by Len Levinson
‘San Francisco—this is San Francisco!’
The rotund conductor marched through the railroad car like a general of the army. Stone looked out the window at modem brick buildings, broken-down shacks, wide boulevards, a vast city built on a series of steep hills, gateway to Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Malay.
The train veered toward the Ferry Building, western terminus for the Central Pacific Railroad. Masts of sailing ships could be seen on both sides of the structure. The clock on the steeple declared 4:40 in the afternoon.
The train came to a stop in the shed. ‘San Francisco—last stop!’ Bells rang and doors flew open. Travelers gathered their belongings. Moffitt and his entourage filed past Stone on their way to the exit. Finally the ex-cowboy and ex-stagecoach driver leapt to the ground. Stone smelled the Pacific Ocean mixed with coal smoke and jets of steam. He and Slipchuck slung their saddlebags over their shoulders and walked to the edge of the Ferry Building.
The famous bay spread before them, filled with tall-masted sailing ships. The sun sank toward the horizon, reddish glow streaking the heavens. Halyards clanked against masts, flags fluttered in the breeze. Figures could be seen moving on the decks of the ships. The air carried brine with tropical flowers from South Sea Islands.
‘We best find a hotel a-fore it gits too dark,’ Slipchuck said. ‘Otherwise we’ll end up in an alley. Fer every dollar in yer poke, there’s twenty sons of bitches who’d kill to git his hands on it. We best git movin’.’
Stone gazed at dusk falling on San Francisco. A country boy at heart, he’d rather take his chances in the wildest forest at night than a big city. San Francisco’s lawlessness was legendary.
The railroad conductor joined them, thumbs hooked in pockets of his vest, silver watch chain looped across his ample belly. ‘Whenever I arrive in San Francisco, always like to walk here and take a gander at the boats. Sometimes think I should’ve been a sailor.’
‘Could you recommend a good hotel?’ Stone asked.
‘Railroad folk stay at Miss Rosie Donahue’ s on Russian Hill, but she don’t let in people unless somebody else recommends ’em. You tell her Charlie O’Farrell sent you, and by the way, I’d like to shake your hand.’ The conductor grasped Stone’s big paw. ‘I heard stories about you, Mr. Stone. Met Randy LaFollette some years ago. You must be a helluva man.’
The conductor tipped his hat and walked away. Stone felt weird. ‘Let’s find that hotel,’ he said, adjusting the saddlebags on his shoulder.
Slipchuck raised his hand. ‘Hold on, Johnny. Let’s not run off half-cocked. Ain’t no reason fer both of us to check in. Why don’tcha take my saddlebags, and I’ll meet you later?’
‘Bet I know where you’re headed.’
Slipchuck spat a gob of tobacco juice to the ground. ‘If’n we both know, ain’t no reason talkin’ ’bout it. I’ll see ya when I see ya.’
Slipchuck walked across the square, crowded with wagons, carriages, stagecoaches, pavement crisscrossed with curved paired rails. Stone threw Slipchuck’s saddlebags over his shoulder. Into his line of vision came a squat spotted dog with a mashed face and fangs, making a low friendly growl.
Stone stared at Muggs, who barked proudly. The alley dog stowed aboard the train in Lodestone to travel with the cowboy who befriended and fed him. Stone scratched Muggs’s small scarred half-round ear. ‘Don’t know how you did it. You must be a very smart dog. Let’s see what Frisco’s all about.’
Stone crossed the square, Muggs at his heels. A stylish gentleman and lady rote past in a carriage, the driver flicking his whip over the tails of two white horses. A boatswain’s whistle echoed across the bay, lamps flickered in windows of buildings. Stone came to a saloon, a restaurant, then a tonsorial parlor.
The tumult and energy stirred Stone’s blood. Everyone rushed about madly, horses trotted down the center of the street. A man dressed like a British earl approached on the sidewalk, importuned by a beggar with filthy flesh visible through shredded clothing.
Granite buildings four stories high on one block, dilapidated shacks on the next. He passed a hotel where semi clad women waved at him from windows. Then came a street with saloons and drunks passed out on the sidewalk.
He came to the St. Patrick’s Orphan Asylum. On the next block the Vulcan Iron Works produced smoke and hammering. A performance of Don Giovanni was advertised on posters of the Bella Union Theater.
Finally he came to Russian Hill. A middle-aged man in a suit directed him to a three-story wooden building covered with yellow paint. The sign above the porch read MISS ROSIE DONAHUE’S.
The door was opened by a little old lady with octagonal eyeglasses, wearing a high-necked dress, her white hair parted in the middle and folded into a bun.
‘I’m looking for a room,’’ Stone said. ‘Charlie O’Farrell, the conductor, sent me here.’
‘You must be all right,’ she croaked. ‘Alone?’
‘My pard’s with me, but he’s been detained.’
She led him to her office. Crocheted white doilies covered the furniture. A desk before the window overlooked the street. She dipped a pen in her inkwell. ‘Names?’
‘John Stone, and Ray Slipchuck.’
Her hand faltered, then she resumed writing. She told him the charge; he paid two days in advance. ‘What line of work you in, Mr. Stone?’
‘Cattle.’
‘Got some to sell?’
‘I’m in Frisco looking for a friend of mine.’ He took Marie’s picture out of his shirt pocket. ‘Ever see her?’
Rosie squinted at the figure. ‘She’s a pretty gal, but Friscos’s all of ’em.’
‘I bet you were one yourself.’ Stone winked.
‘Stay away from the Barbary Coast. A man’s life ain’t worth a plug nickel there.’
‘Ever hear of Derek Canfield the gambler?’
‘Town’s full of tinhorns and four-flushers. Cain’t remember ’em all.’
Stone climbed the stairs to a small room with two cots, a table, two wooden chairs. He lit a cigarette and sat beside the window. Before him stretched the vast city at twilight, lights glowing aboard ships in the bay. He poured water into the basin, washed his face and hands, removed his dirty shirt, and buttoned on a fresh blue one.
‘Figgered you might be hungry,’ said his landlady. ‘Brung you a sandwich and some coffee.’ She placed the tray on the table. ‘What time’s yer pard a-showin’ up?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘He a young feller, like you?’
‘Around your age.’
Her crow’s-feet eyes closed a few seconds, then reopened. ‘See you later, cowboy.’
Stone munched the sandwich. Old lady reminded him of his granny. Then he readjusted his guns, looked in the mirror, quick-drew, that’s what Randy LaFollette saw the instant he died. Stone holstered his guns, tilted his old Confederate cavalry hat over his eyes, headed for the streets of San Francisco.
~*~
In the Blue Tail Saloon, Slipchuck knocked back a glass of whiskey. Firestorm erupted in his chest and made the small round end of his nose turn red. He’d wanted to come to Frisco all his life; now he was here, with fifty dollars in his kick, to indulge his scholarly interests. ‘Bartender, what’s the best whorehouse in town?’
The bartender wore a black handlebar mustache and slicked-down hair parted in the middle. ‘Depends what you want. Some like fancy rooms with mirrors on the ceilings. Others want your Chinese girl. Me, I likes ’em real young. My brother goes fer the redheads. You can pretty much take your pick at the Golden Slipper on Geary. They’ll show you a real good time.’
~*~
A Chinese man carried buckets suspended from a pole spread across his bony shoulders. Stone felt as though he weren’t in America anymore. He traversed an Italian immigrant neighborhood, strange pungent fragrances. Two Turks wearing fezzes and business suits held a loud conversation punctuated with wild gestures.
Stone felt like a hick. Two policemen with strange helmets walked by, their disapproving eyes
fixed on his guns. He turned a corner and saw the Crystal Palace.
It was a huge, sprawling structure four floors tall with balustrades and porticos, painted gray and white, the kind of establishment a fancy gambler like Derek Canfield would frequent. The door was opened by a man dressed like the king of an obscure European principality. ‘Good evening, sir.’
Stone entered the vast lobby. Green potted plants grew beside overstaffed furniture. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating men and women dressed at the height of fashion. Stone became aware of his black cowboy pants, blue shirt, fringed buckskin jacket. Worst thing they can do is throw me out. Oil paintings of seascapes hung from the walls. Gentlemen sat at tables and at the bar, which was filled with the low hum of dignified conversation. The bartender, who looked like a college professor, polished a glass.
‘I’m looking for Derek Canfield the gambler. Know who he is?’
‘Comes here all the time.’
Pay dirt, after all these years. A solid feeling of accomplishment came over him as he reached into his shirt pocket and took out the picture of Marie.
‘Ever see this woman?’
‘Looks like one of Canfield’s.’
‘Know where I can find her?’
‘Ask Canfield.’
‘Where can I find him?’
The bartender reeled off a list of drinking and gambling establishments, which Stone struggled to memorize.
~*~
A golden slipper hung beside the door of a two-story house on a busy street lined with saloons. Slipchuck’s knees quivered with delight as he climbed the stairs. The door opened and two gentlemen appeared, ties and hats askew, laughing uproariously. Slipchuck entered the vestibule, a smile of anticipation on his face, and suddenly found himself thrown against the wall.
A man with a beard and broken nose held a fistful of Slipchuck’s shirt. ‘What you want, you old fart?’
‘Ah I’ll poontang,’ Slipchuck replied through vocal chords strangled with fear.
‘You best take a bath and put on a suit, you want to come here.’ The bouncer propelled him toward the door. Slipchuck stumbled on the sidewalk, never before denied admittance to a whorehouse because of clothing regulations. A saloon next door, he found an empty space at the bar. Above the bottles, a panoramic painting showed naked ladies bathing delightedly in the ocean. A big man wearing a derby pushed Slipchuck out of the way as though he were an inanimate object.
‘Now jest a minute!’ Slipchuck hollered.
‘Don’t bother me, old man. I ain’t got the patience.’
The ex-stagecoach driver held his ground. ‘Neither’ve I.’
Derby hat looked at the old man incredulously. Another man, who smelled of soap and onions, placed his arm around Slipchuck’s shoulders. ‘Leave ’im alone. He’ll spit you out like a chicken bone.’
Slipchuck let himself be maneuvered toward another stretch of bar. He ordered whiskey for himself and his newly found friend.
‘My name’s O’Mally. That there was Bill Gibson, and he’s a Sydney Duck.’
‘What the hell’s a Sydney Duck?’
‘Australian hoodlums. Rile one, got to fight ’em all. Probably twenny in here right now, each meaner than the last. Where you from?’
‘Coloraddy. How ’bout you?’
‘Boston. Gone to work the mines, but didn’t pan out. Now I’m a cook at the Wayfarer’s Inn. What’re you doin’ in Frisco?’
‘Just blew in with a friend of mine. Heard they got the best whorehouses in the world. A bartender told me to try the Golden Slipper, but they throwed me out.’
‘The Golden Slipper’s fer the swells. Men like us—we go to the Barbary Coast. You want the Rosebud, on Pacific Street Tell ’em I sent you.’
~*~
Stone’s eyes scanned women in the lobby of the Sheldrake Hotel, but didn’t see Marie among them. He came to a lounge, men seated at a semicircle bar. No Marie. Stone wondered if he was looking at Derek Canfield among the gamblers. He found an open length of bar.
‘Know where I can find Derek Canfield?’
‘Was in a few days ago,’ the bartender said, ‘but haven’t seen him since, sir.’
‘Was his woman with him?’
‘Can’t recall.’
Muggs waited on the sidewalk, wagging his tail, his stomach an empty pit. The concept flew from dog’s brain to man’s.
‘You must be starved,’ said Stone. ‘I’ll get you something.’
Muggs barked, pointed his crushed snout across the street, a sign there read good food.
Stone dodged wagons, carriages, men on horseback, Chinamen balancing buckets on the ends of poles. He entered a dark saloon. Men gulped whiskey, played cards, schemed, the atmosphere ominous and deadly, redolent of whiskey, tobacco smoke, vomit. Alert and ready for anything, Stone approached the bar. No openings presented themselves. A waitress walked by. ‘I wonder if you could bring me a raw steak. My dog is outside, and—’
‘Your dog!’ she screamed. ‘What the hell you think this is!’
Stone took a step back, bumped into a wall, or at least that’s what it felt like. He turned around, saw a man with a shaved head and dark bushy beard, a panther’s tooth hanging from a leather thong around his bull neck.
‘Leave the waitress alone!’
The waitress snarled, ‘He wants somethin’ fer his gawdamn dog.’
Stone tried to settle them down. ‘I didn’t mean to insult your kitchen, but my dog’s awful hungry.’
‘You sayin’ our food’s fer dogs?’ asked the giant.
He threw a massive left hook at Stone’s head, but Stone leaned out of the way. The ham-fist whistled past his nose. ‘I’m not looking for trouble,’ said Stone. ‘Haven’ t you ever owned a dog?’
A right cross zoomed toward his noggin, he dodged to the side, the blow passed harmlessly. Stone decided discretion was the better part of valor. He headed for the door. ‘Guess you don’t like dogs.’
The giant dived at him, but Stone dodged like a matador. His assailant made a horrible sound as he crashed into a pillar that held up the roof.
Three hoodlums moved in front of Stone, carrying a blackjack, brass knuckles, a knife with a seven-inch blade. Patrons drifted toward the doors. Several climbed over the bar, glancing fearfully behind them. Two struggled with a sticky window. The three desperadoes advanced toward Stone, who whipped out his guns with fantastic speed. He glared at them with cold determination. ‘I’m going out that door. Get out of my way.’
The man in the middle wore a thick black mustache. ‘You wouldn’t dare shoot that gun.’
He swung brass knuckles at Stone’s head, but Stone raised his left jam, blocked the blow, then brought the barrel of his right Colt down with full force on his adversary’s head. The man dropped to the floor like dead weight. His two friends stepped out of the way. Stone reached the sidewalk. Pedestrians glanced in alarm at the guns in his hands. ‘Let’s find another restaurant, Muggs.’
~*~
On the Barbary Coast at night, menace and misfortune were in the air. Slipchuck advanced over the sidewalk cautiously, right hand ready to draw and fire. Sinister characters gazed at him from alleyways. Somebody screamed, laughter or a knife in the ribs, Slipchuck wasn’t sure. A roar of applause erupted from a saloon. A gun fired in the distance. Jittery, Slipchuck wished he had waited for Stone. Nobody ever bothered him when he was with the big ex-soldier.
‘Lost?’ A midget in a top hat stood before him.
‘I was a-lookin’ fer the Rosebud.’
‘Foller me.’
The midget turned at the corner. In an alley, a woman opened her fur coat. She was naked underneath, except for black net stockings and high-heeled boots. Slipchuck’s eyes popped out of his head.
‘How’s about a little?’ the whore asked with a smile. Slipchuck walked toward her as if in a trance.
‘But the Rosebud …’ the midget protested.
She pulled a long-bladed knife from the f
olds of her coat ‘Get lost, runt!’
The midget ran off. Slipchuck felt thirty years younger. He swaggered toward the alley like the wild stagecoach driver he’d been so many lifetimes ago. ‘How much?’
‘Only five dollars. My room’s in back.’
He followed her through the murky dark alley to privies, shacks, piles of wood, trash, rags in the backyard. A rat scurried from a hambone strewn in their paths. She turned toward him, a broad smile on her garishly painted features. ‘Gimme a kiss, big boy.’
Slipchuck closed his eyes blissfully and leaned toward her. Something rustled behind him, the wings of Cupid perhaps? Her lips inches away, his heart beating madly, a club came down atop his head. The force of the blow threw the old man to the ground. He lay motionless as the whore with her accomplice went through his pockets, picking away his wealth and belongings as vultures pick carrion off the bones of a steer.
~*~
‘You can’t come in here,’ Stone said to Muggs, on the sidewalk before the Bedford Arms.
Muggs growled unhappily. Stone hitched up his guns and headed for the door. A uniformed man opened it.
‘I don’t believe you’re properly dressed, sir. You need a tie.’
Stone fingered his red bandanna. ‘What d’you think this is?’
‘But, sir …’
The doorman’s hand dangled hopelessly in the air. Stone crossed the lobby. A large man in a too tight suit emerged from behind a Corinthian column. ‘Goin’ somewhere, sir?’
‘The lounge.’
‘You ain’t dressed right.’
‘I’m looking for Derek Canfield. Seen him tonight?’
‘Left about an hour ago. Didn’t say where he was goin’, but you might try the Westerly. One of his favorite spots.’
~*~
Slipchuck opened his eyes. He lay on damp smelly dirt in the backyard where he’d been cold-conked. His head felt split in two, blood covered the side of his face, twin moons floated in the sky. He raised himself to a sitting position, coat, hat, and boots gone, plus guns, belts, everything of value in his pockets. He remembered the beautiful whore’s naked body silhouetted against fur. Slowly, painfully, he raised himself and teetered from side to side.