California Gold

by John Jakes

  The puncture cost them forty-five minutes. Mack was in a temper by the time they bumped along Lake Street. Passing Fifth Avenue, they turned into the parking area adjoining Richmond Field at Sixth.

  Through sunlit trees he saw the packed bleachers, the blue-and-gold pennants of California on the near side, the cardinal ones of Stanford on the other. An old man jumped up from a crate at the entrance to the parking area. “Five cents, please.”

  Mack stood up and stared over tops of horse-drawn vehicles and a scattering of autos. “Is there any room?”

  “First lane in, turn left, go way down near them trees at the end.”

  “Do you know what’s happened on the field?”

  “Won’t be the half for some minutes yet. Stanford’s ahead six-zero.”

  “Who scored?”

  “Dutch Bansbach, the quarterback. Faked a handoff up the middle, men cut around left end and went forty-five yards. Savage Dole kicked the conversion. My nephew Horace, he runs back from the stands and tells me if there’s a score. Otherwise I wouldn’t take this damn lonesome job—oh, excuse me, sonny.”

  Mack drove on. He made the suggested left turn and bumped toward a shady grove at the end of the lane of trampled grass.

  Pinky stood watch on the top row of the bleachers, among rooters chanting for a California touchdown. He spied the Cadillac, whistled to someone below, then struggled down the steps.

  Mack swung into the last space on his left and turned off the engine, still irked by the delay. Little Jim took off his cap and goggles. He looked tired and fretful. Mack patted him. “Come on, there’s still plenty of action left.”

  He walked around to the passenger side. It was a beautiful crisp afternoon, with a few high clouds and the sharp, long shadows that decreed autumn. He smiled and raised his hands to help his son alight.

  Behind him, the heads of three men appeared and disappeared among carriages and autos. They were walking fast but quietly. Silver Tooth Coglan’s excitement anesthetized the ache of the bullet wound. He dipped his hand into his overcoat and caressed the metal knuckles.

  Mack took Jim’s hand and started toward the ticket booth near the U.C. bleachers. The blue-and-gold stands rocked with a chant: “Overall! Overall!” Overall was a fourth-year man, a star punter. Mack heard the whap of a well-kicked ball, and the punter’s rooters jumped up with a thunderous shout while a brass band struck up a march.

  “Chance.”

  Mack looked around. No one.

  “This way.”

  They were off to his left, in the shady grove at the edge of the field. Three of them: a fat man wearing a garish suit and a flashing pinky ring, a younger one with the seedy air of a Barbary Coast hustler, and between them, smiling like an old friend, smiling and showing his gleaming silver tooth—

  Mack’s mouth turned to sand. Where had they come from? Why? How had they known he’d be here? They must have guessed that he might be here—a Stanford partisan.

  This was contrived, then, not accidental …

  Jim squeezed his hand, unsure of what was happening, and Mack stepped around the boy to place him on his right side, away from the men. The sight of Coglan, aging but still exuding arrogance, unleashed all sorts of emotions. He fought them. The past didn’t matter—only Jim.

  Coglan fanned himself with his derby there in the shade. “You look a hell of a lot more prosperous than you did the last time. Come over here. I need to have a word with you.”

  Mack estimated the distance to the ticket booth. “Sorry, I’m late for the game.” He nudged Jim, and they walked rapidly, straight ahead into the narrow space between parked buggies.

  “Stop him!” Coglan yelled. The young one darted from the shade into the nearest rutted lane.

  “Run for it, Jim.”

  Mack and Jim dashed across the next lane, squeezing between two more carriages. Slim chased them, coming from their left, weaving between vehicles like a backfield runner, Coglan and the ox with the pinky ring pursuing from the rear.

  Mack and Jim made it across one more lane, horses picketed to iron pins shying from the commotion. As they ran between a carriage on the right and a trim imported Fiat on the left, Slim vaulted over the bonnet of the Fiat and came down like a swooping bird, blocking their way out. Coglan closed off the other end of the narrow space. The detective strolled up with his right hand buried in his overcoat. Mack remembered the metal knuckles from the basement room where the water ran.

  Coglan smiled, displaying the point of his silver incisor, while Mack held Jim tight against his waist, shielding him with crossed hands.

  “What the devil do you want?”

  “We’re delivering a message. Some people around town don’t like the things you’ve been writing in Older’s rag. It’d be a good idea if you stopped it.”

  The bleachers roared, the brass blaring, snare drums beating. A cloud crossed the sun, putting them in shadow. Impulsively, Mack pushed his son to the ground. “Crawl under and run.”

  Scared, Jim didn’t balk or argue, but dropped and crawled under the buggy. “Catch the kid,” Coglan yelled to Pinky.

  The fat man lumbered to the other side. “Come here, you little brat.” He snatched Jim by the hair and dragged him out, yelping. As Coglan bent down to watch, Mack abandoned niceties and smashed his knee under Coglan’s chin.

  Coglan’s head hit the side of the carriage and he let out a roar. Mack yanked Coglan’s hand from his pocket, tore the metal knuckles off, and threw them away. Coglan came at him then with wild looping punches but Mack ducked and darted, to the left, to the right—

  As Pinky pulled Jim toward the nearest lane, the boy managed to wrench free. Pinky charged and Jim put his head down and butted the man’s groin.

  Meanwhile Mack was weaving and feinting and trying to set up one good blow to Coglan’s jaw. Suddenly he heard someone rushing up and, before he could pivot, a shot-loaded blackjack hit him behind the ear. As he fell against the low step of a buggy, Coglan kicked the small of his back.

  “Help, somebody help us!” Jim cried.

  “Shut up,” Pinky said, holding him tightly with one hand and dragging him into the middle of the rutted lane, his other hand massaging his crotch. Pushing on the buggy step to regain his footing, Mack had a distorted view of Pinky’s face, red with rage.

  Slim rushed him but Mack tangled a foot between his legs and tripped him. He saw Lon Coglan on his knees now, hunting for his metal knucks. Mack jerked Coglan by his long hair and smashed his face against the big hub of the buggy wheel. The detective’s nose cracked and spouted blood. He shrieked in a high, girlish way.

  In the lane, Jim gamely kicked at his captor. Using both hands to seize Jim’s legs, Pinky lifted the boy off the ground. Jim responded by attacking Pinky’s face with his nails, raking an eye.

  Pinky threw him down on his back. “You dirty little shit.” He raised his high-top shoe. Hobnails studded the sole. He stomped on Jim’s left foot, and the boy screamed.

  Mack hammered backward with his elbow, catching Slim’s ribs before the young thug could sap him again. Slim staggered away. Mack jumped up on the buggy, off the other side, and rushed at Pinky, too late. Pinky stomped Jim a second and third time.

  At the ticket booth, several people saw the fighting and raised the alarm. Shortly a uniformed policeman appeared, his whistle punctuating another roar from the game. Slim waved frantically. “Coppers.”

  Mack lurched to his son, who was rolling on the ground. A shadow flickered by—Pinky, his gut jiggling under his shirt as he fled to the grove.

  Mack heard the police whistle again, and people running to help. Panting, he chased the fat man. Pinky looked around, his bloated face streaming with sweat. Mack’s arms and legs pumped. Three more steps and he’d catch him, break his—

  A tire rut caught his left foot and he sailed forward like a football tackler. The impact snapped his teeth shut on his tongue and blood spurted between his lips. He lay dazed while Pinky, Slim, and Coglan clamb
ered all over each other like circus clowns, trying to be first into an old depot wagon parked in the shade. Coglan’s face flowed with blood. He grabbed the reins from Slim and the wagon jolted away with Pinky hanging on the side, yelping as his hobnailed shoes dragged through the weeds.

  “Oh dear God, the poor lad.”

  Mack got up, dizzy. He saw the policeman kneeling by Jim, gingerly lifting the boy’s bloodied cuff. The shock hit him as he ran toward the policeman and the spectators crowding around. Blood soaked Jim’s left shoe and trouser leg. Something white protruded.

  “Jim, hold on!” He shouted at the crowd, “Get an ambulance!” A man ran.

  Jim gulped and rolled his head from side to side in the brown grass. “Oh, Pa, it hurts. It hurts awful.”

  Mack knelt behind him and cradled his head. Hair hung in his eyes and sweat ran down his nose. Jim trembled and cried. Mack rubbed his son’s shoulders, staring at sharp jutting splinters of bone that glistened in the sunshine.

  Mack walked up and down, up and down outside the boy’s room. A taped bandage covered the egg-sized lump behind his ear. Nuns in the habit of the Sisters of Mercy passed by with looks of sympathy or a murmured word for the distraught father. Mack wasn’t Catholic, but that had no effect on compassion. One sister stopped to say, “Did anyone tell you about the game?”

  “No, Sister.”

  “They tied, six points each.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  The teams could have sunk to hell for all he cared.

  A horse-drawn ambulance had rushed Jim from Richmond Field to the hospital, St. Mary’s on Rincon Hill. An examining doctor immediately urged telephoning a specialist, Dr. Theodore Steinmund. “Best orthopedic man on the Pacific Coast.”

  Steinmund had been inside with Little Jim for two hours. Mack kept walking up and down. After a while, spent and worried, he sought a bench nearby. He no sooner had sat down than the door finally opened. Dr. Steinmund came out with his vest and suit coat over his rolled-up sleeve. He shut the door and avoided Mack’s eye. His professional reticence was infuriating, then alarming.

  “I want to see him,” Mack said, starting by.

  The doctor’s arm barred the way.

  “Wait a moment. The sister is still with him. I must speak to you first.”

  52

  BLOWING MIST HID GOLDEN Gate and the Marin shore. The December wind raked the Bay, heavy with dampness, and white water foamed on tall waves that broke and flooded the concrete esplanade.

  The two men came out of the dark-green park at different points, walking toward one another on the esplanade like duelists. Mack had put on overshoes and a scarf and turned up his velvet coat collar. It did no good, though; the sea spray soaked his face and clothes. It was impossible to keep warm. He couldn’t have gotten warm in 90-degree sunshine. He was cold in the bottom of his soul.

  He was unable to sleep at night. Wherever he went during the day—his office, one of his clubs, one of his warehouses or ranches in the Valley—the scene kept flashing in his head, a jerky Kinetoscope with color. He saw the green of plants in the hospital alcove where he sat with Steinmund. He saw the red of Christ’s bleeding heart in a chromo on the wall.

  Mack and Abraham Ruef faced each other on the esplanade. Ruef cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure you received my letter asking for this meeting. You didn’t favor me with a reply.”

  Mack stared at him.

  “I’m grateful you chose to come. I must preface what I want to say by telling you this: It would not be to my advantage to be seen with you. If you ever discuss this meeting or repeat this conversation, I’ll deny all of it. However…”

  Mack stared. The waves broke loudly, and though the two of them stood at the esplanade’s landward edge, water swirled around their feet and the great windblown fans of water soaked them. Ruef mopped his face with a white linen handkerchief. He wore tight leather gloves. His fingers were small as a child’s.

  “However,” he repeated after clearing his throat again, “I freely admit to you that one of my underlings, completely without my knowledge or authorization, sent those hoodlums to your home. On their own initiative they followed you to Richmond Field. It’s well known that you are a fan of the Stanford eleven.”

  Mack had scarcely been outdoors since the accident. The tan was fading from his face. Now the color seemed to leach away completely. “I didn’t come all the way out here for a little chat about football.”

  Ruef heard the suppressed rage and hastily raised his hand. “My apology. Please hear me out.”

  Mack heard instead the disjointed, dreadful phrases Steinmund spoke that afternoon. Phrases he didn’t understand to this day. And understood too well.

  …midtarsal fracture dislocation. Midfoot and forefoot separated. Circulation embarrassment. Interference with dorsal and medial arteries…

  “Subsequent to the, ah, incident, I further discovered that the three men were ordered by my subordinate to give you a verbal warning, perhaps muss you up a bit. But nothing more. Absolutely nothing. I swear it. The attack on your son was spontaneous, accidental, and of course inexcusable.”

  Did he believe Ruef? What did it matter?

  …especially critical site. Every practitioner fears a fracture dislocation here …

  Ruef spoke with sincerity and passion, like a defense attorney summing up for the jury. “You and I have differences. No secret about that. But I deal fairly and openly with opponents—”

  Damned liar. What did it matter?

  “I do not—I will not condone violence in any form. Mr. Coglan and his fat associate departed some days ago on a passenger train from Oakland. They are residing in a remote part of the state. Neither man will be returning to San Francisco. Should they defy me and violate their exile, they’ll be dealt with forcibly. I can do nothing about the third assailant, the young man. He disappeared on his own.”

  Ruef’s persuasion couldn’t breach the stony rage of his listener. The little pol applied the white handkerchief again, his own perspiration mingling with the wave spray. “For God’s sake, Chance, I’m trying to tell you how sorry I am. I want to redeem the situation to the extent of my ability. Repay you in some measure for your boy’s suffering.”

  …for the future, I cannot promise…I cannot guarantee that he…

  Mack wondered if another dream had been layered over the memories of Steinmund and the hospital. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing: Abraham Ruef with a tentative, unsure look on his face. Reaching into his overcoat. Pulling out money. A stack of it. Almost an inch thick, bound with a rubber band. On top was a $100 bill.

  “Here. Take this. Perhaps it will help cover the medical—”

  Mack shouted like a gored animal, and his balled fist knocked the money from Ruef’s hand. The elastic broke and the packet sailed aloft, $100 bills whirling and sailing every which way. “You little bastard. You piece of scum. I’ll see you in hell.”

  “Chance, Chance, I’m trying—”

  “I’m going to ruin you, Ruef. You and your goddamned machine too.” Terrified, Ruef retreated, but Mack was faster. He caught his overcoat lapels and dragged him up to tiptoe, screaming at him. “My son won’t ever walk normally again. He’s lame. He’s in constant pain. For life.”

  Ruef could only whisper. “Oh my God. My God, no, I didn’t know the full extent—”

  Mack wanted to fling him off the esplanade, throw him under the white-topped waves and stand there till he drowned.

  Trembling, he let go. “Get out of here before I kill you.”

  Ruef opened his mouth in one last attempt to persuade, ameliorate—

  Mack’s eyes convinced him he’d better not, and he bolted, flinging a scared look over his shoulder as he hurried down the flooded esplanade and disappeared in the dark pine trees. A few moments later a gasoline motor coughed, turned over, puttered, then gradually faded away.

  Clouds of blowing mist streamed around Mack, the wind knifing his face. As breaking waves to
ssed wet money in the air with the spume, some fell on the esplanade and floated. Mack picked up seven $100 bills. He tore them up and threw the pieces in the Bay.

  Johnson came back from a thousand-mile journey on the Amazon, through the rain forest.

  “So you’re goin’ to get Ruef.”

  “I am.”

  “You blame him for Jim bein’ crippled.”

  “Hell, yes. Who else?”

  “Never mind—forget I asked.”

  VII

  INTO THE FIRE

  1904-1906

  THE CITY GREW UP quickly, but not completely. She had a foot in the old century, and another planted in the new.

  Solid commercial buildings proliferated; the plush elegance of her great hotels—the Palace, the Fairmont, the St. Francis— rivaled anything in New York or Europe. The enthusiasm of her civic leaders was equally impressive. Mayor Phelan had drawn important men together into the Association for Improvement and Adornment of San Francisco, and the group engaged Daniel Hudson Burnham, a celebrated architect, to draw up a comprehensive plan for the modern San Francisco, much as Baron Haussmann had ripped apart the old Paris and created the new for Emperor Napoleon III.

  Burnham was to finish his work and present it to the supervisors in 1905 or 1906. Meanwhile, the City remained caught between the present and the past. In her slums and poor neighborhoods, there was no brick or fine granite. There were wooden row houses as congested, flimsy, and dirt-ridden as the ones that burned in the fire of December 1849—and five more times in the years after that. Progress vied with poverty. On Market Street there were people on foot or driving farm wagons; there were carriages, plain and elegant, horsecars shuttling up and down, cable cars riding the mechanized slot in the center. There were a few autos that now and then left all the rest behind.