Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR

  Beautiful Illusion

  “A love letter to the razzle-dazzle of ’30s San Francisco and the wonders of Treasure Island.”

  —Kirkus

  “Christie Nelson’s Beautiful Illusion is a breathtaking journey back in time to San Francisco, 1939, for the building of Treasure Island, the site of the world-class Golden Gate International Exposition, built in hopes of promoting peace among nations across an increasingly stormy Pacific. Beautiful Illusion follows a young reporter, Lily Nordby, who eagerly covers the Treasure Island story and in the process unwittingly unravels some secrets from her own past as she becomes tangled in espionage and romance. Beautifully written with rich details and stunning dialogue, Beautiful Illusion is a real treat! A fast-paced, intriguing read!”

  —Michelle Cox, author of the award-winning Henrietta and Inspector Howard series

  “Nelson’s dazzling portrayal of Treasure Island’s world fair and the late 30’s San Francisco, blends the fast pace of a thriller while transporting us back to an era of pre-WWII enthusiastic innocence. Cub reporter Lily shows her moxie through the rise of the grandest San Francisco fair, ever. Her complicated attraction to the shadowy Imperial Japanese diplomat, Tokido, parallels the country’s deference to Japan, even as their violence loomed across the Pacific. Set against Lily’s conflicted relationship with the scholarly dwarf, Woodrow, and her own dodgy family, the novel revels with authenticity and historic figures.”

  —J. Macon King, Publisher of The Mill Valley Literary Review

  “Christie Nelson’s tale is a loving valentine to the end of a San Franciscan incarnation. The two new bridges and WWII changed the city forever. Soon, ease of travel about the bay and the passage of hundreds of thousands of G.I.’s bound for the Pacific theater obliterated the small town feel that the story evokes. Told with a vivid attention to detail and populated with local characters, it illuminates the spectacle of the Fair, which was a last chromatic burst of fireworks, before the darkness set in.”

  —Will Maynez, Historian, Diego Rivera Mural Project, City College San Francisco

  BEAUTIFUL ILLUSION,

  Treasure Island, 1939

  Copyright © 2018 by Christie Nelson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published May 1, 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-334-2

  E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-399-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017957970

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1563 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Beautiful Illusion, Treasure Island, 1939 is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters, with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. When real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Historical Photos Courtesy of SAN FRANCISCO HISTORY CENTER, SAN FRANCISCO PUBLIC LIBRARY.

  Night View of Japan Pavilion Courtesy of California Historical Society.

  In memory of my parents, Phyllis Kathleen Fryer Arthur James Nelson

  “One day, if I go to heaven, I’ll look around and say, ‘it ain’t bad, but it ain’t San Francisco.’”

  —HERB CAEN

  Dredging the Bay

  George Smith, W. Kent Dyson, Leland Cutler Sink the Flag

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lily

  After the heaviest rainstorm in over a decade drenched San Francisco, Lily Nordby, twenty-three and hardly green, jumped puddles and hopped on a crowded cable car rattling down Powell Street. The grip man, decked out in a serge, charcoal-gray suit, and a cap pushed back on his head, gave her a big-toothed grin. “Good morning, miss!” he called and rang the bell to a silvery rendition of “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

  She grinned back, stepped onto the running board, and held on to the grab bar as the cables in the street hummed beneath her feet. Suddenly the sky opened up in a downpour and a flock of pigeons took flight from the curb, soaring up and over the roof of the car.

  At the turnaround on Market Street, she leaped off. A paperboy waved the February 11, 1936, Examiner in her face. Leland Cutler, the president of the Golden Gate International Exposition, had rowed out to the shoals with two cronies and sunk a flag into the soupy muck that proclaimed, SITE OF THE 1939 WORLD’S FAIR. Every day, stories about the city’s claiming its right as the gateway to the Pacific made headlines.

  Citizens quaked in a fever of excitement. For months, Lily had gathered on the Embarcadero with other onlookers and peered through the salty spray of waves slapping the shore to dredges huffing and puffing like beasts of burden as they clawed silt and mud into buckets and burped it onto the four hundred acres that were fast becoming Treasure Island right in front of their wondering eyes.

  She could wait no more. A hurly-burly, never-die optimism had swept through town, lifting up every man and woman by their lapels. Two engineering marvels had occurred: the San Francisco Bay Bridge, linking downtown to the East Bay, had risen from caissons sunk into bay mud forty-eight stories high like upside-down skyscrapers, and the Golden Gate Bridge, the longest single-span bridge that could never be built, was swinging above the treacherous tides like a giant’s erector set, aimed north toward the tip of Marin County.

  She marched down the sidewalk of the wide boulevard, alongside men in suits and fedoras and women in coats and cloche hats stuck with pheasant feathers, who had all answered FDR’s clarion call to rise out of the Depression. San Francisco had been born as a brawny port city with a back-bone chiseled out of the Gold Rush and hands gripped tightly around logging, shipping, and manufacturing, and now the wheels of progress were firing in industry and business. As if to echo the high times, buses, streetcars, and automobiles rolled by in a cacophony of ringing steel and squealing rubber.

  At the corner of Third Street, Lily pushed against the brass-and-glass swinging doors of the Hearst Building. The Examiner’s daily broadsheets hung in the high windows on either side of the doors for all who passed by to see. She was perfectly sober; she was sick with anticipation. Her black high heels tapped out a staccato rhythm on the Tennessee pink marble floors. She crowded into the elevator, elbow to elbow with working Johnnies and Janes, and called out the fifth floor to the elevator hop. When the door clanked open, she rushed down the hall, ducked into the ladies’ room, and emptied her meager breakfast into the toilet bowl. Then she rinsed her mouth, reapplied lipstick, hiked up her hose, and walked out of the bathroom.

  Ahead, the door of the Examiner newsroom loomed like a timbered sentinel.

  Now or never, she thought.

  Behind a wooden countertop adjoined by a low wall, a flotilla of desks stretched across the floor. In an adjacent long side-room, gals at a switchboard punched in calls with the deadeye aim of dart throwers. Men hunched over typewriters, green eyeshades
pulled down to their eyebrows, sleeves rolled up on beefy arms, cigarettes bobbing between their clenched teeth. Women dashed between desks or perched on desktops, skirts hiked up to their knees, pencils poised over notebooks, gum cracking in their mouths. Telephones jangled. Voices high with urgency spoke into mouthpieces. The smell of hot lead, wet ink, and tobacco hung in the air. Lily loved everything about it.

  A chap in a vest, bow tie, and porkpie hat caught her eye. He shot over to the countertop.

  “What can I do for you, miss?”

  “I’m here to see Simon Toth.” She held out a manila envelope filled with columns with her byline from the Buena Vista Gazette toward him.

  “He expecting you?”

  “You bet. Tell him Lily Nordby is here.”

  From across the floor, a guy shouted, “Hey, Mac, phone for you.”

  Mac waved him off. “Wait here,” he said, spraying his horseradish breath into her face and disappearing through a glass door. He was back in thirty seconds.

  “The boss says he’s busy. Sorry, doll. Try later.”

  She stood up taller, as if his words weren’t the blow she felt in the back of her knees, but a mere inconvenience in a daily round of opportunities that opened wide and handsome to her bidding.

  “You’re a regular Joe,” she said, pivoting on her heel. “Thanks!”

  Back in the elevator, she mumbled under her breath, “He’s not turning me away.” When the elevator hop opened the door, she sashayed over to the floor man. “Pardon me, sir. Is there a freight elevator?”

  “Yes, miss. Right around the corner, on Stevenson.” He studied her over the top of his eyeglasses. “Something I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks. Just curious,” she said, admiring the lobby’s interior. “Miss Julia Morgan did an elegant remodel.”

  “Yes, indeed. Mr. Hearst is mighty proud.”

  Back on the sidewalk, she thought, I need flowers. Lots of flowers. She tucked the envelope under her arm and trudged across Market, up Post, and smack into the stall of the first flower vendor who appeared.

  “You in a hurry?” asked the vendor.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “What’ll it be?”

  Buckets of sweet peas, pussy willows, stock, delphiniums, chrysanthemums, lilies, and roses arranged in three tiers smiled up at her. “Oh, lovely!” she said. “Give me three bunches of lilies, and make it pronto!”

  “You bet,” he answered, shaking water off the stems and wrapping the white lilies into a bouquet. “That’ll be twenty-five cents, young lady.”

  Clutching the flowers, she nearly ran back to Stevenson. Along the way, she conjured a story, so that by the time she crossed Market, hurrying past the Examiner’s entry and rounding onto Stevenson, she was ready.

  The street was more like an alley. Not more than thirty steps from the corner, an opening on the sidewalk into the building appeared. She walked down and peeked in. A wide hallway ran deep inside. It was empty. But the sound from the presses rumbled up through the floor and the dirty walls shook. She secured the envelope under her arm, held the lilies high, and stole into the passage. At the end of the hallway, next to a battered wooden elevator door, she pushed a smudged blue button marked FREIGHT. The elevator gears whined. She held her breath. The elevator banged to a stop; the doors cranked open. A Negro man dressed in overalls and a cap peered at her. “Well, hello there. Who are you?”

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Lily. Mind if I catch a ride?”

  “What with all those flowers, young lady, I guess you are a lily.” He raised an eyebrow. “Where you think you’re going?”

  She stepped inside. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Depends.”

  “My uncle is Mr. Toth.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It’s his birthday today.”

  “You foolin’ me?”

  “Not one bit.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. “He’s kind of private about his age and all, so if you could drop me off on the fifth floor, I’ll surprise him.”

  He cocked his head and scratched his beard. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, with his hand on the gears. “Those flowers stink to high heaven. Hold on. We’re going up!”

  As the elevator ground to a stop on the fifth floor, she winked at him and stepped into the hallway, clogged with rolling carts. Copy boys ran back and forth, ignoring her. She kept her head down and scooted along the hall until she came to a pebbly glass door on which CITY EDITOR was etched in gold letters. She gulped and rapped on the glass.

  “Come in,” a voice bellowed.

  Simon Toth was positioned behind an enormous desk. File cabinet drawers, left half open, bulged with folders and papers. Cigar smoke hung in the airless room. Toth, a florid-faced man with a lantern jaw, gave her the once-over. “Who in the hell are you?” he growled out of the side of his mouth.

  “I’m Lily Nordby, reporter with the Buena Vista Gazette, and I can cover any beat you’d toss my way.”

  “Goddammit, you’re the dame Adolph Schuman keeps pestering me about.”

  “Yes, sir!” She clutched the bouquet to keep her hands from shaking.

  “How in the hell can you see anything with those god-damn flowers in your arms?”

  “They’re for you!” She laid the bouquet on his desk.

  “What for?”

  “Your birthday.”

  “It isn’t my birthday, so don’t expect to sweeten me up.”

  “Look at my stories.” She tossed him the envelope.

  “That two-bit rag.”

  “Yes, sir, but if you take a look, you’ll see I can write.”

  He scowled but then shoved aside a stack of papers and shook out a fistful of columns. He raced through the first one before he slapped it down and went to the next. He raised his eyes, glaring at her from under a brow that had more wrinkles in it than a flophouse sheet.

  “Your beat is local art and entertainment.”

  “I can cover anything: politics, business, baseball—”

  “Is that right? Well, you’re a go-getter. I’ll give you that. But you’ve got to show me more than these puff pieces if you want to work here.”

  “Mr. Toth, I’m asking for that chance.” Her cheeks were so hot, she thought they’d explode.

  He ground out his cigar in a brass ashtray the size of a spittoon and fixed an unblinking stare on her. “What about the women’s page?”

  A flood of relief coursed through her chest. “With my eyes closed.”

  He leaned so far back in his chair that it squealed. “Gladys is up to her ears in a backwash of social events and contests.”

  “Right up my alley.” She couldn’t tell him she had her sights set on covering Treasure Island. He’d boot her out on her fanny.

  “Tell you what. This is your lucky day, Nordby. Take the load off Gladys, and you can have the morgue beat all to yourself.”

  Whoopee, she said to herself. The sight of a broken body in the street didn’t concern her. But she knew herself well enough to dread the prospect of coming across a small-time hood she’d recognize laid out on a slab, or, worse yet, her old man.

  “What’s the salary?”

  “The first week, you work free.”

  She flinched. Take it, she told herself.

  “When and if you measure up, we’ll talk salary.”

  “When do I start?”

  “How about now?”

  “Why not?” It was all she could do not to leap into the air.

  “And those high heels you’re wearing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ditch them. You’ll break your neck. Mac out there will introduce you to Gladys. Take these goddamn flowers to her. They stink! She’ll love them. Good luck, Nordby.”

  FROM THEN ON, every day at the Examiner was like slamming down orders at Woolworth’s lunch counter. Gladys commanded her post from a desk piled high with magazines and papers and tossed assignments to Lily like “Twelve Tasty Macaroni Recipes,” debu
tante balls, and charity drives by the Holy Sisters of Mercy. When Lily wasn’t at her desk, writing stories to make deadline, she was hoofing around town to interview people and attend functions. She couldn’t blame Gladys. It was easy to see her health had worn down. Between the job, smoking too much, and taking care of a sick sister, Gladys looked like she was held together by safety pins and a wish. Her bunions were the size of boiled onions.

  Lily worked the morgue detail with grim determination. She wrote about grisly murders and unidentified suicides. If a cop had been on the scene, she’d call to pump him for details. Quickly, she caught on to the banter and traded quips with the best of them. She developed a fondness for every cop she met. When a naked, bloated female body wrapped in barbed wire washed up on Ocean Beach, she called a locksmith and had a dead bolt installed on her apartment door. Even though she lived in a single-room-occupancy walk-up on Ellis Street, down the hall from her best friend, she was spooked. She chewed Beeman’s gum to choke down vomit at autopsies. If she was lucky, she got wind of a juicy affair, like a jilted wife shooting her husband before the crime desk got hold of it, but that was rare. Her worst fear—confronting her old man—never materialized.

  She made friends with the secretaries and switchboard girls. She learned how to drink the acrid coffee from a stained electric urn near the water cooler. She flirted with the legmen, the reporters who dug up the stories and phoned the details back to the rewrite guys in the newsroom. Dudley McGee, one of the junior photographers, took a shine to her. They’d run into each other in the lunchroom and talk shop. He was like a kid brother she’d never had, a college student who’d fallen in love with Ansel Adams’s photography, until he’d had to drop out of college to earn a buck.

  Dudley and Lily covered flower exhibits, pie contests, and dog shows. They both loved to dance. When the Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, and Tommy Dorsey orchestras played in dance halls downtown or at Sweet’s Ballroom in Oakland, he never missed a chance to invite Lily. Nearly every Saturday night, they jitterbugged until they couldn’t stand up anymore.