1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  A few minutes later, Rolf's assistant chef—a German named Hans or Franz—and two helpers emerged from the mansion and loaded wicker baskets and iced champagne buckets into Rolf's Phaeton. They climbed in and motored off with Tommy at the wheel.

  As soon as they were out of sight, a slender white hand raised the embroidered green velvet shade in Rolf's study.

  Too impatient for the elevator, I hurried down the iron stairway, wove through the Fairmont lobby and out onto Mason Street.

  I slowed my gait to avoid being crushed between two furniture delivery wagons and crossed Mason to the circular cobblestone driveway near the sprawling garage of the Rolf mansion.

  As I shuffled up the granite steps to the servant's entrance, the rear door opened in front of me.

  I stepped inside and slammed the door behind me. "You alone, Pierre?"

  "I can't do this, Annalisa. Mr. Rolf will kill me. He'll have Tommy and Shanghai Kelly's goons take me out and torture me. Oh, God."

  Pierre was thin, hawk-nosed, and effeminate. A limp soufflé set him aquiver. The thought of crossing Adam Rolf had him tipping toward hysteria.

  I slapped an envelope against his chest and left him thumbing the stack of fifty-dollar notes as I entered the massive, chandeliered hallway, and trudged past the gleaming suits of armor and leaden Renaissance paintings offering joyless Annunciations and desultory Resurrections, my heart pounding so intensely I thought it would break through my ribs.

  I stepped into Rolf's office, which as was in vogue, appeared to be more stuffed than decorated. Ivory tusks, zebra-skin chairs, Napoleon's pearl inlaid writing table and credenza, Egyptian tapestries, chintz draperies, ubiquitous civic awards and proclamations, enormous Ming vases, and a collection of Dutch paintings so grim they could swallow the light from a forest fire.

  I found the imposing brass and steel Diebold safe amidst the posh debris, tucked between rows of leather-bound law books.

  Pierre entered behind me. "Did you hear what I said, Annalisa? I can't do this."

  "Where are the numbers?"

  "Before you get the numbers, I get my pictures."

  I handed him a pack of photographs, taken clandestinely by an employee in a homosexual brothel who had been bribed by Byron Fallon. Each one depicted Pierre with opium-glazed City Works Director Walter Berman, San Francisco's premier voice for evangelical purity.

  Pierre examined the set of four and gasped out loud.

  "The numbers, Pierre, give me the numbers."

  "I'll do it." He produced a slip of paper, his hand shaking so badly he could barely grasp the dial.

  I snatched the paper from his hand and shoved him from the light. "Oh, God, they are going to kill me, they're going to rip me to shreds."

  "We're just borrowing it, Pierre. He won't even know it’s missing."

  I turned the numbers until the tumbler clicked in place. A twist of the nickel handle and the massive door swung open. I extracted a red accounting ledger, marked the spot where it had stood with a slip of paper, and stuffed the thick volume into my shoulder bag. I closed the massive door and carefully spun the dial back to the number on which I had found it.

  I ignored Pierre's whimpering, slipped out the back door and walked down steep California Street, where I hopped aboard the Powell Street cable car, frightened and jubilant.

  Chapter 7

  NORTH BEACH

  APRIL 15, 1906. 12:40 P.M.

  By the time I settled into the dummy car for its tortoise-like journey toward Chinatown, Hunter Fallon was leaving Central Fire Station. He had just concluded a meeting with Fire Chief Sullivan, who had related the details of the morning's contentious meeting with Boss Rolf and Mayor Schmitz – a key source for this account.

  Hunter crossed Broadway, leaving behind the foul smells and garishness of the Barbary Coast for the bakeries and bohemian charm of North Beach. He reached Digli's Luncheonette—the thick black exhaust driving off passersby—and chained the motorcycle to a lamppost.

  His father exited Digli's to join him, waving his hand to ward off the lingering stench. They strolled calmly past the colorful delicatessens and coffee shops, all closed for the Sabbath.

  "I just saw Chief Sullivan. You know what he said, dad? Mayor Schmitz and Adam Rolf laughed in his face when he showed them our report on the water system. You ever read Lincoln Steffens? It used to be Emperors and Popes dictating people's lives, now it's Big Business and dirty politicians and political bosses like Rolf. A round of applause for the forward march of Democracy. How long can they keep doing this, lining their pockets and ignoring the fire chief?"

  "Until the place burns to the ground or somebody throws them in jail. Now hush, I have more immediate things to worry about."

  Hunter's silence lasted four or five paces. "They can't pay for a supplemental water system or rebuild the cisterns because they spent it all on that monstrosity they call City Hall. This is like the Boss Tweed building, that New York courthouse with eighty-thousand-dollar windows and fifteen-hundred-dollar dust brooms. Our boodlers spent eight-million dollars for a building that was supposed to cost a million. You know how many times this city has burned to the ground? Six. Six, that's how many. Because they keep stealing all the money that should go toward saving the place."

  Byron was quickly reacquainted with Hunter's proclivity for asking and answering his own questions, scarcely drawing a breath between. "You have to slow down, Hunter. You drive a church-going man to drink. Save it for when I'm done doing what I'm doing."

  "What are you doing, dad?"

  "How many pictures can you take?"

  Hunter patted the black leather satchel slung over his shoulder. "These Hawkeyes are as smart as anything. You just slide a roll of film in the back and shoot. Not like the old stuff that had to be loaded one by one. And the emulsion's fast, you can use a quicker shutter speed, you don't have to hold so steady."

  Byron stared at Hunter until he relented.

  "A dozen rolls, a dozen frames a roll. A hundred and forty-four frames. What are we shooting?"

  "A book, handwritten. Now, I had a man lined up to do this work but he took ill. Tell me you can do this, Hunter, I have no time to waste."

  "If I can get enough light. Handwriting gets a little thin in spots." Hunter finally resigned himself to silence. This time it lasted almost a dozen steps. "Since I don't have a gun, maybe I should have brought my typewriter. I could bash them with it if something goes wrong."

  "Your marksmanship skills are well noted, son. A man is not a turkey or a wild boar. When you prove to me you know when not to use it, you'll get one."

  While father and son debated whether the coming Socialist Revolution or a return to Catholic values was panacea for society's ills, I jumped off the cable car a few blocks away and headed through Chinatown.

  Throngs of women in silk pajamas and rocker shoes, men in black skullcaps and braided hip-length queues picked through bins of vegetables, writhing eels, sea slugs, and lotus root. Scarcely anyone stopped to examine the Occidental woman passing through their midst.

  I slowed at the alley named Virtue and Harmony, fixing the frightful sight of a fawn-eyed "Daughter of Joy," perhaps eleven, hawking her sexual wares, her nose pressed between the barred windows of a heavy wooden door. Through the door on the right, another girl climbed on a wooden crate to expose her bare buttocks and pubis.

  I wanted to yell out the Cantonese phrases I had learned on rescue efforts with Dolly Cameron: "freedom is here," "your suffering is over," "we have come to give you a home with food, where no one will hurt you." Phrases we had repeated scores of times in the sanctuary of the Presbyterian Mission just five blocks away.

  "Vi torniamo presto." We return for you soon, I uttered softly.

  The crowds had thinned dramatically since the morning church rush. I crossed Broadway, a half block from the old jail, and slowed to a cautious pace until I reached Molinari's Italian Grocery on Montgomery.

  I stopped at the front door and knocked
soundly. Gino Molinari, a rotund Genovese, stepped from behind the door, startling me. He quickly re-locked the deadbolt and lowered the tan shade.

  From beneath the awning of a bakery across the street, Byron watched me enter, waiting for a full minute to see if someone were following. He slid his .32 caliber derringer into the pocket of his son's leather jacket, an act that heightened Hunter's already eager attention.

  "Be careful with that thing, Hunter, and don't say a blessed word unless it's 'duck,' you understand me? Now, just walk slow, keep your eyes open, a nice friendly father and son reunion, understood?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Good. You're learning."

  They stepped onto the cobblestone surface of Montgomery, their feet deftly avoiding piles of fresh manure. The warm spring sun had begun to bake the ubiquitous equine offerings, blending it with the aroma of half-burned gasoline.

  "You go in the front door, Hunter; I'll meet you inside. If anyone tries to force their way in, which I doubt, I give you permission to shoot them. Make sure that person is not me or your Uncle Gino or the young lady who just entered. And if you ask me one more question before the sun goes down, I'll fire you and take your badge away."

  "You wouldn't do that, would you?"

  While Byron turned up Vallejo Street, Hunter walked to the front door, knocked, and was permitted entry by Gino.

  Once inside, he breathed in the damp air, scented with buffalo mozzarella and provolone and sharp cheddar, Genovese salami, thyme, marjoram, and tarragon tied up in bunches and hanging along the back wall in front of the canned peas and carrots and strained tomatoes. Crates of fresh broccoli, cauliflower, and brussel sprouts from the winter crop of the San Joaquin Valley crammed the sawdust floor. He realized he was home.

  He followed Gino into the back room, where a chopping block lay covered in crisp white butcher paper.

  Byron made his way up the alley behind the store and knocked briskly on the heavy wooden door that led to the basement.

  I quickly unbolted it, handing Byron an oil lantern. I followed him back through a dank brick passageway lined with wooden barrels guarded by gleaming-eyed felines smug in their rodent-hunting skills.

  "Where's Rolf?" Byron asked me.

  "He's at the Opera House. They just took lunch over to them, right on the dot, like Tommy told you. Rolf’s been meeting there all week with his cronies. A smart cover. It looks like they are just dropping in to watch rehearsals."

  "He must suspect someone is on to him. I hope you were careful, Annalisa."

  I handed Byron a thick sheaf of papers covered in brown leather and bound with a black silk cord. "I typed up everything, all my notes, sixteen months' worth. Over a hundred pages: dates, times, locations. Who said what to whom. Everything I overheard from Rolf and his drunken friends and their drunken wives, with my signed affidavits for all of it. Just like Mr. Feeney requested."

  Byron thumbed quickly through the pages, checking dates. "This should make quite a story, Annalisa," he said.

  "I've already written quite a bit of it. I think I'll call it the 'The Champagne Confessionals."

  "I'll get you a photograph of Rolf and Schmitz in wrist manacles for the cover. I think we'll pinch them up Wednesday morning, after Caruso's opening night, when they've been up all night guzzling champagne and telling each other how wonderful they are."

  "Get them in their tuxedos," I said, managing a smile. "The latest fashion statement; top hats and iron bracelets."

  I pulled the red leather accounting ledger loose from my bag and handed it over. "The twisted dealings of Adam Rolf. In his own hand. I paged through on the cable car. The dates and figures match my notes perfectly."

  "Hunter's upstairs. Perhaps you should wait here."

  My heart leapt unexpectedly. "He's the photographer?"

  "He joined the force, much to my displeasure. That may change first thing in the morning."

  "I would like to see him."

  Byron hesitated, and then took my arm and led me up the steep, dusty steps to the storeroom.

  As we squeezed through a leather curtain separating the stairs from the storage room, Hunter looked up, easing his hand out from his pocket. "Good, son. You didn't shoot your Lieutenant. Always a good sign." Byron stepped aside and ushered me into the room.

  In the stark light of the bare overhead bulb, Hunter looked at me, his brow furrowing in a struggle for recognition. Even in the garish light, I was struck by his chiseled appearance, the deep, intelligent eyes. His was a disarming presence. I realized that through the letters his father had shared, and my conversations with Byron, I knew much about Hunter. He knew nothing of me, as his father had carefully shielded my work from all but two men: Byron's nephew, Francis Fagen—The Brotherhood's co-leader—and Prosecutor Charles Feeney.

  "What's the matter, son, you don't recognize Annalisa?"

  Even then he struggled. "Annalisa? Annalisa Passarelli? Not that skinny little girl who used to come into mom's spaghetti shop?"

  I smiled self-consciously, embarrassed at the reference.

  "The one who is now doing the opera and theater column in the Bulletin?"

  "That's a good guess, son, now step to it. We have to get Annalisa out of here as fast as possible."

  Hunter's stare lingered a second before he reached into a large leather bag to remove a collapsible tripod. It was hand-fashioned from what appeared to be the legs of old oak crutches and small brass window hinges. He quickly set the camera atop and began focusing.

  "I need more light."

  He spotted an old bureau mirror in the corner, dusted and placed it carefully on the edge of the chopping block to reflect the light of the single Edison bulb.

  Byron utilized the short delay to page through the ledger. Under "Accounts Receivable" he found "PT&T," for Pacific State Telephone and Telegraph, with a monthly retainer of $12,000 from "T. H.," Theodore Halsey, their General Agent. From PT&T's rival, Home Telephone Company, payments totaling $125,000. United Railroads, $200,000. Under Pacific Gas & Electric, several payments including one for $35,000 two days before city supervisors voted a large increase in county rates.

  Payments from Tessie Wall, the city's premier madam, were listed at $5,000 per month. Jerome Bassity, proprietor of several posh brothels, including an establishment where mask-wearing society women were reportedly serviced by handsome young men, showed a $5,000 monthly retainer as well. Under Parkside Real Estate, developers of the Sunset and Richmond Districts bordering Golden Gate Park, were bribes amounting to $400,000. There were payoffs from boxing promoters, ferry boat operators, and City Hall maintenance contractors.

  I thought Byron would swallow his moustache at the page listing Bay Cities Water, rivals of the Spring Valley system, with a payment to Rolf of $1,000,000.

  In the section marked "Accounts Payable" were hundreds of payments to Police Chief Jessie Donen, Mayor Eugene Schmitz, and members of the Board of Supervisors, funneled through Rolf's head lackey, Board President James L. Gallagher.

  But it was the final entry, dated for two days later, Tuesday, April 17, that produced the greatest start yet. Next to the name "Payton," as in Senator Payton, was a $100,000 payoff.

  Byron placed the book down on the butcher paper, securing it with two weights. "Do you need me to change pages for you, Hunter?"

  "No, dad, I can do it faster myself."

  Byron pulled me into the storage area so that Hunter could work unfettered. I took out a fountain pen and asked Byron to recount the day's events from the moment he arose. The imminent arrests of Rolf and Schmitz and their minions would be of great significance, not just in San Francisco. I was determined to write a full account, including as much personal detail as Byron would permit.

  When Hunter finished, we returned to the storage room.

  "All right," Byron said, "we have to move. Hunter, you go back to the house and start developing the film. All your equipment and supplies are in the cellar near the wine barrels. I'll escort Annalisa to retur
n the ledger."

  "I'm not sure that's the best plan, dad," Hunter said. "I think it might be better if I took Annalisa to Adam Rolf’s house so she can tuck this back in his safe. I doubt anyone will recognize me after all the years I've been gone. We'll be two young people on an outing."

  Rolf’s name had not been mentioned, nor had it appeared anywhere in the ledger. Byron and I were speechless. Hunter was not.

  "Judging by the musty, metallic smell of this book, plus the indentations where it was crammed in a shelf, this thing had to come from someone's safe. Since there were probably only five men in San Francisco who could muster graft of this scope, and Stanford, Huntington, Crocker, and Hopkins are all dead, this has to be Adam Rolf’s ledger."

  He fought off a self-assured grin, a wise decision given the mounting consternation of his father.

  "The word 'retainer' appeared on several pages. Adam Rolf is the only lawyer among the bunch. It's obvious he's claiming all these bribes as legal fees. I read Annalisa's column periodically. She has obviously been using her access to Rolf’s opera box to do more than report on diamonds and divas."

  I was not sure whether to laugh or weep. A plan we had carefully concocted over many long, hard months had been deduced by Hunter in minutes.

  "If everything were ready," Hunter added, less cocksure, "I could have these photos developed in an hour."

  Minutes later, after a stern admonition from his father not to speak a word of our efforts to anyone, Hunter and I boarded the Powell Street cable car for the return to Nob Hill. We moved to the back of the dummy car, where the rumble of wheels and clanking of the underground cable helped mask our conversation from two well-dressed couples seated near the grip car.

  Hunter leaned close, smiling, almost flirtatious. "He's going to arrest Adam Rolf tonight, isn't he? It’s perfect. Rolf will never expect it on Easter Sunday. Who else is he pinching up?"

  I took his arm and leaned in close, smiling as though we were courting. "Whatever your father wants to tell you, he will tell you. I tend to follow his instructions. That's how I made it this far."