What the . . .
The dandy hooked Tommy's leg and walked him backward, delivering two heavy punches into Tommy's face.
Tommy grabbed the dandy's left arm, pulled him sideways, and freed his leg. He danced away and both circled left.
The dandy slapped Tommy's next jab sideways and delivered three quick punches, left, right, left. Hard punches, they was.
Tommy sat on his hands, caught himself, and sprang up. Bright red blood flowed from both nostrils. He was as mad as Dink had ever seen. He stepped forward to deliver a kick between the dandy's legs.
The dandy slapped it away and waded into Tommy with four quick, hard punches, following Tommy's stumbling retreat step for step.
Tommy backed against the bar, shaking it off. Red with rage, he lowered his head and charged the dandy.
The dandy stepped sideways, planted his right foot, and slammed his right elbow into the side of Tommy's head.
Tommy's head jerked sideways like a broken neck and he went down on his hands and knees, stunned wobbly.
The dandy spanned his distance with a quick look.
"Look out, you Tommy."
The dandy took one step and kicked Tommy in the face.
Tommy flipped backward into the bar, hit the floor, and rolled back and forth. He looked at Dink, dazed and bloodied. His eyes cleared quickly as he elbowed onto the foot rail. He reached into his boot and pulled his double barrel muzzle loader, cocking back the hammer as he drew it forth.
Standing close, the dandy stomped on Tommy's arm and the gun went off.
Justin yelped and grabbed his knee, standing near little Dink.
The gun went off again.
The dandy backed away from Tommy and dropped his fists, relaxed.
Tommy sprawled over the foot rail, rocking back and forth in pain, holding his bleeding left hand.
Dink said, "Justin, he shot hisself. Tommy shot hisself."
"He shot me too, dammit." Justin stood on one foot, leaning against a post, holding his bleeding knee with both hands. He'd already dropped Tommy's mink coat and cap to the floor.
James Casey helped Tommy to his feet.
Dink picked up Tommy's coat and cap.
The dandy stood over Dink with a hard stare. "Thank you."
Dink dusted off the coat and cap and handed them over.
The dandy's hard stare stayed on little Dink.
Dink didn't like it.
MIKHAIL COULDN'T STOP thinking about the night before, his fight with Tommy Chandler. "I wanted to kill the man."
Raul stared at Mikhail's mink coat and cap, hanging on the back of the bedroom door. "I see why you want them back."
"They were a gift from my uncle, like I said."
"Pretty nice gift, you ask me?"
The coat and cap seemed less important now. Someone might have been killed. "You ever kill a man, up close?"
They had the bedroom to themselves. Billy was working late at the Bulletin.
Raul said, "One time. A man tried to steal my purse."
"How much was in it?"
"Twenty dollars, give or take."
"You killed a man for twenty dollars?"
"No. Course not. I kill him for try to steal from me. He try to kill me first. He and some other guy trick me into this dark place. My first time here, just in from Santiago. Couldn't see nothing in that dark. Still, I know I break his neck. Heard it snap and he went limp. The other guy run away or I kill him, too. I was plenty mad."
"You come in on Pacific Street Wharf?" The bigger man with Chandler had been the man who'd invited him for a hot bath and shave. No mistake. The one waiting in the vestibule had probably been Dink Watkins.
"I think it was Pacific Street. Guy invited me for a hot shave and bath. Said a pretty young Chinese girl going to scrub my whole body clean and make me feel like a new man." He smiled at Mikhail. "I think this is why I so mad. I like Chinese ladies' hands on me."
"How did you feel after? I mean, about killing a man over twenty dollars."
Raul looked out the window, remembering. "I took a long walk to look for that other one, the one hiding in the dark place, the one who got away. After a time, I calm down and look for some place to stay. By sunup, I come to German House. I don't sleep so good for couple weeks."
"You felt guilty?"
"No, not that. I don't like Raul so much, can't control his anger. I like more to be in charge of over myself."
That defined what Mikhail had been feeling—out of control, ready to kill a man over a fur coat. If not for the pistol, if not for Tommy shooting his own hand, Mikhail might have beaten him to death.
The beast within; a fearful thing.
"You seem to sleep okay now."
"I come in on a frigate from Vera Cruz about a year later and I see the other guy. He's talking some Swede into the booth, 'bout ten o'clock at night. I recognize his voice. I know this Swede, see. I tell him, don't go there. Tell him it's a trap. Then I beat this other guy bloody. I break his nose, but I no kill him. After that, I sleep plenty good, except for now. You talk too much."
Chapter Thirteen
The noon mass at Mission Dolores had gone long. After finally taking communion, Mikhail waited while Molly talked privately with the priest. They glanced often at Mikhail. He felt trapped, but he would wait without complaint. Paddy might complain, waiting outside with his taxi.
Niet.
Paddy would not mind. He and his taxi had recently been hired full time by the Palace.
Mikhail hated waiting for anybody, especially after having scheduled a busy day.
Mikhail offered both arms; one to Martha Scott, the other to Sally Portman. The three strolled slowly toward the exit and stopped. Better to wait in the open doorway. More fresh air. When the ladies stepped toward each other to gossip, Mikhail dropped their arms and stepped outside into hazy sunshine.
People to meet.
Promises to keep.
Finally!
Molly stepped outside, took his arm, and marched him toward Paddy's waiting taxi. He helped all three ladies aboard and climbed in next to Molly.
Paddy slapped reins and the taxi rocked forward.
Martha and Sally whispered gossip, unhappy about something.
Molly squeezed his arm. "Thank you for taking us to church." Her eyes said much more.
He knew not what. "This is my pleasure."
Molly cocked her head sideways, her motherly perusal. "You look thin."
"He's consumptive," said Sally, always eager to help. "I was telling Martha, here." She nodded a confirming smile at Martha.
Martha's mouth pursed in agreement. "He's got plenty of strength to wrestle around with Raul."
Sally smirked. "He's not had a nosebleed in awhile. Raul said he's getting better at his fighting tactics, whatever those might be."
Molly looked at Mikhail. "Are you eating properly?"
Martha said, "He hates our cooking. I been telling Sally." Both hens smiled and nodded, smug.
Mikhail coughed and held his breath, not daring to laugh in their faces. "I am tired of chowder and biscuits." He smiled at Martha and Sally. "I miss your cooking very much. Perhaps we can dine together more often. I will make the time." This satisfied the hens. They'd won.
Molly squeezed his arm. "What about this afternoon? Will you be staying for Sunday supper?"
"I have a meeting with Abe and Jim King."
The taxi stopped in front of the White Chapel Saloon and Mikhail jumped down. He helped Sally and Martha to the wood-plank street, deliberately blocking Molly with his back. He waited for the hens to strut toward the front door and turned to help Molly. He could not deny her his trust. "I will be back for the breakfast. To talk then is possible?"
"That would be nice." She smiled, pushed away, and marched toward her boardinghouse.
Paddy watched her walk away, enjoying the view of a very handsome woman, not looking at Mikhail. "Where to, Mike?"
"Take me to the Bulletin, will you, Paddy?"<
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In taxis, Mikhail usually allowed his thoughts to wander, today thinking how odd is the name, James King of William. They'd spoken of it in the Olympic steam room.
King had changed his name while living in Washington, D.C. He'd only been sixteen at the time. There'd been too many boys named King. Half of them had also been named James; maybe because of the King James Bible, so popular in America. Since his father's name had been William, the boy thought James King of William would be the proper name to take.
The name somehow fit the man, remarkably unforgettable.
Mikhail had wanted to speak with Jim about financial matters for a long time. James King of William probably understood finance as well as anybody in San Francisco.
With his support, with the possible support of the Bulletin, big things could happen.
Over the past couple of months, Mikhail had been reading reports from a place called Gold Hill in the Western Utah Territory. They complained of a heavy blue-black metal gumming up their sluices. Mikhail speculated this heavy metal to be silver.
According to news reports, the Congress of the United States planed to create new paper and metal currencies. With gold, copper, and lead already in use, silver might soon be in high demand. Not as precious as gold, silver carried higher value than copper, lead, or borax.
Colonel Coleman liked borax and had already invested in a place called Death Valley. Only the colonel could know why.
As a consequence, Coleman had no interest in forming an investment group with Mikhail. He'd made his investments and he wanted no partners. Colonel William Tell Coleman had substantial responsibilities and held significant wealth.
Abe Warner and James King of William had both been listening with only one ear, vaguely interested in such a group, perhaps merely being polite.
The taxi stopped on Montgomery Street above Washington and Mikhail climbed down. "You should go back to Meigg's Wharf. Mr. Warner might need you."
Paddy slapped reins and his empty taxi shot down Montgomery.
Mikhail walked across the brick-paved street into the front office of the Evening Bulletin. Nobody worked the front desk on Sundays. There was no last minute advertising. The presses behind lay quiet and the back doors to the alley stood open.
He walked through the tangle of desks to the loading dock in back where Billy Cahill and two other men loaded stacks of string-tied newspapers onto two wagons.
"Hi, Mr. Mike." Billy looked every inch a press boy, with his ink-smeared face and arms.
The first fully loaded wagon pulled slowly away.
"You learning anything here, Billy?" The first wagon turned the corner at the end of the narrow alley and rolled downhill on Washington Street.
"Yes, sir. I love it here. I learn new things every day." He smiled and nodded behind Mikhail. "Mr. King's in his office reading today's edition. You seen it?"
"Not yet." Mikhail smiled and gripped Billy's shoulder, saying both hello and goodbye. He turned back inside, crossed the room quickly, and entered Jim's private office.
"Count Mike." Jim folded the paper he'd been reading and stood. He smiled and handed Mikhail a fresh copy from a short stack on his desk.
Sunday's edition, May 4, 1856, carried a bold headline across the top. "NEW COALITION BETWEEN COUNTY AND CITY STINKS OF CORRUPTION."
An artist's sketch of James Casey appeared in the center of the page, a good likeness, with bold print under the picture. "County Board of Supervisors member James Casey is a convicted New York felon." Below the fold, King had actually reprinted a series of short articles from New York newspapers, solid evidence for all to see. Casey had been convicted of grand larceny and fraud and had served three years in Sing Sing Penitentiary.
The editorial, written by Jim, reminded San Franciscans of the known corruption of the Law and Order Party, the city government, and the city police department, detailing their allegiance to U.S. Senator David C. Broderick, who Jim labeled the Backstage Dictator of San Francisco.
Mikhail sat and read.
The article accused Broderick of being the rascal who'd imported this felon straight from the New York State prison system, neatly tying all of this to the ballot stuffers who'd committed voter fraud and brought about the corrupted election of Democrat Mayor James Van Ness. He further noted how these two bodies, the city and county governments, with the help of Senator Broderick, intended to increase their power over the entire Bay Area by controlling the consolidation of these two governmental bodies through future ballot fraud.
The article drew a clear connection between the politicians and the dock and casino owners. If they could use the proposed Bulkhead projects to buy up the waterfront, they'd control shipping and set dock fees for incoming freight at whatever amounts they wanted. It further warned of how this monopoly would cripple local merchants, would make imported products ever more costly, and would skim lucrative profits from the export of the state's precious minerals. It was a neat scheme, and as corrupt as any Mikhail had seen in Russia.
Jim had already lit the fuse on this explosive article by putting it out on the street. In Russia, the czar's operatives would shoot him down in the street and burn the newspaper office to the ground.
"What can this editorial do but create hostility?"
King had obviously been thinking about this for a long time, given the quickness of his response. "Coleman's right. Unless we can flush this bunch of thieves out of here, this city is done. Maybe not this year or next, but done just the same." He pulled out his gold-cased pocket watch with the gold chain, flipped it open, looked at the time, and showed it to Mikhail. 4:35. "We're supposed to meet Coleman and Warner here at about five fifteen. Let's take a walk. I want to feel the street when people read this."
Jim turned down his desk lamp, pulled on his jacket, and led Mikhail back onto the loading dock where everybody had gone. He locked the doors from the inside and led Mikhail out through the glass front door onto the sidewalk. They stood in late sunlight in front of the office to watch people open and read the Daily Evening Bulletin at newsstands on both corners.
Jim smiled and pulled Mikhail downhill, strolling slowly toward Washington Street, a half block away. "I've been thinking about your proposal."
"Good. Is possible we can take advantage of new monetary policies."
"Investing in unproven dirt is always risky. I've lost at that game before, and I've got a wife and six kids."
"Yes. How is the baby?"
"She's wonderful." He smiled the appreciation seen only in fathers, something Mikhail seldom thought about.
King stopped and faced Mikhail. "I'd like to keep my money in California, if possible."
They crossed Washington and continued down Montgomery.
Mikhail said, "I've been looking at an area called Gold Hill, over in Western Utah Territory."
"That's what I was afraid of. You think this area will pan out?"
"I do. We can place an anonymous ad in the Bulletin and hope somebody looking for investors makes it across the Sierra. I think is possible. I find American people are very stubborn. More even than in Russia."
James stopped and squared up to Mikhail again, looking into his face with crisp, powder blue eyes, the late sun in his face. "So, what you want me to do is to get some investment funds lined up."
"Da, yes." Mikhail smiled. "I already say this."
"We can do that." They turned back uphill toward the Bulletin office.
"I'm glad you've been thinking about this." Mikhail's hopes soared, a tingle from the top of his head to his toes.
"I have."
A man shouted from across Montgomery Street, "Are you armed?"
Men scattered as James Casey crossed the street toward them. He raised a large handgun, a type Mikhail had not seen before. "Draw and defend yourself."
Jim shoved Mikhail hard against the building, out of the way, protecting him. He spread his arms and faced Casey, showing Casey that he had no weapons.
The street had emptied.
Mikhail froze.
Casey strode closer, taking careful aim. Smoke exploded from the gun barrel.
Mikhail heard no shot. No ringing in his ears.
Jim fell next to Mikhail, but Mikhail still could not move.
A woman screamed from somewhere nearby and horse hooves thundered over brick.
Mikhail stared into the cold eyes of James Casey.
Casey blinked, lowered his gun, and turned away.
Mikhail dropped to his knees next to Jim as a crowd pressed quickly around them.
A man said, "God, it's James King from the Bulletin. Somebody find a doctor."
Another man shouted, "Come on. Let's get him off the street."
Mikhail helped carry Jim into the Pacific Express Office on the corner of Washington and Montgomery.
Others cleared a table, and they laid Jim upon it.
Somebody turned up the overhead lamp.
Blood oozed from a hole in Jim's jacket near his left armpit. His breath came short and labored, but no blood showed at his mouth; a good sign.
Jim squirmed uncomfortably on the table, trying to find a less painful position.
"Jim."
Jim's eyes darted around until they found Mikhail, demanding something.
"I will bring your wife."
Jim nodded.
Mikhail turned and pushed through the growing crowd.
A man outside shouted, "I'm a doctor."
Mikhail helped clear a path on his way out, letting the doctor in.
Abe Warner and Colonel Coleman stood on the sidewalk, both wondering what had happened.
"It's Jim. He has been shot. I'm going for his wife."
"Give us some room!" shouted a voice from inside.
"We need more light!" shouted another. "Somebody hold him still, for God's sake."
Mikhail forced his way through the onrush of men shouting questions nobody could answer.
Paddy waited across Montgomery. He'd brought Warner up from the Palace.
Mikhail rushed across the street and climbed aboard. "Get up to the top of Washington."
"Jim King's house?" Paddy knew. He slapped reins and turned his taxi up Washington at a gallop.
Mikhail looked at his hands, a clinging stickiness he'd felt before. His left hand had been covered with bright red blood, a bad sign. He scrubbed it with his handkerchief and tossed the handkerchief out the window.
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 13