1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  1906: A Novel

  By James Dalessandro

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2013 / James Dalessandro

  Cover image courtesy of: James Dalessandro

  Cover design by: David Dodd

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  James Dalessandro was born in Cleveland, Ohio, and attended the Ohio University School of Journalism and UCLA Film School. In 1973, he founded the Santa Cruz Poetry Festival with Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Ken Kesey, which became the nation’s largest literary event during its four year run. Lawrence Ferlinghetti credited him with launching “a new birth of American poetry” and called him “one of the new breed of young, populist writers who has something to say, quite clearly, about life on the wild side.” He has published four books: Canary in a Coal Mine (1973, poetry, Sanguine Books); Bohemian Heart (1993, noir thriller, St. Martin’s Press), Citizen Jane (1998, true crime, Putnam Penguin); and the best-selling 1906 (2004, historical thriller, Chronicle Books).

  He has been a member of the Writers Guild of America, west, since 1983, and has sold or been hired on more than 20 feature film and television projects. In September, 2009, Hallmark Channel broadcast the original movie “Citizen Jane” – their only true life/true crime story – for which he was both screenwriter and producer. He is the screenwriter of the upcoming Pixar/Warner Brothers live action film “1906”, based on this novel. He was the writer of the nationally syndicated radio program, “The House of Blues Radio Hour” with Dan Aykroyd” and “Rock On” with Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek.

  He is the award winning writer/director/producer of the documentary Film “The Damnedest, Finest Ruins” (KQED-PBS, 2011). He has written for The Examiner newspapers and published feature articles in San Francisco Magazine and Playboy.

  As of December 2012, “Telegraph Hill,” a television series based on Bohemian Heart is in development with James as a writer/executive producer in partnership with Oscar winning screenwriter Bobby Moresco (CRASH, MILLION DOLLAR BABY) for EntertainmentOne Television.

  He teaches Advanced Screenwriting and Television Writing at the Academy of Art University in San Francisco, and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife, Katie and best pal Giaccomo Poochini.

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

  The Online Store

  Subscribe to our newsletter

  Visit our blogs for news on Books and Audiobooks

  Find and follow us on Facebook

  1906: A Novel

  DEDICATED TO

  Katie Dalessandro, from whom all joy and blessings flow. You keep me going when it sometimes seems futile.

  Gladys Hanson, whose lifelong devotion to exposing the lies of 1906 is the foundation of this effort.

  Ken Kesey, whose work and friendship inspired me for a lifetime. The world is a lesser place since your passing.

  PROLOGUE

  THE UNOFFICIAL STORY

  TELEGRAPH HILL

  MAY 30, 1906. 8:00 A.M.

  It was a month ago that I finally managed to convince myself I was still alive. That day—a week after the inferno burned out—the fire clap had faded from my ears enough that I was able to hear a knock on the door of our singed Victorian.

  I arose from a seated position on the floor where I had been typewriting day and night on the Remington, and shuffled through inch-deep ash, little clouds erupting with every step. I jerked open the brittle front door to discover an overdressed man waiting on the puffy stoop.

  He asked for Annalisa Passarelli, opera and theater critic for the Evening Bulletin, cringing at the sight of me. When I said I was she, he lowered the handkerchief he had been clutching to his nose to ward off the acrid smell of burnt everything and introduced himself as Mr. Charles Appleby. He stated he had been sent by the California State Historian at Sacramento, removed his bowler hat as if preparing for a benediction, and began to recite a litany of statistics.

  Three hundred miles of California coastline reconfigured. Santa Rosa, Palo Alto, San Jose, and several dozen other small towns reduced to rubble from Humboldt County to Monterey. Nearly a half million people sent running for their lives, more than thirty thousand buildings incinerated including thirty-seven national banks, the Pacific Stock Exchange, two opera houses; hundreds of millions of dollars in smoke and ash.

  I interrupted to explain that I was aware of the physical losses, having witnessed much of it with my own eyes.

  He then mentioned an honorarium that sounded like one thousand dollars, offering me a position as one of six writers chosen by the State Historian's office to report the events of April 18, 1906, and the three terrible days that followed. After aiming one blistered ear, then the other, straining for detail, I had my cracked lips parted and my swollen tongue dislodged and was about to accept when he mentioned the phrase "Official Story." He looked up, braving the sight of me as chivalrously as his horror permitted, stating that all of the required fodder for the effort would be provided by the office of our Mayor, the ever-grinning marionette Eugene Schmitz.

  The six writers would be encouraged to add "little dashes of color" and "some inspiring bits of human interest" that would then be reviewed by the Official Information and Oversight Committee. For some reason that portion of Mr. Appleby's tale came through quite clearly.

  The undulating crimson veil that had colored my field of vision had also subsided, enough so that I was able to examine the written proffer. After further Appleby emphasis of just how keen everyone was to perpetrate the official fraud—his voice filtered through the metal-on-metal shriek that had replaced the fire's throb—I returned his document and gave a shake of my frazzled head, sending a faint halo of ash floating down on him.

  He returned to his carriage with the half-skipping gait usually seen on tourists who inadvertently wander—or once wandered—into the Barbary Coast after dark. The dappled mare tethered to the black runabout was as anxious to leave as queasy Mr. Appleby.

  Had I accepted, I would have been, at twenty-two, the youngest of the deceitful six and the only woman. Add that I was the opera and theater critic for Mr. Fremont Older's Evening Bulletin, a crusading journal which appeared, at present, to have soundly lost the crusade, and I was easily the group's most unlikely candidate. A thousand dollars was an attractive sum in a city living in Army tents, standing in soup lines or spearing rodents for sustenance, but I was content with my decision as I was not prepared to enter the whoring profession just yet.

  I had my own version of the story, much of it collected and composed before the horror struck; a version that would do nicely without assistance from City Hall.

  But I have gotten ahead of myself, a dangerous state of affairs for a writer.

  You see - the city of San Francisco is no more. The Paris of the Pacific, the wealthiest and wickedest of American cities, is now ash and memories. All that remains are blackened wharfs, the iron puddle of a church bell, a mound of cinders where a school once stood, hilly graveyards of charred bricks and melted iron skeletons, an endless scorch mark that was once the grandest boulevard in the West. A city of four hundred and fifty thousand frenetic souls; shaken from its moorings, burnt to a crisp, vanished from the face of the earth.

  The fire stopped a block below us, here at the crown of Telegraph Hill, sp
aring seven houses where once were thousands, seven sullied teeth in the mouth of a black-gummed giant. Seven houses where once sat a raucous Barbary Coast, a majestic Market Street, a teeming Chinatown, seven houses for all of North Beach and Russian Hill and Cow Hollow and the Embarcadero.

  I write my story, still floating in a sea of ash. Ash that was once the city of San Francisco: once someone's mansion, someone's opera house, someone's tenement, someone's bakery. Someone's someone. My cough sends a fluffy tail snaking across the feathery surface of something that was once precious to someone.

  I cringe at the further horror wrought by the lies that Mayor Schmitz and his minions attempt to foist upon us. Let me tell you what really happened here, before deception triumphs and the truth is lost forever. Let me paint for you the Imperial City of San Francisco: part Paris, part Dodge City; literate and boorish, libertine and feudal, a soiled Mecca, a beacon for those who had grown weary of the broken promises. San Francisco had invigorated the dream and become the new America.

  I offer my own version of this extraordinary tale, one that began well before the holocaust. It is a personal observation; part history and part memoir, an attempt to add a human face to a most inhumane series of events.

  I complete my version of the story, cross-legged in a barren Victorian on roasted Telegraph Hill while the unholy trinity of Mayor Eugene Schmitz and Boss Adam Rolf and Napoleonic General Frederick Funston are meeting at a bakery on Fillmore Street in the Western Addition, just past the fire line, to concoct their account. Their objectives are quite simple: to protect themselves from the hangman's noose, minimize the totality of the horror lest the sane world recoil from our restoration, and defraud history by convincing us this was all God's will and not their folly.

  The newspapers, printed daily in Oakland, barrage us with tales of their heroics: of the steely resolve of Mayor Schmitz and the unflinching courage of Funston's square-jawed troops and of the brilliant plans of Boss Rolf to engineer our resurrection. Four hundred and seventy-eight dead, they report. Four hundred and seventy-eight. There were that many bodies in the twisted tenements South of Market, on Howard Street alone. The true number is in the thousands.

  I must offer a shifting mosaic of characters and events as no one story could ever render up the heart of this great matter, of a wondrous and dangerous city that is no more. I rely upon a bit of hearsay, tales retold, on points of view disparate and even contradictory. I have used diaries and letters, from both the living and the dead, to construct my story. I must fictionalize, on some accounts, the words and actions of characters who neither I nor my legion of observers could record firsthand. Those instances are quite small in number. The liberties I take are minor.

  What transpired here was a war for a city's heart that merely climaxed on April 18, 1906, at 5:13 A.M., a moment etched in the memories of all who survived. But if earthquake and fire is all that is remembered, then all is lost, for what we truly witnessed was a battle between good and evil the likes of which we have not seen outside of war itself.

  Schmitz, Rolf, and Funston will no doubt twist any truth to convince you our demise was merely fate unavoidable, and whatever bad things this noble trio might have done, they did so with our welfare at the fore. Do not believe it. It did not have to happen. Good men and women, the unlikeliest of heroes, might have stopped it. The warning signs were everywhere.

  The die was cast, not by the great earthquake but three days earlier, when the true heroes began to assemble. They were an unlikely lot: a runaway Kansas farm girl, a Chinese slave girl, a martyred fire chief, and a group of fearless young cops they called The Brotherhood. Lest anyone question the inspired significance of the cast, God, who loves a wild yarn as much as anyone, sent His voice, the great Enrico Caruso, to preside.

  Most of all, there were the Fallons: Byron, a man whose belief in justice consumed him; Christian, his oldest son, a man at war with his own soul; and Hunter, the younger son, who found greatness before our eyes.

  The story began, not on April 18, the day the Devil called, but three days earlier, when a remarkable young man named Hunter Fallon came home from Stanford University.

  Remarkable indeed, for Hunter alone might have saved us.

  -ANNALISA PASSARELLI

  PART ONE

  THE FALLONS

  San Francisco, since the earliest years . . . has always been a money town. When John Jacob Astor was clipping dimes in the trade in New York Real Estate and Commodore Vanderbilt was ferrying passengers to Staten Island for a shilling, the wife of San Francisco's mayor . . . was pouring tea from a solid gold service, the first such in America . . . and the town's first jeweler was advertising silver watches that weighed a full honest pound, since no miner could be found who would carry one that weighed less.

  -LUCIUS BEEBE, HISTORIAN

  Chapter 1

  STANFORD UNIVERSITY

  APRIL 15, 1906. 5:30 A.M.

  The horses woke Hunter Fallon that Easter morning, neighing and kicking in the stalls beneath him. As recorded in his journal, he opened his eyes to a sight as discomforting as the sound: an empty loft that until the day before had been crammed with graphs and charts, measuring devices, Bunsen burners and Petri dishes, microscopes, boxing gloves, leather football helmets, sporting trophies of every shape and size. Gone, all of it crated and shipped by rail to his father's house in San Francisco.

  Hunter laid there a minute, the rolling emptiness inducing a sort of vertigo. He dismissed the fractiousness of his four-legged companions as some sort of equine melancholy, convinced they were as saddened as he was over his departure.

  The loft where he slept, above the palatial stables on the edge of the campus, had been his home since the recently deceased Jane Stanford, angel of the university, had awarded him a scholarship in the fall of 1900. Exercising and tending Jane's prized thoroughbreds and trotters had provided loft and board. He had described those years, in a constant stream of letters to his father, as more a miracle than an education. But that was over now. The adventures just ahead would be unlike any he had ever dreamed.

  A golden beam of sunlight appeared on the redwood ceiling high above him, growing quickly from band to square to rhomboid. Hunter rose and stretched to his full six-foot height, and descended the ladder to the rough mahogany floor, where he quickly offered his good-byes.

  "Mr. Whitman," he told a chestnut colt, "don't tell the others, but I loved you best." He scratched Mr. Lincoln, nuzzled Mr. Twain, accepted a pink and soggy good-bye kiss from Miss Woodhull, Miss Duncan, Mr. Edison, Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Caruso. Hunter was, as were his charges, sturdy, handsome, and noble of stock.

  A decade earlier, when we were both near the age of twelve, I had developed a schoolgirl innamorato for him, and was not alone among the young girls in North Beach, San Francisco's Latin Quarter. He was, even then, more an element of nature than an adolescent, restless and unyielding as the tide and fog that move through the Golden Gate. He was often seen tearing about on a bicycle he had built from spare parts, stopping to engage even casual acquaintances with dissertations on emerging developments in the telephone or new steering mechanisms in the automobile. His precocity was tolerated by most, as he was the offspring of legends.

  His grandfather Malachi and granduncle Arthur founded San Francisco's police department during the Gold Rush, their primary qualification a willingness to battle a gang of former Australian convicts, the Sydney Ducks. As sons and nephews and grandsons followed them, the Fallon/Fagen/Rinaldi clan, more than a dozen of them, earned a city's reverence as the department's most honest and fearless officers.

  The last I had seen of Hunter, his father was marching him home, dragging the pieces of a homemade glider constructed according to diagrams in Chanute's Progress in Flying Machines. Byron had caught Hunter near Sutro Baths just as he was about to launch himself and the contraption off the ocean cliffs. He was fourteen at the time and earned a considerable tarring for his efforts. Age, I was to discover, only enhanced Hunter's
considerable gifts.

  On that momentous Easter morning, now nearly twenty-three, Hunter sported the dark eyebrows, flawless olive complexion, and impassioned intellect of his Italian mother Isabella. From his Irish father he inherited a square-set jaw, haunting blue eyes, and unflinching determination. Summers in construction work and years of athletics provided a frame straining with muscle.

  The ache of his bittersweet departure was tinged with apprehension. After all, it is not often that a young man's final college examination runs the risk of killing him.

  Hunter donned faded Levi blue jeans, a gray woolen shirt, black leather engineer's boots, and a Pittsburgh Pirates cap signed by the great shortstop Honus Wagner, twisting the brim backward on his head. Moments later, he pushed a gleaming black and chrome Waltham out onto Stanford Lane. With an engine shaped like an enormous V, the motorcycle had arrived the previous winter in several hundred pieces and taken Hunter six months to assemble.

  A quarter-mile away, a crowd of fifty had gathered for his benediction: fresh-faced young men in brown tweed suits and bowler hats, rosy-cheeked coeds in long skirts, square-shouldered jackets, and broad-brimmed bonnets plumed with Easter orchids.

  Hunter lowered a pair of jockey's goggles over his Pirates cap and kicked the starter pedal. Three, four, five times, adjusting valves and levers. On the sixth try, the Waltham roared to life. He engaged the gear lever and rode in ever-widening circles, listening for signs the whole thing might explode between his legs.