Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  “These may not be useful,” he said, slipping the photos back into the envelope and handing it to Kiyoshi. “Store these.”

  He turned to Chizu. “This part of our mission is close to completion. My compliments.”

  “May I wrap the blueprints for you, Tokido-san?”

  “Yes; then carry on. The time is short before opening-day ceremonies. I must go. My car is waiting.”

  CONSUL GENERAL MOTO eyed Tokido with a cool, un-blinking stare. “We shall dispatch the plans immediately. Your work is commendable.”

  Tokido silently held Moto’s gaze. Outside the office, he heard footfalls, hushed voices, and jangling phones. Inside, the air was as still as the hour before dawn. The consulate felt as impenetrable as the black Matsumoto Castle, yet a sharp band of tension ran down Tokido’s spine.

  “Tell me. Operation Blind Warrior continues?” Moto picked at the remnants of his breakfast: grilled white fish, miso soup, rice wrapped in nori, and sour pickles.

  “Ship movements in the bay have not accelerated. There is no change in traffic. Now, the details of opening day need attention. We are anticipating thousands of visitors in the first month.”

  “Of course.” Moto drained the last of the miso soup and burped. “The parade on Market Street requires my involvement. As do all dinners and events.” He grinned broadly and wove his fingers together into a web, resting them on his belly. “Mayor Rossi has declared April 29 Japan Day. The tide of favorable opinion has turned our way.” He fixed Tokido with one eye as if squinting through a gunsight. “And what have you learned from the newspaper reporter?”

  “I have verified the batteries and gun emplacements in the military forts on both sides of the bay.”

  Moto nodded. “Exactly. Intelligence advises that, in the Marin Headlands, a powerful military fortification has been built. Last spring, we heard the explosions of dynamite and saw dust clouds rising into the sky. Then the blasting stopped. We have been unable to penetrate the top-secret nature of the installation.”

  “Are you suggesting I pursue my source on this matter?”

  Moto managed a smirk, and then his eyes went cold. “Spare no opportunity. The reporter’s recent articles about the pavilion are favorable. Advise me when you receive new information. I will be in touch.”

  Tokido rose carefully from the chair. “As you wish.” And, departing with a bow that could only be interpreted as one of the utmost respect, he let himself out.

  Leland Clifford Painting the Tower of the Sun on Dorothy Drew’s Back

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Woodrow

  Woodrow’s remorse tormented him. Never did it cross his mind to offer Lily an apology—too easy, meaningless, even crass. He was sure she was jammed into the after-hours crowd at Shanty Malone’s, where dry martinis flowed, or Lucca, where sixty-five-cent, seven-course dinners with wine sold out.

  Newspaper headlines were touting the Exposition like the Rapture, and Lily’s stories ran in the Examiner daily. Woodrow tried to read between the lines for any personal slant upon which to heal their spat. Her reporting ran the gamut between academics who were hypnotizing women’s clubs with lectures about glorious European art treasures and a dress designer who devised a Treasure Island women’s wardrobe: leather vests and high-heeled boots by day, and, by evening, a frock called the Coit Tower, a cylinder of pleated chiffon. Woodrow shook his head at such nonsense, declaring to himself that any female visitor to the island would need Eskimo skins not to freeze. San Francisco seemed on the verge of hysteria.

  He set upon a solution to make amends with Lily and simultaneously roamed the island to drown his misery.

  A cold snap had dumped snow on Mount Diablo and Mount Tamalpais and Skyline Boulevard. He wondered if the koi at the Japanese Pavilion’s lagoon had frozen, but avoided the wretched place. Meanwhile, gardeners and workmen on the island were planting and painting in a final flurry while dozens of pretty, nubile women paraded around in one-piece bathing suits.

  They marched up stairways and under arches, gesturing grandly for the camera toward the architectural wonders of the ersatz Chichén Itzá and Ankor Wat. Goose bumps as big as gumballs rose on their arms and legs. No one seemed to mind.

  One brisk morning, he rode his bicycle down to the north end of the island, where a twelve-thousand-car parking lot had been graded over the muck. The projection was five folks per car. Imagine that, he speculated—sixty thousand people streaming onto the island in cars! Add the white ferries lurching over the bay at fifteen-minute intervals, stuffed to the rails with passengers, and the orange Key Route electric trains, marked “X” for “Exposition,” rolling over the Bay Bridge from the East Bay, depositing even more fairgoers onto the island. Why, there could be two hundred thousand people on opening day! His mind boggled at the number.

  On the way back, he saw chamber of commerce muckety-mucks, consulate dignitaries, army and navy brass, and foreign delegates being ushered over the island like royalty. In a small contingent huddled in front of a column at the electricity and communications building, he recognized Adolph Schuman. He circled back and pulled up outside the knot of men.

  Schuman turned as he approached. “Hello, Woodrow. Good to see you.”

  “Likewise. Haven’t met you since our poker game.”

  “When you skunked us?”

  Woodrow offered a modest smile. “The cards don’t lie.” He peered between the men’s pant legs. “Say, what’s going on here?” An artist in a beret and a white smock was dabbing paint onto the naked back of a brunette stunner who perched on the base of the column. She mugged for the camera, looking over her shoulder, hand on hip, crossed legs dangling.

  “Leland Clifford is painting the Tower of the Sun on Dorothy Drew’s back. Another publicity stunt the press won’t resist.”

  “Who’s Dorothy Drew?”

  “One of Sally Rand’s girls.”

  Woodrow shrugged. “You mean the fan dancer?”

  “The very one. She’s operating the girlie show in the Gayway. Rand has the women gussied up in cowboy hats, holsters placed in strategic spots, and boots. Apparently, that’s all. They cavort behind a glass wall, feeding lambs, sitting on donkeys, that sort of thing. She calls it the Nude Ranch.”

  Woodrow shook his head. “Not my kind of thing.”

  “Nor mine, but not all tastes run to European art and flowers. Vanderberg and his PR staff will do anything to entice visitors. I think the stakes are so high their brains are addled.”

  “I guess I’d better get myself over there before the island sinks under the weight of the masses.” Woodrow shuffled his feet, smoothing the brim of his hat between his fingers. “May I have a word with you”—he nodded to a landing farther down the steps—“in private?”

  “By all means,” Schuman answered.

  They eased away from the group, walked to the landing, and stood side by side.

  Woodrow swallowed repeatedly. Adolph crossed his arms and waited, peering out over the bay as if he were waiting for a Clipper to drop out of the sky and land at their feet.

  Finally, Woodrow cleared his throat. “Have you seen Lily lately?”

  “Can’t say I have. Why?”

  “I’m afraid I insulted her.”

  “How is that?”

  “When we saw her at Forbidden City, it was quite a shock.”

  “You mean a white woman with a Japanese man?”

  Woodrow flushed in anger. “I’ve traveled all over the world, lived and worked alongside men and women of every stripe and color. The color of one’s skin has nothing to do with integrity. I’m not a racist.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “When Lily came into the club with Okamura, you caught my eye.”

  An icy emotion hardened Adolph’s expression. “And?”

  “You looked at me like you seemed to know something that I didn’t know. As if you were warning me off.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “
Is that so?” Woodrow asked, holding Schuman’s gaze. “Then my error.”

  “Sounds like you have a romantic interest in the woman.”

  “Don’t take me for a fool, Adolph. She’s a friend. I’m a realist. I know my limitations.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry. Lily can take care of herself.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Woodrow said. He tripped down the stairs, jumped onto his bicycle, and sped away.

  BY THE TIME Woodrow zoomed onto the grounds of the Gayway, he was sweating profusely and still hopping mad. “That son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “The suave businessman and humanitarian shows his true colors. If it kills me, I’ll find out what he knows.”

  When his vision cleared, he found himself in the midway, flanked on either side by false-fronted buildings. Other than workmen hammering nails into stages that hovered off the ground next to the buildings’ facades, the midway was deserted. It was like waking up in the middle of a movie set before the director called, “Action!”

  He propped his bike against one of the starburst light poles and wandered toward an establishment that stated simply DOUGHNUTS. As he drew closer, a delicious, sugary aroma rose on the wind. On tiptoe, he peeked in the window. No one appeared. Perhaps the bakers are testing their skills over ovens, getting ready for opening day, he thought.

  Signs on other buildings advertised an array of temptations. In front of an attraction called Stella, he read how, for fifteen cents, a visitor could peek at a painting of a nude woman who appeared to breathe. At Ripley’s Believe It or Not, photographs showed a man about to drive an eight-inch spike into his head with a hammer and a woman poised to swallow neon glass tubes. A movie promised nudists playing volleyball. Woodrow shook his head at such foolishness. He could only imagine what the other wonders of these emporiums had up their sleeves or down their throats. No doubt women would be sawed in half, monkeys would drive race cars, and King Kong would beat his chest. Incubator Babies and Palace of Monsters turned his stomach. The puerile taste of man knows no bounds, he thought.

  Farther down the midway, a towering neon sign, two stories high, read SALLY RAND’S NUDE RANCH. Farther yet, two Ferris wheels side by side were etched against the sky. Nearby, a giant crane stood ready to welcome passengers into pods that hung from its Y-beam and would spin them to oblivion.

  Here indeed stretched Forty Acres of Fun—a carnival fairyland for starry-eyed innocents, a playground for raunchy pleasuremongers, an amusement park for thrill seekers. Toss in a little sugar to rot teeth and grease to churn stomachs, and you could spend day and night here. If the front of the island was highbrow, the back of the island was pure lowbrow. Woodrow envisioned mothers covering their children’s eyes, hurrying them along before they spotted a heaving bosom or a naked cowgirl, and teenage boys stealing their older brothers’ IDs to sneak into the nudie shows.

  Just then, from a distance, he noticed the tallest man he had ever seen step from around a corner. He looked as if he had been hewn from a slab of granite. When he saw Woodrow, the man’s eyes, sunken under a heavy brow, lit up. The giant seemed friendly indeed, but Woodrow wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter, even with a giant. What a pair we’d make, he thought. Two ends of the spectrum. The giant raised his hand in greeting. Woodrow turned to leave, but he could see that for every six steps he took, the man would easily overtake him with one stride. Woodrow held his ground.

  “Name’s Rosy,” the giant called. He was coatless, pink skin flushed with good health, hair Brylcreemed to his huge skull.

  “How do you do? I’m Woodrow.”

  “You with the miniature Western village?”

  “No! That is an abomination.”

  The giant’s uncomprehending eyes starred down at Woodrow like headlamps.

  “One hundred dwarfs in cowboy outfits reenacting pioneer days. No thank you.”

  “You mean the midgets? What’s wrong with that?”

  Woodrow turned on his heel and walked away as fast as he could.

  Rosy stuck to his side. “What, then? You in a freak show?”

  “No, my good man—not that, either.”

  “You talk like some educated man.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

  The giant halted, as if weighing his options. “I was right. You’re important for sure. I’ll be keeping a lookout for you.” He shouted to Woodrow’s departing figure, “See you around, Boss!”

  AS WOODROW PUTTERED down Commonwealth, passing the parade grounds in front of the federal building, devoted to housing exhibits that showcased government in action, he saw a figure signaling to him at the edge of the lake in front of the immense, forty-eight-column structure. What now? he thought. He stepped on the brakes and straddled the seat, squinting toward a man walking toward him along a path. As the figure drew closer, he saw Timothy Pflueger, who hailed, “Come on over!”

  A sudden inspiration matched his realization that escape was impossible. Woodrow wheeled the bike toward Pflueger and stopped at his feet.

  “My friend, haven’t seen you in an age. What do you think of this achievement? I’m damn proud to see it finished.”

  Woodrow nodded enthusiastically. The building was like Pflueger the man: upright, civic-minded, bred for success.

  “When do you sleep? I have the impression you bunk here on the island.”

  Pflueger chortled. “No, a preposterous idea.”

  “You still live in the Mission district?”

  “That’s true. I live in the house where I grew up. Wouldn’t trade it for a penthouse on Nob Hill. Everyone knows everyone else. A community all to itself.”

  “It sounds ideal for a busy man like you.”

  “When you’re ready, I’ll show you around the neighborhood. Salt-of-the-earth types, blue-collar and hardworking.

  “I understand you know Lily’s family?”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “She told me when I took her home after the ball at the St. Francis.”

  Pflueger rubbed his hand over the pale stubble on his chin. “I feel pretty bad about that, poking my nose into her business.”

  Woodrow kept silent, watching Pflueger.

  “I was being friendly, telling her about my aunt who remembers her as a child, and how my aunt knew her mother.”

  “So I heard.”

  “I had no idea she believed her mother had died.” Pflueger shook his head. “Lily comes from a rough breed. Let’s say I wouldn’t call her father if the pipes burst in our house and flooded the basement.”

  “Her mother?”

  “Apparently she was a beauty in her day. Then she packed up and left. Now rumors circulate like flies on pie.”

  “What rumors?”

  “After the poker game at Hotaling’s, we passed by the International Settlement on our way to Forbidden City.”

  “I remember.”

  “It’s rumored she’s there. Singing for her supper. She calls herself Sweet Sadie.”

  WOODROW PAUSED ON the one-block stretch of Pacific Avenue that ran from Montgomery Street and ended at Kearny. The arched sign, INTERNATIONAL SETTLEMENT, straddled the thoroughfare. Its lights blazed into the night sky. The buildings sported stucco facades and gleaming windows. Nightclubs and restaurants lined both sides of the street. Patrons wandered up and down the avenue like tourists slumming on the wrong side of town.

  Woodrow had no idea where to start, so he picked the first club closest to him, the Pago Pago. He walked through the swinging door into the dark interior of a seedy Polynesian setting. A tiki bar ran one length of the long room, and tables surrounded a small dance floor. A few couples sat at tables. They eyed him curiously. Billie Holiday’s voice crooned “Strange Fruit” from the jukebox.

  He hopped up onto a barstool. The bartender, thin as a blade, peered down from the far end of the bar, where he was polishing glasses. He tossed the cloth over his shoulder and walked toward Woodrow. Slapping down a flimsy cocktail napkin that portrayed a
Tahitian dancer in a grass skirt, he asked, “What’ll you have, mate?”

  Woodrow fingered the napkin. “What’s the specialty of the house?”

  The bartender looked bored. A fringe of hair lined his bald head. “Mai tai.”

  “I’ll have that.”

  When the bartender set down the pale yellow concoction, Woodrow lifted the glass and took a sip. The rum was weak, the pineapple juice thick and sweet. “Kind of quiet tonight,” he said.

  The bartender stared at Woodrow. “It’s Tuesday. What do you expect?”

  “My expectations may surprise you.”

  “I’ve heard it all.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  The bartender leaned back on his heels and lit a cigarette.

  “A woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties. A singer by trade. Goes by the name Sweet Sadie.”

  The bartender removed a flake of tobacco from his tongue and took a drag of the cigarette. “Tell you what, mate—some of the clubs up and down this street play live music, some don’t. But whether they do or not, singers don’t last past their prime.”

  “You don’t know her?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Woodrow removed a roll of bills from his coat pocket. He peeled off a fin and slid it onto the bar.

  The bartender rolled the bill into a thin column and stuck it behind his ear. “Try Spider Kelly’s. Down the block on the other side of the street.”

  “Appreciate it,” Woodrow said, pocketing his bills and hoisting himself off the seat.

  “Watch yourself. Strangers asking questions are suspect. Especially ones like you.”

  Out on the avenue, fog had coated the sidewalk like oil. Woodrow walked under the striped awning of the Sahara Sands. The marquee advertised Edy Rich, Bobby Dee, and Noel Terry. The names meant nothing to him. He passed by the Arabian Nights cocktail lounge, the Gay ’N Frisky club, House of Pisco, and the Moulin Rouge. A neon sign of a cancan dancer’s leg hung above the door.