Beautiful Illusion_A Novel

by Christie Nelson

  Despite their flashy names, all the clubs had the faded air of high times gone sour. Then he saw Spider Kelly’s. He stopped outside before going in and read a poster behind a glass enclosure: EPICURES AND CONNOISSEURS OF GOOD THINGS IN LIFE SAY THAT AN HOUR SPENT IN SPIDER’S IS A SURE CURE FOR THE TIRED FEELING AND WILL REMOVE TO OBLIVION ALL FORMS OF MELANCHOLY. ALL RACES WELCOME! Another poster featured a picture of Spider Kelly and the caption YOU COME TO SPAR WITH SPIDER KELLY?

  He wrapped his hand on the rusted door handle and pushed. Inside, he was surprised to see a cavernous saloon with a large dance floor. Tables ringed the floor, and men and women two deep crowded up to the bar. Woodrow paused before deciding to take a seat at one of the tables. He surveyed the room. Here and there, couples nursed drinks and single patrons sat in corners or along the wall. No one paid him any attention, and no one came to take his order.

  He decided to approach the bar and walked over the floor. “Pardon me. May I get through?” No one moved. He spoke more loudly: “What does it take to get a drink around here?”

  Two gents turned and peered down at him. A skinny gent elbowed a burly one, who wore a thick coat and work boots. “Ain’t no half-pints in this joint.” He laughed. “Right, Mick?”

  “You got that right. But where are our manners? Maybe we ought to offer the little guy a seat.”

  Woodrow held up his hand. “No need,” he said. “I can fend for myself. Just came in for a friendly drink.”

  “Is that so? Well, where’s the other half of you?”

  The crowd turned toward the ruckus. A woman yelled, “Leave the midget alone.”

  “Yeah, send him my way,” another woman shouted. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Laughter erupted; catcalls rang out.

  The burly gent shouted, “She wants him! She gets him!” He reached down, grabbed Woodrow by the lapels, and lifted him off the floor. Woodrow kicked his legs, thrashing and twisting. Suddenly, the man’s mouth slackened and his eyes widened. The room went dead quiet.

  “Put him down,” Woodrow heard. He craned his neck.

  “Hey, Boss,” the giant said. “Nice to see you.”

  A bottle sailed over their heads and crashed. Woodrow’s feet hit the floor. He scrambled on his hands and knees through pant legs and thick-soled work boots.

  Fists flew, screams pierced the air, bodies scuffled, and the giant took on each contender, flattening them with a punch or a shove. “Get out of here, Boss!” he yelled.

  Woodrow made a dash for the door. In the corner, a woman lifted her head off the table. Just before he could escape, her sunken eyes bore into him. It wasn’t until he was safely down the block, out on Montgomery Street, struggling for breath, that her ashen face came back to him with such force that he stumbled. Sadie, he thought. That was Sadie.

  “HEY, BOSS, WAIT up!” Rosy’s voice rang out, echoing off desolate walk-ups wedged between brick warehouses.

  Woodrow swung around. Rosy lumbered toward him, arms swinging, catching up in jig time. He rubbed his swollen knuckles and sported a red gash on his cheek.

  “Keep walking,” Rosy said. “Those lug heads may be on my trail. Say, what’s the big idea of showing up in a rat hole like Spider Kelly’s?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “But I asked you first, Boss.”

  “It’s a long story,” Woodrow said, trotting alongside Rosy’s long-legged strides, trying to keep up.

  “Well, I got time.” The sidewalks were deserted except for shadowed figures that hurried past them, hats pulled down, collars up, coattails flapping. “Turn here,” Rosy ordered.

  “Where’re we going?” Woodrow squinted up at a sign that read GOLD STREET.

  “My place. It’s up here.”

  Woodrow stopped. “Your place?” The dark alley was narrow. Low-slung buildings abutted one another. A light standard at the far end cast a halo onto the wet pavement. A rat scurried off the curb and disappeared down into a sewer grate.

  “Yeah, this is my neighborhood. How’d you think I found you, anyway?”

  Woodrow shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “You look a little done in.” Rosy’s deep-set eyes radiated concern. “Come on. I’ll make coffee, get you back on your feet.”

  Woodrow hesitated. He’d rappelled into caves, clamored over snake-infested ruins, and floated down rivers on pontoons, paddling away from alligators. But this? he wondered. I must be deranged.

  “You coming or not?” Rosy asked.

  Woodrow glanced back over his shoulder. No one was in sight. A few automobiles rumbled along, headlights flaring, red taillights disappearing. When he looked up, Rosy was striding up the alley. Woodrow hurried behind, hopping puddles and avoiding bits of suspicious flotsam.

  Halfway up, Rosy stopped in front of a low, one-story building. Woodrow waited. Flecks of green paint peeled off the brick. Rosy slipped a key into the lock of an iron-gated door. The door creaked open. “Home sweet home,” he said, ducking under the header. He flicked on a switch. A bare lightbulb hung from the plaster ceiling on a chain. “Welcome,” he announced, with a sweep of his hand. “It ain’t much, but it’s all mine.”

  Woodrow stepped in, and Rosy locked the door. “Have a seat,” he said. “I’ve got to clean up.”

  Woodrow scrambled up onto a chair, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and rearranged his shirt collar and jacket. The room was barren save two wooden chairs, a square table, and a single, neatly made bed against one wall. Black grates covered a high, narrow window. The worn wood floor was swept clean.

  Rosie came out of the bathroom and stepped up to a white porcelain stove. “Boss, I hope you like your coffee camp-style.”

  “I do.”

  “Use the facilities if you like.” Rosy pulled a tin of Hills Brothers coffee off a shelf and shook grounds into a pot.

  “No, thanks. Maybe later.”

  At the sink, Rosy cranked on the faucet and doused the grounds with water. Switching on a burner at the stove, he set the pot over the flame and took a chair opposite Woodrow. “Okay, now tell me why a gentleman like you is prowling around the wrong side of town.”

  “First, I haven’t thanked you. You saved my life. I’m grateful.”

  “Ain’t nothing, Boss. I was passing by and figured there was a disturbance. Sometimes I’m a bouncer, so it wasn’t no big deal.”

  “A bouncer? I thought you worked in a sideshow.”

  The scent of coffee bubbled from the stovetop. Rosy leaped up and grabbed two chipped mugs, splashing coffee into them. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I work the docks. A little bit of everything. Keeps it interesting.” He set the mugs down on the table. “Speaking of interesting, I heard you’re one of those guys who work down in Mexico, digging up treasure.”

  “How’d you find that out?” Woodrow sipped the oily, bitter brew, scalding his tongue.

  “I inquired. You’re a big shot on TI.” Rosy tapped his temple with his finger. “But not too smart on the other side of the tracks.”

  Woodrow shook his head. “I shouldn’t have gone in there, but I did. You see, I’m looking for someone.”

  “Ain’t we all?” Rosy slurped his coffee.

  “No . . . I mean, yes.”

  “Let me guess. A dame, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I knew it.” Rosy banged the table; it trembled on its spindly legs. “There’s always a dame.”

  Woodrow hopped off the chair and started pacing. “Not in my case.”

  “Didn’t mean to offend, Boss. You’re a good-looking guy. A little small, but so what?”

  “The point is, I came here tonight looking for a woman. She may go by the name of Sweet Sadie. The funny thing is, I think I saw her in the bar.”

  “What do you want with her?” Rosy scowled. His ears had turned bright red, framing his huge skull.

  “You know her?”

  “She’s in the rough trade.”

  “What?” The question bur
st from his mouth before he could check it; he was well aware of the answer.

  Rosy went to the stove and poured more coffee into the cups. “Sit down, Boss.”

  Woodrow slowly returned to his seat. “This is important. Otherwise, I wouldn’t ask these questions.”

  “This isn’t a pretty story.” He scratched his head and rubbed his hands together. “I knew Sadie way back when. What a voice she had. A real looker, too. Then she started using. That’s what happens to beautiful women who come to Tinseltown, hoping to make it big.”

  Woodrow shook his head uncomprehendingly.

  “They don’t get the breaks, they get older, and then they get hooked on Cadillac.”

  Woodrow’s mouth gaped. “Cadillac?”

  “Yeah, you know, heroin.”

  “Oh God,” Woodrow moaned, clutching his forehead. “This will crush Lily.”

  “So, I was right.”

  Woodrow looked up at Rosy through webbed fingers. “About what?”

  “Lily is the dame.”

  Woodrow waved aside his question mournfully. “Do you know where Sadie lives?”

  “Why?”

  “Can you take me to her?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. No, Boss, I can’t. Don’t ask.”

  “If you don’t help, who will?”

  “Aw, shit. Don’t put it like that.”

  “Then you will help.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lily

  Well, look who’s here,” Maxine said, standing over Lily, who was tangled in a black lace slip under a mound of covers in their bedroom. “A rare appearance.”

  Lily squinted up at her with one eye. “Don’t give me any baloney,” she moaned. “My dogs are killing me. Fiesta Week will be my downfall.” She flung the covers back and propped herself up on one elbow. “The opening of the Expo can’t come fast enough. I haven’t had a shower in days, and all my clothes are filthy. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Nine o’clock, Lois Lane.”

  “Oh, for Chrissakes, I’m late,” Lily said, hopping out of bed.

  “What’s wrong with you? Our fair city has turned itself into a shoot-’em-up Wild West town, and you’re complaining. You’re not keen on covering our menfolk growing beards and walking bow-legged, women donning fringed cowgirl skirts and vests and lassoing dogs, and kiddies wearing satin shirts and snapping pop guns?”

  Lily wobbled to a chair and scooped up her robe. “First I’m on Polk Street, where a merchant from Haight is staging a mock lynching of a shop owner; then I’m back to the financial district to catch Central Valley cowboys in Stetson hats who are riding down the middle of Montgomery Street, firing pistols; and then I beat feet down to Mission, which has morphed into the old Mission Trail. And this goes on day and night. Every citizen in every neighborhood thinks they’re in the cast of a Roy Rogers movie.”

  “You’re all wet. Dressing in costumes and getting drunk by noon is what saved us during the Depression. Retail sales are up twenty-two percent. We’re honoring our Spanish heritage. Wagon trains are thundering down from Sacramento, and folks from all over the country are riding the rails to catch the fun. We’ll leave New York in the dust!”

  “Yeah, well, be a pal and let me borrow your underwear. I’m headed to the bath.” Lily hot-footed out the door. “Get me a cup of coffee from the kitchen, and I’ll forget what a pain-in-the-neck dame you are.”

  BEDLAM REIGNED IN the Examiner newsroom. Royal upright typewriters clacked; bells rang as carriages hit the end of a line; reporters and editors bellowed, “Boy!” for the copy kid. Lily pounded away at her desk in the middle of the room in the midst of men with their shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, suspenders cinched tight, and cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. The smoke was as thick as fog lying over the Great Highway. Glossy editions of the paper rolled off the presses in the basement in a delirium of round-the-clock coverage proclaiming Fiesta Week fever and the countdown to the grand opening of the Exposition.

  Dudley leaned over her desk and stuck his nose in her coffee cup. “How can you drink this crap?”

  She didn’t look up. “Stubby makes it; I drink it. Unless you’ve got something better.”

  “Too soon for me, Nordby. But I’m happy to oblige.” He pulled a cap low over his eyes and winked. “The guys will let you pull a swallow. Gladys, too.”

  “Light me a cigarette and quit pestering me.”

  “Why aren’t you in one of those red fandango skirts? We could really cut a rug over at Sweets.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing a black sombrero?”

  “I got a great shot of Mayor Rossi in one of those monsters, decked out with silver braid and six guns strapped to his belt. Zoe Dell Lantis did backflips for the press the other day. Gee, she’s a swell kid.”

  “It’s the pirate hat and boots she wears that drive you crazy.”

  The phone on Lily’s desk jingled.

  Dudley saluted and stepped away. “See you at the Welcome Cavalcade Ball!”

  She picked up the phone. “Hello!” she shouted into the mouthpiece.

  “Lily, it’s me.”

  “Speak louder. I can’t hear you.”

  “It’s Woodrow.”

  “Who?”

  “Woodrow! I’ve been hoping to see you. I want to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “My outburst at Christmas.”

  “Oh, Woodrow, it was so long ago. Did you open my gift?”

  “Yes. The gloves fit perfectly. Just the thing for this weather.”

  “Good.” She pressed the phone to her ear so hard that the cartilage smarted. “Listen, I’ve got to go. It’s nuts here.”

  “Wait! When can I see you?”

  “I can barely hear you.”

  “It’s important!”

  “We’ll have to talk later. Bye!”

  Just then, Toth stormed into the newsroom, moving along the desks, clapping reporters on the back, and giving them thumbs-ups. He passed by Lily’s desk and tossed down a memo. “Parker Maddux is over at his bank in a mock holdup. You know who he is?”

  “President of Fiesta Week.”

  “Right. Get yourself over there. The tellers are holding him hostage with toy pistols. Right up your alley, kid.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lily said. “On the double.”

  ON THE LAST night of Fiesta Week before the Exposition opening, the directors staged an electronic marvel. They wanted to show the world that San Francisco was the city that knows how, as well as demonstrate that Pacific Basin architecture and unity had indeed been realized on a spit of mud in the middle of the bay.

  From Bombay, India, they worked with engineers to set up a photoelectric cell that would catch sunbeams precisely at noon—10:30 p.m. West Coast time—to transmit a radio signal across the vast Pacific. At that exact moment, the populace of San Francisco became the unexpected recipients of splendor.

  The radio signal flipped a switch at Treasure Island that turned on all the outdoor lights. The Exposition glowed like a jeweled kingdom, casting beams into the night sky. Then the heart-stopping clanging of the forty-four-bell carillon pealed from atop the Tower of the Sun, playing “The Bells of Treasure Island.”

  The percussive sound rushed in through the open doors and windows of the grand ballroom in the Mark Hopkins Hotel. The band members stopped playing Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine” and looked inquisitively at one another. Revelers on the outside of the dance floor forgot the jokes they were telling, and waiters who held champagne bottles cocked their ears.

  Bunny and Adolph Schuman paused midtwirl in the center of the dance floor. All around them, couples froze in place. Instantly, Adolph peered up at the chandeliers, from which sparkling crystal teardrops hung in shimmering stillness. “Thank God, it’s not an earthquake.”

  “The powers that be have been hinting about something grand that would happen tonight,” Bunny said. “This must be it. Let’s g
o up to the Sky Lounge.”

  Everyone had the same idea and rushed for the elevators, laughing and shouting and bursting through the doors into the Top of the Mark. Hurrying to the windows, which afforded a 360-degree view, they stared eastward, toward the heavenly sight of Treasure Island. The reverberation of the carillon faded, trembling over the rooftops.

  “They have really outdone themselves this time,” Bunny said, transfixed by the sight. Scanning the faces in the half-light, she said, “Lily must be here.”

  “I just saw her.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He shrugged off her question, and, taking her hand, el-bowed with her through the exuberant throng, exclaiming “hello” and “isn’t it wonderful” to friends and strangers alike, until they came up behind Lily, who was standing to one side of a group of people crowded around Timothy Pflueger, congratulating him on the opening.

  “Darling!” Bunny gushed. “Isn’t this spectacular?”

  Lily turned and embraced them both in turn. “How good to see you!”

  “Timothy’s star is shining once again.” Bunny nodded toward him. “He’s lapping up the praise like a cat over a bowl of cream. Rightfully so, but really, the man can be insufferable.”

  “Now, now,” Adolph, said, guiding them back to the windows. “This is a perfect night. Just look at Treasure Island. My God, we did it!”

  Once again, they swayed in unison toward the sight, captivated by the distant but mesmerizing sweep of lights that washed over the Exposition’s golden facades, sculpted arches, and enchanting gardens.

  “All these years of planning, finance, and building,” Adolph said. “Tomorrow is opening day!”

  Bunny smirked. “Leland Cutler is apoplectic that the island will sink under the weight of visitors.”

  “Between the multitudes and the threat of rain,” Adolph said, “he may come undone.”

  “Did you hear his radio message telling people to beware of traffic jams?” Lily asked. “He said to leave their cars at home, ride the ferries, and pack a bag lunch in case the concessions run out of food.”