Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush

by William Martin

  Barber looked at LJ. “Perhaps you should educate your father to the important Chinese interests we represent in America.”

  “Like, unh, Michael Kou’s Sierra Rock?” asked Peter in a loud voice.

  And for a moment, conversation stopped all around, as if someone had dropped a glass on the floor. Heads turned. Eyes shifted. Even Christine Ryan looked from behind the giant lighthouse lens. Michael Kou, of all people, pulled his head out of a conversation halfway into the main gallery. Bingo, thought Peter. And was that one of the bodyguards from the Arbella Club steps and the Emery Mine parking lot? Bingo! And where was the bodyguard’s boss? Right there, talking to Michael Kou. Triple Bingo!

  “Here’s to Sierra Rock.” Peter took down half the wine still in his glass. “Whatever they’re up to.”

  Barber said to LJ, “Your father likes wine.”

  “I sure do,” said Peter.

  Barber’s head veins were pulsating. He scowled at Peter as if he had just smelled a lie in a deposition, then he pretended to see someone on the other side of the room, made a phony wave, and left the Fallons alone.

  LJ whispered, “Come on, Dad. Don’t embarrass me.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Peter. “I hydrated and filled up on hors d’oeuvres. I just wanted your boss to think I’m a little bit more of a loose cannon than I am, just to see how he’d react.”

  “And?”

  “Half the room hopped a foot into the air when I mentioned Sierra Rock, but don’t tell me whether they’re investors in Cutler or the Emery Mine. That would be too easy. Let me guess.”

  “‘Need to know,’ Dad. ‘Need to know.’”

  The partiers were again raising the volume so high that Peter and LJ were talking out loud, and no one else could hear them. This event had achieved the definition of what Peter called a “full stand-and-shout.”

  “Behave yourself for ten minutes,” said LJ. “I have to work the room and calm a few nerves you just frayed.”

  “Keeping up appearances?”

  “Right. And when I talk to Michael Kou, keep your distance.”

  “What about the guy he’s talking to now?”

  “Him, too.”

  “Is he the Dai-lo?”

  “Later, Dad. Promise. Now, you need to know about the ship that got this thing started. The Proud Pilgrim.” LJ pointed his father into the exhibit hall. “Follow the timeline.”

  * * *

  SO PETER SNATCHED A glass of sparkling water and retreated into a corridor lined with exhibits, including a multimedia presentation about the Bay, from native fisherman to the Bostoños to the Transamerica Pyramid, an interactive map showing the building of the Gold Rush wharves and the filling of Yerba Buena Cove, a mock-up of the Sam Brannan storefront …

  Then, the noise and swirl of the party dropped away, because Peter came to this: a life-sized photo of workers in modern San Francisco, excavating an old ship. Displayed in front of the photo—a rusted kedging anchor, a cognac bottle, an old Ames shovel, and projecting out of the image like a 3-D extension of it, a piece of the ship’s keel.

  The placard read: “Workers uncover the infamous Gold Rush Murder Ship. The Proud Pilgrim, out of Boston, arrived in San Francisco in March, 1850, scuttled in May, 1850, rediscovered during an excavation along Clay Street in July, 2016.” This was the ship that Janiva mentioned in her letter to Spencer, dated March 28, 1850. Peter felt the historical synapses firing in his head. Past and present were reaching toward each other, right here in this exhibit. And shortly after this story broke, the Spencer Journal disappeared. Why? Perhaps because …

  … a smaller photo showed what the excavators found when they cleared the mud from the bones of the Proud Pilgrim: bones of another kind, six human skeletons chained in the keel. For days, the story had been huge in San Francisco. How did the skeletons get there? And why? One had a bullet hole in its forehead and the back of the skull blown out. Another had been pierced by some kind of two-pronged object.

  Was this the great scandal the journal thief was hiding, the black blot on the Spencer name?

  Then Peter sensed someone standing beside him. Red hair, red lipstick, expensive blue pantsuit. A great combination.

  She said, “Amazing to think that there are ships like this buried all over the financial district.”

  He whispered, “Is that supposed to be an icebreaker, so that anyone noticing thinks we’re just having a random conversation?”

  “But it is amazing,” said Christine Ryan.

  “At most parties, if a beautiful redhead seeks me out in a quiet corner and makes small talk, I start thinking about the age-old question, ‘My place or yours.’”

  “If you’re thinking that now, Mr. Fallon, you’re drunker than I think you are.”

  “Not drunk at all.” He sipped the sparkling water. “Are you really FBI?”

  “No. I just go around shooting assassins in random apartments.”

  Sarcasm. Why did he always like women with a taste for sarcasm?

  He looked toward the brighter lights of the outer gallery, where LJ was in conversation with the big players. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”

  “That’s what your son will be reporting to me later.”

  “Reporting to you?”

  “That’s why I’m watching over him. That’s also why you are still alive.”

  LJ, Kou, the sleek-tailored Asian man with the black and white bodyguards, and Johnson “Jack” Barber all threw their heads back, enjoying a big laugh.

  “I’m surprised they’re willing to be seen together in public,” said Peter.

  “Good P.R. Van Valen and Prescott trots out its biggest clients for this fund-raiser. Those guys know that appearing as pillars of the community is a good way to deflect attention. It also builds goodwill in case the shit hits the fan.”

  “Is it about to?”

  Christine Ryan leaned forward, as if to read the display card more closely and to tell him that she wasn’t answering that question.

  So Peter said, “Let me put it another way. Is my son an agent?”

  “Call him an asset. But remember, you’re not helping anyone if you start sticking your nose too far into his work. Try not to keep blundering the way you just did.”

  “The Boston blunderer. That’s me.”

  “Your Sierra Rock remark set off alarm bells.” She straightened up and leaned close, so she could be heard in the din of conversation. “Just remember, your son is not alone in this. We have other assets.”

  “On the inside?”

  “Everywhere.” And she was gone. Just like that. So yeah, FBI … or maybe a phantom from the Gold Rush.

  * * *

  LJ MUST HAVE SEEN that conversation because he waited a few minutes, then approached. “Talking to all the players, I see.”

  “She started talking to me,” said Peter.

  LJ took his father by the elbow. “Talking to her leads to trouble. And you’ve ruffled enough feathers for one night.”

  “Sorry, but—”

  “With friends like her, you don’t need enemies.”

  “She was on our side this morning in your apartment.”

  “She’s using me, and you, and she wants to turn my future father-in-law.”

  “Using us?”

  LJ jerked his head for Peter to follow along. “I’ll tell you outside.”

  Halfway through the crowd, Peter noticed the black and white bodyguards, watching. The white guy pulled out his cell phone. Bad sign.

  LJ kept leading Peter with excuse me’s and polite nods and friendly words.

  But when they were a few feet from the door, Michael Kou stepped out of a conversation and into their path, looking prosperous in his expensive suit, and relaxed in a roomful of peers. “Evening, Mr. Fallon. Still hot on the trail of the Chinese gold?”

  “Just like your partner, Jack Cutler. I met him today.”

  “You went to Placerville?” Kou asked, as if he did not already know the answ
er.

  LJ jumped in: “Dad’s looking everywhere, just as he said he would.”

  Peter played along. “Chasing myths, tracking journal pages. That’s my job.”

  “Whatever you find, we’ll be interested.” Michael Kou shook Peter’s hand a little longer, pulled him a little closer, “I want to help your son with his new in-laws.” Then he gave Peter a wink, like they all were pals, which Peter knew they most definitely were not.

  As an NPS ranger stepped to the podium in the corner of the room, tapped the microphone, and called for attention, LJ whispered to his father, “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, THEY TURNED THE corner onto Hyde Street. A block ahead, the neon sign for the Buena Vista lit the fog, and the cable car clanged its bell in the turnaround.

  LJ pointed his father toward the car. “Hop on.”

  Peter said, “Let’s hop into the Buena Vista instead. I could do with a hamburger.”

  “Just go.”

  Peter took a seat at the front, on the right, in the outside section. LJ stood on the little platform beside him and held the handrail.

  “Okay. Where are we going?” said Peter.

  “A safe house.”

  “Safe house? Why?”

  The car grabbed the cable and lurched across Beach Street.

  LJ said, “That Sierra Rock business … where did you hear about that?”

  “Evangeline brought the Sturgis brothers together for an article. Brother George mentioned Sierra Rock. So I decided to shine some light into that corner.”

  “You shined plenty. That’s why we need a safe house.”

  “Time for you to shine some on a certain Asian guy I keep running into, along with his bodyguards … on the Arbella Club steps … in the Emery parking lot … at this cocktail party.”

  “That’s Mr. Lum. And yeah, he’s the Dai-lo, the Big Dragon.”

  “A gangster?”

  “A very classy gangster, come from Hong Kong—” LJ glanced at two hooded figures on small-wheeled bicycles rounding the corner of Beach Street.

  “I’ve been seeing a lot of those Dahon bikes around town,” said Peter. “Just kids?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe good guys. Maybe bad guys.”

  Even with the wind blowing cold fog, Peter felt the heat rise at his neck. “If they’re bad guys, why did you put us on a cable car that doesn’t go much faster than a dog trot? And who sent them?”

  “First answer, we’re not going far, getting off at Lombard Street, so cable car is the way to go. Second, a lot of people could have sent them. But I think it’s Michael Kou.”

  “Aren’t you guys on the same side—”

  “That’s what I’ve had him believing. But something may have tipped him. Maybe it’s because his people made Christine Ryan.”

  “I made Christine Ryan the day I got here.”

  “Or maybe it’s because my father just outed me over Sierra Rock.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t always think you’re digging deep by doing it alone.”

  “Well, don’t be so goddamn mysterious and I won’t do it alone.”

  The gripman was chatting with another rider. The conductor was in the rear, taking tickets. Everyone else seemed to be tourists, laughing, joking, ignoring the father and son at the front.

  As the car climbed Russian Hill, LJ glanced at the guys on bicycles, who were pumping hard about a hundred feet back. Then he leaned close and said, “The Triad Dragons of Hong Kong want to go legit in the U.S. Much better than running prostitutes and protection scams. Berkeley MBAs trump street pimps like Wonton Willie any day.”

  “So Lum comes to San Francisco to work with Kou but … why was Lum in Boston?”

  “Mending fences with the Boston boss. And if you want to meet venture capital guys in this country, you always go to Boston.”

  “So you went with him to hold his hand?”

  “Part of the job. Barber bills big hours from Sierra Rock, and Lum is using Sierra Rock for his commodity buys. I was also tracking down a Spencer notebook, because no matter what happens, the journal’s the thing.”

  “That’s what people keep telling me. But why?”

  “Because of the fucking river of gold, Dad. Come on.”

  “Don’t swear at your father. But … is it really a river?”

  “Well, not an actual river, but—” LJ stopped talking for a moment and watched a pair of guys in black leather jackets come out of the trees in Russian Hill park, about fifty yards behind the cable car. They were moving with purpose, loping like a pair of Dobermans, heads turning, heels clicking.

  LJ took out his phone, texted something, kept talking. “When the Chinese government decided to offer low-interest loans for mineral exploration, Sierra Rock jumped in. So I introduced Kou to the only gold explorer I knew, Jack Cutler, who’d bought a piece of land up in Amador, up in a gulch between the Miwok River and Manion Gold Vineyards. Kou pitched local Chinese investors on Cutler, just to stir up some excitement. Then he took that excitement to the boys in Hong Kong.”

  “But?”

  “The rumor has always been that Cutler’s test holes were ‘seeded.’”

  “Seeded? How?”

  “A geologist can create false results by sprinkling gold into test holes. A good test brings investors running. If the mine turns out to be a bust, as Cutler’s did on further exploration, well, at least somebody makes money.”

  “That’s why they hate Jack Cutler in Chinatown?”

  “The Hong Kong Triad should have put Cutler down like an old dog, but Michael Kou wanted to put him to work instead. Always good to own a guy right down to his boots. So they told him they’d back him. Told him to keep hunting for that lost river. Also told him they’d kill him and his daughter and her fiancé if he blew the whistle on them.”

  The bell clanged out the San Francisco beat as the car crossed Chestnut: BANG-ba-bang-bang. BANG-ba-bang-bang. BANG-ba-bang-bang.

  And somewhere between the bangs, Peter said to LJ, “So … you’re fucked.”

  “Don’t swear at your son.”

  “Where’s Mary?”

  “She’s safe.”

  The cable car seemed to be rising at a forty-five-degree angle, lurching to a stop at the Chestnut Street corner.

  Peter asked, “Where does Christine Ryan come into all this?”

  “One Saturday, I drove up to Tilden Park to hit a bucket of golf balls at the driving range, and this woman takes the tee beside me. I’m a lefty, she’s a righty, so she’s looking me right in the eye. She compliments my swing, so I think she’s hitting on me. Then she says, ‘Do you know you are involved in a criminal enterprise with Cutler Gold Exploration?’”

  “I bet that messed up your backswing,” said Peter. “Did she offer you a deal?”

  “I could go down myself or help take down the San Francisco players in an international money-laundering scheme involving a prominent San Francisco attorney and a venture capital firm called Sierra Rock, which funnels dirty Triad dollars through various gold mining operations—”

  “Including Cutler’s?”

  “And turns it all into a nice clean commodity.”

  “A gold mine.”

  “A lot of gold mines. Deep rock mines like Emery with proven reserves, and long shots, too, like Cutler’s river of gold. That’s Michael Kou’s idea. And Lum likes having Kou. He likes having a B-school butt boy—”

  “—who now has a Boalt Hall butt boy of his own?”

  “I’ve been working hard to make it seem that way. Then along comes my father, pretending he’s had too much wine, outing Barber and Sierra Rock over cocktails.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Dad, I just want to be a corporate guy, do my deals, live my life with Mary, and—shit.” LJ watched the shadows moving along the sidewalk. “They’re getting closer.”

  The dark mass of George Sterling Park rose on the right, a high bank of trees and ivy on the hill between
Lombard and Filbert. At the top was a tennis court fence, but no lights. Not in a nice neighborhood like this.

  LJ looked up Lombard Street and cursed. “Backup’s not here.” His phone pinged again, he read, then said, “Okay. We jump off at the next corner, take the steps up to the tennis courts. Run like hell. We go along the fence, then back down to Lombard. They’ll be there by then.”

  “Who? The Feds?”

  “You’ll know when you see them. Are you in shape?”

  “I can outrun you but not a bullet.”

  “Get ready. Another half block, at the corner of Greenwich.” LJ looked down the street at the Dahon bikes, which were also closing in.

  The cable car herked and jerked.

  “On three.” LJ gripped his father’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Dad.”

  “I’ve never quit on you yet.”

  “We’ll talk about the divorce later. One, two—”

  And they jumped.

  Across the dark sidewalk, up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  As he reached the top, Peter felt something zip past his ear. He yelled to LJ, “You were right. Bad guys.”

  They sprinted toward the end of the chain-link fence, then raced along the pathway through the trees.

  Another bullet hit a redwood and sent up an explosion of bark.

  Then a bike burst through the shrubbery and slammed into LJ, knocking him off balance. Peter barreled into the bike, sent the rider flying, grabbed LJ by the collar.

  And both of them kept running, with the guys in black leather coming through the shadows.

  Peter and LJ cut across the little switchbacks in the path, racing for the opposite corner of the park, for more stairs—wider, nicer, better lit—dropping down to Larkin and Lombard. As they trampled through the shrubs, they heard the bikes racing after them and the guys in black pushing ahead like hunters working the underbrush.

  At the steps, they saw the limo idling, lights out, rear door open.

  “That’s it.”

  A shot hit the concrete right by Peter’s leg and ricocheted. Peter ducked. LJ grabbed him. And—Ping! Ping!—the driver of the limo was out, his hands balanced on the roof, his pistol pointed up the stairs as Peter Fallon and his son pounded down.