1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  A bead of sweat trickled from Schmitz' fan-shaped cowlick to his salt-and-pepper goatee. "If everything is just fine, Adam, then what the hell are Feeney and Fremont Older and General Funston doing here?"

  Hunter and Christian closed the heavy doors and took their seats with Elizabeth, little Byron, and Katie. Elizabeth clutched Christian's arm and wept.

  The rest of The Brotherhood sat directly behind them. Francis Fagen squirmed in his seat between his wife Eleanor and his brother Patrick.

  Next to them, the mother of the Rinaldi brothers, Cecilia Rinaldi, dabbed tears as Max and Carlo wrapped their arms around her, all the while fuming at the officers across the aisle.

  The organ music ceased and a hush fell over mourners and antagonists alike.

  Father Peter Yorke ascended the pulpit and gazed down at the open coffin of Byron Fallon. He bristled at the sight of his lifelong friend.

  "We have come to bury another good man," his voice echoed off the adobe walls and through the nave. "As fine a man as ever walked a city street. A man who gave his life to protect the most innocent among us. A man who earned nothing but scorn and deceit from those who should have stood beside him. His blood is on the hands of those who turned their backs, those who violated the covenant of duty and Divine Word to line their filthy pockets."

  He looked at The Brotherhood, his warriors, and then cast a mournful eye upon the other side. He cleared his straining voice. "Words will not honor him. Honor is a gift a man bestows upon himself. It is for his cowardly opponents we should pray. If Christ were here to walk among us, he would be seated on the side of Byron Fallon. If we do not end the wickedness that recognizes no value to human life, God's wrath will rain. If we do not drive out this evil that preys on helpless children and honest working men, God himself will intervene and the fire that descends from Heaven will be most swift and terrible."

  As the assembly joined Father Yorke in a hymn, Rolf and Schmitz walked to the back of the church, preparing to traverse the center aisle to the pulpit.

  Christian jumped from his seat and rushed along the opposite aisle to intercept them.

  "What are you gentlemen doing?" Christian asked.

  "As Mayor, I was preparing to say a few words in tribute to your father."

  "I don't think that's such a good idea," Christian said as Hunter arrived.

  Chief Donen joined them. "What seems to be the problem here, lads?"

  "Officer Fallon here is challenging the Mayor's right to perform his civic duties," Rolf replied.

  "Really? And why is that now?" Donen asked.

  "I'm probably going to Hell as it is," Christian answered. "Stomping the Mayor in front of a churchful of people would just about clinch it." Schmitz sulked off like a wounded adolescent.

  "What a shame a man of your pluck earns what, twenty-eight dollars a week?" Rolf said, enjoying the confrontation. "Especially given the hazards inherent to the job."

  "Tell me something, Mr. Rolf," Christian asked, leaning close, "how many more nine-year-old girls will it take before you feel like a man?"

  Donen inserted himself between Rolf and Christian, straining to manage his long-simmering hatred. "A man who gets his dander up so easy can be a real danger on the street, Officer Fallon. Your next shift you and the rest of your lads report to me for jail duty. I'll see you get your minds right."

  The chief stormed off behind Rolf.

  "Felix Gamboa says 'hello," Hunter called out. "I saw him out on Angel Island."

  Donen spun around, his face turning crimson.

  "He looked surprised," Hunter added, "like he couldn't figure why everybody double-crossed him."

  Donen's bluster cracked. His lip quivered and a fury spread across his face. He tried to answer but failed. Rolf seized the Chief's arm and pulled him to the street.

  "Nice work," Christian said. "Now they have to try something really dumb and desperate."

  "I just wanted to see their faces. Donen and Rolf were both in on it, sure as we're standing here. Now it's man to man, Christian. Just the way you like it."

  "Then we better get dad in the ground before the lead starts flying," Christian said. The brothers clapped each other on the back, a look of determination in their eyes.

  An hour later, a procession of a dozen horse-drawn carriages clopped over the cobblestone pathways of Lone Mountain Cemetery, on the edge of Golden Gate Park.

  In the lead carriage behind their father's hearse, Hunter's eyes drifted to the downtown skyscrapers, imposing against a crystal blue sky. His memories came in staccato bursts: squeezing his mother's hand as they rode the elevator to the tenth floor of the Chronicle building, the first skyscraper in the West; running home to report his sighting of the City's first automobile; straddling Byron's and Isabella's shoulders as Mayor Phelan threw the switch that fired the City's first electric lights the length of Market Street.

  At the cemetery, Hunter stood numbly over his father's grave as tears flowed from nearly all fifty of the mourners.

  "Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto," Father Yorke recited over the grave as Max, Carlo, Francis, and Patrick lowered the coffin.

  Hunter raised a handful of dirt and let it dribble from his fist; it rumbled off the coffin's surface. He then turned and stumbled toward the carriages.

  When almost all of the attendees had left, save for The Brotherhood and a handful of stragglers, Hunter raised his eyes to find Chief Sullivan standing before him. "I'm so sorry, Hunter. We're all so very sorry."

  Christian arrived and shook hands with Sullivan as two somber men joined them.

  "Hunter, Christian," Sullivan said, "this is Fremont Older, editor of the Bulletin. He's the man who started this graft hunt, who got the backing of the President. And this is Mr. Charles Feeney, the Special Federal Prosecutor sent by President Roosevelt himself to put Rolf and Schmitz and their cronies behind bars."

  "I'm sorry to have to ask these things at a time like this," Feeney stated quietly, "but time is not an ally right now." He looked at Hunter.

  "Chief Sullivan says you believe your father's death was not an accident."

  "A military convict named Felix Gamboa did the killing. His bloody finger and palm prints are all over the launch. Kelly's lieutenant, Scarface, brought him to the boat and helped Gamboa get ready. His fingerprints are there as well."

  "Max Gamboa?" Feeney asked. "His name came up in a case about a month after I got here. He's in Alcatraz."

  "Chief Donen signed him out three days ago. His body is lying in the bushes over on Angel Island. Whoever put the bullets in Gamboa stole the evidence he took from my father."

  "My Lord, the Chief of Police, conspiring to kill his Chief Detective," Older replied. "Father Yorke is right. God will intervene if we don't fix this, and quick."

  Francis, Patrick, Max, and Carlo joined the group, fanning out around Hunter and Christian.

  "Gamboa and Scarface are Shanghai Kelly's men," Christian offered, his voice thick and pained. "Kelly would never kill my father unless Rolf ordered it."

  "Which presents us a real problem," Feeney sighed. "Fingerprints are not enough to convict any of them, even if we get them admitted into evidence. We need to catch Kelly passing the papers to Rolf, exchanging money. I better cable for Secret Service officers to assist us. President Roosevelt is fighting a war against graft, and he won't sit still for the murder of a police officer, I promise you."

  "There's no time for that," Francis interrupted. "If Kelly has those papers, he's going to milk Rolf for all he can get. Rolf is in no place to bargain. He'll pay and get on with it before this gets out of hand."

  "This is delicate work," Feeney said. "No offense to any of you. I have never seen braver men, but we need a seasoned detective, like your father."

  "There's no time," Hunter blurted. "It will be over before your reinforcements get on the train. Last night, Scarface would have killed my father's informant if I hadn't stopped him. You want evidence, I'll get you evidence. I know I'm the lo
w man here. But I have an idea on how to get them all."

  "I'm sorry, Hunter," Fremont Older intoned, "but I gave my word to the President that this investigation would be handled by experienced men. I know you're a brilliant engineering student, but this is out of your realm."

  "He can do it," Christian added. "If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't even know my father was murdered."

  "My brother Francis here," Patrick added, "he turned down promotion to the detective bureau twice. He can run this as well as any man. We'll finish this for the Lieutenant if it kills every one of us."

  "And you all support Hunter in this?" Older asked. "You believe his methods will work?"

  "We do, sir," Francis responded. "Right now there is no one else."

  "I should be chastised for even thinking this," Feeney said. "All right. Be smart and move fast. I'll sign the warrants the minute you bring me something. We were planning to arrest them all on Wednesday, the eighteenth. That may be all the time we have. Prosecuting them won't be easy. We could use a witness, someone who heard Rolf and Kelly arrange the murder, and we need those papers so we can connect them both to the crime."

  "Christian," Sullivan added. "You sure you and the others are all behind Hunter on this? If there is any reservation or dissension, let's hear it now. Let's not compound sorrow with failure."

  "He figured it out while the rest of us were napping, sir. He can do it." One by one the rest of The Brotherhood, even Max, nodded their consent.

  "All right, Francis, you'll be the lead officer. I have the authority to appoint you special investigator," Feeney said. "Hunter will lead the evidence gathering. This isn't just a corruption probe anymore. This is murder of a police officer. They'll be digging in with a fury, so Godspeed to all of you."

  Sullivan, Feeney, and Older walked away solemnly, leaving The Brotherhood on the windy hilltop overlooking Byron Fallon's grave.

  "All right," Francis said, "the Lieutenant is watching over us. We close ranks, do this right. What happened is over. Understood?"

  The group nodded.

  "Good. Then let's get on with it."

  The funeral party left Lone Mountain.

  In the lead carriage, the weight of his father's death bore down on Hunter. Byron's lifelong dream had disintegrated into terror and desperation, with neither of his disobedient sons to help him. Hunter's tears fell, spotting his black trousers as the carriage wobbled down Fulton Street.

  Across from Hunter, a grim Christian tried to comfort his weeping wife and children.

  The carriage had just passed Fillmore Street when a patrolman spotted them and motioned frantically. Christian yelled for the driver to stop and jumped from the carriage, Hunter on his heels.

  "What is it, Franz?" Christian demanded.

  "Shanghai Kelly. Just got word on the call box he's throwing a party down on the Barbary Coast. Standing drinks for everyone."

  "What's the occasion?" Christian asked.

  "He's celebrating your father's death."

  "Is he? Hunter, tell the driver to move the families to one carriage, you and me will ride with The Brotherhood. A party like that is worth attendin'."

  Chapter 33

  BARBARY COAST

  APRIL 17, 1906. 11:00 A.M.

  In his cluttered office behind his saloon, Shanghai Kelly yelled into the telephone, trying to be heard over the din of revelers outside. "What do you want me to tell ya'? I ain' got 'em. I got my best men looking but I ain't heard nothin' yet."

  "Well, the dogs are nipping at our heels," Rolf shouted on the other end. "Fallon's sons found Gamboa's body out on Angel Island and connected him to Chief Donen. I want those papers, Kelly. And I better not find out you're working me again." He slammed the receiver into the cradle. Kelly's bartender, Charlie Katevas, a hulking Greek with a face like a broken dinner plate, stuck his head inside the office. "You got little problem, Boss."

  "And what might that be?"

  "Christian Fallon is outside, he is scream your name."

  "Then let's not keep the young man waitin'."

  Kelly shoved his way through the crowded bar and swaggered out into the sunlight.

  A phalanx of five hundred whores, thugs, and gamblers lined Battery Street, swaying from Kelly's rot-gut bourbon. They cheered wildly when he raised his arms. Kelly laughed. His bartenders would later slip laudanum into the booze and deliver enough bodies to fill every ship left crewless by the crackdown of The Brotherhood.

  Kelly sauntered to the middle of the crowded street, where Christian stood with Hunter and The Brotherhood, all still dressed in mourning suits.

  "Ahh, the bloody gang's all here." Kelly yelled. "Now, what seems to be the problem, Officer Fallon?"

  "I hear you're celebrating my father's death," Christian shouted.

  "S'matter of fact, we are. We're imbibin' a little Pisco Punch and some good cheap somethin' that might be bourbon, then again, it might not. We was figurin' on taking the trolley out to dance on his dirty grave a little later. Don't recall any city ordinance against it."

  Hunter looked uneasily at Max. "What the Hell is he doing? We have more important business than this."

  "Let 'em get away with this so no cop is safe down here?" Max asked. "Just keep smiling, Hunter. They see a trickle of sweat and you're a dead man. Keep your hand on your revolver and your eyes wide open and you might learn something."

  Christian took a step closer to Kelly and stretched his arms out to the side, playing to the crowd.

  "Ah, but there is an ordinance against it, Shanghai."

  "And which one might that be, sonny?"

  "The one I'm about to tattoo across the face of the biggest motherless whore on the Barbary Coast."

  The crowd convulsed with howls and laughter. Kelly's mustache inched upward into a defiant smirk. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, raised it above his head and gave it a crisp snap.

  "You a sportin' man, Officer Fallon?"

  "I'm a sportin' man, Miss Kelly."

  In an instant, gamblers began to circulate through the crowd, soliciting bets.

  Christian walked to The Brotherhood, peeled off his jacket and vest and handed them to his brother. "If you were smart, Hunter, you'd get a bet down. Judging by the fact Kelly's got thirty pounds on me, you should get three to two for your money."

  "This is crazy, Christian. We have other needs besides making a circus down here."

  "What we need is to restore the natural order of things," Christian replied.

  "Who you doing this for, dad or yourself?"

  For the first time since Byron's disappearance, Christian managed to look Hunter in the eye. "I'm sorry for what I did. I'll go to my grave sorry."

  "Then let me fight him. I'm his size, you're not."

  Christian clapped his brother gently on the head. "You gotta stop trying to save everybody, Hunter. This is my way, not yours. One in the family is enough."

  Christian peeled off his shirt and laid it atop his jacket. He flexed his knuckles, thick from years pounding the weighted bag. His rock-hard torso offered a road map of close calls; a scar on his bicep where a bullet had passed, a jagged scar where an ice pick had nicked a kidney, another on his clavicle from an encounter with an anchor chain.

  Hunter looked over at Shanghai Kelly, also now stripped to the waist, baring the chest and shoulders of a blacksmith and a stomach like a stack of cordwood.

  "What a fine day this is," Kelly bellowed. "Byron Fallon sleeps with the worms and me, a simple son of Belfast, has the honor to put a lacin' on his bastard son."

  Christian smiled and stretched his arms overhead. "Keep talking, Kelly. The more you talk, the worse the beating I'm going to give you."

  "Do we have a bet here, Officer Fallon? Shall we say a hundred? Maybe two?"

  "Let's make it five."

  "A lot of money for a flat foot cop. Will you be payin' when it's over?"

  "I'll be paying my condolences to your next of kin."

  The crowd roared, circling th
e combatants in a forty-foot human ring.

  Christian started to raise his fists, changed his mind, and lowered them slowly. He leaned forward, pointing to his chin, offering Kelly the first blow.

  Kelly raised his ham hock fists and shuffled forward.

  Christian stood still, inching his chin closer.

  Kelly launched a vicious right at Christian's jaw, missing by a foot. The force spun him around, whereupon Christian kicked him squarely in the seat of his pants. The crowd gagged on its laughter.

  Kelly gritted his teeth, his face flushed, and squared up. Christian leaned his chin forward and another Kelly right found nothing but air. The crowd howled.

  "You come to fight like a man or dance like a damn sissy?" Kelly bellowed.

  Christian got up on his toes and danced a little jig, swinging his hips from side to side, rousing Kelly to fury. Then he launched an overhand right that caught Kelly flush on the mouth and sent him to the cobblestones.

  "I'll kill you, you little bastard, I'll kill you!"

  "This is no good," Hunter muttered to Francis.

  "Have some faith in your brother," Francis replied.

  Kelly scrambled to his feet and charged.

  Christian slowed him with a left jab and straightened him with a right uppercut, and then danced away.

  "I'll kill you and dump you in the box with your old man."

  "The more you talk, the worse the beating you get, remember?"

  Kelly circled deliberately, backing Christian toward the crowd. Kelly swung a roundhouse left and an overhand right, which Christian ducked. Kelly moved in again. He faked a roundhouse then lowered his head and charged.

  As Christian stepped backward to avoid the charge, he stumbled.