1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  At the Palace, Enrico Caruso had just fallen asleep. An hour earlier, after promising for the fourth time to sing at my wedding, he had arrived at the Palace in Rolf's Phaeton. At the hotel's entrance, he saw a threadbare old man huddling against the chill. Caruso removed his overcoat, stuffed a handful of bills and coins into the pockets, and handed it to the old man.

  The triumphant tenor now snored contentedly, surrounded by his sketches and the photograph of himself with Theodore Roosevelt.

  At the Fairmont, Hunter Fallon stared from the window, past the Golden Gate to the amber light that spread across Mount Tamalpais.

  "La luce splendida," he muttered.

  "What?" Christian asked.

  "The splendid light. I decided to keep up the tradition."

  Their attention swiftly turned to Rolf's mansion as Ah Toy shuffled to her covered carriage, where a Tong bodyguard opened the door.

  Christian raised his brass telescope in time to catch Patrick jumping off the California Street cable car. The younger Fagen ducked behind the wall of the Crocker mansion to rejoin brother Francis.

  Patrick looked toward the Fairmont, shrugged his shoulders, and raised his arms out in defeat.

  "Damn it to Hell," Christian spat. "Something happened. The Senator got away."

  "It won't matter. When Rolf is facing the hangman, they'll all trip over their tongues implicating each other," Hunter said.

  "Bad start. Bad omen, Hunter. This ain't the way to do it."

  The steeple bell on Saint Mary's Church in Chinatown chimed five times as a battered carriage bearing Shanghai Kelly and Scarface stopped at the rear of Rolf's mansion.

  "This is it," Christian said excitedly.

  He and Hunter grabbed their weapons and pulled on long black dusters. "Do me a favor, little brother. If either of these sons of bitches even looks at you wrong, blow a hole in him the size of the Stockton Tunnel."

  "If they draw on us, I'll kill them. Otherwise, no. Feeney wants them on trial and so do I."

  "Write that in their obituaries if it makes you happy."

  They bolted from the room, taking the steps two at a time.

  "I was startin' to think that stinkin' Kelly was never gonna show," Max snapped when they arrived in the lobby. "I oughta kill him just for messing with my sleep."

  "Carlo," Christian said, "when Annalisa signals, you go in the back door with Francis and Patrick. Hunter, you'll go in the front door with me and Max. Let's keep our eyes peeled. Rolf likes to fight his wars in a courtroom. Those other guys ain't that fussy."

  I was sprawled in an armchair in Rolf's front parlor, exhausted and on edge. Ting Leo dozed fitfully across from me, on the divan, her small frame curled into a ball. She and I were alone.

  "Annalisa!" Rolf's voice suddenly commanded.

  I sat up quickly as he stepped into view. "Adam! You frightened me."

  The lines in his face were deeper than I had seen them. The light from the chandeliers, gay and invigorating earlier, created ghoulish shadows in his icy stare. "Annalisa. There's someone here to see you."

  I tensed. "It's awfully late. I had better take Ting Leo back to Chinatown."

  Rolf extended his hand and motioned toward his office.

  Tommy appeared and lifted Ting Leo from the couch.

  I glanced behind me and shuddered to see Scarface in the front entrance. I forced myself to rise, looking about for an escape route, my legs a pair of rubbery bands. Rolf extended his hand for me to follow him.

  Shanghai Kelly waited inside Rolf's office, his face a mass of bruises. Tommy set Ting Leo down. She cringed at the sight of Kelly.

  "Annalisa, you remember Mr. Kelly?"

  "Of course. He sat in your opera box and built an alibi while his men killed Lieutenant Fallon. One of his men tried to kill me. Kelly's had your precious papers all this time," I said, trying to stall for time.

  "So, Kelly," Rolf said. "You did have the papers, just as I suspected. This is what, twice you've pulled this on me?"

  "Ain't like it'll break you, now," Kelly scoffed. "All the dirty work I done for you."

  I inched slowly toward the window as they argued.

  Tommy took a step to head me off. He raised a finger to his lips to silence me, his hand on the revolver beneath his coat. He appeared ready to kill me before I could blurt out that he too had betrayed Adam Rolf.

  Rolf turned his attention back to me. "When I found my ledger upside down in the safe, I knew Pierre had let someone in but the little poof killed himself before I could squeeze it out of him. If I hadn't been playing with the silver chain you gave me, I might never have suspected. Is there something in the papers that gives you away?"

  Ting Leo moved across the room and leaned her head against my arm. "I was plannin' on bringing her head over on a platter," Kelly said, handing Rolf the papers. "A little gesture like I promised."

  "You might still get the chance," Rolf replied. He thumbed through the papers, growing angrier by the second.

  My gaze drifted to the window facing Mason Street.

  "How thorough you were, Annalisa. You must have spent every second trying to put a dagger in my back."

  "It was a pleasure, Adam. Really it was. A predator who rapes children and profits from their misery, a pathetic little man who wouldn't have a friend in the world if he didn't buy them. Did you really think you could murder Byron Fallon and get away with it?"

  "Let's see. I own the Police Chief, the Mayor, half the judges in town. I would say the odds are favorable."

  He walked toward us, eliciting a whimper from Ting Leo.

  "You know, Annalisa," Rolf said, leaning close. "I rather fancied you. But your little friend will provide me more pleasure than you ever could."

  He stepped back. "Kelly, help yourself to Miss Passarelli. When you finish, sell her to the filthiest crib on Pacific Avenue. Now, if you all will excuse me."

  Tommy grabbed my wrist as Rolf seized Ting Leo. The moment they pried her from my grip, I wheeled and kneed Tommy in the groin with all the strength my tired frame could muster.

  He groaned and buckled as I sprinted to the window and ripped the shade from its mount.

  "Hunter! Hunter!!"

  Tommy recovered and tackled me from the rear.

  Ting Leo grabbed a pearl-handled letter opener and plunged it into Rolf's thigh. Rolf screamed and staggered to his knees.

  Across the street, The Brotherhood pulled their weapons and charged across California Street. Hunter and Christian shoved through the brass front gate as beefy Max trailed behind.

  The corner clock hit five-thirteen.

  The horses outside the Fairmont reared as the ground began to tremble. The shaking grew in intensity until the six men in long black dusters began to stumble.

  Rolf pulled the letter opener from his leg as the floor bucked, glass tinkled and books began to fall.

  Tommy looked at the chandelier dancing wildly above his head, affording me the chance to escape his grip again.

  I rolled away and covered Ting Leo with my body.

  Then it hit.

  PART THREE

  THE RIP

  The rain . . . falls on the just and unjust alike.

  -Mark Twain

  Chapter 48

  NORTHERN CALIFORNIA COAST

  APRIL 18, 1906. 5:13 P.M.

  I lay on the floor of Adam Rolf’s mansion, trying to shield Ting Leo, while the end of the world advanced toward us with astonishing speed.

  As Professor Jeremy Darling had long speculated, somewhere on the ocean floor west of the Golden Gate the jagged edges of the opposing Pacific and North American plates crumbled, like teeth breaking on two enormous sets of opposing gears.

  The San Andreas Fault slipped by twenty feet.

  A rip in the ocean floor opened and shut with such force it spit a plume of water toward the surface more than two miles above. The watery blast slammed the hull of the wooden fishing yawl Old Manassas, lifting it clear out of the water. Four thousand po
unds of salmon and a sleeping crew of five floated in air, and then crashed to the sodden deck. They bobbed frantically as the sea parted and a mountain of water rained down on them, threatening to sink the helpless boat.

  The fissure sped across the ocean floor, shooting a serpentine tail arcing above the dark blue surface. A mile off California's northern coast, the watery tail struck the steamship Argonaut with such force the rivets exploded from its steel hull as though they were fired from a Gatling gun.

  One hundred fifty miles north of San Francisco, the fissure burst ashore, cleaving Alder Creek in two, and rumbled into the fishing village at Point Arena. It cracked the Point Arena Lighthouse like a bull whip and tossed the sleeping light keeper into the opposite wall, inches below the window.

  The rip tore across Humboldt County like an invisible plowman, leveling mile after mile of ancient forest, swallowing cabins and farmhouses, tossing livestock and laborers, catapulting a deliveryman through the window of a grocery store where he was buried beneath tins of beans and pork. It lifted the mountain above Mill Creek, dropping a million tons of dirt and shale, fir and redwood on the lumber mill below, burying fifteen lumberjacks, mule tenders, trimmers, and pond monkeys. Ripping south, it moved a farmhouse twenty feet, dropping it intact before a barn where its owner was trying unsuccessfully to milk his frightened heifers.

  In Sonoma County, it pulverized the old Russian church at Fort Ross and splintered thousands of virgin oak and redwood trees, the deafening staccato echoing for miles through the surrounding canyons.

  The tip dove back toward the sea, shattering miles of Sonoma County cliffs, burying pristine beaches under tons of shale and granite, shoving long-submerged shoals above the waterline.

  It re-emerged near the promontory of Bodega Head, flattening the Bodega Bay Hotel and a dozen sleeping occupants like a phantom steamroller. At Marshall, it lifted the town's waterfront hotel and dropped it into the bay, submerging the lobby in water, leaving the sleeping tenants on the floor above unharmed. It split Tomales Bay down the middle, moving the western shoreline eighteen feet north.

  Engineer Andy McNab, shoveling coal into the boiler of his locomotive at Point Reyes Station, heard a grinding sound and turned to see the ridges above him rolling like waves at sea. Paper Mill Creek before him narrowed by six feet, its wooden bridge bent like a giant toothpick. The wave bucked McNab and his train's four cars into an adjacent poppy field.

  At the tiny village of Bolinas, the rip cleaved the cliffs in two and tossed heavy redwood docks into the sea. A barren field became a lagoon, its cloverleaf indentation swelling with water from the Pacific.

  The rip rolled on through southern Marin County, a giant serpent beneath an earthen blanket. It raced past Alcatraz, leaving the island untouched, the prisoners still snoring in their bunks.

  The trembling beneath San Francisco grew as thirty-five thousand structures began a violent hula dance. Along the Barbary Coast, chandeliers bucked, tables overturned, and gamblers were hurled from their seats. The Red Rooster and The Olde Whore Shoppe began collapsing, burying their drunken patrons.

  In Chinatown a few blocks away, terrified occupants clung to their airborne beds as the flimsy tenements burst at their mortared seams, pitching everything and everyone to the streets. In the dank basements, floors collapsed on opium smokers, fan-tan players, and prostitutes.

  Along the waterfront, a thousand boats slammed against the docks, spilling cargo into the sea, pitching crews overboard. San Francisco Bay rose two feet, the water sloshing back and forth for a hundred miles.

  The Palace Hotel, with twelve hundred sleeping guests and staff, swayed in an enormous circle, grinding and wrenching against its steel bracing, the upper floors leaning out over the sidewalks of Market Street and New Montgomery. Enrico Caruso awoke to the sound of tinkling chandeliers and the sensation of his bed hopping about the room, his carefully hung self-portraits raining down on top of him.

  Along regal Van Ness Avenue, the cobblestones resembled popping corn and the hills undulated like blankets being shaken out by unseen hands. A young man was bucked into the air and landed on ground that was several feet below where he had stood.

  On Mission Street, six vaqueros and sixty steers tumbled and rolled. The animals sprang to their feet, stampeding and trampling fallen passersby.

  Inside the mansion on Nob Hill, I prayed aloud and waited for the building to collapse on top of us. I saw Rolf's massive safe spring to life and dance about the room. Ivory tusks took flight, heavy vases shattered, bookshelves ripped loose and crashed on the hard oak floors.

  Just outside the front gate, the six members of The Brotherhood were pinned to the ground, unable even to crawl. California Street became a giant roller coaster, the cable car tracks twisting and snaking, fire hydrants blasted skyward.

  The rip tore south along the Peninsula, smashed through the mansions of Hillsborough and Belmont, and leveled building after building at Stanford University, including the stable Hunter Fallon had called home. It shattered the booming downtown area of San Jose.

  Finally, it dove back into the Pacific at Monterey, sending shock waves south to Los Angeles, and rattled windows in the small beach town of Santa Monica.

  Then it stopped. It had lasted less than a minute.

  At the crest of Nob Hill, Hunter and Christian struggled to their knees as the city fell silent for a moment, save for the maniacal clanging of a hundred church bells.

  Carlo scrambled over the buckled street shrieking, "Max! Max!" His brother lay crushed beneath an iron lamppost. Carlo's cries were soon drowned by the mounting thunder of hundreds of buildings spilling into the streets. Billowing clouds of dust poured skyward, blocking the eerie sunrise.

  Inside Rolf's mansion, I struggled to free myself from beneath a mound of books and shattered porcelain. In the dim light ten feet away, Adam Rolf stirred, a bloodstain welling on his trousers where Ting Leo had stabbed him. I realized she had crawled out from beneath me and was lying several feet away, breathing in staccato bursts, her eyes full of terror.

  Everything seemed detached, slow, as if we existed in some nether-world. I looked up to find Tommy standing over me, blood streaming from a gash above his eyebrow. He jerked my head back and slid the blade of a large knife against my throat. I tried to move but my limbs seemed soft as dough.

  To my left, a muffled shotgun blast tore the door open and Hunter and Christian burst in. Hunter ran toward me, his revolver pointed at Tommy's head. Tommy dropped his knife and stepped away.

  Across the room, Christian pointed the double-barreled Remington at Scarface and Kelly.

  Adam Rolf struggled to a sitting position and reached for the papers scattered on the floor. The next I knew, my foot was atop his fingers. He cursed, though the words were distant and unclear.

  Francis rushed in, clutching his revolver. "Max is gone," he shouted. "We'll need a crane to pull that thing off of him."

  Shanghai Kelly smirked and muttered "good riddance."

  Christian smashed Scarface across the face with the butt of his shotgun, dropping him to his knees. He then shoved the barrel beneath Kelly's chin.

  "You got something to say, Kelly?" Christian demanded.

  "Let's get the bracelets on these guys," Francis ordered.

  They quickly manacled Scarface, Kelly, Tommy, and Rolf and forced them facedown onto the floor.

  Christian, Hunter, and Francis convened in a corner of the room, out of earshot of their prisoners. I walked unsteadily toward them and handed Francis the photographs and affidavits.

  Hunter asked if I was all right, and I must have nodded. I was distracted by the sight of Patrick pulling a distraught Carlo away from Max's mangled body.

  Francis cleared his dusty throat and spoke quietly. "All right. Hunter, you and I will take these birds to jail. Christian, check on Elizabeth and your kids, then take all the papers to your father's house for safekeeping. Patrick and Carlo can check on our families and talk to Max's mother. We'll arrang
e a proper burial later. We'll meet up in North Beach in an hour."

  "Take my motorcycle," Hunter said to Christian. "It will be a lot faster."

  "Let's move," Francis urged, "I got a hunch this is going to be a long day."

  Chapter 49

  BUSH STREET

  APRIL 18, 1906. 5:18 A.M.

  "Dennis! Dennis! Oh, God, please help me. Dennis!"

  Choking and blinded by the dust from his shattered firehouse, Dennis Sullivan crawled across the jagged oak floor toward Maggie's screams. "Dennis. Oh, God. Dennis!"

  Sullivan had heard heart-wrenching pleas all his life, but nothing tore at him like Maggie's barely human screams. He pulled himself forward, disoriented by the rising steam and the hiss of the boiler three stories below. He felt his way over a pile of bricks that had comprised the spire of the California Hotel next door.

  "Maggie," he uttered hoarsely, "Maggie!" He got to his feet and staggered forward, Maggie's cries getting closer.

  Then Sullivan stepped into an abyss, falling headfirst, suspended for a moment in the billowing dust and steam.

  "Dennis!"

  Maggie's voice lingered in his ears, as if her lips were pressed against him. Sullivan's head struck the flue of the boiler, his wife's pleas fading as his body pitched over in the scalding spray.

  On the fifth floor of the Palace Hotel, Alfred Hertz shoved his way against the tide of half-naked people. He knocked at the door of Enrico Caruso's suite but the shouting of guests and groaning of the still-swaying building drowned him out. A small jolt sent Hertz sprawling to the floor amidst a sea of writhing bodies, all of them shrieking in terror. He propped himself against the doorframe, praying for the circular motion to stop lest the hotel crash to the streets below. When it finally ceased and the stampede resumed, he heard wailing through a small crack where the latest shock had sprung the door ajar.

  He shoved into Caruso's anteroom and stopped cold, stunned at the disarray. Caruso's drawings lay amidst mountains of clothes tossed from the dresser drawers. A bonnet-top chest had skipped the width of the room and crashed atop an armchair, reducing it to kindling. At Hertz's feet lay a Turkish carpet, neatly rolled, as if the temblor had prepared it for removal. Shards of mirror strewn about gave the unnerving scene a funhouse look.