People stretched down the block and, as usual, gawked at him. Woodrow ignored their stares. Pflueger paid the cabbie and clapped his hand on Woodrow’s shoulder, and together they pressed to the front of the line.
The doorman tipped his cap. “Good evening, Mr. Pflueger. Nice to see you!” With a grand flourish, he swung open the plate glass door.
“Thank you, George. Meet my friend Mr. Packard.”
George smiled down at Woodrow. “How do you do, sir?”
Pflueger took George’s elbow. “A few friends are right behind us.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be on the lookout.”
“I appreciate that,” Pflueger said, and slipped a bill into his hand.
As they walked up a flight of stairs leading to the second floor, Charlie Low poised at the entrance to the club, greeting guests with genuine delight. He stood between a pair of red satin curtains tied back with gold braided sashes. Behind him, the floor of the club gleamed; lights dazzled the eye. A sea of round tables covered in black tablecloths stretched to a stage at the rear. In the center of each table, a candle flickered and danced.
When Charlie saw Pflueger, a wide smile filled his face. “Nice to see you this evening,” he said, pumping Pflueger’s hand.
“This is Mr. Packard. A very important person at Treasure Island.”
Charlie bowed slightly and shook Woodrow’s hand. “A friend of Mr. Pflueger is a friend of mine,” he said, ushering them into the club. “We have your regular table tonight.” He hurried them between the tables, filled with men in dark, elegant suits and ties and women in long, strapless gowns and fur jackets draped over their shoulders. They drank cocktails in glasses that tinkled and inhaled from cigarettes, smoke curling and twisting above their heads.
Charlie stopped in front of a table for six one row back from the stage. “Your lady friend is not with you tonight, Mr. Pflueger?” he asked, waiting while they sat.
“No, not tonight.” Pflueger winked. “She’s out of town.”
“Of course.” Charlie winked back. “Enjoy the show!”
An exquisite Oriental waitress, dressed in a long white cheongsam buttoned to the neck and slit up the thigh, stepped up to the table. A white orchid was pinned above her ear; her black hair was pulled into a smooth chignon. “What may I get you this evening?”
“Make it six Singapore Slings, my dear. That will get us started.”
Woodrow was fascinated and slightly taken aback. He wasn’t prepared for the glamour of the club. He hadn’t hobnobbed much in the city, and tonight was an eye-opener. There was nothing here remotely similar to the streets of Chinatown, where crowds pushed and shoved to buy vegetables, break the necks of chickens, and carry off sacks of rice.
The men arrived and tumbled into their seats just as the cocktails were delivered. The band members came out and sat behind music stands off to the side of the stage. The lights dimmed, and Charlie Low escorted a couple toward a table on the opposite side of the club at the lip of the stage. Woodrow turned his head toward the pair. A black-haired man bearing an erect posture walked behind a woman whose hat brim dipped and shaded her face. A fur jacket was buttoned to her neck. As she sat, she peeled off a pair of black satin gloves. Woodrow squinted. The man turned to take a seat next to the woman, and Woodrow stared into the face of Tokido Okamura. The woman removed her hat, lifted her face, and nodded at Tokido. Woodrow bolted upright.
Toth, who sat next to Woodrow, exclaimed, “What the hell? That’s Lily Nordby. What’s she doing with the Jap?” Pflueger’s eyebrows had shot up to his hairline. Every man at the table either knew Lily or knew of her, and every man had something to say.
Schuman caught Woodrow’s eye and nodded a slight no, as if to say, Don’t touch this. I know something you don’t know.
Seven bewitching showgirls in exotic costumes and dazzling makeup rushed onto the stage as the lights flared and the band’s brass trumpeted. The extravaganza on the stage had riveted everyone in the club. Everyone but Woodrow. His heart was beating wildly, and the havoc in his mind would not subside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lily
Maxine lounged on her bed in the room she and Lily shared in the French boardinghouse, one arm flung back, a Lucky Strike in her hand, a bourbon half-consumed on the bedside table. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” swelled from downstairs. Gay voices carried up and down the hall; Saturday night’s merriment could not be contained.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Lily. You had to shoo me into this joint. I wasn’t so sure it was us. You know what I mean?”
“We were ready, Max. We just needed a little push.” From across the room, Lily wiggled into a gold-toned evening gown that cascaded in shimmering folds to her ankles.
“Monsieur Reboul can push me any which way he wants,” Maxine said. “He’s a doll.”
“He’s a little old for you.” Lily shuffle-stepped to the bed. “Zip me up.”
Maxine propped herself up on one elbow and drew the zipper up the back of the dress. “I don’t know. I can be persuaded to make an exception.”
“In his case, I wouldn’t blame you. But remember, there are lots of fish in the sea.” Lily slipped her feet into a pair of gold satin high heels. “So, what do you think?” she asked, peering over her bare shoulder.
“You look like a million.”
“Thanks, Max.” Lily grabbed a hat off the bureau and a fur jacket from the back of a chair.
“Hold it, kiddo. Where’re you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Lily flashed Maxine a red-lipsticked grin.
“At least tell me the name of the lucky fella.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“What a bunch of horseshit. Dudley and I aren’t going to stand for your disappearing act much longer. Good God, you skipped out on us at Thanksgiving, and Christmas is coming. Most of the time, you’re nowhere to be found.”
“I had Thanksgiving with the Schumans. I told you that.”
“Are you deserting us for the upper crust?”
“I’m buried in work.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“Toth is all over me to churn out more stories. As fast as I file them, he pushes me for more. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
Maxine’s interrogation was getting under her skin. She scooped up a black silk bag and a pair of black gloves studded with rhinestones.
“My mom is insisting I bring you to Christmas dinner.”
“You know how I hate the holidays.”
“That won’t fly with her. She considers you her other daughter.”
Lily pulled on the gloves. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Promise?”
“Sure.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Turn down the brim of the hat,” Maxine said.
Tentatively, Lily touched the brim with her fingertips and curved it toward one cheek.
Maxine leaped up off the bed. “A little more over your eye.” With both hands, she smoothed the brim downward. “Like this.”
“What would I do without you?” Lily asked, kissing Maxine on the cheek.
LILY SWEPT DOWN the stairs into the foyer, where a ten-foot Douglas fir tree was strung with colored lights and pearl tinsel. Red apples, ribbons, glass angels, and white candles, one for every month of the year, adorned its branches. A three-tiered, bubbling fountain stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. She heard catcalls through the open French doors of the dining room beyond the foyer. She laughed and waved over her shoulder. “Don’t wait up for me.” Her shoes skimmed over the marble floor as she pushed open the beveled-glass door and hurried down to a cab waiting on the curb.
The cabbie opened the door. “Where to, little lady?’
“Coit Tower.”
“You got it. We’ll be there in a jiffy.”
Lily reclined against the seat, closed her eyes, and rubbed her forehea
d. She disliked concealing anything from Maxine, and yet the revelation that her mother was alive had separated Lily from everything she had known or assumed. She had been unable to act on finding her. She didn’t know why. Although she had promised the kindly Herman Oronoffski at the market on Folsom Street that she would return, she couldn’t bring herself to go back. Visiting the old neighborhood, even the warmth and loving company of Maxine’s family, filled her with apprehension. Approaching Bunny or Adolph about the question of her mother’s origins had seemed like a reasonable idea, but now that, too, seemed impossible. And, just as impossibly, she had to keep her destination tonight confidential from everyone. There was no way around it—she was wading into unknown territory.
The cab whisked along darkened streets where Christmas wreaths and lights twinkled in the windows of handsome homes, and on neighborhood corners the sounds of Salvation Army jingle bells blended with the clanging of cable cars. Christmas had come to San Francisco adorned in finery and the covenant of Jesus Christ, the son of God, to save sinners from damnation. Lily felt she hadn’t admission to either the cathedrals of Christians or the synagogues of Jews. She was a stranger in her own skin.
The cab twisted abruptly up the tree-lined road to Coit Tower. Lily peered through the window as they rushed by the Filbert Street steps that led down to Woodrow’s house. How long ago the night he had brought her to his home seemed; Lily felt a twinge of regret that she hadn’t contacted him since then. The only glimpse she had of him was when he pedaled by on the island, atop the seat of his motorized bicycle.
The cabbie swung into the roundabout under Lillie Coit’s tribute to her beloved volunteer firemen of Washington Square and pulled to a stop. The lights in the top of the slender-fluted column beamed red to celebrate the holidays. A hard wind buffeted the cab. “Clear as a bell up here to-night,” he said, and flicked the flag up on the meter. He squinted out the window to a few cars parked along the edge of the pavement and then frowned at her in the rearview mirror. “You want me to wait?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Yes, quite sure.”
“Suit yourself. That’ll be thirty cents.”
She reached into her purse and passed him two quarters.
“Thank you, miss! Watch your step.”
She pushed against the door. Stepping out of the cab, she felt the cold, sharp wind whipping against her body, pasting the gown against her legs. Shivering, she clutched her hat. Stars hung bright in the black sky, and the working lights on Treasure Island shone from across the starlit expanse of the bay. The taillights of a limousine idling ahead winked. She hurried over the pavement to the waiting car.
The rear door of the Cadillac Fleetwood limo swung open. Tokido stepped out, the tails of his coat whipping in the wind. Holding out his hand, he reached for her elbow. She slipped into the backseat, and he hopped in beside her. The door slammed shut sealing them in the luxury of the finest engineered steel, pistons, and padded leather that Detroit could manufacture. A chauffeur sat silently behind a glass panel at the wheel, a jaunty cap atop his head.
“Good evening,” Tokido said, glancing at her.
“Good evening to you.” She reaffixed a hatpin that had come loose. The wind hadn’t disturbed one strand of hair on his head, and he was impeccably dressed in a long black coat and black leather shoes. The collar and cuffs of a white shirt gleamed against his skin. A band of anticipation tensed her shoulders.
“You look lovely,” he said softly.
The tone of his voice caught her off guard. Despite herself, she blushed.
“I trust this arrangement to meet hasn’t been inconvenient,” he continued. “Under the circumstances, I thought it the wisest choice.”
“Not at all,” she replied. She wondered what circumstances he was referring to. Was he protecting her from raised eyebrows at the boardinghouse because it was scandalous for a white woman to be seen alone in the company of a Japanese man? Or was he was using her as a foil to gain intelligence? One way or the other, she thought, I’ll find out.
She had met him twice before, never in private but by invitation—once when the emperor’s gardener had come to the Japanese Pavilion, and another time, when tea had been served at a lecture about Japanese porcelains. Afterward, he had shown her special preference by sitting next to her.
“Coit Tower is visible from my berth at Treasure Island, and often I have wanted to visit.”
“This is your first time, then?”
“Yes. We have nothing quite like it in Tokyo.”
“Do you miss home?”
“I do, but time goes quickly. While I’m here, I’m honored to represent my country.” He paused. “We have time tonight before the show at Forbidden City. I’d like to take a drive.”
“To where?” she asked.
“Across the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Tonight?” she asked.
“Is this not agreeable to you?”
He seemed unperturbed—not at all like the times when he had ordered her off the pavilion’s grounds, or when she had questioned him at the press conference.
“I’ve been only under it, not across it,” he said.
“I roller-skated across it on opening day.”
Suddenly, he laughed. “What?”
“Oh, yes—it was Pedestrian Day, May 27. Twenty-five cents per person. People crossed on horseback, bicycles, sprinters, even a man on stilts.”
“Please go on.”
“The automatic counters shut down when the number hit one hundred thousand people, but the crowd kept coming. Hot-dog vendors sold out. When we started, the sun was out, but by noon the fog rolled in under the deck of the bridge and rose like smoke blotting out the towers.”
He peered more closely at her. “But you haven’t been across the bridge by car?”
“Only a few times.”
“Why not again?”
“Why not?” she replied.
Rolling aside the glass privacy panel, Tokido addressed the chauffeur, “Hayato,” he began, speaking in Japanese. Their language had a reedy quality to it, punctuated by a quick expulsion of breath at the end of each word. The chauffeur smoothly shifted into reverse, backed up, shifted forward, and steered down the hill toward the bridge.
The cushions had the faint odor of leather and the feel of kid gloves. The limousine, with its long, low hood and curved fenders, seemed to glide like a swan on a pond. Pin-points of light reflected off the polished windows and brilliant chrome. Lily had never been inside such an elegant automobile. Her father, rolling in dough from making bathtub gin during Prohibition, had bought a Stutz Bearcat, but she and her half brothers had steered clear of his beloved car, for fear of his leather strap.
Tonight, the city flashed past like a rolling tableau of architectural wonderment set out for its inhabitants’ delight. Lily glanced at Tokido’s profile. His expression was tranquil, and his hands lay folded in his lap. It wasn’t until they floated past the spires of Saints Peter and Paul Church and the broad green of Washington Square that he spoke.
“This place is filled with people, like the Yanaka district at home. Where are we?”
“It’s called North Beach, an Italian neighborhood filled with families that go back many years. The church we passed is Catholic. The parishioners worship and go to confession to ask forgiveness for their sins. Religious holidays are celebrated, babies are baptized, couples marry, and Mass is said for the dead.”
“Not like the austere Buddhist temples of monks at home,” he commented. “May I ask, are you Catholic?”
“Not one bit,” she replied.
“Do you celebrate Christmas?”
“Christmas is for children,” she answered quickly.
He looked at her strangely. A furrow wrinkled his brow. “Were your parents not religious?”
“You could say that,” she answered. “Are you Buddhist?”
He pursed his lips. “It was how I w
as raised. We follow the customs of our ancestors. But please, tell me more about this neighborhood.”
She told him about the restaurants that served platters of pasta, roast beef, and crab, and Chianti in straw-wrapped bottles. On Columbus Avenue, she mentioned the bakeries that made long loaves of sourdough bread and the delicatessens filled with the pungent, mouthwatering fragrances of salami, olives, and cheeses. When the chauffeur navigated up onto the broad expanse of Bay Street, they passed the Ghirardelli chocolate factory, whose sweet scent wafted into the limo. Along the Marina, she pointed out the sailboats bobbing in the little yacht harbor and the handsome homes on the boulevard, with views to Marin County.
“Where have you been that you like?” she asked.
“My business takes me to the consulate and often into homes for dinners. But I’m confined to Treasure Island. There is too much work to leave it.”
Gradually, the limousine pulled off the city streets and rolled onto the broad approach to the bridge. Traffic was sparse. Headlights flared and faded. Wind buffeted the limo. They skirted along the periphery of the Presidio, the military base strategically placed on land at the mouth of the bay and above the Pacific Ocean’s open waters. On the opposite side of the road, she pointed out Crissy Field, the army’s airstrip bordering the sandy coastline inside the bay.
“When the Tatuta Maru came under the bridge, I saw seaplanes there on the ramp,” he said, “but not any aircraft.”
“Since the bridge was completed, the South Tower and anchorage have interfered with the flight path of aircraft taking off from Crissy Field.” She watched him as she spoke. In the glow from the dash, his eyes remained the same, watchful and curious. She made a mental note of his questions, deciding that every answer she provided would be either public knowledge or already known to him and or his superiors. “That and the prevailing west wind make takeoff dangerous.”
“Go on,” he said.
“Large aircraft operations have been shifted to Hamilton Field in Novato.”
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