by Matt Braun
Before three o’clock, Starbuck had hit four saloons. At each stop he put away several schooners of beer and generously stood drinks for those he gulled into conversation. He talked with bartenders and pimps, gamblers and street-corner grifters, and one old barfly who supplied a wealth of Barbary Coast gossip. When he walked out of the fourth saloon, he had unearthed everything and more he’d hoped to learn. His view of San Francisco’s underworld was by no means complete, but he knew who was who and precisely what it was they controlled. And with one possible exception, he had their names.
The city was split into three very distinct areas of vice and crime. There was a fine line of demarcation separating the areas, almost as though the boundaries had been staked and mapped. Curiously, there was no spillover of activities, even though the three areas abutted one another like wedges sliced from a pie. The city government, from the mayor’s office down to the corner policeman, turned a blind eye to the whole affair. The payoffs, everyone agreed, had made rich men of those in public service.
Denny O’Brien was the acknowledged boss of the Barbary Coast. Nothing happened without his sanction, and he maintained a squad of plug-uglies to enforce his demands. He collected a percentage off the top, and no operation was too small to escape his attention. Even the lowly crib whores and crimp joints paid tribute.
His counterpart in Chinatown was Fung Jing Toy. A tong leader and supreme vice lord, he ran Chinatown with godlike impunity. His boo how doy hatchet men collected fees from all underworld enterprises, including gambling, opium dens, and bordellos. He also extorted protection money from legitimate businesses, using intimidation and threats of violence. Finally, with all his rivals killed or whipped into line, he controlled the market in Chinese slave girls. The trade reportedly did a brisk business with Occidental and Oriental alike.
There remained only the area Starbuck had surveyed late that morning. Known as the Uptown Tenderloin, it was a district reserved for swells and the upper strata of San Francisco society. Theaters and opulent restaurants vied with cabarets and plush gambling casinos for the gentry trade. The nightlife was almost decorous, the only exception being the high-priced parlor houses. Discreet madams and beautiful whores served the monied class with all the attention accorded the master of a harem. A parlor-house whore was the crème de la crème of her trade, and a bright girl occasionally snared herself a millionaire. According to those who knew, more than one matron on Nob Hill had begun her career in the Tenderloin.
Yet there was an apparent contradiction to the Uptown Tenderloin. All afternoon Starbuck had tactfully posed the same question: Who controls the Tenderloin? Each time the question was asked, he’d drawn a blank. The men in the Barbary Coast saloons had scratched their heads and appeared stumped. So far as they knew, the Tenderloin had no boss. Something of a neutral zone, it seemed to run itself. The police kept it cordoned off for the gentry, and the lowlifes avoided it on threat of a billy club upside the head and a night in jail. The playground of the rich, it was thought to be immune to the overtures of crime bosses and vice lords.
Starbuck thought otherwise. A suspicion began to form sometime that afternoon. Vague at first, it slowly blossomed, and by the time he walked from the fourth saloon, it had taken form. Despite all he’d heard, he believed there was most definitely a boss of the Tenderloin. Further, he thought it quite likely that the same man was the underworld czar of San Francisco. An overlord who dictated to both Denny O’Brien and Fung Jing Toy.
He’d seen it happen closer to home. For the past decade, a shadowy, unobtrusive man named Lou Blomger had ruled Denver from behind the scenes. It made sense that a similar situation existed in San Francisco, where the pickings were riper and vice even more prevalent. The temptation was simply too great. With the amount of money involved, someone who dealt in grand schemes would have built himself an underworld empire. That he stayed out of the limelight, operating in the dark, made it no less real. To Starbuck, it seemed undeniable, chiseled in stone. All he had to do was prove it.
However it turned out, everything he’d learned had merely reinforced his original thought. The place to start was Denny O‘Brien. He even had a cover story in mind, and instinct told him the Barbary Coast boss would go for it bait and all. From there, it was simply a matter of allowing nature to take its course. Red Ned Adair had the balls, and Denny O’Brien called the shots, but they both danced to another man’s tune. Time, and a bit of luck, would reveal his name.
That evening Starbuck caught the night train for Los Angeles.
The city of angels was somewhat provincial and backwoodsy compared to San Francisco. Yet, while it lacked a cosmopolitan flavor, Los Angeles was nonetheless prosperous. Certain shops in the downtown area catered to those with money to burn. However excessive the demand, a man willing to pay the price could indulge almost any whim. All within a matter of hours.
Starbuck went directly from the train station to a men’s haberdashery. He knew little about Los Angeles itself, but he had developed contacts throughout the West. In his business, the tools of the trade were dictated by the nature of the case, and time was often a factor. From his contacts, he knew where to go and who to see, no matter how strange the request. While he could have satisfied the same needs in San Francisco, it might very well have compromised the case. Secrecy and a whole new identity were essential to his plan. He would depart Los Angeles a different man from the one who had arrived on the morning train. And no one in San Francisco the wiser.
At the haberdashery, Starbuck spoke privately with the proprietor. He indicated that money was no object, so long as the service met his demands. He wanted a complete wardrobe—expensive clothes with the look of hand-tailored garments—and he wanted it no later than four o’clock that afternoon. The proprietor, with a nose for profit, assured him the deadline was no problem.
A clerk materialized at Starbuck’s elbow, and a tailor was summoned from the back room. Under the proprietor’s watchful eye, an array of clothing was selected from the racks and paraded before Starbuck for his approval. He chose four single-breasted suits, all fashionably cut and dazzling in color, ranging from pearl-gray to lush chocolate. He next selected several brocaded vests, gaudy to the extreme and color-coordinated with the suits. Then he picked out ruffled linen shirts, cravats and string ties, and a half-dozen sets of silk underwear. A brown derby and a gray fedora, along with three pairs of kidskin boots, were added to the pile. His last purchase was a matched set of hand-rubbed leather luggage.
A meticulous fitting session followed. One at a time, Starbuck changed into the suits and stood before a full-length mirror. The tailor, his mouth stuffed full of pins, took a nip here and a tuck there. When he finished, the suit jackets and trousers draped perfectly, with the rich appearance of clothes crafted stitch by stitch. Once more in his old suit, Starbuck paid the bill and added an extra hundred for good measure. The proprietor, bowing profusely, escorted him to the door. His wardrobe would be packed and waiting at the appointed time.
On the street, Starbuck hailed a hanson cab and gave the driver the name of a local dentist. Pleased with his progress thus far, he rolled himself a smoke and settled back in the seat. He’d spent somewhat more time than intended at the haberdashery, and he quickly calculated the cash left in his money belt. He judged the amount—$3,000—adequate for what remained to be done. If not, then he would wire his bank in Denver and arrange a speedy transfer of funds. Bankers, very much like whores, would always accommodate their select clientele.
Starbuck worked at his profession by choice rather than need. He was a man of considerable means, with a portfolio of municipal bonds and commercial real estate valued in excess of $250,000 on the open market. Not quite two years ago, he had inherited the largest cattle spread in the Texas Panhandle. The owner of the ranch, who was his closest friend and something of a surrogate father, had no family and had therefore designated him sole heir. Forced to choose between ranching and the detective business, he’d found it to be no con
test. He sold the ranch for $200,000 and worked out an arrangement whereby the bank would manage his holdings for a fixed fee. So far, he had no complaints. The bank had shown a respectable return on his investments, and the financial independence enabled him to accept only those cases that piqued his interest. His net worth was a matter he thought of only rarely. He considered manhunting a far more rewarding endeavor.
The dentist was a slender man, completely bald, with innocent brown eyes. After being ushered into his office, Starbuck explained precisely what he had in mind. He wanted a gold sleeve fitted over his right front tooth, and anchored securely. Once in place, he concluded, it must appear to be a genuine gold tooth.
“A fake tooth?” the dentist asked, as if he couldn’t have heard correctly. “You want a fake gold tooth?”
“A fake tooth,” Starbuck corrected, “that looks like the real article.”
“Why?” the dentist said, bewildered. “To what purpose?”
Starbuck smiled. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Can you do it?”
“I suppose so”—the dentist shrugged, eyebrows raised—“assuming you’re willing to pay the price.”
“How much?”
“A hundred dollars, plus the cost of the gold.”
“Done.” Starbuck pulled out his wallet. “One more thing. It has to be ready by four this afternoon.”
“Impossible! I’ll need at least a week.”
Starbuck extracted three hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and spread them on the desk. “A day’s work for a week’s pay. Interested?”
The dentist pocketed the bills and pointed to a high-backed operating chair. “Have a seat. I’ll have to take some measurements.”
“You come highly recommended, Doc. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Recommended by whom?”
“Like I said, ask me no questions—”
“Very well, no more questions. Let’s get on with it.”
Starbuck moved to the chair and seated himself. The dentist selected several instruments from a cabinet, then pried Starbuck’s mouth open and began taking measurements. Ten minutes later he walked from the office and flagged another hansom cab.
The next stop on Starbuck’s itinerary was a posh jewelry store. His shopping list was itemized, though flexible, and the purchases required only a few minutes. He selected a diamond pinky ring, with a stone only slightly smaller than a sugar cube. Then he chose a garish horseshoe-shaped diamond stickpin, with matching cuff links. His last purchase was a diamond-studded pocketwatch the size of a teacup. When the lid was opened, it chimed a musical rendition of “Darling Clementine.”
There was no haggling, and he again paid in bills of large denominations. He stuffed the new watch into his vest pocket and threaded the heavy gold chain through a buttonhole. The old watch, along with the other items, were casually dropped into his jacket pocket. The jeweler watched the whole procedure with an expression of bemused wonder. He was still clutching a fistful of hundred-dollar bills when Starbuck hurried out the door.
One last stop completed Starbuck’s shopping spree. The store was located on a sidestreet, with a small wooden sign pegged to the wall. The gunsmith’s name was John Bohannon, and his work was known to lawman and outlaw alike. He was a master craftsman of the concealed weapon.
The inside of the store looked like an ordnance depot. The walls were lined with pistols of every description, and a double-shelved showcase was filled with pocket derringers and cut-down revolvers. Bohannon rose from a workbench at the rear of the store and moved to the showcase. He was a short, rotund man, with a shock of white hair and metalframed glasses that magnified his eyes like a telescope. He greeted Starbuck genially.
“Afternoon. What can I do for you today?”
“I need a couple of guns,” Starbuck told him. “One belly-gun and one hideout, the smaller the better.”
“What caliber?” Bohannon asked pleasantly. “I’ve got everything from twenty-two to forty-five.”
Starbuck’s mouth curled. “Large enough to stop a man when he’s centered the first shot.”
Bohannon’s eyes gleamed behind the bottle-thick glasses. “I take it you’re an experienced shootist?”
“I generally hit the mark.”
“Then something in forty-one ought to do the trick.”
Bohannon bent over the showcase and took out a Colt Lightning. Only recently introduced, the revolver was double-action and fired a 41-caliber slug. The barrel and ejector rod had been trimmed to three inches. For a hideout gun, he suggested the Colt New House Model. A stubby five-shot revolver, it was chambered for .38 caliber. The birdshead grip was framed with ivory handles, and the sheathed trigger was activated by cocking the hammer. The barrel length was one and a half inches, and the entire gun could be covered by a normal handspan.
Starbuck handled the guns, testing them for balance and smoothness of action. The workmanship was flawless, and he quickly approved both selections. Bohannon outfitted him with a shoulder holster for the Lightning, and a clip-on boot holster for the hideout gun. A box of cartridges for each gun completed the deal, and Starbuck gladly forked over nearly two hundred dollars. They shook hands and parted, never once having exchanged names.
Outside, Starbuck checked his new timepiece. The watch chimed three and merrily trilled “Darling Clementine.” He smiled and mentally reminded himself to wire Mattie Silks, a Denver madam who owed him a favor. Once the message was sent, all that remained was to collect his wardrobe and the gold tooth. His disguise was set and his cover story would bear scrutiny. The northbound train departed at six, and from there it was on to San Francisco and his next stop.
The Barbary Coast and Denny O’Brien.
CHAPTER 5
Starbuck arrived at the Palace Hotel late the next morning. A doorman approached, but he bounded down from the hansom cab without assistance. Slipping the man a five spot, he jerked his thumb at his luggage. Then he stepped back, craning his head upward, and ogled the architecture.
Considered San Francisco’s finest, the hotel was a structure of Olympian proportions. The building occupied an entire city block, and construction costs were reported to have exceeded $5,000,000. The entrance-way was an immense courtyard, surrounded by galleries lofting seven stories high. Overhead, a domed skylight flooded the courtyard with a brilliant rainbow of colors. Already a legend to world travelers, the Palace was a home-away-from-home for visiting royalty and other people of wealth.
With the doorman at his heels, Starbuck swept into the lobby. He was attired in a getup of spectacular vulgarity. He wore a pearl-gray suit, with a sapphire-blue cravat and a brocaded vest to match. Diamonds sparkled from his ring and cuff links and stickpin with tawdry opulence. A cigar was wedged in the corner of his mouth, and his gold tooth gleamed like a lighthouse beacon.
Halfway to the front desk he suddenly stopped. The lobby floor was paved with silver dollars set in dark marble, and he gazed down on the sight with a look of pop-eyed wonder. The fashionably dressed men and women strolling through the lobby meanwhile paused and stared at him like a sideshow freak escaped from a circus. An interval of absolute silence stretched to several moments. Then, with a loud snort, he shook his head.
“Jeeezus Christ! Flat knocks your eyes out!”
Puffing clouds of smoke, he munched his cigar and proceeded across the lobby. He halted at the desk and knuckled his fedora onto the back of his head at a rakish angle. Grinning broadly, he nodded to the clerk.
“Harry Lovett’s the name. I want the classiest suite you’ve got.”
The clerk peered down his nose. “Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“Hell, no!” Starbuck trumpeted. “Harry Lovett don’t need no reservation. Now hop to it, sonny! Fix me up, and none of your sass.”
The clerk flushed and quickly produced a registration card. Starbuck signed his alias with a bold stroke and then dropped the pen on the desk. With obvious distaste, the clerk picked up the card and studied i
t at length.
“Have you stayed with us before, Mr. Lovett?”
“Nope,” Starbuck said briskly. “This here’s my first trip to Frisco.”
The clerk flinched. Only seamen and people of low station referred to the city by the bay as “Frisco.” By his expression, it was apparent he had already relegated Harry Lovett to that category. He tapped the registration card on his fingertips.
“One moment, please.”
Turning away, he walked to a door at the end of the desk. A small sign identified the room beyond as the manager’s office. He knocked softly and entered. Starbuck rolled the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth and looked bored. Then he noticed a stack of brochures on the counter, emblazoned with the hotel’s name. He took one off the top and made a show of moving his lips while he read.
The brochure, meant to delight and inform, was a compendium of statistical trivia. Built by William Ralston, one of the city’s leading industrialists, the Palace was an eclectic blend of rococo Victorian and ornate Louis XV. The hotel could accommodate twelve hundred guests and there was a fireplace in every room. A total of twenty thousand silver dollars were inset into the lobby floor, and there were nine hundred cuspidors scattered throughout the hotel. A hallmark of service, there were four hundred thirty-nine bathrooms, which provided the luxury of one bathroom for every 2.7 guests. In keeping with the overall decor, the toilet seats were specially crafted by Chippendale, that most revered of British imports. The cost of the toilet seats alone exceeded—