1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  Shanghai Kelly hit him like a bloodied bull avenging itself. He lifted Christian off his feet and slammed him to the ground with a sickening thud, kneeling quickly on his chest. Kelly landed a vicious right to Christian's jaw that bounced the back of his head against the cobblestone.

  Max pinned one of Hunter's arms to his side while Carlo grabbed the other.

  "You stay out of this," Max growled softly, "Christian started it and Christian finishes it."

  Kelly landed another right to Christian's face, then another. Kelly's fist came up again, red with blood from Christian's nose and mouth.

  Hunter tried to break free but Max and Carlo tightened their grip.

  As Kelly's fist came down again, Christian freed an arm, lunged to grab Kelly's hair, and jerked him forward. Kelly's fist thudded against the curb.

  Christian landed a short hook to Kelly's face, threw him clear and sprung to his feet. He wiped the blood from his mouth, waiting for Kelly to rise. The instant Kelly's feet were beneath him, Christian moved in, landing a right hook to Kelly's ribs.

  "Come on, Christian," Hunter yelled, "kill him!"

  Kelly charged, throwing punches from every angle.

  Christian backpedaled, using his quickness to counter Kelly's attack. Kelly caught Christian flush with a left hook that staggered him, and then moved in.

  Christian sidestepped, fighting back furiously, jabbing to Kelly's face and hooking to his body. The crowd grew quiet, holding its breath. Kelly pounded away at Christian's ribs.

  Christian fired back with combinations; three, four, five punches at a time, tearing at Kelly's fleshy face. Blood poured from Kelly's mouth and nose, covering Christian's fists in a sticky mess.

  Still Kelly came, banging away furiously at Christian's midsection. Christian countered, peppering his opponent's face. When Kelly's hands came up, Christian attacked his ribs with short, vicious punches.

  Kelly lunged forward and caught Christian with an uppercut, staggering him. His torso red with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, Kelly pushed his advantage.

  Christian recovered, planted his feet and landed an overhand right that sent Kelly flying into two prostitutes.

  The crowd lifted Kelly and threw him back into the middle. He spat a mass of blood and raised his scarlet fists.

  "Kill him Shanghai," the rabble yelled.

  Christian spat a mouthful of blood.

  Kelly, chest heaving and eyes bulging in fury, charged at Christian, firing a lethal right.

  Christian turned his head in time to deflect the blow. He sprang to his toes, dodging every wild blow that Kelly offered; leaning clear of a jab, ducking below a hook, leaning away from Kelly's uppercuts.

  When Kelly waned and gasped for air, Christian counterattacked. A jab to the mouth, a right cross to the ear, a left to the jaw. He pummeled Kelly's ribs and stomach, the blows taking their toll.

  Kelly lunged, caught Christian in a bear hug and tried to squeeze the life from him. Slick with blood and sweat, Christian slipped his arms free, grabbed Kelly's head and butted the bridge of his nose, the crack echoing down Battery Street.

  Kelly dropped him, half-blind and bellowing in rage.

  The crowd winced as Christian stepped in and pressed his assault. A right cross to the jaw, a left hook to the ribs, an uppercut to the solar plexus that lifted Kelly to his tiptoes. When Kelly sagged to his right, Christian straightened him with a left.

  A straight right hand knocked Kelly out cold on his feet. Christian hoisted him on his shoulder, staggered thirty yards and heaved him into San Francisco Bay. The water parted and settled back, turning red.

  The Brotherhood sprinted to Christian's side. Hunter used his shirt tail to wipe his brother's bloody face.

  "Don't you try to save him," Christian told his brother. "He drowns, it'll just save me havin' to shoot him."

  Christian clapped Hunter on the shoulder, forced a smile, then turned and bellowed to the crowd. "This bar is closed! I catch any man, anywhere on the Barbary Coast with anything to say about my father, he'll get worse than Kelly!"

  Hunter put Christian's jacket around him, examining the cowed and impassive faces of the onlookers.

  Order had been restored.

  Chapter 34

  HALL OF JUSTICE

  APRIL 17, 1906. 11:20 A.M.

  Six blocks from the bare-knuckle bout outside Shanghai Kelly's saloon, a carriage from the Palace Hotel stopped at the Hall of Justice.

  "Much obliged," Lincoln said to the driver.

  "You're welcome, Sheriff."

  Lincoln paused to marvel at the collection of humanity across the street; garish whores and pigtailed Chinese, scarred sailors and jaunty Negroes, savvy pimps and sweet-faced school kids teeming through Portsmouth Square in jerky syncopation to the honking horns and tinkling saloon music.

  He pushed into the Hall of Justice, walking purposefully to the scarred desk where the duty sergeant sat rifling papers.

  "I'm looking for Chief Donen."

  "He's a bit irked at the moment," the desk sergeant said. "We just buried the Chief of Detectives and the scribblers been on him like flies, but try your luck. Fifth floor."

  Lincoln made his way to the elevator, past a squad room where half a dozen patrolmen played poker on a wobbly table.

  Arriving on the fifth floor, he spotted the burly chief inside a glass-lined office.

  "Chief Donen?"

  Donen was busy digging through Byron's desk. He slammed a drawer shut without looking up. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Lincoln Staley, Sheriff of Douglas County, Kansas."

  Donen found a letter opener and went to work on a drawer lock, barely registering Lincoln's presence.

  "I'm looking for my daughter."

  "Somebody snatch her?"

  "Runaway. Caught the train a couple of days ago."

  "Wanted all that stuff she couldn't get in Kansas, right?"

  Lincoln remained silent.

  "How old is she?"

  "Fifteen. Probably passing for older. Big girl. Tall for her age."

  Staley handed over the photograph of Kaitlin.

  Donen stopped and whistled softly. "She's a beauty. Look, we got four hundred and fifty thousand people in this city, Sheriff. A thousand new vagabonds show up every week. Kids by the boxcar, bloody runaway capital of the world. As if I ain't got enough headaches already." He looked at Lincoln. "You packin' a sidearm?"

  Lincoln slid back his duster.

  "You any good with that thing?"

  "We already buried them that ain't."

  "Try to keep the thing holstered while you're here. There's a board downstairs, you can post her photograph. No promises."

  Lincoln returned to the first floor and entered the squad room.

  Beneath a hand-made sign that read "MISSING PERSONS," he found an entire wall covered with school pictures, wedding photos, candid snapshots, pencil drawings, and watercolors, tacked on top of each other an inch thick. Some of the missing looked no older than eight or nine.

  He put Kaitlin's photo in the inside pocket of his duster and walked out, his disgust for big cities and big city cops growing by the second.

  Six blocks east, Kaitlin crossed Market Street and made her way to the Palace Hotel. There she entered the Garden Room, filled with the syrupy smell of violets, as a string quartet played "Danza Pastorale" from Vivaldi's I Quatro Stagioni.

  "Hello, Kaitlin."

  She turned to find a smiling Andrew Tavish.

  "My, you look different. Did you find a place to stay?"

  "A little boardinghouse on Union Street, right on Washington Square with a nice Italian lady."

  "I know the place. You're very lucky."

  Kaitlin looked toward the lounge, where Assistant Professor of Geology Jeremy Darling rose from his armchair and started toward her. "Andrew," she said. "If anyone should come around asking, not that they would, I don't want anyone to know where I'm really staying. I sort of let on I was staying here. Please
. That's why I'm meeting my friend here."

  "Is that your beau?"

  "I met him on the train; he's offered to escort me for the day."

  "A gal's gotta be careful in San Francisco."

  Excusing herself, she walked to Jeremy, extending a gloved hand.

  The sight of her sent Jeremy's heart careening. "Kaitlin, my gosh, you look so different! What did you do?"

  "I had my hair cut and dyed. Henna, actually. Some man named Emperor Milton gave me this strange money last night, with his picture on it. They accept it everywhere in San Francisco. Do you like my hair?"

  "It's quite different."

  "So, where are you taking me?"

  "On a picnic."

  Kaitlin's jaw dropped as she gazed toward the elevators. Jeremy followed her stare.

  Enrico Caruso, dressed in a pencil-striped gray suit and a coal black Borsalino hat, walked directly toward them. As he passed, the great tenor gazed up at Kaitlin and smiled, the corners of his mustache rising with the olive cheeks.

  Kaitlin appeared ready to faint. She was so engrossed in the sight of Caruso that she did not recognize me walking just behind him.

  "So," I said, slowing to address her. "You managed to survive your first day in San Francisco."

  "My gosh. Annalisa. The reporter. Are you accompanying Mr. Caruso?"

  "I'm his translator, not that he really needs one. We're on our way to rehearsals. Enjoy your stay."

  I hurried to catch Caruso, who smiled back at Kaitlin, bowing slightly. She held a gloved hand to her mouth. "My God, I don't believe it. No one back home would believe this! This is heaven."

  "My aunt lent us a carriage," Jeremy resumed. "She packed us a lunch." He tried gamely not to stare at her, but it was useless.

  She took his arm and walked to the carriage entrance. Kaitlin was a half-head taller, and Jeremy self-consciously tried to avoid the stares of all they passed. He helped Kaitlin into the carriage, handed a nickel to the livery man, and climbed in next to her. They headed out through the archway and onto the cobblestone street, turning south.

  "What are those boxes and tripod for? Are you a photographer as well?"

  "I have to take some photographs and measurements near the lake where we're going. I thought you might find it interesting. I've been monitoring a fault line."

  "A what?"

  "I told you on the train, remember? Where one big tectonic plate pushes against another, that's called a fault line. The biggest one we know of runs down the middle of the San Francisco Peninsula. When they move abruptly, that's when you have an earthquake."

  "As I said before, I'm not planning on having any earthquakes while I'm here. And I plan on being here for a very long time."

  Kaitlin watched the scenery swim by as they swung along El Camino Real, skirting the shimmering blue bay. She loosened the buttons of her burgundy waistcoat and breathed the salt air, leaning her head back to feel the warm April sun on her face.

  "My God. Is there anything about San Francisco that isn't wonderful?" she asked, her memory of the previous night's travails quickly fading.

  An hour later, Jeremy turned off the main highway and spurred the horse up a narrow dirt road, where wild coastal sage and purple bush lupine perfumed the crisp breeze. Atop a ridge overlooking a crystal blue lake, he stopped the carriage.

  He ran quickly to Kaitlin's side and helped her down. "Welcome to San Andreas Lake. Are you hungry? Or shall I take my measurements first?"

  "I had a biscuit and coffee in this darling little cafè in North Beach. In Kansas, most places won't even serve a woman by herself. Let's walk and build up an appetite."

  She smiled her gleaming smile. He stared back like a lovesick adolescent.

  At the south end of the lake, Jeremy adjusted the legs of the tripod and screwed a brass instrument atop it as a fascinated Kaitlin looked on. "What is that thing?"

  "A transom. It's for surveying. Road construction and building layouts, mostly. I use it to determine soil and rock movement."

  He focused the transom and stared through it, swinging it in a small arc several times. He pulled away from the eyepiece with a look of concern, checked his settings, and sighted again.

  "My God. It's moving."

  "What's moving?"

  "The fault line. You see those stakes over there, along each side of San Andreas Creek, where it feeds into the lake?"

  Kaitlin squinted and pulled the enormous brim of her hat lower to shade her eyes.

  "Here," he said. "You can see better through this."

  She tipped her hat back and put her eye up to the transom.

  "Do you see how those stakes are not in line with each other?"

  "Yes."

  "When I left for New York they were perfectly in line. It looks like the fault line has moved several inches in just the last few months."

  "I don't understand."

  "If the plates move without causing a tremor, I believe the pressure is building somewhere. North of here would be my guess."

  "You're frightening me, Jeremy. What's going on?"

  "People at the university think I'm daft, that's why I'm still an assistant professor." He rubbed his hands together nervously. "Yesterday," he continued, "I stopped at a dairy farm in Berkeley. Three heifers dropped their calves prematurely in the past two weeks. The county dogcatcher has dozens of reports of cats and dogs running away and every horse within miles has been on edge."

  "You've lost me. What do heifers and lost cats have to do with earthquakes?"

  "Everything." He looked at Kaitlin glumly. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take a few more measurements before we eat."

  "Fine with me. I'm starting to lose my appetite."

  Chapter 35

  NOB HILL

  APRIL 17, 1906. 1:50 P.M.

  On a telephone pole across from Adam Rolf's mansion on Mason Street, a repairman donned climbing spikes and quickly ascended to the top. The workmen hustling in and out of the Fairmont, attending to details for the next day's opening, scarcely noticed.

  Hunter Fallon, an oversized black beret hiding his face, reached the top of the pole and began to unbolt a junction box when a Rolls Royce, with Tommy at the wheel and Rolf beside him, lurched onto Mason Street just below.

  Hunter pressed his face against the pole until the Rolls turned into the circular livery entrance and disappeared behind the mansion. Sweat trickled down Hunter's face as he quickly spliced into Rolf's telephone line.

  When he finished, he shimmied to the ground and hurried inside the Fairmont, blending with the army of workers scurrying through the lobby.

  Inside his mansion, Rolf entered the expansive kitchen where Pierre's former sous chef oversaw a half-dozen helpers preparing the evening's banquet. "Malcolm! Have I received any phone calls?"

  "A Mr. Clyde Ebbens telephoned from the Senator's office in Sacramento," Malcolm replied. "He said he would be phoning you back sometime this afternoon."

  "How about Mr. Kelly?"

  "Nothing from a Mr. Kelly."

  Rolf reached into a brass tub piled high with ice and extricated a crab. "How many do we have?"

  "Six dozen, sir."

  "Telephone Alioto's at the wharf and get another six dozen. And make sure they're fresh. I don't want Mr. Caruso or the Senator getting the runs like people at the last party."

  Rolf left the kitchen and strode into his study, where he locked the door behind him. He threw his bowler hat onto the desk and went to his safe, deftly spinning the numbers. He pulled open the massive steel door and extracted ten bundles of hundred dollar bills, one hundred thousand dollars, and placed the money into a portfolio. He took the accounting ledger from the top shelf of the safe and set it atop the blotter on his desk. He opened the red leather cover and froze. The ledger was upside down. He replayed his movements, checking that he hadn't turned it inadvertently. He looked back at the safe, wondering if he could have returned it improperly when he last replaced it. It was not a mistake he had made before
.

  He walked to his office door and opened it. "Tommy," he called out, "fetch the Rolls and let's get to the Opera House."

  At the rear of the Fairmont, Carlo steadied a dump cart while Max set blocks before each wheel.

  "What the hell is this contraption?" Max asked Hunter above the blanket-covered cargo. "We like to bust a gut moving the damn thing."

  "I'll explain upstairs. We have to hurry, Rolf is home."

  They rolled the machine through the chaotic lobby, into the elevator, barely making it through the doorway into room 434.

  "All right, damn it," Max demanded as Hunter removed the cover, "What the hell is this thing?"

  "A Victor recording machine, same kind Caruso uses in New York. Only one like it in San Francisco. Feeney said we need someone who overheard Rolf and Kelly discussing the murder of my father. I'm going to fix it so he and the jury can hear for themselves."

  "You're one of those modernist clowns," Max growled. "Got a dentist livin' two doors down, last month he puts a toilet in the closet next to his bedroom. Too lazy to go to use his outhouse, so he shits in the house. Every time I see one of those cars stinkin' up the streets, scarin' the horses, I'd like to put a round up his ass."

  "Get used to it, Max," Hunter replied. "Someday everybody will be shitting in the house."

  While Max, Carlo, and a battered Christian watched in bewilderment, Hunter wired the earpiece of the telephone to the horn of my Gramophone. He then set it six inches from the square brass horn on the recording machine.

  "I learned this trick from Thomas Edison when I visited his plant in New Jersey last summer. The electrical impulse running through a wire can feed more than one telephone. Whenever Rolf talks to someone, their voices will travel through this auxiliary telephone. The sound is amplified by the horn attached to the earpiece, then passes through the recording horn onto the revolving disk."

  "Y-y-you think R-R-Rolf is go-going to discuss kill-killing the-the-the Lieu-Lieutenant?" Carlo asked.

  "I doubt Rolf wants to be in the same room with Shanghai Kelly, except to exchange the money and the documents. Rolf has a private line, not a party line. He would never dream that someone is tapping into his conversations. If we get lucky, Adam Rolf will be the first man ever to hang himself with his own telephone line."