"An unhappy girl is of no use to me, Kaitlin. What my girls do, they do of their own free will. They have lives and opportunities they never dreamed of."
"And this Adam Rolf?"
"He likes the company of attractive and sophisticated young ladies. You'll be amongst dozens of people, it would be impossible for anyone to do anything unacceptable. And you'll be seeing Caruso."
"I'll have to use a different name," Kaitlin said, "if I'm to stay at the Palace."
"The room is under my name," Tessie said. "It's a marvelous place. You think about it. I'll telephone after you get settled."
Kaitlin gave Tessie a last uncertain look as Nicolette took her carpetbag and headed toward the door.
On the front porch, Joseph raised a whistle and gave a long shrill blast. A horse-drawn Brougham appeared almost instantly. Joseph helped Kaitlin into the carriage.
Tessie watched through the window as they drove away. She walked to the rear of the house, into a small dining area.
Antoine was seated at the table, smiling his hare-lipped grin. "She is beautiful zees girl, yes?"
"You didn't tell me she was a redhead."
"She was no red head when I am see her on za train. Is even better now, yes? Wiss red head?"
"I'll tell Mr. Kelly you came through with your part of the bargain and delivered the girl. Come back tomorrow. If Mr. Rolf wants her, you'll get your bonus. Depending on what condition she is in when I get her back."
Antoine rose and bowed. "Is good when everyone makes mow-nees."
Chapter 38
UNION SQUARE
APRIL 17, 1906. 4:50 P.M.
Hunter stopped the Waltham in front of the City of Paris on Union Square, amidst a crowd dramatically larger and more animated than the usual dinner and theater throngs.
"Where are all these people going?" he asked me. "They can't all fit into the Opera House."
"They just want to breathe the air Caruso breathes," I answered, my legs cramped from the jarring trip.
"Annalisa. You can't go to the opera. If Scarface knows who you are, then Shanghai Kelly knows, and if he hasn't told Rolf yet, he will."
"Rolf would not dare try anything there. If he knows, I'll see it in his face. Just be at the Fairmont afterward so I can signal you from the party. A few more hours and we'll be done with all this craziness."
I threw my arms around his neck, kissed his face, and hurried away.
While I pushed through the heavy doors of the City of Paris for what I hoped would be the last of Adam Rolf's largesse, Hunter charged up Nob Hill. At the Fairmont, he stowed the motorcycle, went in the service entrance and charged up four flights to the room.
"Anything happen, Christian?"
Christian pointed to a pile of black disks. "Let's see. The new chef ordered six-dozen crabs, four more cases of champagne, and twelve boxes of cigars. Then Rolf called the City of Paris to have a dress delivered to the Palace. They're going to have to start making longer disks. I used up half of them on groceries."
Christian held up a disk and smiled. "But not this one."
Hunter grabbed it from his brother's hand. He disconnected the amplifying horn from the earpiece, re-attached it to the gramophone, and cranked the handle several times. The voices that came through were clear and strong.
"Mr. Rolf?"
"This is Mr. Rolf."
"This is Clyde Ebbens, the Senator's personal aide. We're up here in Sacramento, meeting with the Governor and some key state legislators. The Senator asked me to telephone to see if all the arrangements we discussed have been completed."
"I have the donation here in my office. We'll finish our arrangement at the party after the opera."
"Excellent. The Senator will be happy to hear that."
"How long will it take the Senator to introduce the bill on the railroad project?"
"The wheels are in motion. You can provide the services we discussed earlier?"
"I'm acquiring the Union Iron Works to manufacture the steel girders for the bridge. A crew is already laying tracks."
"Isn't that a little premature, Mr. Rolf?"
"Ambition breeds success, Mr. Ebbens. Please tell the Senator we're looking forward to seeing him this evening."
Two distinct clicks ended the recording.
"It works," Hunter cried.
He examined the face of his brother. Christian's upper lip and cheek were swollen and purple, but his left eye, nearly closed earlier, had shrunk considerably. Hunter noticed two small puncture marks on Christian's eyelid.
"Slimy little thing sucked so much blood he keeled over and died," Christian said, grimacing.
Hunter looked at the trashcan. A swollen leech lay in the bottom. "You might want to dump that thing out before some tourist from Missouri checks in and faints," he laughed.
Christian started to laugh and stopped himself, raising his left hand to the side of his face. He stared at his brother for a long moment. "I haven't had a drink in two days. It might be a while before I have another one."
"I think that would be a good thing."
Hunter watched a single tear slip from Christian's right eye and run down his cheek. Another followed and then another. Christian turned and held his head down.
"Gamboa might have killed you both, Christian. He probably would have killed Anthony, but he didn't have to. The weather was so bad Anthony never saw him."
Christian was about to answer when his jaw dropped and a stunned look spread across his face.
"What is it?"
Without replying, Christian bolted from the room, slamming the door so hard the molding creaked. He sprinted down the fire exit and onto California Street.
Hunter was left to worry what havoc his headstrong brother might cause next.
At the bottom of Nob Hill, Christian turned onto Powell and ran through Union Square. He dodged the trolley cars and automobiles and crossed to South of Market.
At the corner of Brannan and Fourth, Christian charged through the door of a dingy tenement. He bounded quickly to the third floor and knocked on a thin, tired door.
"Christian? What are you doing here?" Gertrude Fallon, Byron's widowed sister-in-law—a gray-haired woman with thick glasses and a perennially worried demeanor—stared uneasily at the panting Christian.
"Is Anthony here, Aunt Gertrude?"
"He just got home from Agnews a couple of hours ago. I'm sorry we didn't make the funeral, Christian, but he was in bad shape."
"I need to talk to him. Alone. Police business. Maybe you could take a walk to the store or something so we could talk?" Christian put his arm around her shoulders and gently moved her from her own apartment, closing the door behind him.
She listened at the door for a minute, fearful of her hot-tempered nephew, and then descended the creaking stairway.
Christian moved through the cramped kitchen into the tiny living room. The shades were drawn, the room so dark it took Christian's eyes a minute to adjust. Anthony sat in the corner on a threadbare couch, rocking back and forth and mumbling to himself.
Christian peeked into a bedroom, where Anthony's older brother Jessie, still pale as a corpse, snored beneath a faded comforter.
Christian returned to the living room and threw back the curtains, flooding the room with light. Anthony squinted and leaned forward, his chin almost in his lap.
"Anthony. It's me, Christian."
"Don't hurt me, Christian." His voice was barely audible. "There was just me and him. Me and him," he gasped. "I tied him to the rail, there was water everywhere. I couldn't see nothin'. It was so dark. I swear to God I don't know what happened."
Christian moved to Anthony's side. He leaned close and took a whiff of Anthony's ratty sweater, then stuck his hand in Anthony's pocket and found a vial. He twisted the cork loose and inspected the sticky black substance in the bottom. Opium.
Anthony continued to sway and mumble. "I didn't kill him. I swear I didn't kill him."
"Anthony. I want you to listen to me."
"Anthony. Who did you tell that dad was gonna be on that boat? Who knew?"
"I didn't kill him. I swear to God. I swear to God I didn't kill him."
"Anthony. Are you listening to me?"
Anthony buried his head in his arms, still swaying.
Christian knelt and pressed his forehead against his cousin's, pulling Anthony's hands away from his face. "You know I always find out what I want, don't you? You're my flesh and blood, Anthony. Don't make me beat it out of you."
"Don't hit me Christian, please." Anthony gasped and sobbed, his body shaking.
"That was my father, Anthony. Tell me everything or I will beat you bloody right here in your mother's living room. You want her to find you like that? You want her to know what you did?"
"I didn't know they were going to hurt him, Christian. I swear to God!"
"Anthony."
"He just wanted to know where Uncle Byron was going."
"Was it Chief Donen?"
He sobbed and shivered, nodding his head several times. "They caught me taking opium from a Chinese peddler. They were going to fire me, they said I would lose my job and no one would give me another one. How's my mom going to eat without me? Huh, tell me that, Christian? Elliot and Jessie was gone, it was just me and her. Chief Donen wanted to know what Uncle Byron was up to so they could protect him."
Christian rose, fighting his rage. "Don't tell anyone what you told me Anthony, not even your mother. Understand? You say a word to Chief Donen or anyone, I promise I'll come back and kill you. Understand? I'll kill you."
He left Anthony wailing like an infant.
In room 434 of the Fairmont, Hunter was about to leave when he was startled by the sound of the telephone ringing. He threw the switch to activate the recording machine.
"This is Adam Rolf."
"How you doin', Adam? Gettin' ready for the big shindig?"
Hunter's heart leapt. He grabbed the notebook and fountain pen and scribbled as quickly as he could.
"I hear you got a little visit from Christian Fallon this morning, Shanghai."
"The next visit the little bastard is going to make is Lone Mountain to join his daddy. No extra charge."
"You owe me that much after the way you botched this thing with his father."
"Next time you want a cop in the ground, do it your bloody self, Adam. Fallon is in his stinkin' grave like I promised. The guys that did the job got a little sloppy with the papers they found is all."
"Tell me you got the papers."
"I got the papers."
"Who was it that double-crossed me?"
"Ain't had a look yet."
"That's right. How are you going to be a city supervisor if you can't read, Kelly?"
"I can't read but I can count real good. You'll be telling me how to vote anyway."
"One more delay, Kelly, one more of your little games and things get ugly, understand me?"
"One more thing, Adam. They raised the price on me. Fifty grand is what my boys are askin'. A bloody pittance considering we saved your arse. Have the money ready, I'll deliver the goods tonight when the party is windin' down. Just an old business acquaintance droppin' by for a taste 'a that good whiskey you're pourin'."
Rolf slammed the phone so hard it hurt Hunter's ear, though it did nothing to temper his jubilation.
"I got you, I got you, you murdering swine!" He grabbed the disk from the recording machine and sprinted from the room.
Inside his mansion, Rolf stormed through his office and screamed for Tommy, who appeared from the front parlor.
"Kelly's bringing the documents tonight. I want you to take care of him and the two-faced bitch who betrayed me as well."
"You're pullin' my leg, boss. It was a skirt put the shiv in your back?"
"Let's just say I got a hunch. I will know tonight for sure."
Chapter 39
PALACE HOTEL
APRIL 17, 1906. 6:00 P.M.
In an elaborate suite on the third floor of the Palace Hotel, Kaitlin scribbled unsteadily in her diary. She had plenty to record. In less than thirty-six hours she had encountered Enrico Caruso, learned from an infatuated geologist that the world was about to end, survived an attack by thugs, befriended the Emperor of North America, been robbed by a French pimp and solicited by a wealthy madam, and had somehow wound up at the world's most luxurious hotel, free of charge. Kansas, she wrote, seemed like a lifetime away.
Now she had gained an invitation to the heart of San Francisco society to see the great Caruso. But at what price? She ended the entry with "Who is this Adam Rolf?"
She put the diary down and rubbed her aching temples, then walked to the window and stared over bustling Market Street. Once enlivening, the constant clang and clamor, the rumbling, honking, and shouting had melded into an annoying discord. She thought to flee but again was unsure where to go. Save for eighty dollars in Emperor Milton money, she was penniless. The dream of San Francisco had somehow become a gilded nightmare.
A knock at the door startled her. Kaitlin froze, her heart pounding. Another knock. She moved to the door, fighting to compose herself. A third knock had her reaching for the door handle.
Andrew Tavish grinned at her over a large white box tied with a green lace ribbon and bow. "Kaitlin! What a surprise!"
She opened the door wider and Andrew stepped inside. He placed the box on a low table in front of a gray satin divan. A snow-white envelope was tucked under the box's ribbon.
"What's this, Andrew?"
"Don't know. They told me at the desk to bring it up."
She tilted her head to read the gold printing on the end of the foot-deep box. "City of Paris. That's the most expensive store in San Francisco."
"I swear. For someone who has never been here, you know the city better than me."
Kaitlin stared at him. The warm, accommodating smile she had encountered the day before now seemed patronizing and shallow. It wilted slightly under her gaze.
"I just realized something," she said.
"What's that?"
"I guess I am more naive than I thought." She hesitated. "A man came to the place I was staying and told the landlady I was a prostitute. He took all my things and got me thrown out."
"That's awful."
"Except that you're the only person I told where I was staying. Who paid you? Antoine or Tessie?"
His smile faded and his eyes slipped downward. "I, uh, I didn't say anything to anyone."
"We're not sophisticated where I grew up, but we can sure identify the smell of horse manure when it's right in front of us."
"I gotta be going. They need me at the desk."
"Does your boss know you work for pimps and thieves?"
"Have fun. With the opera dress, I mean."
"Dress? My, they work fast here in San Francisco. I thought you said you didn't know what it was. You try to hurt me again, Andrew, and I'll make a gelding out of you. Understand?"
He stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him
Kaitlin raised the white box and felt its heft. Inside the envelope she found a card with gold lettering: "Mr. Adam T. Rolf." She turned it over.
"Dear Kaitlin," she read aloud from the handwritten note, "Please accept this welcome gift. My driver will call at seven-thirty. I hope you enjoy the music of Enrico Caruso. At the post-opera party, you will have an opportunity to meet him in person. Warmly, Adam Rolf."
She set the card aside and fumbled to untie the ribbon. She pulled out a black lace embroidered dress with a gathered waist and flared skirt. She held it up. A perfect fit.
Miss Tessie obviously knows her girls.
In the bottom of the box she found a pair of long black fingerless gloves, an ivory choker, black silk stockings, garters and a pair of black short-heeled pumps. She looked at the card and read the words again, searching for a clue to Rolf's intention
s. She tried to convince herself that perhaps all Adam Rolf wanted was her company.
She entered the spacious tiled bathroom and twisted the ornate silver handles on the claw-foot tub. She inhaled the steam rising from the torrent of hot water and laughed nervously. She had never had a bath without first heating the water in buckets on a wood-burning stove.
Chapter 40
PALACE HOTEL
APRIL 17, 1906. 6:40 P.M.
Three floors below where an uneasy Kaitlin primped, Enrico Caruso and Alfred Hertz climbed into the chauffeured Rolls Royce that Adam Rolf had provided. Caruso was weary from his journey and the tumultuous rehearsal. The prospects of a ruinous opening night complicated his melancholy.
"Signorina Fremstad is maybe correct," Caruso said. "Thees chorus are imbecilli! They no know where to stand, where to sing, niente."
"Enrico, everyone will come to hear the great Caruso. Look around you. Look at the banners and the poster cards. This is the most exciting thing that has ever happened here. If the extras failed to show up for the performance, no one would even notice. Tonight, you will make history."
Caruso let Hertz' words sink in. "You are right, Alfred. They are pay to see Caruso. Tonight, I am give best Caruso ever."
Out in Pacific Heights, in the bedroom of his Italianate Victorian on Fillmore Street, Eugene Schmitz paced like a condemned man. The crushing suspicion that Adam Rolf, despite vociferous denials, was behind the death of Byron Fallon had deeply unsettled him. The visit to Ah Toy's house of horrors had been the final straw.
He walked through the French doors to his rooftop terrace and leaned against the rail, staring through the Golden Gate where the silver canopy of evening hung above the dark water. He scanned the bay to Angel Island where Byron's body had been found.
"Eugene. Eugene!" his wife called impatiently. "You haven't bathed or shaved yet. You know how upset he gets when you're late."
"Telephone Mr. Rolf and tell him we're not going."
"What do you mean, we're not going?"
"We're not going, Julia, and I'm not in any mood to argue. Just tell him we're not going. Tell him I'll explain later."
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