Abe Warner wound his way between tables, smiling at Molly. She dropped Raul's arm and took Warner's hand. He pulled Molly between tables and through the double doors into the gambling parlor.
Mikhail, Billy, and Raul followed.
Seeing Mikhail, the cellist tapped the wood of his bow to the neck of his cello and waited for the violinists and violist to take their positions. A moment later, the first movement of Johann Sebastian Bach's Brandenburg Concerto Number 3 in G Major filled the room, a wonderful composition to start a wake, to celebrate Jim's resurrection.
Wearing black tails, Dante Gallo stood at the head table near Charlotte King. John James King, their oldest son, was their only child in attendance.
Too bad.
A wake is a celebration of eternal life, a celebration of their father's departure from this evil planet. Perhaps Baptists did not understand this.
James King of William had been freed from the evil powers of Lucifer's planet. Mikhail had never known a better man than this.
Mayor Teschemacher, Judge Solomon Heydenfeldt, and Police Chief James Curtis sat at a nearby table with their wives and another couple Mikhail did not know.
Warner pulled Molly and Mikhail to their table. "Count Mike, this here's Governor J. Neely Johnson and our state's first lady. Governor, this is Michael Zabel and his lady, Molly O'Brian, a widow."
Mikhail clicked his heels together and bowed at the waist, only for a moment.
Governor Johnson smiled and Judge Heydenfeldt stood to shake hands. He recognized Mikhail from the tribunal.
The governor stood and shook Mikhail's hand, a strong handshake. "I've heard much about you. You're the one defeated Tommy Chandler?"
Warner interrupted, always eager for brisk debate. "Now that all the trouble's over with, the governor decided it was safe to come into the city."
"Sir, I've read the editorials of James King of William with great interest and I supported his push to end the private coinage of gold. I had great respect for the man."
Mikhail squeezed Warner's shoulder and smiled. It was not the time or place for political debate.
Warner relaxed. "Just raking barbs, governor. You're always welcome at the Palace. You know that."
The governor addressed Molly. "Mrs. O'Brian, I knew your husband." He shook his head and looked down at the table. "Too bad, what happened. Too bad."
Molly hid the lower half of her face, the shy thing she did with her hand. She looked like she wanted to run and hide.
Mikhail took her arm and dipped his head slightly toward the governor. "An honor to meet you, sir." He turned Molly toward the head table.
Billy sat between Jim's oldest son, and John Drury. Assemblyman John Downey and Colonel William Tell Coleman sat with their wives. There were still three empty chairs, intended for Warner, Molly, and Mikhail.
Mikhail pulled out the chair next to Charlotte and guided Molly into it. He took off his heavy mink coat and cap, draped them over the stair banister, and sat between Molly and Abe Warner.
Dante twitched, impatient. "Everybody at this table has ordered chowder." Abe's chowder had become famous.
Mikhail said, "Bring us some chowder. After this, you decide what we will eat. It all smells very tasty."
Dante smiled, relieved. "We will bring platters of everything. You can help yourselves."
Mikhail nodded and Dante disappeared through the double doorway into the other room.
Raul stood at the far end of the bar eating some kind of pasta with white cream sauce. He knew his place. He could monitor whoever entered the Palace.
Mikhail respected him for this, but he would rather have Raul at his side. Raul had earned both his respect and his friendship.
Raul put down his fork and stood down from his stool.
Someone Mikhail could not see had entered.
STRANGE.
Colonel, the Count Vladimir Schardakava-Preslova, stood and listened while stringed instruments played music from a German composer. He could not remember the name, but he had heard the music with a full orchestra in Moscow or St. Petersburg. He could not remember which. Hearing it in such a backward and barbaric place, played with what sounded like a couple of violins, irritated him. He knew not why.
The grand duke's two guards, who'd held the doors open for the colonel to enter this unpainted wooden building, closed the doors and guarded his back.
Everybody had stopped eating to watch them.
Tables with white tablecloths and fine-looking china, gold serving ware, good-smelling Italian food, and patrons dressed as if in some fine restaurant in St. Petersburg—these irritated the colonel even more.
How ridiculous, these Americans.
He eye searched table to table for the major, not finding him. He pulled the ribbon-bound warrant from his breast pocket and held it high where they would see the czar's official wax seal. "I carry a warrant for the arrest of Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky, a deserter and attempted assassin. It is signed and sealed by Czar Alexander Nikolaievich, Emperor of all Russia."
The Americans mumbled among themselves and looked toward an open doorway leading to another room, where more Americans dined.
"Some of you may know him as Michael Zabel."
A few men had gathered on the other side of the open doorway. Some pushed their way into the room.
Ah.
Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitcsh-Zabalkansky stood with the group in the open doorway. He was not hiding.
A tall, slender man in a stovepipe hat pushed to the front of the group. Vlad had seen these hats in London and New York. The man in the hat said, "And who, exactly, are you?"
"I am Colonel, the Count Vladimir Schardakava-Preslova, the major's commanding officer. We are here to take him into custody."
A short, more portly man said, "You mean Mike Zabel?" He held the colonel's eye and poked his thumb over his shoulder. "He's an American citizen. In order to take him, you'll need an extradition order signed by the United States Department of State or by the federal judge here in San Francisco."
"Who are you? What gives you the right to . . ."
"I'm John Downey," said the short man, arrogant, for a peasant. "I sit in the California State Assembly. I represent Los Angeles and the port at San Pedro."
The colonel pointed his warrant like a weapon. "This warrant is signed and sealed by Czar Alexander Nikolaievich himself, with whom your government has treaties. You have no authority to interfere in this matter."
With the grand duke's guards behind him, both big and well-armed, the colonel stepped toward the count with confidence.
"Oh, yes we do." An elegantly dressed man pushed into the open doorway.
"What is your authority?"
"Name's J. Neely Johnson, governor of the California Republic. Your warrant has no authority here." He poked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to another man. "This here's Judge Solomon Heydenfeldt of the California Supreme Court."
A Jew.
These pompous peasants had no right to interfere.
The colonel and the guards pushed between the tables toward the major.
Men throughout the room stood, table by table, spread their jackets, and displayed a variety of handguns, all ready to defend the major, a deserter.
The colonel stopped, put up his hands, and stopped the grand duke's guards.
The major held no fear in his eyes. He was fit and well-dressed.
The colonel admired him slightly. So many friends to stand up for him! He slid the warrant back into his breast pocket, dipped his head toward the major, and backed toward the entry doors. There would be another time; another place.
Outside in the wet and cold, one of the guards opened the carriage door and the colonel climbed in, sitting across from the grand duke. The guard closed the carriage door. The coach rocked as both guards climbing onto the top, a better position from which to protect the grand duke.
"Where is he? Was he not there?"
"Yes, Highness.
He is there."
"Why did you not arrest him?"
"Inside are many men with guns. They stand ready to defend him."
"We have a warrant."
"They say we need extradition orders from a judge."
"Who says this?"
"The governor, for one. A Jew judge, for another."
Sudden rage twisted the grand duke's already-angry face. He pushed out through the carriage door, jumped down to the pavement, and pulled off his heavy wool coat, displaying his official military uniform with all those medals and braiding. He reached under the tunic with his left hand and pulled out his twin barrel muzzle loader, the same pistol he'd used to shoot the major in Vladivostok.
"Highness." Colonel Preslova jumped down to the pavement and stood in front of the grand duke, hoping to stop him. He dared not lay hands on him. He dared not physically restrain him. "There are too many of them. This is not the time or place. We should wait for a more opportune moment."
"Get out of my way." The grand duke threatened Vlad with his pistol, ready to shoot.
Preslova stepped aside and the grand duke marched toward the wharf. He hesitated at the top of the steps, looked back at the coach, and signaled his guards. They climbed to the street and followed the grand duke onto the wharf. The guards opened the doors and Preslova followed the grand duke back into the Palace.
Speaking in Russian, the grand duke asked where the major was hiding.
Preslova told him he was in the back room and pointed at the double doors.
The grand duke pushed between the tables without a glance at the peasants. The colonel and guards followed closely.
Those eating did not move. Men shouting and women gasping made no difference to the grand duke. He was intent on finding his target.
They followed the grand duke into the back room where men pushed away from their tables and stood. All eyes followed the grand duke, elegant in his royal uniform with its polished medals and gold braiding.
Major, the Count Mikhail Diebitsch-Zabalkansky stood between two women at a table near a stair. The major remained calm while all others stood aghast. He seemed sad, looking at Preslova.
Without hesitating, the grand duke marched forward, raised his pistol, and fired. The ball chipped wood from the wall behind the major.
Women screamed and ducked behind tables or hugged the wood floor.
The major stood like a statue, watching the grand duke tuck the pistol under his right arm to cock the second hammer.
The major watched calmly while the grand duke marched closer and aimed more carefully.
Almost at the same moment, three deafening gunshots set Preslova's ears ringing.
Smoke filled the air around the major's table.
Colonel Preslova tried to catch the grand duke, but moved too slowly. His royal uniform must not touch the floor.
The bodyguards stood the grand duke to his feet and Preslova looked into his face. Two bullet holes had penetrated the center of his tunic and one had entered above his left eye. There was very little blood.
"The grand duke is dead." Preslova looked around the room.
No less than twenty guns had been pointed at them. He spoke to the guards in Russian. "Help me carry him out."
The tall man in the stovepipe hat held a new Navy Colt, standing close to the major, very angry. He told the major, "I gave you a gun and told you to wear it." He shouted, "Wear it!"
"WE'LL MAKE SURE NOBODY follows." Raul held the door to Paddy's taxi open for Molly. Mikhail lifted her in.
Billy stood across the road, looking both ways. He shook his head. There was nobody around.
Raul closed the door behind Mikhail and Paddy snapped the reins. The taxi moved swiftly along the waterfront.
Molly turned into him, tears sheeting down her face. "Oh, when I thought I'd lost you . . ." She grabbed his coat with both hands and pressed her face into his chest.
He put his arm around her cold, shaking shoulders. He lifted her slightly and wrapped her in his coat, which was warm inside.
He knew now that he could never return to Crimea.
HE FUMBLED WITH BUTTONS, unsure what to do. The widow's experienced hands helped him undress. Her dress and petticoats already lay on the floor around her feet.
She pulled him across her rumpled dress onto her bed.
Neither cared what the morning might bring.
Molly's breath pushed hot against his neck. Her smooth skin slid across his cheek. She kissed his ear. "Oh, Michael." She dragged his hand onto her full, firm breast and slid into his embrace, teaching him how to touch her; how to love her.
Her tight stomach pulsed hot, gasping for breath. "Oh, Michael. Why did we wait so long?"
Her mouth sucked his lower lip between her gently quivering teeth. She did not let go.
Chapter Twenty Two
Mikhail curled under a patchwork quilt, not very warm. Big raindrops smacked the north facing window in Molly's downstairs bedroom, threatening to shatter glass. Strong wind hissed through exterior siding and pressed though small interior cracks.
Molly stoked wood into a potbellied stove in the corner, wearing nothing to keep her warm.
Beautiful.
Silhouetted by the glow from the open stove door (it was still pitch black outside), she closed the iron door with a clank, turned up the oil lamp, and hurried, getting dressed.
He loved watching her. "Do you not worry to become pregnant?"
Rare sadness crossed her face and slowed her response. "I'm barren. We . . . Mr. O'Brian and I prayed for a baby. And, oh, how we tried."
He sat, found his sable coat, and pulled it around his shoulders, searching for appropriate words. None came.
She sat on the edge of the bed to pull on and lace her shoes. She turned to look at him. "Don't worry, Michael. I'd never force you into marriage over such a wee thing as a baby."
"I . . ." Why would she say this? Always poised for a fight. Did she think he would not want to marry her?
She turned her back, showing him the hooks and fasteners on her dress. "Will you? I need to be getting to the breakfast."
He pulled the dress tight and fastened a bottom hook, touching the smooth skin of her narrow back; her tight muscles. "Can Sally and Martha not cook the breakfast?" He pulled her close and slid both hands inside her dress, caressing her smooth stomach.
She leaned back and turned to face him. "And who's to tell them? I'd like to know. They'll be getting up soon, and they've enough to gossip about already."
His hand followed her form to her full, firm breast, gently pulling her closer.
She pushed away, stood, and turned her back. "You need to get dressed and get upstairs." She piled her hair on top of her head and held it there. "Now, fasten me up." She'd given him an order.
He fastened her dress.
She left the room without looking back.
A frustrating woman.
A fantastic woman.
He could still smell her clean hair. He could still feel her hot breath on the side of his face, her mouth on his ear.
Still dark outside.
A cold chill started him trembling. He pulled his coat tighter. Something inside poked him. SuLin's letter. He'd forgotten this.
He got out of bed, pulled his coat on, turned up the table lamp all the way, and sat to open the letter.
As he read of their troubles in Weaverville, a rush of guilt flooded over him. How could he forget her letter? He read it again, reading between the lines.
She needed help, pleading not to be enslaved by what sounded like a ruthless tyrant.
No.
This could not be. She must be exaggerating about this sheriff and his deputies.
Wait.
If the Law and Order Party could control a city the size of San Francisco, how much easier in a remote place such as Weaverville? She and her father were under someone's boot.
I owe them my life.
He left the letter on the table under the lamp where Molly
would find it, washed in the basin she had already used, dressed quickly, and took the back stair up to his room. None of the women in the kitchen had looked his way.
Raul and Billy slept while Mikhail quietly changed into one of Matthew O'Brian's altered suits that he'd previously worn to the Olympic Club.
He took the main stair down, turned into the kitchen, found a spoon, stood near Molly, and devoured eggs from the skillet. After what had happened at the Palace, his past having ruined Jim's wake, he had eaten nothing.
Molly stung the back of his hand with her wooden spoon and shooed him away. He seized another mouthful, handed her his spoon, grabbed a biscuit, and touched her back. "Thank you."
She turned and looked him up and down. She knew something had changed.
SuLin's letter would inform her.
Mikhail joined three other boarders in the dining room, picked up a copy of last night's Evening Bulletin, and ate bacon with his biscuit. Nobody ever spoke at breakfast.
After breakfast and a short workout with Raul, he took a taxi up to the club and entered an empty locker room. He changed into his exercise costume and took several laps around the track upstairs before joining Abe Warner, John Downey, Colonel Coleman, and John Drury downstairs, tossing the medicine ball.
Coleman said, "Tell us about this warrant."
"I still do not fully understand this. I will try." He caught and tossed the ball to Warner.
"In Vladivostok, at a reception to celebrate our victory over the Chinese Army, I was attacked by the grand duke. First, he took a slice with his saber and cut my eye." Mikhail pointed to the scar over his left eye and caught the heavy ball from Coleman. He tossed it across to John Drury. "I defended myself with my dress sword and took away his saber. He then pulled a twin-load pistol and shot me." He pointed to his side from where Chiang Po had removed the ball.
"He raised the pistol and would shoot again. Without thinking, I swung down with my sword and cut off his right hand, a reflex on my part, I assure you.
"I was wounded and fighting for my life. My uncle put me aboard Silent Mistress, a clipper ship sailing to San Francisco."
DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way Page 21