Isabella yawned, stretched, and walked over to the table. I reached down to scratch her back, still ruminating on the Leidesdorff story. As I picked up my salad bowl to take it to the sink, I accidentally knocked the book onto the floor. It narrowly missed Isabella, earning me an injured, offended look.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I said, leaning down to pick up the book.
The collision with the floor had knocked loose a piece of paper that had been tucked into the inside cover. I unfolded it on the kitchen table. It was a printout of an article from the Internet.
The article focused on the efforts of Joseph Folsom, the army captain who purchased Leidesdorff’s warehouse from him before he died. After Leidesdorff’s death, Folsom tried to acquire the remainder of the Leidesdorff property up in the Sierras.
Since Leidesdorff died a bachelor without any children, Folsom traveled to the Virgin Islands to try to purchase the estate from Leidesdorff’s mother, presumed to be his closest living relative. He managed to locate Anna Spark and convinced her to sell him all of Leidesdorff’s remaining California assets for $75,000. It was a significant amount of money at the time, but nowhere near what the land was worth after the gold on it had been discovered.
Folsom returned to San Francisco, and litigation over legal title to Leidesdorff’s land began. The dispute bounced from court to court over the next decade, complicated by conflicts between Mexican, American, and Caribbean inheritance laws, as well as several factual discrepancies about Leidesdorff’s life before he came to San Francisco.
During the court proceedings, the leaves of an alternative family tree began to emerge, and questions arose as to whether Anna Spark really was Leidesdorff’s mother. Doubts were even cast on the tragic details of his New Orleans love affair.
I stared at the printout for several minutes after I finished reading the article. The date printed across the bottom, I noticed as I looked up at Oscar’s calendar, was only a week or so before he died.
Today’s date, a Thursday, was marked on the calendar with a large ‘D.’ I stared at the wall for a moment before its meaning hit me.
“Oscar’s dominoes game,” I said, translating the symbol.
Oscar had gone to his dominoes game the Thursday before he died—the same night Monty snuck into the Green Vase looking for the entrance to the theoretical tunnel.
Harold’s rusting voice echoed in my head. “Guess we’ll need to find another player for this week’s game.”
I pulled out the phone book from a drawer near the kitchen sink. The book was well worn—and at least five years old. Smiling, I remembered Oscar’s cranky commentary on the topic.
“They’re always sending me new ones, but I just throw them out. I’ve got everything in this one marked!”
I flipped through the brittle pages and found a listing under “dominoes” that had been circled.
“Maybe they’ll deal me in,” I said, grabbing my coat and heading out the door.
Chapter 18
DINNER CROWDS THRONGED the street as I rounded the corner onto Columbus, looking for a cab. The overpowering smell of garlic welcomed me to North Beach, the Italian neighborhood just north of Jackson Square.
At this point in the evening, cabs were easy to come by. They weaved in and out of traffic, dropping off patrons for the endless row of family run, Italian restaurants. In a couple of hours, the ratio would flip, and a starch-stuffed mob would swarm the few unoccupied taxis that stopped on this block.
I waited for a boisterous group to vacate a blue and black painted, DeSoto sedan. As I slid across the backseat, I gave the address of the bar hosting the dominoes game to a heavyset driver with spiked hair dyed a flaming, florescent red. Painful looking metal piercings had been threaded into every available inch of cartilage on her head.
The car fought its way through a couple of stoplights and turned down Broadway, its tired shocks bottoming out as we picked up speed and swooped down the hill towards the Embarcadero. Joggers chugged along the palm tree lined promenade in the flickering orange sunset, the billowing colors enhanced by the swollen clouds glowering on the horizon.
Pier after pier flashed by as we approached the undercarriage of the Bay Bridge. Rows of tiny, white lights formed the looping outline of its suspension lines, illuminating the sooty, gray structure against the darkening sky.
The cab pulled up in front of my destination as the dark storm clouds bullied their way into the bay. Another drenching downpour was on its way.
I tipped the driver and got out, cautiously surveying the tiny shack of a building leaning out over the water. It looked as if it might teeter off and splash in at any moment. A neon sign flashed in the grimy front window, illuminating a couple of beer-laden tables filled with gray haired men zealously guarding their black-and-white tiles.
“You sure you got the right place, doll?” the driver yelled at me through her open window.
I nodded skeptically as she drove off. Dodging traffic, I scurried across to the other side of the street. A moldy, fishy smell assaulted my senses as I pushed through the door marked as the entrance. Several wrinkled faces looked up at me suspiciously.
I smiled weakly and sidled up to the bar, pretending to survey the offerings. From the looks of the greasy, cracked glassware stacked on the back wall, it had been a while since the last visit from the health inspector. Trying to avoid the bartender’s attentions, I turned my stool towards the tables of clicking tiles.
A head of dark hair stood out from all of the gray ones. I studied it closely. I had been expecting to find Harold Wombler among the players, but it was definitely not his greasy black mop that caught my attention.
The man had rotated his head to hide his face, but I’d spent far too much time with those frizzy, brown curls in the last couple of days to be mistaken. My lips twisted together as I strode over to him.
“So,” I said, thunking the back of his chair, “I see you made it to your appointment.”
“Oh, hello,” Monty said meekly, turning to look at me. “I didn’t see you come in.”
A deep voice interrupted my glare. “Would you like a seat at the table, dear?”
I felt my insides seize up as I glanced at the occupant of the chair on Monty’s right side. In the dim, hazy light of the bar, the balding head seemed even smaller, the hooked nose even larger.
“I didn’t get a chance to meet you after the board meeting,” he said, extending a hand towards me. “Gordon Bosco. I’m so sorry about your uncle. Oscar was a good man.”
I met his hand, my fingers brushing up against the tulip cufflinks at his wrist.
“So good to meet you,” I managed to whisper, my lungs paralyzed by the hard lines of his thin lips.
“He was one of our best players,” Gordon said, the black pits of his eyes never leaving my flushing face. “It’s a shame he missed his last game.”
“He missed it?” I asked. “Oscar wasn’t here that night?”
Gordon shook his head sadly. “Something came up at the last minute, and he had to cancel.” The tulip cufflinks reached over and wrapped around Monty’s slender shoulders. “Carmichael’s offered to fill in, but I’m afraid he’s still getting the hang of the game.”
Monty’s face plumed a flamingo pink. “Never been my forte,” he mumbled. “What with all of the numbers.” He shrugged helplessly.
“Ah, well,” Gordon said smoothly, patting Monty on the back. “You can’t expect to fill a pro’s shoes on the first try.” His beady gaze returned to me. “I’m glad you stopped by tonight. There’s something here of Oscar’s that you should have.”
Gordon stood up, not that it gained him much of a vertical advantage. At full height, he barely topped the curls on Monty’s seated head. He walked over to the bar and leaned in to speak with the bartender.
I followed him. Without turning to look, I knew Monty was tracking right behind me. I could hear his shoes flapping against the concrete floor of the bar.
The ba
rtender reached beneath the counter and handed a leather, rectangular case to Gordon. My breath caught as the rounded man swiveled towards me and placed it in my hands.
My fingers slid along the worn surface of the case, fumbling to unhitch the latch. The lid creaked open to rows of thumb-sized tiles lined up on their edges. I turned the lid into the light, reading Oscar’s familiar, scrawled handwriting that identified him as the owner.
I pulled one of the tiles out of the case. On one side, bold white dots counted out a numerical value against a dark background. I flipped the tile over and studied the image painted on the opposite side.
Monty, who had been leaning over my shoulder to get a better look, gasped loudly and poked me in the side of my stomach with one of his long, painful fingers.
Gordon stroked the flat plate of skin above his nonexistent upper lip. “It’s a fairly new set,” he said softly. “The tiles, that is. Oscar had the case for years.” I felt the probing, aquiline eyes studying my face as Monty tapped my shoulder.
“Thank you for giving these to me,” I responded, wincing as Monty poked me in the small of my back. “I had no idea he kept a set here.”
“Almost all of the players do,” Gordon said. One of the gold cufflinks clinked as he spread his right hand out on the surface of the bar. “It’s easier than carrying them back and forth.”
“Well, Gordon, thanks so much for inviting me to participate in the game tonight,” Monty said, his voice pitching feverishly. “I’ll have to study up for the next meeting.” He pulled on my arm. “We’ve got to go.”
Gordon smiled serenely, ignoring Monty’s antics. “Perhaps we could meet sometime soon,” he said to me, the expression on his face blankly placid as his upper lip twitched. “Your uncle and I had some business dealings that I would like to discuss with you.”
“Yes, that—would be—nice,” I said, struggling against Monty’s persistent pull. I fastened the lid, clasped it to my chest, and waved goodbye to Gordon with the tips of my fingers as Monty dragged me outside.
A hulking storm had shrouded the city while I’d been inside the bar. Its gusting wind wrapped whipping arms of air around me as Monty grabbed my shoulders and started to jump frantically up and down. “That’s it! That’s it!” he shouted. “It’s the kangaroo! You’ve got to check the pouch in the stuffed kangaroo!”
I studied the tile I’d pulled out of the case as lightening shot across the dark sky, piercing the water somewhere out in the Pacific. The personalized image painted on the backside of Oscar’s domino was of a kangaroo. In my opinion, the painted kangaroo bore a much greater likeness to the real thing than the stuffed one guarding the Green Vase.
Another flash of light flickered on the tile, illuminating the detail that had presumably sent Monty into his current tizzy. Streaming up out of the kangaroo’s pouch was a rainbow of sparkling gold stars.
“ARE YOU SURE there’s not some other pouch-like object somewhere, anywhere, around here?” Monty asked as he pulled a latex glove over his right hand.
It was rare to have thunder and lightening in the Bay Area, but tonight’s storm definitely carried an electrical charge. Low, rumbling reverberations followed occasional flashes of light as we stood in the showroom to the Green Vase, staring at the spooky specter of the stuffed kangaroo.
“I don’t see any way around it. You’re just going to have to stick your hand in there,” I said, amused at Monty’s last-minute anxiety.
I wasn’t at all convinced that we’d find anything inside the kangaroo’s pouch, but during the entire cab ride back, Monty had been absolutely certain of his intuition.
Rupert sat on the floor, staring up at the kangaroo. He had already exhausted himself hopping circles around it as we examined the outside of the pouch.
Monty looked more and more squeamish as he tugged on the glove. “Maybe I should put a rubber band around my wrist to hold it closed.”
I dug around in the drawer under the counter by the cash register and found one to snap around his wrist. Monty held up his gloved hand, studying it like a surgeon about to enter an operating room.
The corners of his mouth turned down as he sucked in his breath. “Right then. Let’s get this over with.”
Monty stepped in front of the kangaroo, placed his left arm on its shoulder, and looked into the pair of glass eyes. “No offense, mate,” he said solemnly. “I just need to reach in there to get whatever it is Oscar’s hidden.”
Monty moved his gloved hand gingerly to the outside of the furry flap and slowly eased it in.
I looked away. Rupert hid behind Monty’s pant leg. Isabella watched closely from on top of the cashier counter.
A bright flash of lightening lit up the room, quickly followed by a fireworks-decibel boom.
We all jumped.
Isabella jumped on the kangaroo. Rupert jumped on Monty’s leg. Monty jumped in the air, both arms still entwined with the kangaroo. I jumped out of the way as a tangled mass of Monty, white cat fur, and the seemingly possessed kangaroo fell to the ground.
“Ahhhhh,” Monty howled. A high-pitched, tortured sound emitted from the bottom of the wreathing pile. Then I heard him call out from underneath the kangaroo, “Oooh, I think I’ve got something!”
I crouched down to the floor near his face, which contorted as he struggled to grasp the object with his slippery, gloved fingers.
“I can’t—quite—get hold of it.” He jerked his hand out of the pouch and thrust it in my direction. “Oh, good grief! Take the glove off my hand.”
I pulled the glove off, and he plunged his unprotected hand into the belly of the beast.
“There!” he said triumphantly. “There, I’ve got it!” Monty pulled out his hand, which was now completely covered with short, fuzzy, brown hairs. I pulled the kangaroo off of him and righted it next to the cashier counter.
Monty stood up, holding a small plastic bag. We both looked at it silently. Isabella crawled back up on the counter to make a closer inspection.
It contained a used, scruffy-looking toothbrush.
“Your Uncle Oscar had a sick sense of humor,” Monty muttered as he dropped the bag on the counter and stormed out the door.
I leaned against the counter, staring at the ruffled kangaroo, wondering what to make of the toothbrush.
Even more intriguing, I mused, what hidden object had Monty been so convinced he would find inside the kangaroo’s pouch?
Chapter 19
GINGERLY CARRYING THE toothbrush, I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, trying to rationalize the collection of tulip-related messages, maps, and keys I’d stumbled across since Oscar’s death.
It had all begun with the tulip key and the note Oscar had left for me in the white envelope: There are so many doors left for you to open. All you need is the right key.
The key had fit into the replacement front door that Oscar had directed Ivan to stash in the basement. Was that what Oscar had meant by his note—a last, prodding message to urge me to leave my accounting job? Or was there another, still unopened door for me to find?
I slid into a chair at the kitchen table. Isabella hopped up into the one next to me, eying me curiously as I stroked her soft, shiny fur.
It seemed like people were flashing tulip-inspired jewelry at me all over the place. There was Dilla with her tulip necklace holding a miniature picture of Leidesdorff in its locket . . . and Gordon Bosco with his tulip-shaped cufflinks—cufflinks that looked almost identical to the ones Oscar had pulled out of his shirt pocket when he’d told me the Leidesdorff story—the same cufflinks my deceased uncle had worn on the sleeves of the starched shirt I’d purchased for his burial.
Brow furrowed, I stood up and pulled the parchment with the old map of San Francisco from its storage location between the cookbooks. I spread it out on the table, focusing in on the tulip imprint on the corner. I stared at it for several minutes, and then pulled back for a wider view, my eyes walking along the streets, trying to imagine the scene as Leidesdorff
had discovered it upon his arrival.
The crisp, temperate climate would have made a stark contrast to the heavy humidity of New Orleans. Sailing in through the Golden Gate, Leidesdorff would have been welcomed by the shimmering surface of a pristine bay that was surrounded by rolling green hills and lush vegetation. He would have marveled at the natural port that provided one of the few points of access to an expanse of thickly forested interior teeming with wildlife and raw materials.
For Leidesdorff, all of this natural splendor would have been even further enhanced by Northern California’s free-flowing society—as yet uncramped by traditions, stifling social structure, or entrenched dynasties. In my mind’s eye, I saw Leidesdorff standing on the shore, the wind coming up off the Pacific, whiffling through his thick, lamb chop sideburns, cleansing his shipper’s soul of the demons he’d left behind.
That was how Oscar had felt when he’d arrived here, albeit, I hoped, without the lamb chops. He’d landed in San Francisco after he returned home from the war and never left it.
“A man can make anything of himself here,” he’d told me. “Or a woman, for that matter,” he’d winked teasingly. “There’s nothing here to hold you back. You can do—or become—whatever or whoever you want.”
My head was still tilted towards the map, but I hadn’t actually seen it for several minutes, musings distorting my vision instead. As I refocused on the parchment, sliding my glasses back up my nose from where they’d slipped, I noticed a faint shadow of a line running across the map. I grabbed the flashlight and shone its bright beam on the paper. A barely visible, charcoal-colored mark looped along the shoreline, then cut up along the city streets.
I shifted my glasses, trying to focus through my bifocals. The line looked as if it had been drawn with a pencil.
I pulled out one of the guidebooks from the previous day and opened it up to a modern day map of San Francisco. Rotating the book’s map to align with the parchment, the closest modern day landmark that correlated to the pencil line was—Leidesdorff’s alley.
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