DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  No cheers came from below. No display of joy. The vigilante volunteers and the mob disbursed quietly and drifted away. A few big, cold, wind-driven drops of rain hit Mikhail's face and thumped onto the roof. Below, only Belle Cora remained.

  Abe Warner addressed those gathered on the roof. "Jim deserves a fond farewell. Me and Count Mike have arranged a proper wake down at the Palace. Bring your ladies. Bring the whole family."

  AFTER REPORTING BACK to Tommy Chandler that James King of William had died, Dink Watkins had gone into hiding. They'd strung a hammock under the trapdoor in Tommy's kitchen, but Dink couldn't abide the stench.

  The heavy boots of vigilantes on the wharf and shuffling feet across the boardinghouse floor, men being dragged out, had driven Dink from the Barbary Coast, hoping things would quickly settle back to normal.

  He'd taken a taxi south of the city to road's end where squatters lived in tents, with smells as bad as under Tommy's floor, maybe worse. Squatters here dumped everything onto the sand outside their tents, including their irregular bowels.

  He'd slept the night in a clean spot with no tents nearby, scattered grass sprouting from sand. The bad thing was, insects had near eaten off his skin.

  This is stupid.

  Itching everywhere proved worse than dangling on a hammock under Tommy's kitchen floor.

  His sand-filled hair probably hosted a thousand fleas, itching worse than his bare feet.

  Early sun reflected across the shallows of the bay, no rest for little Dink. He regretted having left Bruce Hudson's apartment. Safe, warm, and clean, it was.

  Cold wind blew off the Pacific. There were dark clouds out there. There'd be more rain.

  All things considered, Bruce could be trusted. They'd become good friends over the past month, Dink watching the goings on across the street, sleeping in a warm chair by the window. Bruce had even brought in food paid for with his own money. Share and share alike. He'd been a good mate. He shouldn't mind little Dink staying until things calmed down.

  Dink took off his coat, shook out the sand, and brushed it down. He brushed his shirt and pants and vigorously swept his fingers through his dirt-stiff hair. Near frozen, but all tidied up, he put on his coat and walked across the dunes, picking his way between tents, being careful where he stepped.

  It took half the day walking in cold, wind-pushed rain to reach the first brick paved street and a few wood-sided houses. Only one house had been whitewashed.

  After an hour-long, brisk walk past more and more houses, he finally flagged a taxi.

  Dink reached Bruce's building near 3:00 p.m. With a dark sky and rain, nobody was out on the street. He trotted up the front steps, climbed to the second floor in the dark stairwell, and dug into his back pocket for the key.

  Thinking better of it, not wanting to just walk in, Dink knocked.

  No answer.

  He inserted and turned the key, but the door hadn't been locked. He entered and closed the door. "Anybody home?"

  "Yes, Dink." Bruce stood in the living room near the window, in uniform, hands clasped behind his back, rocking up on the balls of his feet.

  "Hi, Bruce. Glad to see you're still with the coppers. It's nice to have such a friend as you. I was hoping, Bruce, that you'd allow me to stay here a few days, just 'till things quiet down a bit."

  Bruce turned to face Dink, hands still clasped behind his back, in a bother about something. "You still have my key?"

  "Yes, Bruce." Dink showed Bruce the key.

  Bruce looked down at the floor. "Winds of change are in the air, Dink. The Law and Order Party is out, at least for now."

  "Yes, Bruce. It looks that way."

  "The new People's Party has taken over at city hall. They've already announced a special election for the 14th of June. Everybody knows they'll win. They've already arrested most of our pole workers." He turned and looked out the window. It was already dark outside. "The shooting death of my neighbor across the street put fire in the belly of this city. Never knew he was so well liked; so highly regarded. If I want to keep my job, and I do, I need to show a willingness to get along."

  "Always better to get along, Bruce. That's what Dink Watkins tries to do—get along."

  Bruce stuck out his hand, asking for the key.

  Dink gave it up.

  Bruce stepped around him, strode into the entry, and locked the door. He turned back with a nod and smiled. "You're not as bad as some of the rest, Dink. You never caused me any trouble. In fact, I've come to think good of you."

  Bruce looked a real copper, coming closer. "Back in '51, I volunteered to serve on the Committee of Vigilance under Colonel Coleman. I was one of those who put men on ships. We told 'em, if they ever returned to this city, they'd dangle at the end of a rope out there on that bay, out there on one of those ships." He pointed toward the bay. Angry, he was. "Weren't you on one of those lists, Dink, under the name of Danny Murphy? Weren't you on the list to be hung?"

  Dink stepped back slowly. There was no place to run. "I don't remember you, Bruce. But I don't hold it against you. Not you. I ran with a bad crowd back then, but not no more."

  "I don't think they'll hang you, Dink. I think they've finished with hanging, for now. They're putting some of the worst aboard ships. Sunrise just made port, and Captain Boggs is happy to take men such as yourself."

  "Can you take me by Tommy Chandler's first, Bruce? I need to pick up my bag."

  Chapter Twenty One

  Mikhail left the bodies of Charles Cora and James Casey dangling in the rain and took Paddy's taxi to Dante's Italia Restaurant across from the Bulletin, one of the city's finest restaurants. James King had been a regular customer. Jim and Dante Gallo had become close friends. Mikhail barely knew the man.

  Dante seemed not to have appreciated leaving the church ceremony early and missing Jim's burial in order to prepare for Jim's wake. He'd said he appreciated being asked to cater the affair, a justification for not having time to join the cemetery cortege, but that he would have preferred the wake be held in his restaurant. As his restaurant had only six small tables inside and three on the sidewalk, he'd grudgingly acknowledged the impossibility.

  Mikhail found Dante in his kitchen, a crowded chamber filled with wonderful aromas. Large boiling pots crowded both massive wood burning stoves, with cooks bumping around each other and shouting in Italian. Mikhail understood almost none of it.

  Dante didn't want any questions. "We have spent half the day over at your Palace, my friend."

  "We must be ready by eight."

  Dante stiffened, insulted. "Have you bothered to visit the Palace? Your tables are set with white tablecloths and gold utensils. The warming trays are set on the fabric-covered bar, as you instructed. My only problem is monkeys and birds everywhere, not to mention those filthy spiders and their salty webs. It is no wonder people call this the Cobweb Palace." He shook his head and frowned. "Palace! Ha!"

  "We have no flies in the Palace. And we have no rats."

  "We have no flies here. It's raining outside."

  Mikhail smiled. He instinctively liked this friend of James King. "The floor at the Palace is clean? Everything has been cleaned?"

  "Yes."

  "The windows are all washed?"

  "Yes."

  "Our coolies do a fine job at cleaning?"

  Dante stiffened and crossed his arms. "Yes."

  "The chowder is cooking?"

  "Yes, since before we arrived. I added a little water, is all."

  "The area is cleared for the orchestra?"

  "Orchestra?" Dante scoffed. "It is a string quartet."

  "The area is ready?"

  "Of course. They have been practicing since after the funeral." He threw up his hands, frantically wiggling his fingers, playing stringed instruments in the sky. "It's making me crazy; the starting and the stopping and the smacking of their bow sticks." His fist closed around an imaginary bow with which he wished he could strike Mikhail.

  Mikhail smiled into h
is rage. "No dirges?"

  "All happy music." Dante clicked his heels and bowed. "Count Mike!" Time for you to leave.

  Mikhail needed to ask. "The grand table is set for the family?"

  "Yes, Count Mike." Dante gritted his teeth, biting back his rage.

  "Near the orchestra?" Mikhail stepped back and smiled, ready to dodge.

  Dante nodded, yes. "How many times you need to ask these questions?" He motioned toward the door. "Go check for yourself. I have no time for this."

  "I wish I could have been there to help."

  "Yes, I'm sure." Dante shoved Mikhail toward the door. "Now, get out of here. I have much to do. It's getting late."

  "Don't worry about the macaws and monkeys. Abe will put them all upstairs for tonight."

  Dante shoved Mikhail out the door.

  Dark, wet fog had settled over the city. A lamplighter lit one of the new gas streetlamps across the street, a light yellow glow in the fog.

  Nice.

  Mikhail climbed into Paddy's waiting taxi. "The White Chapel Saloon."

  Mikhail closed his eyes and dreamed of a hot bath and Molly sponging his shoulders, green eyes smiling. He hadn't bathed in four days and Molly had never sponged his back. It was a nice dream that could never happen.

  "White Chapel Saloon, Mike." Paddy's taxi swayed to a stop and Mikhail climbed down.

  "Can you wait?"

  "Sure. Mr. Warner's not going anywhere."

  "Want something to eat?"

  "I'll stick out here. I need to brush and feed Dancer." Paddy's sleek, red mare wore a white blaze on her face and white socks above all four black polished hooves.

  Beautiful.

  Mikhail walked around the corner into the alley and entered through the back gate. There was plenty of lamplight from inside. He climbed the steps, crossed the wash porch, and entered the back door into the kitchen.

  All three women worked at the stove, getting the dinner ready for their borders. He took off his wet wool jacket and hung it on the back of the door next to Raul's.

  Molly said, "Well now, how nice of you to stop in for a visit."

  "We were ordered to billet at the Presidio. I was unable to report to your highness."

  I am exhausted.

  "And, why should you? Highness, indeed." She waved a big wooden spoon like she might throw it at him. "You don't owe us the slightest courtesy."

  What nonsense. He'd told her many times already that he owed her more than he could ever repay. No time for an argument now. He smiled, innocent. "Do you have an evening gown?"

  Her spoon sagged, thinking about this. She turned, bumped Sally aside, and stirred the stew. It smelled of fish. "A gown, is it? And, what would I want with a gown if I was to have one?"

  "You need to get ready. I will take you to dinner."

  "I need to get the dinner ready here. I've borders to feed. Those who still live here, that is."

  "Let Sally and Martha do that. Get ready." He'd given her an order. He had no energy to argue.

  He went upstairs and passed through the open door to his bedroom.

  Raul and Billy played cribbage at the table near their window.

  Mikhail undressed quickly and hung up his clothes. "Billy, can you draw a fresh bath? After this, you two get dressed to go out. It's a formal event."

  Billy got up and left the room.

  Mikhail smiled a little at Raul. "I looked for you after Jim died."

  Raul stood with a shrug and a smile, hands slightly spread, apologetic. "Miss Molly, she wanted an escort. We went over to the Presidio for the trial. I don't think you saw us. We're both shorter than most. We stood in back in the corner." He waved his right hand, mentally pointing to a corner in the assembly hall.

  "No, I did not see you." He'd seen the Russians, probably on their way back to Vladivostok, maybe Moscow, eager to report to the grand duke. He needed to prepare for this. He might have only six months or less.

  "We watched your testimony." Raul stepped a little closer, speaking quietly, respectfully. "I did not know he was your good friend. I could tell from your testimony, you suffer from his loss."

  "Da. I do."

  "We went to the funeral today. This man made a difference, didn't he?"

  "Yes. He was a very good man. He left a wife and six kids. Since he was shot, I have asked God many times, why?" No answers had come. "Put on your best suit. We have a dinner to attend."

  MIKHAIL'S COLD BATH and shave were quick and brisk. He dressed, went downstairs, and watched the other boarders eat fish stew with shepherd bread while he waited for Molly. Nobody spoke.

  Raul came down in his black uniform from Bella Union, carrying Mikhail's mink coat and cap.

  Mikhail put them on and stepped out onto the front porch with Raul. The sable felt warm in a cold, wet fog.

  Raul said, "We were at the hanging today, too. You been busy. You never even look our way. The widow, she got plenty mad about this. I think she love you very much."

  "I do not know what to do with her."

  "What are you talking? She is beautiful woman. You are healthy man. What are you talking?"

  "Understand this. I love this woman. I owe her my life. I do not wish to hurt her and I must return to Russia. My home is near Sevastopol, in Crimea. You know this place?"

  "On the Black Sea. Sure. Raul been there. Very pretty ladies there."

  "I have uncle in Vladivostok. I worry for him."

  "You are American citizen, now. Who cares for Russia? Raul don't like Vladivostok so much."

  "Russia is my home. Russian people are my people. The czar is my emperor. I am his soldier." Why he'd been forced to flee remained a mystery. What had enraged the grand duke? He needed answers to these mysteries.

  There had been no discussion. There had been no charges. There had been no trial or tribunal; only a savage attack by a member of the House of Romanov.

  Billy and Molly joined them on the front porch. Lamplight from the window silhouetted her green satin dress, which nearly touched the porch, belled by several layers of petticoats. The white fox wrap over her shoulders highlighted her piled-up auburn hair, tied with a green bow. A stunning, very beautiful woman.

  "Paddy is waiting at the corner."

  Billy jumped off the porch, rushed across wood planks, turned down a narrow path, and disappeared into the fog. A moment later, Paddy's taxi stopped in front of the White Chapel Saloon and Mikhail helped Molly into the back next to Billy. Raul shoved from behind and Mikhail sat across. Raul slid in next to him and closed the door.

  Paddy slapped reins and the taxi lurched forward.

  Molly's arm looped Billy's.

  Mikhail could not see her angry eyes. He could only feel them.

  Why must she always fight?

  EVERY CELL OF THE CITY jail had been filled with ballot stuffers. Every election day, for years, they'd intimidated anyone who'd intended to vote for the opposition. Everybody knew it.

  Dink Watkins had no interest in conversation. He sat on his sea bag in the freezing cold, as far as he could get from the iron bars. Maybe they'd not see little Dink.

  A chain of men tied neck to wrist filed through the door of the next cell, being led outside for departure. Easy to see and taller than most, Justin Murphy still limped a little from having been shot by Tommy. Dink wanted to call out, but feared the attention it might bring. He wrapped his arms around his legs in as tight a knot as he could. He blew down between his legs, trying to keep warm. Wet cold, it was.

  A COPPER OPENING THE cell door woke Dink, who was not long asleep. "Form a single line here."

  Dink stood slowly. He dragged his sea bag to the end of the line, hoping not to be seen. Maybe little Dink could get outside and sneak away, dark as it was. The dark of night had long been Dink's closest friend.

  Outside the cell door, two coppers tied short lengths of heavy rope around men's necks and the wrists of the next in line. They grabbed little Dink and tied his wrists, making it difficult for him to hoist
his sea bag. He managed to wrestle it over his shoulder and hold it with the long tie string.

  With a tug from the man's neck before him, the human chain filed through the jailhouse door. Dink could see not a thing past the wide back of the man in front of him.

  Two by two, they climbed onto a low flatbed wagon and sat opposite each other. But for these ropes, little Dink might slip away into the dark fog.

  "You'll be on the S.S. Golden Gate," said a low, familiar voice.

  "Bruce." Hearing the man who'd taken him into custody comforted Dink in a most peculiar way. "It's sure nice to see you, Bruce."

  "The Golden Gate tied into the dock earlier today. She's a steamer bound for Panama City. The vigilantes paid for deck passage for you and these others here. They've got a full crew and don't much support the Seamen's and Landlord's Protective Association. We've probably seen the end of lads being shanghaied aboard ships like Sunrise. I'm happy for that, Dink. I won't have to put men aboard no ships captained by such as Boggs."

  "Thank you for that, Bruce."

  "Don't thank me. Thank Colonel Coleman. If not for him and that Russian count, you might all be hanging by your necks."

  THE TAXI STOPPED AT the end of Meigg's Wharf and Raul jumped out to help Molly onto the brick-paved street. Billy and Mikhail exited the opposite door and the taxi pulled away from between them. Molly and Raul descended the steps down to Meigg's Wharf and waited, her arm looped with Raul's, her eyes slinging darts at Mikhail.

  Raul opened the door and they entered the Palace.

  Extra lamps had been lined up on top of the Palace bar, white tablecloths over every surface in sight. Dante's waiters stood behind in white uniforms, one at each steaming tray, lit candles underneath for heat. The Palace smelled of fine food; warm and cozy.

  Their elegantly dressed guests included Charles Gelberding, the publisher of the Evening Bulletin, with his staff of reporters and printers, their wives and older children, Senator David C. Broderick and his wife, and some faces Mikhail did not know.