form a coalition would be illegal. Law required a rigid separation of city, county, state, and federal governance.
He walked downhill and took a taxi to a restaurant near his office to meet for coffee with John Myerson, the only honest alderman he knew.
Good to his promise, Myerson arrived with Kenny Bolton, a man who'd recently arrived from New York, where he'd spent three and a half years in Sing Sing State Penitentiary for manslaughter because of
an argument over a woman.
Myerson had previously confirmed secret meetings between San Francisco Mayor James Van Ness and James Casey, a prominent member of the County Board of Supervisors and an outspoken supporter of private financing for the proposed Bulkheads project. They'd already been selecting and appointing poll workers for the next round of elections, well in advance of any reasonable timeframe for doing so.
The only reason King could imagine was that they could train these men on how to control the vote tallies and insure victory for the Law and Order Party, or whatever they might call themselves under the Consolidation Act. Free and fair elections were the safeguard of a democratic republic.
He'd been reading Casey's articles in the Sunday Times, a lot of scare-mongering about the city sliding into the bay with every little tremor of an earthquake. Casey's rhetoric flowed with clever mottos in support of the Law and Order Party, his choice for overseeing any such private undertaking. James King would love to meet James Casey, an intelligent, witty, and motivated political opponent.
King waved, and they sat at a corner table near the window. King set the Sunday Times in front of Myerson so he could read the headline. King said, "What's Casey's angle in all this? What's he after?"
The alderman nudged Bolton.
Bolton read the headline, then looked up at King. "When I was at Sing Sing, Jim Casey was my cellmate. He did five years for grand larceny; some kind of stock scheme."
"Stock scheme?" King saw no connection.
"Yeah. He explained it to me lots of times, but I didn't get it. He said he only got caught because the city councilman he was working with backed out and exposed the scheme. Something about city tax funds being used for private investments, a matching fund with so-called investors that never actually existed." Bolton spread his hands and winced, uncomfortable. He still didn't get it. "Something like that. He said he used counterfeit certificates of deposit. I wish I knew more about this kind of stuff. I'd like to help. He's a slick snake. I never liked him."
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 11