The time for talk was over. Peter moved left, into the narrow kitchen, putting the countertop between himself and Oddjob.
“I count three, then shoot.”
Peter pulled out the coffee pot and said, “Want a cup?”
“Fuck the fuckin’—”
Peter gave him hot coffee, right in the face.
The guy bellowed and brought his hands to his eyes.
Peter fired the pot right after the coffee, right at the guy’s forehead, then he leaped for the front door.
But Oddjob grabbed him by the sleeve and spun him around.
Peter tore away and—oh, shit!—the front door was opening. Someone else!
LJ? Mary. The other Tongsters? Who ever it was, Peter didn’t want them stepping into this, so he slammed the door as it opened, flipped the dead bolt, and sprinted down the hallway. He got to the doors at the end: one to the bathroom, one to the back steps. He stopped. Which way? And Oddjob caught him with a vicious flat hand into a kidney.
The pain made stars explode in Peter’s head, and he hit the cold bathroom floor. Then a knee was dropping onto the middle of his back, pinning him to the tile.
This was no contest. Peter was a Boston brawler, who always ran if he could, up against a martial arts master who grabbed a fistful of Peter’s hair and pulled back so hard that Peter thought his neck might snap.
“Where’s fuckin’ Cutler and what are you doin’ here?”
Peter tried to mumble something while also reaching for something, anything—hair dryer, toilet brush, anything—to fight with.
Oddjob slapped his hand. “You talk or I put a bullet in your brain.” And with his free hand, he pulled another pistol from an ankle holster and jammed it against Peter’s temple.
Peter heard a pop. His neck vertebra? No. He could still feel hands and feet.
The guy released Peter’s hair, gurgled, and slumped over. His head struck the edge of the tub with a thwang that made the whole room vibrate.
A woman in a blue pantsuit was squared in the doorway, in perfect two-hand pistol-range stance. Her gun had a silencer, too. She looked at the thug, then her eyes shifted to Peter. “Why did you flip the goddamn dead bolt? I had to shoot the door open.”
Peter rolled, pushed Oddjob off, brought a hand to his neck.
She gave the thug a poke with the tip of her high heel. “Did he say anything?”
Peter recognized the woman who had been stalking him from the Mark Hopkins lobby. “You’re the one the concierge called Ms. Ryan.”
She ignored that. “Did he say anything?”
“About what?”
“About any goddamn thing? And in what language?”
“He spoke English.”
“Good English?”
“Like a TV weatherman.”
“That means they’re using local talent.”
Peter sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Now, who are you?”
“Your new best friend.” She disappeared down the hallway and returned a moment later with his other shoe. “Put this on and get the hell out of here.”
He asked it again. “Who are you?”
She pulled her wallet from her back pocket and flashed her identification. “Christine Ryan, FBI Special Agent.”
He looked at the picture, looked at her, and said, “FBI? What’s going on here?”
“Nothing good.” She crouched and looked at the thug more closely. “Don’t recognize him. At least he died in the bathroom. Easier to clean up.” The way that she looked—red hair and long legs—reminded Peter of an old girlfriend. The way she acted—all business and attitude—reminded him of his current girlfriend.
“My son and his—”
“We’re doing our best to keep them safe,” she said as she rifled the dead man’s pockets. “You, too. Just play your part.”
“My part? In what?” Peter sat on the toilet and put on his other loafer.
“What did our friend here say?”
“He was looking for Cutler. But he didn’t like it when I mentioned the Dai-lo.”
“That’s no surprise.” She went to the back door and pulled it open. “Up the stairs. Do as you’re told when you get up to the roof.”
“Can’t you help me out a little?”
“‘Need to know.’ And the less you know, the better. Just keep doing what you’re doing, playing the dad with the special skill helping his son.”
“What about Cutler?”
“He’s on his own. We can’t cover everybody.” She gestured with her gun up the back stairs. “Louis is waiting for you.”
Peter did as he was told. He had no other options. At least he had both shoes.
On the roof, an Asian guy in a Giants cap called from a fire escape four roofs away.
Peter climbed out and glanced toward Mason Street, just as a black SUV was stopping, and two big guys were bursting out, but the hoodies on the corner were scattering.
The guy in the cap said, “That’s us, trying to clean this up. Come on.”
So Peter went. Across one roof, two, three, finally to the fire escape next to the Cable Car Museum. He asked for the guy’s ID.
Mr. Giants Cap flipped open his wallet: Agent Louis Lee. “Call me Louie.”
“All right, Louie”—Peter climbed onto the fire escape—“you got any answers?”
“Miss Redhead is the answer lady. I’m all about the legwork.”
Louie led Peter down to the alley. “I’m going one way, you’re going the other.”
“Then what?”
“Then get back to helping your son. You help him. He helps us. We all help the American people.”
“The American people?” said Peter.
“That’s our constituency.” Louie started up the alley.
“Hey,” said Peter.
“Yeah?”
“Tell your boss we made her in the Mark Hopkins lobby. We made you, too, at the airport and at the cable stop on California and in Hunan Garden last night.”
“That’s great, but I wasn’t at the cable stop.”
* * *
MANION STURGIS WOULD HIT on her.
Evangeline was sure of it. As the Robinson R44 Raven rotored in and touched down in the Alcatraz exercise yard, her expectation became anticipation.
This was a lot more than a vineyard tour. This was over-the-top chick charming. A helicopter ride, a sit-down between rival brothers, brokered by the chick in question, a sampling of some of the finest Cabernets in California. And a great story.
Manion Sturgis hopped out into the swirl of dust and helped her aboard, then he jumped in right after her, gestured to her seat belt, and gave her a headset.
The ground guy, an NPS Ranger holding his stiff brim with one hand, gave the thumbs-up, and the helo rose over that dank hive of concrete, the ruins of the legendary prison that now drew tourists and Hollywood location managers like acolytes to a shrine.
Manion bragged that he had some “juice” with the NPS. He also admitted to promising an article by Evangeline Carrington, the famous travel writer, about how well the NPS ran the San Francisco Bay Marine Park, if they’d just let him land.
And now the helo was airborne.
Manion clicked on his microphone and said, “Can you hear me?”
She gave a thumbs-up. She could feel the rotors thumping through the seat and right up her spine. Outside, the blue of the bay was widening and brightening. She had to admit that she liked the excitement. She liked Manion, too. Always had. And here he was, doing something he said he’d never do, just to make her happy. He was going to see his brother. She decided that she’d be disappointed if he didn’t hit on her.
He introduced the pilot, mostly ball cap, shades, and headset. “Enjoy the flight, ma’am. If there’s anything special to see, I’ll point it out. We should be in Napa in about thirty-five minutes.” Click.
Manion said, “If you want to talk to him, just press that button on your armrest.” He reached across her body and showed her.
She did not pull back. There wasn’t room. And she liked him. She liked the air about him. She liked his confidence and ambition and the speech he had made the day before. And maybe she was just a free market capitalist when it came to love. Competition made everyone better.
But she was too old for little brush-and-flutters—a man “accidentally” brushes across your breasts and you get all fluttery—so she said, “I know how it works. I’ve been in helicopters before.”
“I’ll bet you’ve never flown up the Napa Valley before.”
The helo angled north, with the magnificent bridges bracketing them. “We’ll follow 101 for a while toward Sonoma, then cut over to Napa.”
“Like flying from Burgundy to Bordeaux,” she said.
Manion nodded, “From the cool climate of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir to the heat of Cabernet and all its cousins. But I still grow the best Zinfandel.”
Twenty minutes later, they were passing over Domaine Chandon in Yountville, and across the road, the restaurant called The French Laundry, or as Evangeline had once written, “a Bay Area shrine to the pilgrims of the palate.”
Manion pointed it out. “Do you remember our meal?”
“How could I forget? Fantastic.”
“I was trying to impress you. Meeting you after twenty-five years … that was the best part of our Harvard reunion. I was thrilled when you said you’d come out and visit.”
“I was working. The Laundry was expensed.”
“Ah, yes. Too pricey even for me.” He patted her on the knee.
The pilot clicked on and said, “Opus One coming up on the right.”
They saw the long allée leading up to the big house, and the glorious fields of grapes that one day would become Cabernet Sauvignon for a c-note a bottle.
He said, “Happy memories … a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, a bottle of ’07.”
“Maybe the best bottle of wine I ever had,” she said.
“Too expensive. Not like my Zins. Wines for the people.”
“Can I quote you?”
“I sure hope so.” And he squeezed her hand.
She did not pull it away, but she did not squeeze back.
He said, “For the first time since our first wine competition, I’m nervous.”
Oh, God, she thought, he’s acting vulnerable.
“I wouldn’t be doing this for anyone else,” he said. “Really.”
That was bullshit, made all the more bullish in that she was hearing it through the little speakers in her headset.
But he kept squeezing her hand. “I want to thank you for getting us together.”
And she thought, Now what?
* * *
PETER NEEDED TO PROCESS what had just happened. He needed a shot of something strong and some coffee, too. And there was a place where he could get both in one cup. So he jumped on the Powell Street cable car at Jackson and headed for the waterfront. From what he could tell, no one followed him.
He got a seat on the outside and texted Evangeline. “Careful. Things heating up.”
She texted back, “Tell me about it.”
What? “Danger everywhere. Even in LJ’s apartment. Not sure who friends are.”
She repeated: “Tell me about it.”
What did she mean by that? He decided he would worry later.
He texted LJ: “Jack Cutler in your apartment? FBI, too? WTF?”
Answer: “Keep doing what you’re doing. Really AM in L.A. Remember, tonight, NPS Maritime Visitor Center. Cocktails and food. Appearances to keep up.”
Peter jumped off in the waterfront park at the end of the line and bounded across to the Buena Vista. He ordered an Irish coffee at the bar where they claimed they invented it, then took a stool and watched it materialize: bartender pours hot water into shaped glass, warms glass, discards water, follows with sugar cube, generous shot of Tullamore Dew, coffee, then heavy cream poured over back of a spoon so it spreads and floats. The first sip—the cool cream, the hot coffee, the sweet whiskey—calmed him like a Sinatra torch song.
He wished that he’d skipped his son’s apartment and started his day here instead, with eggs Benedict to accompany the Irish coffee.
He thought about a second, which would leave him feeling like he could handle anything. In his younger days, he sometimes drank too much, took pride in “going on a bender” once in a while to prove how tough—or how Irish—he was. But not now. What he wanted now was a clear head. So one Irish coffee, then hail a cab for the next stop, to keep doing what he was doing.
* * *
THE CALIFORNIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY had once occupied the Whittier Mansion in Pacific Heights. But real estate had grown so valuable up there that they sold and moved down to Mission Street, where they repurposed the old Merchants Exchange Building—gutted it, rehabbed it, quake-proofed it, and installed a climate-controlled storage area to protect the treasures.
Peter preferred the mansion. He liked the Oriental carpets and the Victorian flourishes. He liked the big tables and the high windows in the reading room. He liked the librarian who invited him to come back the next time he was in “the City,” as if there was no other. He liked the civilized, old-school San Francisco tradition.
But the new building screamed “San Francisco,” too, an evolution of today from yesterday, of cool from utilitarian. It looked like one of those celebrated Painted Ladies, two stories, with puce-colored blocks offsetting gray stone trim, big windows showing off new books and trumpeting new exhibits. Inside, it was all modern—shiny floors, glassed gallery spaces, big reception area. A docent directed Peter to the rear, into …
… a perfect rare-book room: steady 68 degrees, low humidity, windowless but well lit, though not too bright, so as not to overexpose delicate materials, a librarian’s desk with clear sight lines, and on every worktable, little receptacles of sharpened pencils because, as in all rare book rooms, no pens allowed.
But what about other sharp objects, like matte knives or scissors? Stories of thefts in rare book libraries abounded, from Boston to Yale to the far shores of the Pacific. How easy would it be to lift something from the California Historical Society?
The room was empty but for a librarian at her computer. A slow day. She finished typing, then came over. Horn-rims: all-business. Name tag: MEG MILLER. Discreet Ph.d tattoo on the inside of her wrist: show-off.
Peter said, “Dr. Miller, I presume.”
“What? Oh.” She looked at the wrist and pulled down the sleeve of the black cashmere sweater, perfectly matched to the black of the horn rims.
He was hoping for a laugh, but it was a lame joke.
She gave him a level look. “How can I help you.”
He played it straight. “I’m a dealer in rare books and documents. I’m purchasing some Gold Rush materials. So I’d like to familiarize myself with the collection—”
“Like what, in particular?”
“I’m just getting started.”
And from the look she gave him, she was just getting annoyed.
He said, “I’ve read J. S. Holliday’s book—”
“Rush for Riches.”
He really had. He had even sold a few in his catalogue. “I love the image on the cover. It comes from a daguerreotype—”
“Group of Miners. We have it. What else?”
He couldn’t think of anything, so he leaned his elbow on the counter and said, “When I go to a restaurant, sometimes I trust the server’s judgment about the menu.”
“There’s no daily special at the historical society, sir.”
“How about a recent acquisition, then? Something that amazed you.”
She gave him a longer look, as if she was intrigued, and told him to fill out a card. When she saw his name, she looked up with eyes wide behind the horn rims. “Peter Fallon? The Peter Fallon?”
He could not tell if she was angry or impressed or both. He tried to recall an auction where he outbid the California Historical Society. Nothing. So he said, “T
hat’s me. Cofounder and owner of Fallon Antiquaria.”
She extended her hand. “I read your catalogue all the time. I love the essays on your offerings. You write like a historian.”
So, he had found a friend. He said, “My doctorate is in history.”
“Mine, too. Along with a degree in library science. And you just made the best request I ever heard. ‘Something that amazed me.’ Wait here.”
Peter took a seat at the reading table and looked around. If there were cameras, he didn’t see them. But given that Ms. Miller called in her assistant—name tag: KIM HALLY—it was clear that they were always monitoring the reading room. Best practices.
He nodded. Kim Hally smiled and looked at her computer screen, even though her job was to watch him from the corner of her eye.
Meg Miller returned shortly with two archival boxes.
The first contained the original daguerreotype of Group of Miners, one of the most famous Gold Rush images: nine men, five seated, four standing, and all leaping from the plate. The first clumsy photographic process produced pictures that, in the original, were as three-dimensional as holograms. Peter moved his head, and it was as if their eyes followed him.
They looked cocky and confident. One balanced a shovel like a walking stick. Another cradled a Bible as if to proclaim that no matter how much trouble they got into, a mighty fortress was their God. One wore a neckerchief and held his chin just so. Another wore a kepi with a leather brim and glared, challenging you to insult him. And the center was held by an older man with a fringe of chin whiskers, a placket-fronted shirt, and the weathered confidence of one who had seen it all. Those last three reminded Peter of Spencer, Flynn, and Cletis Smith. And seeing those faces drew him a little closer to them.
Then, item two: a long ledger.
Meg Miller set it down on a foam backing, to prop it up, and opened in.
“This was recently discovered in a private collection. The Sacramento Death Registry for 1850.”
It was the very definition of a primary source, research on the most granular level: the names of the dead, with ages, places of birth, causes of death. Early in the year, many things carried away the Gold Rushers, like pneumonia, scurvy, gunshots, gangrene. But as the year went on, more and more seemed to be dying from diarrhea or other bowel complaints. And by fall, those deaths had coalesced around a single cause: cholera.
Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush Page 33
