California Gold (26 page)

Mack said nothing. Wyatt stalked to the open door and leaned there against his raised forearm, staring out at the night. Mack tried to lower the emotional temperature by sitting again and putting his feet up. “I wouldn’t take it so hard. I don’t think the Purvises were enthusiastic. I heard in town that people aren’t buying the way they were last year.”

“That’s right. Competition’s fierce. You have to work and scheme that much harder.” Wyatt came back and found a bottle of red wine in a desk drawer. He held it out to Mack, who shook his head. Wyatt uncorked the bottle and took three long swallows.

“Let’s talk business,” he said then. “You could be a big help to me. Having another honest face out front is important. And sometimes my temper gets away from me. It did today. You stepped in, and if that farmer hadn’t been such a complete shit, we might have closed the Purvises. So I’d like to hire you. But there are considerations. Every sale on that tally sheet involves a contract. In other words, the cash down payments are small. Sometimes no more than five percent. That money gets eaten up by overhead—the food, the musicians, thirty-five cents a head on the train. What I’m saying is, I can’t afford to pay you a salary.”

“I don’t work for nothing, Wyatt. Never have, never will.”

“I don’t expect you to work for nothing. I’m just telling you a salary’s out of the question.” He paused, whether to think or induce a response, a concession, Mack wasn’t sure. Wyatt’s brilliant blue eyes were as blank as a newborn’s. Grease glistened on his delicate, almost girlish mouth. Mack waited him out.

“I’ll give you an equity position in San Solaro, an interest in all unsold lots, common property, everything.”

Mack fought to hide his excitement. This was a big step—a huge step. And unexpected. “What kind of position? What percent?”

Another prolonged pause. Wyatt toyed with one of his bushy eyebrows. “Twenty.”

“With full water rights?”

He could see Wyatt thinking that over. Mack struggled to keep a straight face. His eyes gave it away. Wyatt’s laughter boomed.

“Damn right. I hereby appoint you water commissioner of San Solaro.” He uncorked the bottle and drank again. “How do you feel about living in a tent, commissioner? Best I can offer.”

“It’s no problem. I like the outdoors.”

Wyatt’s chameleon face changed again. The blue eyes became like a child’s, guileless. But Mack now understood that it was deliberate, a protective ruse.

“If I give you a stake in this place, I want to be sure you stick around a while. I don’t know you very well yet so I think we need something on paper. I’ll write up a little agreement that says if you no longer work here, I’m entitled to buy back your equity for a dollar and you have nothing to say about it.”

Mack played Wyatt’s game, waiting a moment. “An agreement like that should work two ways.”

That surprised Wyatt. “You mean that if I leave, I forfeit—?” This time his laugh was derisive. “Not likely. Not damn likely.” Grudging respect flickered on his face. “But if those are your terms…”

Mack looked at him steadily. “Yes.”

“All right.” Wyatt held out his hand. “Deal.”

They shook. Wyatt pushed the wine bottle at him. This time Mack drank, sparingly, of the heavy, acidic wine. Wyatt slugged away the rest and brushed his palms back over his sleek shining temples. “I’ll have the hack in Newhall draw up the paper. In the meantime—What is it?”

Mack had bent over, spying something white under the corner of the desk. It was a woman’s handkerchief, fine linen and lace, smelling faintly of lemon. “One of the prospects leave this?”

Wyatt took the handkerchief with a sly smile. “It belongs to a lady I met this summer. Now and then she drives over from her ranch on the Santa Clara. Ventura County. Wish I wasn’t so damn busy with this place—I’d see her more often.” He tucked the handkerchief in a drawer. “She usually comes for supper and spends the night. Never thought I’d meet a woman who could keep up with me in bed, but I have.”

Mack laughed in a good-natured way, though Wyatt’s boast made him feel a keen loneliness for Nellie. “You were about to say something—‘in the meantime’?”

“Yes. While the hack draws up our agreement, you can start learning how things are done in The City of Health. First lesson: The suckers don’t fall off the trees. We’ve got to reach up and pluck ’em. In Los Angeles. From now on, that’s your primary job. I fired the greaser kid after he got back from depositing our guests at Newhall.”

“But I wasn’t hired yet.”

Again Wyatt laughed. He tilted his head and touched Mack’s arm. Mack could feel some invisible apparatus switch on.

“I knew you’d say yes. People do what I want.”

“Erickson didn’t. What if I said no?”

“You wouldn’t, because that would make me angry. Very angry.”

He was still smiling.

They pulled a canvas tent from a storage shed and, working by lantern light, set it up on a lot beside the dry streambed. The tent was large and comfortable, and Wyatt located some blankets for Mack to use until they could buy a cot. Mack asked to borrow paper and pen. Around midnight, he wrote a long letter to Nellie. He found himself describing Wyatt.

He’s crooked, though I suppose no more so than the other “Escrow Indians.” He’s wily, and nervy, and he can charm almost anyone. But he isn’t straight. I mean in his head. I don’t really understand him, but I recognize a bad, dangerous combination—no conscience, and a temper like a flask of nitro. A lot worse than mine.

I want to make money. A lot of money. But my pa raised me to believe a man has to give thought not only to what he does but how he does it. I don’t feel altogether good about what I’ve got myself into…

He signed it “Yrs. affectionately” and settled down to uneasy sleep while the wild dogs barked.

T
HE WOMAN WHO PREPARED
the free lunches found Mack a serviceable suit of dark-brown broadcloth. Wyatt told him how the Mexican boy had operated in town, gave him $10 cash for bribes, and put him on his own. Mack’s first three trips into Los Angeles yielded no prospects. When he returned empty-handed the second time, Wyatt had already started drinking—it was not yet noon—and cursed him like a deranged man. Mack turned and left.

About the only thing he accomplished on those early trips was bringing Railroad from town on one of them. The ride took almost all day, but it presented some interesting sights. Up a steep-sided canyon near Newhall, he spied a rickety oil derrick. He followed the canyon a short distance and found three more, their little steam engines chuffing away. He knew of the oil bonanza in Titusville, Pennsylvania, of course, but he wasn’t aware of similar drilling out here. Another item to file away.

He asked Wyatt about the derricks.

“They’ve been hauling that tar out of Pico Canyon for years. Reason I know is, the old still’s near Newhall. It was a scheme of General Andreas Pico and his brother, the governor. Lamp oil, medicine oil, axle grease—you see how successful that was, don’t you? Pío Pico’s a pauper. People with money to waste have drilled wells near here, but there’s nothing in them but sand, water, and grief. Forget it.”

By the start of his third week Mack was acquainted with town. He introduced himself to some of the agents and called on Southwood again. He familiarized himself with the commercial hotels and those working there who could be paid off for leads.

On one of his train trips he fell into conversation with a man who knew something about oil. The man expanded on what Wyatt said. Yes, there were wells throughout this part of Southern California—Tar Canyon, Sespe Canyon, Ojai—some drilled for practically nothing by the old Chinese spring-pole method. Lyman Stewart, a wildcatter from Titusville, was pumping oil from Star No. 1 in Pico Canyon, and early in the year he and his partner had brought in a genuine gusher, Adams Canyon No. 16, above Santa Paula, over in Ventura County. The well produced five hundred barrels a day, but Stewart and his partner had yet to see a substantial profit. Many failures canceled out the occasional success. And if the oil business was chancy everywhere, it was more so in Southern California. The man explained that the geology of the region, the underground faults and rock formations, ran every which way, making drilling more difficult than in the East. A strike was virtually a matter of blind luck.

It was something to keep in mind.

Autumn was settling on Los Angeles. Days were still warm but the evenings cooled, and the sun fell toward the Pacific a little earlier each afternoon. There were a few prospects, but the supply was definitely drying up. A baggage man at the depot reported some trains completely empty of visitors. On a siding, Mack saw an excursion flatcar decorated with flags and bunting, the kind used to haul prospects out to remote tracts. The car had been standing unused for a week.

Still, he was determined and willing to work long hours—to exhaustion, if need be. On Wednesday of the third week, he caught a 5
A.M.
train for town and went first to the Pico House.

In the busy lobby, he noticed that the double doors of the banquet room were open. Waiters were clearing breakfast dishes for a sizable crowd of well-dressed men. He looked in the door, thinking that his contact, Reilley, might be working in there. On the dais under a banner reading
PROMOTE A GREATER LOS ANGELES
, a man in military blue decorated with shoulder straps and medals addressed the gathering. He was about fifty, with a gray soup-strainer mustache and imperial. As he spoke, he beat the podium with his fist or chopped the air with slashing saber strokes, fairly radiating energy and spleen. Curious, Mack lounged in the doorway and listened.

“…the boom is clearly over, my good friends. While we may not care to admit that in public, it is a fact. Our enemy, an economic slump, is advancing to overwhelm us. What, men, should be our strategy?”

Glancing around the meeting room, Mack spied Reilley, a burly Irishman with thick spectacles, carrying a tray of dishes. Reilley caught Mack’s signal and nodded before he vanished in the kitchen.

“My experience in the field during the Civil War taught me the answer to that question. When life and property are threatened, if you hope to save them and defeat your enemy, you do not surrender to him. No.” He hit the podium again. “You attack. To offset the rapidly declining real estate market, I propose an all-out campaign. First, I urge the formation of a chamber of commerce to promote this city, and the region. We can offer cheap land and cheap labor. Why be modest about it? Second, I urge each of you—indeed, every responsible businessman—to follow the lead of my newspaper and proclaim Los Angeles as a unique safe haven for business.”

There was an unpleasant shrillness in the man’s voice. If he owned a newspaper, Mack wondered, why did he wear an old army uniform?

“Proclaim it as nothing less than the city of the open shop. The city untainted—as San Francisco is tainted—by the foul muck and slime of trade unionism. That is the enemy, gentlemen—unionism. The outrider of radical foreign governments and foreign ideologies. We shall not have that pustulant cancer growing here. No! We shall turn back the malignant enemy at our borders. Kill it forever. How say you, men? Will you join me in this great crusade?”

Men jumped to their feet, stamping and applauding. Mack thought of Diego Marquez and decided he didn’t like this man much. Someone tugged his sleeve.

“Reilley. Didn’t see you—”

“Came around the back way.” Reilley hooked his thumb and stepped behind one of the floral banks to screen them from chance observance by the desk. Reilley’s eyes darted to the roll of notes Mack pulled from his pocket.

“Who’s that speaking?” Mack asked.

“Lieutenant Colonel Otis. Owner of the
Times.
He’s a big booster of Los Angeles.”

“Why does he wear a uniform?”

“Guess he liked soldiering in the War. Ohio fella. Wounded twice. Scouted behind Confederate lines, he claims. Came down here from Santa Barbara some years back, dead broke after running another paper. Went to work on the
Times
, bought in, and later scraped up enough to buy out Boyce, his partner. They didn’t get along.”

“I don’t imagine he’d get along with anybody.”

The waiter offered no opinion. “Really wasn’t much of a paper when he took over. Then the boom hit. Now Colonel Otis and that circulation manager of his, Harry Chandler— they’re on top. We should all have such luck,” he added with another greedy glance at the cash.

“Doesn’t sound like Otis cares for working people.”

“You noticed that,” the old waiter said bitterly. He cleaned his spectacles on an apron stained by eggs and coffee. He looked whipped, his eyes watery and red.

Mack fingered the roll of money. “What have you got for me today?”

“Something good, for a change. The Santa Fe brought in two carloads of Iowa Hawkeyes last night.” He pronounced it Santa
Fee.
“Half of them are staying here. These are the names and room numbers.”

Reilley showed a crumpled slip of paper. With another swift look around the lobby, he handed it to Mack and Mack gave him a bill in exchange.

“And another for Chauncey, on the desk. He made out the list.” Mack paid him and hurried to the stairs.

After a cautious look around, Mack tapped softly at room 323. The hall smelled of cigars and dust. He knocked again, trying not to sneeze.

“Yes, I’m coming,” said a foggy voice.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who was fatter than Soder Erickson, with freckled white skin and round brown eyes dulled by sleep. She wore a feathered gown much too delicate and feminine for someone of her years and girth.

Mack smiled. “Mrs. Hoover?” Before she could speak, he whipped two squares of cardboard into her hand. “Your tickets, ma’am.”

“My-?”

“Tickets for a free sightseeing excursion to San Solaro, The City of Health. A free band concert and a buffet luncheon are included. See the beautiful California countryside—no obligation whatsoever. You’ll be back in town by nightfall, and you’ll thank me. You’re traveling with your husband, are you not?”