California Gold (77 page)

“It may be spring before Heney and Burns reach San Francisco,” Roosevelt continued. “I assure you, the wait will be worth it. They’ll take the stick to those looters and grafters. Yes, sir. The big stick.”

He slapped their backs while firmly heading them out the door:

At Willard’s on Pennsylvania, they met Burns and renewed their acquaintance with Francis Heney. Bill Burns was a

Baltimore native and had a tough Irish charm. He’d fallen in love with police work when he was young, his father having been police commissioner of Columbus, Ohio.

“Here’s the way I work a case,” he told them. “Full tilt, and no questions asked. The man I’m after is guilty till he proves otherwise.”

“That approach is efficient, but hardly legal,” Heney said, amused.

“You handle the courtroom, Francis. Let me handle the rest. You don’t catch crooks with parlor etiquette. Hard knuckles, that’s what it takes. Hard knuckles and no sympathy for the bastards. We’ll send this Ruef to San Quentin. Count on it.”

In a westbound Pullman sleeper, Mack dreamed of drowning. He fell slowly through the clear cobalt water of a mountain lake, able neither to breathe nor to propel himself upward. He sank through sunlit depths in which dead things floated—drowned birds, foxes, a grizzly, a stag with a garland of dead wildflowers hanging from its antlers. There were hundreds of drowned things in the water with him. They moved gently, slowly, round and round in a noiseless sunlit dance.

He woke sweating, even though a prairie blizzard howled outside and chilled the rattling car. Except for the blizzard dream from boyhood, no nightmare ever terrified him so much or gripped him for so long afterward.

He thought he understood the dream, and he pondered what he ought to do. Once back in San Francisco, he dispatched a letter to John Muir at his ranch in Martinez. He said he’d changed his mind: The City remained in need of a new water supply, but he would back a search for alternatives; he would oppose the damming and flooding of Hetch Hetchy.

“When I’m here full-time in another month or two, I intend to open a law office,” Francis Heney said to Mack and Older in the latter’s office. “Take on a partner, Joe Dwyer. Tough man, and a fine lawyer. He’s agreed to approach Langdon about putting me on as a special assistant district attorney.”

Older leaned near the window above the street, puffing on his cigar. “Langdon’s soft as cheese. Ruef will squeeze him to say no.”

Heney allowed a tart little smile. “We’ll squeeze harder with these.” He tapped several files on Older’s desk.

It was early April 1906, a Wednesday. Mack was impatient to end the meeting and get away on a short holiday.

“Burns is already gathering some astounding information.” Heney selected a file from the stack. “The fight trust. A small group of promoters allegedly paid eighteen thousand dollars to ensure that they would be the only ones granted permits to stage prizefights. The informant said Ruef and Schmitz split the bribe.”

Another file. “P.G. and E., our honorable utility. An alleged twenty thousand dollars to persuade the supervisors not to lower gas rates.”

Another. “An alleged thirty-thousand-dollar legal retainer from Parkside Realty, Ruef to guarantee them the streetcar franchise they want on the west side—”

“My God, your informants are hardly reticent, are they?” Older said.

Mack shrugged. “They may be bragging, not squealing. They know the machine owns the police and the courts. They know Ruef and his pals won’t be prosecuted.”

Heney’s mouth set. “They will be now.” He scooped up the files. “Can either of you join me for dinner this evening? I’m meeting Hiram Johnson. I want to recruit him for our trial staff.”

“You’re pretty damned confident, Francis,” Mack said.

“Totally confident. We’re going to clean up San Francisco.”

“Well, regarding dinner, I’m afraid—”

“God above,” Older exclaimed, nearly biting his cigar in half. “I didn’t believe the little thief would do it. Come here, quick.”

Mack and Heney reached the window in time to see an open black touring car pass in the street. Abraham Ruef was enthroned behind his chauffeur, flanked on each side by several cardboard shirt boxes. Ruef basked in the sunshine, and the happy state of his world. Mack thought the Boss’s eye roved upward to the
Bulletin
windows as he caressed the shirt boxes. The touring car chugged out of sight behind a horsecar.

“Do you know what’s in those boxes?” Older asked. “Just fifty thousand dollars in cash, the first installment of Pat Calhoun’s quarter-million bribe to get the overhead trolley lines. We got word of it day before yesterday. Someone in the East telegraphed the fifty thousand to the mint, and one of Calhoun’s boys took delivery. He exchanged the gold for cash at Fairbanks Trust. Ruef bragged that he’d pick up the cash personally this morning.”

“Pick it up where?” Heney asked.

“The offices of Calhoun’s trolley company.”

Mack’s hazel eyes clouded. “Brazen son of a bitch.”

“When a man becomes that powerful, he sometimes starts to believe he’s invincible,” Heney said. “It might make our task easier.”

“Don’t underestimate Abe,” Older said. “He’s a brainy little crook. In occasional moments of weakness, I admire him.”

“Not I,” Mack said with that cloudy look still in his eyes.

Francis Heney squeezed his arm. “We’ll put him away. It may take months, or years, but Abe Ruef’s finished.”

“I trust you, Francis. But I’ll believe you when I watch them escort Ruef to San Quentin.” Mack reached for his hat.

“Sure you can’t join me to meet Hiram Johnson?”

“Not this time. I’m running down to Monterey for the rest of the week.”

Older rolled his tongue in his cheek. “Nellie Ross lives down that way, doesn’t she?”

“So I’m informed,” Mack answered with a smile. “Actually the first purpose of the trip is to try out my new automobile.”

Older snatched the cigar from his mouth. “You have another new one?”

“A beauty. She came off the boat from Liverpool Monday. I read a report on this model from the Olympia Auto Show over there. She cost me a thousand pounds at the curb in Manchester, and Lord knows how much to ship by sea. She shines like the morning. Henry Royce built her; he calls her a Silver Ghost.”

Anticipation kept Mack tossing all night. At six he jumped out of bed. While he was shaving, Little Jim walked in. Father and son both wore nightshirts, but there the resemblance ended; Jim grew fairer, more like his mother, every year.

“Where are you going today, Pa?”

“Down the coast. I hope I’ll see Nellie.”

Jim thought about that. After a silence he said soberly, “Is Nellie a whore?”

Mack nicked his cheek and swore. He pressed a hot towel against the bleeding cut. “No, she is not. Who taught you that bad word?”

Jim examined his bare foot. “Oh, some boys.”

“What boys?”

“Boys I met on the street.”

“Well, stay away from them. And don’t repeat that word, do you understand?”

Little Jim gave his father a sad, cold stare and left.

“He’s hanging out with roughnecks,” Mack protested to Johnson at breakfast. “The wrong kind of youngsters.”

“What’s he to do? Some of the right people ain’t around most times. ’Sides, a little exposure to the streets won’t hurt him none.”

“The hell. He isn’t eight years old yet.”

“What of it? My friend Jack, when he was seven he was roughhousin’ on the Oakland docks. Drinkin’ hard liquor too.”

“Jack London’s a sot. Besides, he’s a writer. You can’t believe half of what a writer says. I’m going to order Angelina to restrain Jim. Forcibly, if need be.”

“Oh, Mack, good God—”

“And you keep it in mind if you see him trying to leave the house. I won’t have him roaming around San Francisco like some orphan.”

“He’s a smart boy. Tough, in his own way. He can take care of—”

“You heard me. If you’re my friend, you’ll go along.”

Johnson regarded the man at the far end of the enormous dining table. “I’m your friend. But sometimes you make the job goddamn hard.”

T
HE ONE-HUNDRED-MILE
auto trip took most of Thursday, but it was a joy rather than a trial, thanks to the great silver car. She measured fifteen feet, weighed thirty-three hundred pounds, developed between forty and fifty horsepower from her six-cylinder engine, and could carry seven. Her silver wheels were wooden, with pneumatic tires, and she had four forward gears plus reverse.

The car was operated from the right front seat, but Mack found that no great inconvenience once he got used to it. He was repeatedly thrilled by the feel of rumbling power coming through the steering shaft to the wheel rimmed in fine polished wood. The automobile lived up to all the manufacturer’s claims; she was indeed quiet as an electric sewing machine or an eight-day clock.

At dusk on Thursday, he pulled up and parked in a rutted lane near Nellie’s cottage. Whipping off his goggles and cap; he ran the rest of the way. He knocked on her door, tapping his foot.

The curtains were closed on the cottage windows. He knocked again, louder. After the fifth try, he circled the cottage on foot, then simply stood there, crestfallen.

Presently he tramped back to the Rolls-Royce. In the distance the surf boomed, a lonely sound. He was an idiot not to have written or contacted Nellie beforehand. He’d assumed she might say no to a visit announced in advance, and had relied on personal persuasion when he arrived on her doorstep. Now he faced a long trip back to the City, and he didn’t look forward to it. He was tight with physical need again. He ought to get something more than this from his weekend.

Suddenly he recalled what was nearby: the Del Monte Hotel and Resort. What the hell—why not spend a few hours in the enemy’s camp?

The Southern Pacific built the first Del Monte in 1880. Cholly Crocker was the guiding spirit, arguing that a society resort near the ocean in Monterey would fill up trains that were running nearly empty in those days. He was correct. In a parkland of 126 acres, artfully planted and enhanced by secluded paths and classical statuary, the Del Monte soon attracted the City’s best crowd.

She was a wondrous three-story wedding-cake place, gleaming white with green shutters, winding exterior staircases, and turrets and spires crowned with American flags, California flags, and the railroad’s own ensign. Actually this was the second Del Monte, a duplicate of the one that burned in ’87. The owners had not tampered with success.

Mack put the Silver Ghost in the auto park, passing the attendant $20 to be sure no one touched it, and took a suite for three nights. The clerk didn’t recognize him, which was good; might be damned embarrassing to be seen enjoying himself on railroad property.

He was in a dismal mood, and warned himself against drinking too much. Changing to a blazer and white flannels, he stretched his solid-gold watch chain across his vest and fastened his cravat with a stick-pin diamond big as his thumb.

He ate lunch on the lawn, at a white iron table under an umbrella. The hotel was busy, crowded with cheerful, expensively dressed ladies and gentlemen. Having politely turned down an invitation to join a group for lawn bowling, he sat in a white wicker chair on the great veranda, where a unit of Ballenberg’s Society Band played hits of the day: “Sweet Adeline,” “In My Merry Oldsmobile,” “Hello, Central, Give Me Heaven,” Victor Herbert’s “Toyland.” The Herbert piece touched him with a sudden melancholy. What was he doing wasting his time among idlers?

Inside, at the arrangements desk, an officious gentleman booked carriage tours to the beach, the cypress groves, the Spanish mission ruins in Carmel. As Mack stood studying a leaflet on the seventeen-mile scenic drive, he fell into conversation with a plump blond woman who reminded him of Carla. She was a Miss Francie Howell of Denver, recently divorced. By five-thirty he and Miss Howell were sweatily making love in his suite.

After dining together that evening, they waltzed in the ballroom, again to the strains of Ballenberg’s band, whose members had exchanged military tunics for tails. They met and chatted with three young naval officers in dress blues; their warship was anchored in the Bay.

That night they made love again. Next day, when they played croquet after breakfast, Mack discovered that Miss Howell was a determined competitor and expert shot. He had to fight hard to race through the wickets and beat her; losing to a woman was unthinkable.

He bought a bathing costume at the hotel shop. Miss Howell had brought hers, a very daring Parisian suit of striped tights, which elicited scandalized stares from some other guests when they went to bathe in one of the heated saltwater tanks. Proper female bathers wore modest blouses, ankle-length skirts, and stockings. Mack swam on one side of the soupy warm tank, Miss Howell on the other; a heavy net properly divided the sexes.

It proved to be a relaxing if inconsequential weekend. On Sunday morning, waking while his companion slept beside him, he decided he couldn’t waste another hour, and would leave right after breakfast. The divorcée had been suitably ardent, but she wasn’t Nellie. And San Francisco nagged him. There was always work.

There was always Jim.

He knew how to deal with the work; he understood less and less about how to cope with the boy. What he did with the best of intentions seemed to anger his son, and Jim’s reactions and reticence angered him in turn. What was the answer?

He wouldn’t find it lying in a bed owned by the Southern Pacific. He kissed Miss Howell’s cheek and dressed.

Mack nosed the Silver Ghost down the winding drive. It was shaded by huge old cypress trees and the air smelled fresh and salty. A beam of sunlight between the cypresses flashed from the brass lamps of a massive dark-green auto coming up the drive. He identified a White steamer.

And then the driver. First by the tiny mustache below the goggles, then by the well-tanned features.

The driveway wasn’t wide enough to accommodate both autos. Each gave way a little, and then halted side by side with right-hand tires off the road. The White hissed and trailed vapor; the Silver Ghost clicked like a loom shuttle quietly operating in the next room.