Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  “For visitors’ convenience, we will maintain this office for the duration of the Exposition,” Tokido explained. “Illustrated travel literature is available, and we extend a sincere invitation to all who wish to visit Japan.”

  He heard a gasp; the rise and fall of agitated voices, like water flung on hot coals; and deeper voices, calling for restraint. Unexpectedly, Lily surfaced at the front of the group. “Mr. Okamura,” she asked, “are you suggesting that now it’s wise to travel to Japan, much less China?” The tone of her voice was accusatory, the pitch ascending with each word.

  “Miss Nordby, we extend a most cordial invitation to visit Japan, where you can see for yourself the beauty of our country and also can visit Manchukuo, which reflects a new optimism of Asian ideals. Our country has an abiding friendship with the United States, as is evidenced by its being the first foreign country to accept your invitation to this enterprise. We join you in celebrating the achievement of building two gigantic bridges across the San Francisco Bay and in the perpetuation of lasting peace in the Pacific.”

  “I fail to see how—”

  Ralph Townsend shuffled forward. “Miss Nordby,” he interrupted, “both Mr. Cotkins and I have traveled extensively throughout Japan and Manchukuo. There, we have been enlightened by their economic stability and 2,500 years of classical tradition. May I also remind you that San Fran-cisco’s great port is looking forward to additional trade and increased shipping in lumber, grain, and goods between our countries?” He added, almost apologetically, “It is well to keep an open mind at this time.”

  Miss Higgins popped up beside Lily. “May I remind you, Mr. Townsend, that not all of us share your opinion?”

  Tokido brought his clasped hands to his lips and, parting his hands, palms up, with dignity, quietly commanded, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I suggest we resume the tour? I’d like to show you several more rooms as we wander toward the front. Your time is valuable. For those of you who wish to continue the sharing of ideas, I’m available afterward.”

  The air of agitation deflated like a pierced balloon. Arm in arm, Lily and Miss Higgins folded into the group. It was as if the reporters woke up to the fact that they weren’t in a newsroom, sleeves rolled up, hands balled into fists. Everyone followed respectfully behind Tokido. They were still in clusters that corresponded to their political beliefs, but there was a resignation that suggested they would neither insult their host any further nor degrade one another to prove a point.

  In the Silk Room, Tokido explained the process of silk making that would be demonstrated. In the Industrial Arts Room, he reviewed the sixty-three examples of arts and crafts that would be featured. In the Transportation and Communication Room, he pointed out the displays that would chart the progress of Japan in the modern world. All along, he kept watch for Chizu’s figure, and it wasn’t until the end of his presentation that he lost sight of her. As he stood in the hallway by the door, saying good-bye to the reporters and thanking them for their participation, out of the corner of his eye, he glanced Chizu, strolling down the hallway beside Lily.

  As they drew nearer, Chizu, demure and gracious, smiled. “Miss Nordby finds our pavilion’s architecture to be of great interest.”

  Tokido looked carefully from Chizu to Lily. “We have taken great care to blend the aspects of a feudal castle and a seventeenth-century samurai house. It’s really one of a kind in that respect. Is there some element that you’re particularly curious about?”

  “There is attention to detail everywhere I look, and yet back there”—she turned around and pointed toward an opening between the Silk Room and the Industrial Art Room—“that corridor leads to nowhere.”

  “Ah, yes,” Tokido answered. “We are still completing final details.” He glanced at Chizu. “Are you in conversation with the architect about that area? I believe you were hoping for a storage area.”

  “I have, Tokido-san. We’re discussing the advisability of building a small office at the end of the hall to better serve you and your staff.”

  “Ah, a most useful solution.” Tokido addressed Lily: “Our main office and meeting rooms are on the second floor. I would prefer to be closer to the public.”

  Chizu responded, “We’ll still be able to install shelving along the walls for the overflow of ikebana vases and tea implements.”

  “Thank you, Chizu. Don’t let us keep you.”

  She bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to other duties.”

  “Of course,” Tokido answered, holding her gaze until she padded away in the direction of the tearoom.

  A cold breeze from the open door blew into the hallway. Outside, Tokido heard Kiyoshi speaking to some of the departing reporters. He had wanted to engage a few in further conversation before they left, but he was highly aware of Lily beside him. She seemed unwilling to amend any of the remarks that she had flung in his face before, and he wouldn’t defend his position. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, he thought. Her behavior, true to course, was impudent and rude. As she started to walk toward the door, he searched for a parting remark.

  “By the way,” he said, “I’ve been invited to Forbidden City in Chinatown.”

  She stopped and regarded him. A puzzled look fell across her face.

  “Would you be my guest?” No sooner had the question left his lips than he wanted to retract it.

  They both seemed pinned to the spot. His invitation was preposterous, dangerous, out of bounds. He was certain she’d laugh. To his amazement, a coy smile lit up her face. Had he noticed before how radiant she could be, or had it just dawned on him?

  “I’ve never been,” she said. “Call me. You have my number.”

  With that, she turned on her heel, the hem of her coat flapping against the backs of her black boots, the pheasant feather stuck in the brim of her hat riding above her head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Woodrow

  Timothy Pflueger dealt five cards facedown to the men who were gathered around a burnished game table in the cask room of Hotaling’s warehouse. Woodrow picked up his hand, tightly fanning the cards: two aces, two tens, and a deuce. Lady Luck had finally smiled on Woodrow. He laid the cards back on the table and sipped Hotaling’s spicy whiskey from a tumbler. His expression remained the same: thoughtful, patient, good-natured. If the group had mistaken him for a rube during their first game, their impression had rapidly faded.

  Woodrow occupied the catbird seat, directly to Pflueger’s right. After the evening when he had laid a bomb at Lily’s feet, Woodrow wasn’t entirely certain of Pflueger’s motives. Had the man acted out of genuine concern, or was he up to something fishy? Woodrow couldn’t really say. Right now, Woodrow’s chips had dwindled down to a modest amount, despite his betting wisely, and he had to clear his mind.

  Cigar smoke curled over the heads of the players, veiling the umber glow from the lamps stationed on the high brick walls between the massive banded casks. Woodrow raised his eyes to the first bettor, a real estate kingpin by the name of Moe Shirley. Shirley had a smile that blasted out of his mouth like he had fifty teeth. Right now, he wasn’t smiling. His stack of chips had shrunk to practically nothing. He flipped open his wallet, drew out two Ben Franklins, and pushed them toward Pflueger, who shrugged and counted out forty chips, sliding them to Shirley.

  “I’m in,” Shirley said, tossing down four chips. A nice bet. Twenty bucks total.

  Simon Toth matched the bet wordlessly. Woodrow watched him closely. Toth had been drinking heavily. His neck was stuffed into a tight collar, the skin at the back bristling a porcine pink and slick with sweat.

  Adolph Schuman, impeccably dressed and cool, tossed in six chips. “I’ll raise you two.” Woodrow admired the man, whom he had met at a posh dinner when he had first arrived in the city, and he liked him even more after the night at the St. Francis Hotel. Schuman and his wife, a stunner and wickedly smart, made a brilliant pair.

  Next to Schuman was Ted Huggins, Standard Oil’s genius public r
elations man, known as the Father of the Exposition. He had spearheaded the movement to mount a world’s fair back in ’33 and guided it to reality. Widely recognized for his acumen and energy, Huggins was a force and regarded highly by both men and women. His charm was undeniable.

  Huggins smiled amicably. “I’m in.” He set down six chips.

  The bet went to Woodrow. He nodded, fingering six chips and then two more. “I’ll raise you two.”

  Pflueger whistled. “Excellent, Woodrow, my man,” he said, and pushed in eight chips. He looked to Shirley.

  Shirley’s tongue poked into his cheek. He peeled off four chips and set them down.

  Schuman and Huggins each added two chips. The pot held at $240, the largest one yet in the first round of betting.

  “Gentleman,” Pflueger said, “the pot is right.” He looked to Shirley. “What’ll it be?”

  Shirley flung down two cards. “Hit me.” His hand, as wide as a paw, the top of which was pelted with black hair, scooped up the cards, and as he splayed them open, his heavy brow twitched and his eyes blinked in rapid succession.

  Woodrow calculated quickly. He figured Shirley had gone for an open-ended straight draw. Shirley couldn’t stand to be sidelined. Put to the test, he’d bluff rather than quit. If the response of Shirley’s nervous system was any indication, he’d just lost the gamble.

  Toth asked for two. Woodrow wasn’t certain about his state of sobriety or, at this late point in the evening, his judgment. More than likely, he was holding a pair with a high face card. He mouthed the cigar in his mouth like a kid sucking on a wad of black licorice.

  Schuman asked for one. Woodrow estimated he was looking for a flush or an inside straight draw. Both risky, both improbable. Smooth as a seal, Schuman cradled the cards and peered at them. His eyes glistened.

  Huggins asked for two cards. Possibly, he held three of a kind. As he glanced at the cards, Woodrow detected a slight deflation of his shoulders.

  Woodrow extracted the deuce from his hand and laid it down. Pflueger pursed his lips and dealt him one card. Woodrow smoothly tipped the corner. An ace, proud and strong, smiled up at him, and what a beautiful sight it was: a full house—three aces and two tens. Deep within the recesses of Woodrow’s memory, the voice of his prep school Episcopal reverend intoned from Mark 12:17: “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” He folded the ace into his hand and laid it facedown on the table.

  Pflueger dealt himself one card. The rounded features of his face, his skin as bumpy as a potato pancake, revealed nothing. Woodrow ascertained that Pflueger, like Woodrow himself, was looking for one card to complete a full house. With a flourish, Pflueger grasped the whiskey bottle by the neck. “As the immortal Charles Kellogg Field said, ‘If, as they say, God spanked the town for being overfrisky, why did he burn his churches down and spare Hotaling’s whiskey?’

  “Perhaps, gentlemen, a little lubricant?” The bottle went around the table. Everyone partook.

  This was the moment in the game that Woodrow relished. Unless the whiskey had dulled his brain, he was fairly certain of each player’s hand except that of Pflueger, his erstwhile supporter and constant champion. Why, then, did he want to show him up? Maybe because of what had happened with Lily? Maybe because of Pflueger’s constant good humor? Maybe it was a knee-jerk reaction to his father’s unrelenting insistence, born in the long years of childhood and adolescence, that at every turn he’d take the bit in the softest places in his mouth and bite down? No matter—he’d take down Pflueger and the rest of the gents one by one, like ducks in a pond. There was no malice in his soul—just a pure white flame that burned in his belly as he stood on turf that was rarely the same for him as it was for other men.

  Shirley started the final round of betting. He inspected his hand as if the cards would tell him something different than what he already knew. Finally, his eyes swept from player to player. “Let’s get this thing going,” he challenged, tossing down eight chips. His bluff was no different than it was on other nights, Woodrow surmised. His bonhomie masked an impulse to cinch the deal no matter what. If there was a toehold, Shirley would step into it.

  Toth threw down his cards. “I’m out.” He pushed back from the table, grabbed the butt of the stubby cigar, and staggered away.

  “Taking the air?” Pflueger asked.

  Waving over his head, Toth wove across the slick concrete floor between the casks and toward the front door, which opened onto Jackson Street, where the night’s foggy wind routinely cooled the ardor of more than one man.

  “Come back soon,” Pflueger called.

  Before the heavy door slammed shut, the blast of a horn and shrill laughter echoed down the great room. The lamps flickered and then flared. Everyone halted until the disturbance passed.

  Schuman resumed the pace. “I’ll see you and raise you eight.”

  With a genial smile and a tip of his chin, Huggins surrendered his cards to the table.

  Woodrow paused, more for effect than for a reason. “I’ll see you and raise sixteen more.”

  “Well, well,” Pflueger said, “our friend has upped the ante.” He eyed Woodrow as he tumbled chips in his fingers, moving a bottom chip to the top with a nimble thumb and forefinger. He stacked a row of thirty-two chips and inched them forward.

  A sweat had broken on Shirley’s upper lip, and he swiped it away. “I’m out.” He closed his lips over his teeth and tilted back in the chair, rocking precariously back and forth.

  A hush fell over the table as Schuman leveled an unblinking stare at Woodrow. “I’ll call you.”

  Woodrow returned his gaze and, with a little English in his wrist, laid down the full house, pretty as a picture.

  Huggins whistled and broke the band of a Romeo y Julieta cigar.

  Schuman relinquished a flush of spades. “Nicely done, Woodrow.”

  Pflueger spread out three queens and a pair of sixes, laughing as if he had won the bet himself. “You bested me as well.”

  Shirley strained forward, clicked his tongue, and shook his head. “Take our money, you bugger.”

  “That he will,” said Pflueger. “But not without payback. I suggest we round up Toth, wherever he might be, and take a hike up to a little nightspot where the scenery is resplendent. At the very least, Woodrow owes us a round.”

  The pot stood at $720. The money meant nothing to Woodrow. Although his satisfaction came in reading the cards correctly, a frisson of glory spread across his shoulders and rippled down his arms. He had beaten the men! The sensation flashed as brilliantly as a comet, then died just as quickly. As in all games of chance, he knew it was an educated guess that hit the mark.

  Chips were counted, money pocketed; the bottle went around again. Chairs scraped on the concrete floor, and the men, grumbling good-naturedly at Woodrow, ambled past the night shadows and yesteryears’ bubble of mash in the barrels, where the ghosts of firemen winked and jawed about how in ’06, after the earthquake, as the city burned, they pumped salt water through hoses stretching eleven blocks from the Embarcadero to Hotaling’s, the largest stash of whiskey on the West Coast, and saved the good citizens of San Francisco from going dry.

  THE MEN MOVED up Jackson through the infamous district of the Gold Rush’s Barbary Coast. As they rounded the corner onto Montgomery, they detoured past an electric sign arched over Pacific Avenue, proclaiming in bold letters INTERNATIONAL SETTLEMENT.

  Pflueger had positioned Woodrow by his side, protectively looping an arm over his shoulders, and hurried him along as if a lowlife would jump out with a long-bladed bowie knife and slit their throats.

  “What was that?” Woodrow asked, craning his neck. Honky-tonk music spilled out over the rooftops, and drunken voices howled profanities.

  “Sin City, my friend. Stay up with me. The place is still notorious for crime and prostitution. Back in the day, that’s where you could buy your way to hell. It hasn’t changed much. You don’t want to try your l
uck there.”

  A seedy, faded air hung over the neighborhood. Even in the chill of night, the stench of urine and beer rose from the gutter. Hollow-eyed bums and bedraggled women hunched in doorways locked for the night.

  Shirley kept calling, “Toth, Toth,” until Huggins told him, “Shut your trap. You’ll wake the dead.” That set them to chortling and trading scandalous tales about upper-crust swells who had wandered into the International Settlement and never come back. A cold wind whipped through their clothing. Automobiles sped by. Toth appeared out of a doorway.

  Shirley was on him like flypaper. “Where in the hell have you been?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “In that case,” Toth said, “a hot tip on a nag at Bay Meadows doesn’t interest you?”

  “Aw, kiss off.”

  They fell into step, followed by Schuman and Huggins. Pflueger and Woodrow took up the rear and gradually fell farther and farther back, until the men ahead had gained a full city block.

  Woodrow was out of breath. “Where are we going?” he panted. He leaned into the gusty wind and wiped tears from his eyes.

  “To Sutter at Grant.”

  “That’s at least ten more blocks.”

  “I’ll hail us a taxi. We’ll meet the boys there.”

  Pflueger stepped off the curb and raised his arm. A Checker cab pulled up smartly. They piled in, and Pflueger rolled down the window. As the cab sped off and roared by the men, he shouted, “See you at Forbidden City!”

  A RED AWNING stretched over the sidewalk; above it, a soaring sign, FORBIDDEN CITY, flashed against the night sky. Woodrow tumbled from the cab onto the street, rearranged his tie and jacket, and combed his fingers through his wind-tossed hair. He had read about the club, intrigued about a cast of all-Chinese showgirls, whom he could picture as stunningly beautiful, although he could hardly imagine himself as a patron.