Blood and Oranges

by James O. Goldsborough

  He turned around to read the shiny brass plaque on the building chosen as the site for the message: Security Trust and Savings Bank.

  Hungry, he crossed to the Alexandria Hotel, bought a newspaper at the cigar stand and eased onto a counter stool in the coffee shop. “Going to change things big-time around here,” said the waitress when he asked about the aqueduct that was frontpage news that morning in the Times. “What can I get you?” Her nametag said Agnes.

  He was about to order his usual breakfast when he noticed a great pile of oranges in a basket behind her. Oranges, that’s what he thought of when he thought of Los Angeles, orange groves and palm trees, neither of which you could find in Salinas.

  “Orange juice, toast and coffee, please.”

  “Blood oranges.”

  “How’s that?”

  “From Pomona. Sweet and sour, just like L.A.” Agnes smiled. He smiled back.

  She squeezed and poured. The juice was red. “First time here?”

  “How’d you know?”

  She laughed. “Well, maybe the suitcase gave me a hint. And maybe that the train just came in. I expect you’re in land like everyone else coming to town.”

  Afterward, he sat in the shade of Central Park and read the paper. Already, he felt the city’s vitality flowing into him. That waitress thought I was in land, could see I knew land, he said to himself. The newspaper said the aqueduct had traversed Kern County, Antelope Valley and was at the San Gabriel Mountains, most of the two hundred miles to be covered. He bought more newspapers and maps and spent the night at the Alexandria, a fine hotel, they said, good as anything in San Francisco, maybe better since the earthquake. The next day he rented another Tin Lizzie and rattled his way up toward the Mojave Desert, following the maps, sweating through 100-degree temperatures.

  He stood on a hill above the town called Mojave and observed what they’d built, followed the caravans south on roads that barely existed toward the place called Lancaster, moving south toward the mountains, standing on hills and watching the action below as a general might observe his divisions. He stopped when he came to towns to check the car and learn whatever people knew about the army of workers oozing its way southward, inch by inch, day by day, mixing concrete, digging trenches, building tunnels and reservoirs, laying pipe, approaching the end of five years of work.

  Back in Los Angeles, he searched through records at the county courthouse. If everyone coming to town was in land, he had to get a jump. Nothing, he noticed, was said about the aqueduct’s final destination. Where would it enter Los Angeles? Over the mountains into Pasadena was the obvious route because it was the shortest, and Pasadena was where the people with big lawns lived. But the maps showed a second option, longer but requiring less tunneling. The aqueduct could turn west and skirt most of the San Gabriels at Saugus. That route led not into fertile Pasadena, but into the barren San Fernando Valley.

  Why did county records not show where the water entered the city? Even the Los Angeles Times, which had bought up Kern County land all along the route of the aqueduct, said nothing about the project’s final destination. But they had to know, someone had to know, and to know where the aqueduct entered was to know the future. Already a month in the city, he was hardly wiser than when he arrived. He’d met no one who could tell him what he needed to know. He had $107,650 in the bank and didn’t know what to do with it.

  Frustrated, tired of endless research, tired even of the grand Alexandria Hotel, he went down to breakfast one morning with no idea what to do next. Maybe it would be San Francisco after all. He bought his paper as usual and took breakfast as usual in the coffee shop, exchanging a few pleasantries with Agnes, who always made sure he got a juicy blood orange from Pomona to start. Afterward, he went out, crossed Fifth and stood where the voice had told him to think of the water.

  Security Trust and Savings Bank.

  He went in and asked to see the manager. The teller hesitated until he said the magic words: “I have a large deposit to make.” An elevator took him to the sixth floor and a corridor took him to the front, overlooking the Alexandria. He’d never been in a bank this size, but was not the least bit intimidated. Something about a big bank account that gives a man confidence, especially in a big bank. He was impressed that a mere bank manager should have such splendid surroundings until he saw the name on the door:

  J. F. Sartori, president, Security Trust and Savings

  “Mr. Sartori will see you shortly, sir. Do you have a card?”

  That’s something I’ll have to do, he thought.

  “None made up yet, Miss, new in town.”

  “Just write your name and address on this card, please.”

  If some people are born to the stage, some are born to banking, and Mr. J. F. Sartori was one of them. If Eddie was put off by the name while waiting—Italians are mostly fishermen in the north—a glance at the man dispelled any doubt. Everything about him, from fine tailoring, to manicured hands, to penetrating eyes and a slow, measured way of speaking said: “I am a banker and a very good one.” Ramrod straight, with a manly handshake, thinning gray hair, matching brush mustache and as sober a face as you will find on the chancel of any church, Joseph Francis Sartori was someone who made you want to give him your money.

  “How can we be of service, Mr. Mull?”

  Seated, Eddie explained—explained about Tesoro and Claus Spreckels and the $107,650, everything but the voice he’d heard outside the bank. He explained that he was deciding between San Francisco and Los Angeles as a new home for him and his brother, who was an ordained minister. He thought of saying an ordained Presbyterian minister, but it occurred to him that Joseph Francis Sartori probably was not Presbyterian.

  “What is your line of work, Mr. Mull?”

  “Land. I want to develop land.”

  Sartori pondered that for a moment. “There are certainly opportunities for land development in San Francisco. Have you been up there since the earthquake?”

  “Oh yes. Terrible devastation still.”

  “Of course, we have our own opportunities here. You’ve heard about the aqueduct, I’m sure. It’s probably what brought you to our city.”

  Eddie liked the phrase “our city,” liked the civic spirit, liked the way they were feeling each other out, liked that in a man. Never rush, take the other man’s measure, weigh your comments carefully. It had been the same with Claus Spreckels.

  “I sense there are opportunities here, yes sir, but it’s hard for a newcomer to get the feel for how things will, you know—turn out. Big risks involved.”

  With canny, penetrating dark eyes, the banker stared at him for some time. “Certainly,” he said at length, “we always want to minimize risk.” Silence again, then: “Am I to understand that if you had a better understanding of the land opportunities here that you would be ready to transfer your Salinas bank account in its entirety to us?”

  “I think that is very likely, yes, sir.”

  Sartori put his hands together in front, forming a steeple, looking down through them almost as if praying. It took some time for him to answer.

  “I can’t say that I have any inside information, Mr. Mull. But I think I can safely tell you that some of this bank’s most prominent clients seem to think that great prospects for development are to be found in the San Fernando Valley. We, of course, are here to help them in any way we can.”

  It was the moment for a smile, but Joe Sartori was not a smiler.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  With twenty-five thousand others, Eddie Mull was there on the great day, November 5, 1913, the day the sluices were thrown. Watching the huge wave shoot down the mountain bringing its snow water from the peaks of the Sierra Nevadas three hundred miles away, he was dazzled. He saw himself tall on his skis, schussing down that water mountain, spreading out over the land, unstoppable, just like the water. Where there’d been nothing
but dry and fallow land before, the city was ready to burst forth and prosper, just as he was. Willie still had his doubts, but Eddie had confidence enough for both of them.

  The Times ran a front-page editorial the next day:

  Go to the whole length and breadth of the San Fernando Valley these dry days. Shut your eyes and picture this same scene after a big river of water has been spread over every acre, after the whole expanse has been cut up into five-acre, and in some cases one-acre, plots—plots with a pretty cottage on each and with luxuriant fruit trees, shrubs and flowers in all the glory of perfect growth.

  The Times had always been in on it, part of the San Fernando Land and Water Syndicate that had been buying up huge swaths of the Valley, which back to the Spaniards had been empty and good for nothing. At statehood in 1850, the entire Valley—all two hundred square miles of it—had been given free of charge to a Spaniard, who went bankrupt over the years trying to raise sheep. A half century later, the land and water syndicate had taken over, buying up the best land, inviting others to join in the party.

  Neither the Times nor the syndicate could ever have imagined how many millions of people would follow the aqueduct to the Valley and spread out over the city. Thanks to the timely death of Eva Mull and with a little help from J. F. Sartori at Security Trust and Savings, Eddie and Willie Mull were there at the beginning.

  Chapter 3

  Mull Gardens was a little farther west in the Valley than Eddie would have liked, but the city’s growing trolley system, Pacific Electric, provided the link to downtown. People liked Mull Gardens because the homes were neat and modern and came fully furnished. You got off the train, found a job, maybe in the fledgling movie industry, bought a house and moved right in. Mull homes came with furniture, icebox, stove, everything down to linen and home delivery of milk and ice. Just make the down payment and bring your toothbrush.

  Willie wasn’t interested in the Valley, which had no churches because it had no people. He preferred to preach downtown, where the sinners were. While Eddie drove the Valley paths looking for the land that would become Mull Gardens, Willie explored the city, finally renting an ex-Baptist church off Wilshire, a former grocery store with a steeple. The owner would have sold, but Eddie refused to cosign for his brother. “A grocery on Wilshire is no better than a saloon on Turk Street,” he said. “We can do better.”

  For Willie, returning from China after Millie’s sad death had been traumatic. In San Francisco, he’d refused an assignment to the suburbs and left the Presbyterian Church, which had ordained him. He was an evangelist, a missionary, a healer, someone ready to hit the trails for Jesus, not a suburban preacher. He was also broke. He and little Calvin lived in the rear of a former saloon on Turk Street where the kegs were gone but not the smell. Beer cases covered in faded blue velvet made a preacher’s stand for sermons to the street people who dropped by, mostly for coffee and rolls. Mornings he walked Cal up Turk Street to an old woman who ran a crèche. Eddie paid the rent for him.

  Willie believed that Millie’s death had made him stronger. It seemed a cruel thing to say, so he said it only in his prayers. His young wife had been trained as a nurse, was afraid of nothing and ready to go with him anywhere. When Calvin was born she carried him strapped on her back in the Shanghai fashion. For the Chinese, Willie used everything he knew to spread the word of Jesus, things they didn’t teach at the seminary. He brought people to their feet shouting hallelujahs and hosannas, words they didn’t understand. He baptized and practiced the laying on of hands and healing. Exotic in their robes and pigtails, baggy pants and hobbled feet, parishioners were able to forget war and misery for a few hours and come to Jesus.

  In the fourth year, with xenophobia and revolution sweeping the country, his life fell apart. Calvin caught scarlet fever and nearly died. Millie died in his arms from the cholera. How could he bring Jesus to the Chinese when he was so wretched himself? He found a pretty young amah to care for Calvin. Chun hua moved in with them and into his bed. As civil war reached Shanghai, the church ordered him home. He obtained papers for Chun hua, and they were two days from embarking when her brothers came, pummeling the pastor and taking the sobbing girl. In those terrible days, father and son clung to each other as never before. Not until they were onboard ship and moving down the Whangpoo did Willie believe the nightmare was over.

  At first, the former grocery off Wilshire didn’t have many clients. Los Angeles was still a city of Protestant transplants used to granite and ivy, cassocks and scripture, things that weren’t Willie’s style. He called it the Church of the New Gospel and had a glass case built outside to advertise the name. People come to Los Angeles for a new life, so I’ll give them a new church, he said. Who wants fire and brimstone in a sunny place like this? People need to be lifted by Jesus’ message, not frightened by it.

  Word got around. The Reverend Willie Mull had the dark good looks of a movie star, a beautiful, rich voice and was filled with the Holy Spirit. He replaced the Baptists’ battered upright with an organ and the gray-haired piano teacher in chignon with a pretty young music student from USC. With doors thrown open Sunday mornings, hosannas and hallelujahs sounded from Beverly Hills downtown to Bunker Hill. Willie called his congregation Soldiers for God, and the first hymn sung before every service was “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  He accepted his gift as God-given. In Shanghai he had baptized them, prayed with them, touched and consoled them. He healed them. By the time he reached Los Angeles he’d become an original, blending natural gifts with his own arduous personal journey. He knew what the people wanted before they knew it themselves. He was friendly and informal, though people understood his powers. He called himself Rev. Willie, never William, which was too stuffy, too Presbyterian.

  It was the healing that first brought attention from the newspapers. Not all those coming to sunshine city were healthy young people looking to make a new start. Some were sick and some were old and some were lame and when they heard of the little church off Wilshire where you could be born again and healed by a vigorous young preacher whose little boy sat near the pretty pianist every Sunday, they came to see for themselves. When Willie stood over them, touching heads, calling out to Jesus and inviting them to throw away their crutches and walk down the aisle to embrace Jesus, some of them tried and some of them succeeded. The newspapers were skeptical. So were the mainstream churches.

  One of those who was reborn, though in truth he had never been christened, was a man of indeterminate age who showed up one Sunday and never stopped coming, always in the same suit, which needed pressing, the same boots, which needed polishing and the same hat, which needed brushing. When Willie stood on the porch afterward shaking hands, this congregant, bald as a stone and with a great drooping mustache, always said “fine sermon, Reverend,” and moved on along. Willie, who sought to know all his Soldiers, found him a curiosity, someone who would have fit in better in his saloon-church on Turk Street than in the leafy suburbs off Wilshire. He would gladly have visited with him, but the man never lingered. Clearly of modest means, he never put anything in the plate.

  Willie didn’t even know the man’s name. It was Eddie who told him: “You’re talking about Henry Callender,” he said one day, to his brother’s great surprise.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  They said the aqueduct would bring water enough for a city of one million people, and it didn’t take long. The trains from the East were full. Soon there was a Ford Model T plant, Goodyear and Firestone tire plants, even an aircraft company called Glenn T. Martin. The new movie industry liked the weather and moved out from New York to the place called Hollywood. Houses went up so fast companies bragged they could build a house, start to finish, in two weeks. The chamber of commerce sent out glitzy brochures around the country luring people to “life in sunshine city.” Macadam was laid and a sign hung out reading: “Welcome to L.A.’s Newest Community.”

  Eddie met Number Seven at
a beauty contest in Ocean Park. A rising real estate figure thanks to Mull Gardens, he was asked to help pick Miss Ocean Park, a contest held each summer on Lick Pier, between Venice and Santa Monica. Fellow judges were men of similar prominence—a lawyer from a famous firm, a Crocker banker, a Pacific Electric executive, a Doheny oil man, a vice president of Coulter’s Department Store.

  He couldn’t say for sure why he settled on Number Seven. She wasn’t the prettiest, but was a bountiful girl with a sassy look that appealed to him. She had an easy way of talking to the mayor of Santa Monica, the host, that contrasted with the stylized method of girls trying too hard to be discovered. Incomprehensibly to him, Number Seven didn’t even make the top three. The winners were whisked away to pose while the also-rans were left alone under the umbrellas by the lemonade and cotton candy stands.

  It wasn’t that Eddie had no experience with women. He’d gotten away from Tesoro sometimes and had his experiences. As a fishing town, Monterey was full of professionals who knew how to keep sailors happy, but they were not for Eddie. It also had its semipros, girls eking out livings working the shops and canneries and not averse to occasional evening activity. Eddie had liked one or two of them over the years, but it was his bad luck never to find a Monterey girl he wanted to marry.

  At Ocean Park, the girls who weren’t whisked away stood around drinking lemonade, putting on brave faces and looking slightly embarrassed in high heels and tight bathing suits. Slowly they drifted off—all but Number Seven, who stood alone, smoking a cigarette. Eddie stood off a while watching her, thinking she looked a little sad. She must have clothes somewhere, he thought. Not that she would necessarily want them in the heat, but she couldn’t go far from the beach in heels and a bathing suit. Maybe she needed a lift.

  “Sorry, I thought you were the best,” he said, coming up and ordering two lemonades. “I voted for you.” Her smooth skin glistened in the heat, and he was aroused.