A Race to Splendor (41 page)

Amelia leaned her head against the wall behind her bed and closed her eyes. The day had barely begun and she already felt exhausted from her mental gymnastics. She should just face facts, she told herself. Lust and too much champagne had been the potent combination that propelled J.D. Thayer to take her to bed that amazing night. She’d been sorely mistaken to think, even for an instant, that it meant much more.

Mistaken and a damnable fool.

She was no swooning female and she cursed herself on this cold, dank morning for acting like one. She was an architect who had made her way in a man’s world and that was what mattered in the end.

Galvanized by the need to complete a few important details prior to the Bay View’s grand opening Thursday, she rummaged in the trunk at the foot of her bed, looking for a clean pair of men’s trousers. She dug down past several soiled garments until her hand rested on the pants Angus had returned to her in a bundle tied with string. More than once Amelia had avoided donning this particular pair among a collection she’d used as part of her work gear. The mere sight of the expensive black wool that her father had worn on the night of the quake raised too many painful memories.

Today, however—her last as the supervisor on the hotel site—it seemed almost fitting she should wear Henry Bradshaw’s dress trousers in his honor. She swiftly buttoned the fastenings, used a belt to adjust the waist, and rolled each pant leg several times until her boot tips showed. As she often did lately, she didn’t bother to wear a skirt over them, but strode into the chilly kitchen to make the coffee while everyone else still slept. Until J.D. rose for the day, the only thing she had immediate control over, she concluded, was work.

A mug of coffee warming her hand, she wandered outside into the characteristically cool July morn, strolling down the new slate path toward the gardens. It struck her that, by next week, she would be without her regular stipend from her current employer. Sooner, rather than later, she would have to set about getting another commission to keep up with her obligations. Perhaps Julia, in her current frame of mind, would be willing to refer some business her way for projects she didn’t want or have the time to take on. Amelia clung to whatever shred of hope she could find this foggy morn.

At this early hour, more cable cars filed out of the car barn, their clanging bells a blatant signal along Jackson Street that the neighborhood would soon greet the day.

Amelia gazed at the new hotel that rose above her head, wrapped in a gauzy veil of mist bound to burn off by noon. Her eyes roved from window to window while she critically surveyed the series of arching terra-cotta mullions, graceful eyebrows that gave the three-story facade its elegance and solid appearance. The slate roof bestowed an even statelier mien on the building, as did the statuary that dotted the grounds. That week, a story in the
Call
with James Hopper’s byline had blared:

A
GRAND
DESIGN
BY
A
GRAND
ARCHITECT

Already, people were describing the Bay View as a “mini Fairmont”—with luxury and elegance on a smaller, more intimate scale than the beautiful hostelry down the block. In just a few days, guests would begin to take up residence in the lovely new rooms with their silk drapery and gold faucets and their magnificent views of the water. The article had concluded:

And so, from the Fourth of July onwards, two luxurious hotels on Nob Hill will greet visitors from all over the world. Our recovering City will benefit mightily from this race to splendor in which San Francisco’s only two women architects have been so ardently engaged.

Amelia had learned yesterday from Loy Chen that J.D. had already bestowed his belongings in the owner’s apartments on the top floor. The hourglass had nearly run out of sand. Soon, Amelia’s connection to the Bay View would be officially severed.

How she would have loved to live in the owner’s apartments with J.D.—or even
alone
, she thought, with a flash of anger. If only she had five playing cards and the
truth
!

Increasingly disturbed by the unhappy realities confronting her, she wandered farther down the path toward the rear of the hotel’s original property line to inspect a row of flower beds that had been prepared the previous day. Gamboling stone cherubs—ordered from France despite J.D.’s reservations—as well as a series of garden benches that the Pigati cousins had fashioned out of poured concrete were embedded in the earth at intervals along the path. Now that the cistern was operational, the rest of the grounds would be completed that very day in the area where the old woman’s clapboard house had stood before the great fire had reduced it to cinders.

“Lucky Dog” had duly been buried under a newly planted pine tree, awaiting his stone marker and a second would be installed there too, commemorating her grandfather’s dog Barbary who had taken such a shine to J.D.

Her mind filled with a jumble of memories, Amelia sipped her lukewarm coffee and gazed at a smallish pile of refuse that remained to be carted away from the Pacific Street side of the old gambling club site. The Pigatis and sundry daily workers were due to arrive momentarily to remove this eyesore, and then plant eighteen additional rose bushes in its place.

A gust of wind whipped Amelia’s hair and sent a chill down her spine. Wishing she’d donned a coat before commencing her inspection tour, she clutched her mug in her left hand and sank the icy fingers of her right deep into the pocket of her trousers for warmth.

As she did, her fingers grazed something thin and papery. She halted in place, then slowly pulled two objects into the soft morning light. She stared down at her palm as shock and amazement turned into disbelief.

A pair of playing cards, stuck together at odd angles—one face up and one face down—lay cupped in her trembling hand. She made out the words “Bay View Hotel” etched on the top card, along with the initials “JDT
.”

“Oh… my…
God
,” she whispered. After all this time, she finally knew for sure who’d won the notorious poker game on the night her world turned upside down.

Amelia sank onto a concrete bench and set her coffee cup aside. Slowly, delicately, she pulled the cards, one from another, and carefully placed them side-by-side on thighs covered by her father’s twill trousers. There, outlined against the dark fabric, the jack and king of diamonds stared back at her.

Henry Bradshaw, notorious drunkard, perpetrator of lies, spinner of fantastic yarns made up of whole cloth, had been telling his daughter the truth.

Incredibly, Amelia knew without a doubt that—just as he’d insisted—he’d drawn a rare royal flush in a hand of five-card stud in an all-night, winner-take-all poker game with J.D. Thayer and Ezra Kemp. He had
won back
Charlie Hunter’s Bay View Hotel seconds before the cataclysm struck.

Even more incredibly, these two thin cards had been lodged for nearly fifteen months deep inside the pocket of her father’s dress trousers, where he had attempted to stuff all five as the first shock hit. Amelia remembered gently dislodging the ace, queen, and ten of diamonds from the tips of Henry’s crushed fingers. Then, at her father’s insistence, she’d fruitlessly searched amid the rubble for the jack and king of diamonds that he’d managed to stuff in his trouser pocket—and that now peered up at her.

Her father had been sedated with laudanum until he’d died, and thus had no clear recollection of the immediate aftermath of the quake. He may not even have been aware that he’d succeeded in sequestering some of the playing cards in his pocket as he dove futilely for cover.

As for the trousers themselves, Amelia recalled her aunt sponging off the dust and grime with a cloth soaked in lemon water and baking soda. Obviously Margaret had been too upset by this painful chore to check the deep pockets for any personal items its late owner had left behind. Once the clothing had been cleaned, Amelia had stowed the trousers at the very bottom of her trunk, never having the heart to appropriate as part of her work uniform the last item of clothing her father had ever worn.

Until today.

It took her breath away.

She stared vacantly into space, a thousand images flitting through her mind. Horrible visions came back to haunt her—of her father’s spats peeking from beneath the gaming table that had crushed his spine. Of J.D., slumped against the shattered doorway of the gambling club, bleeding from his forehead and half-dead. Of Barbary, whining softly by his side. Of the heat, smoke, fire, and death she’d witnessed that terrible morning, along with the infuriating image of Ezra Kemp pushing aside women and children to escape on board the ferry to save himself, while two hundred and fifty thousand wretched quake refugees scrambled for safety all over the city.

Despite the morning’s chill, Amelia’s shirtwaist clung to her back, soaked with perspiration. She trembled uncontrollably. Would these horrid apparitions never
cease,
grisly reminiscences that lurked just below the surface of her conscious thoughts?

In her mind’s eye, she could picture the other three cards she’d stored in the top drawer of the chest at Aunt Margaret’s. A small voice whispered that even though she now had in her possession all five diamonds in a royal flush, there once must have been at least three-dozen decks of engraved playing cards stored in the gambling club’s cupboards on the day of the quake. Would the color of the ink, or perhaps J.D.’s initials on all five cards, help her establish the link between these two cards and the other three—and most importantly—prove that all five cards came from the
same
deck?

And even if she could confirm this, would anyone accept her evidence?

But what were the odds that the last two cards
missing
from Henry Bradshaw’s royal flush would have surfaced in her father’s dress pants pocket—the same garment he’d worn on the night of the temblor? Would either of the two surviving players in that infamous contest admit, now, to having seen her father spread the ace, king, queen, jack, and ten of diamonds on the gaming table in the wee hours of April 18, 1906?

If she showed J.D. these cards, whom would he declare—a year later—to be the true and legal owner of the hotel looming behind her?

And who had been lying to her all this time?

Chapter 32

At the opposite end of the Bay View property in a newly painted penthouse bedroom, J.D. dressed quickly, took the elevator to the mezzanine, and descended the stairs to the main floor, striding swiftly through the silent lobby. He glanced at the clock installed the day before in the oak paneling that surrounded the regal front desk. He had returned to the Bay View at 2 a.m. and now it was just under five hours later and he felt like hell. He hadn’t even stopped in the kitchen for a cup of coffee after spending a sleepless night weighing the best course to take in the next twenty-four hours. By dawn’s light, he had made up his mind.

He was certain that by now Amelia must have seen or been told about the engagement announcement in the
Call
, but he would have to deal with the repercussions of that later. His most important mission was to prevent Kemp from wreaking any more havoc in his or her life.

He stepped through the front entrance that opened onto Taylor Street and headed for the Winton, parked where he’d left it late the previous night. The motorcar started up without hesitation, and soon he was wheeling toward the Western Addition, the early morning air streaming past as he drove toward Russian Hill and Pacific Heights.

When the parlor maid opened the front door to his parents’ house on Octavia Street, the Thayer’s servant appeared startled by the unusual hour of his call, but she politely ushered her employer’s son into the foyer.

“Your father’s at his breakfast, sir,” she said. “Shall I announce you?”

“No, I’ll just show myself in. Thank you, Sophia.”

James Thayer was alone, seated at the head of a long, mahogany dining table where remarkably few family meals had ever been served. He looked up from his eggs and toast, and immediately threw his morning paper aside in a gesture of contempt.

“What are you doing here? If you seek my blessing for this preposterous engagement of yours to Kemp’s—”

“On the contrary, Father,” J.D. interrupted, “I seek your help extracting me from it.” He sat in a dining chair to his father’s right.

“Oh, for God’s sake, J.D.!” He pointed to the newspaper. “The ink on the public announcement is barely dry and
now
you come to your senses?”

“Kemp put it in the papers without my knowledge or permission. I’ve spent the last few months telling him I
wouldn’t
marry his daughter.”

“What? Why, the impertinence of that pushy, overreaching—”

“He’s far worse than that, Father. He’s a murderer. He hired a bunch of hooligans to attack my workers. Several are dead, including a seven-year-old boy.”

“We’ve had this sort of discussion before, J.D. When you involve yourself with those filthy Chinese—”

“Wait a minute,” J.D. interrupted for a second time, “let’s not forget your own involvement with a few Chinese in the not-so-distant past.”

Big Jim Thayer slammed both fists on the dining room table, rattling the chinaware so forcefully that a small bread plate flew off and crashed onto the hardwood floor.

“Will you get to the point and then get out?” he demanded furiously.

It was time now, after many years of waiting, to play the Ling Lee card. J.D. had wondered when the moment would come, and now it finally had.

“I merely employed Chinese women,” J.D. said conversationally, taking a seat to Big Jim’s right at the dining table and lifting his father’s cup of coffee to his lips. “They worked for me as clerks, restaurant staff, and chambermaids and, in the case of Ling Lee, as an accountant.” He leaned toward his father. “I paid them a salary. I didn’t abuse them. I didn’t force myself on them. Like you did.”

His father’s fork was midway to his mouth. He set it down with a clang.

“You’re talking rubbish. You
lived
with the harlot. Everybody knows that.”

J.D. removed a slice of toast from his father’s plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into his mouth. Then he settled more comfortably into his chair and gazed across the table with an unblinking stare.

“Ling Lee was a very clever person, you know,” J.D. said in a pleasant, unemotional voice. “Good with figures and with a memory that was truly astonishing.”

“How do you have the unmitigated gall to speak in my presence of this person who caused such scandal to our family and—”

“You mean the woman you
forced yourself on, Father? Or should I use the technical term? Raped.”

James Thayer’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” He seized his fork and attacked a morsel of scrambled egg on his plate.

“Well, then, allow me to refresh your memory. Ling Lee is a woman you impregnated at a brothel off Jackson Street that specialized in virgins and young boys for the amusement of white gentlemen of means with peculiar tastes. I’ve since learned that silent investors in the enterprise on China Alley like you and Kemp apparently got
special
favors.”

“How dare you talk to me like this. Get out!” The senior Thayer threw his linen napkin on the dining table in a characteristic display of rage and pushed back his chair to stand, glaring at his son.

J.D. also jumped to his feet, shouting now, unable to rein in his temper any longer.

“She was
fourteen years old
! You don’t remember Ling Lee because all ‘Chinks’ look the same to you, don’t they, Father? You don’t remember her name or her face or that night in China Alley when you walked into a room dead drunk where they held her prisoner and she begged you not to take her. And several months later, when she saw you another night and pleaded with you to care for the child—
your
child—you treated her like just another slant-eye. Just another body.”

“She was an extortionist,” declared his father, spitting out the words. “She thought she would force me to acknowledge her half-breed when she had no proof whatsoever that
I
was the one who’d gotten the slut in the family way!”

“Ah, so you
do
remember the woman you raped.”

“I didn’t rape anybody,” said Thayer. He heaved his girth into his chair once again and tucked his napkin in his shirtfront, affecting disinterest in their heated conversation. Then he picked up his fork and made a show of eating his eggs. “I paid for the right to be in the room with that woman and do whatever the hell I pleased. My investment in China Alley bought the food you ate and this roof over your head and Ling—whatever her name was—merely tried to pry money out of me.” He scowled at his son. “Now that you mention it, I
do
remember that.”

J.D. grabbed his father by his shirtfront and pushed him and the back of the chair sharply against the dining room wall as tiny pillows of scrambled eggs spattered Big Jim’s starched shirtfront. “Ling Lee was no extortionist!” His face was so close to his father’s that he could make out the tiny red capillaries on his purplish nose. He released his hold and his father fell back into his chair, appearing stunned at his son’s ferocity. “Fourteen years old and she’d never been with a man, and you hardly even
remember
the occasion! She was the mother of your child all right.”

“I think it more likely
you
were the father,” parried the elder Thayer. “
You
lived with the whore all that time.” Big Jim lapsed into stony silence while J.D. reclaimed his seat and refilled his father’s cup from the silver pot to give himself time to steady his nerves.

“Ling Lee escaped China Alley a few months after you’d taken her virginity and came begging to me in the dead of night, ill and afraid what her circumstances would do to her unborn child. She hoped that the Thayer son would take pity on her since the Thayer father had spurned her every plea. After she had your baby at the Mission Home, I supported them both for five years.” J.D. leaned to within several inches of his father’s face. “And yes, I loved her, Father. Like a brother loves a sister. I loved her for her courage. For the care and fierce protection she extended to her daughter. And I still support the child—my half
sister
—to this very day.”

“That’s rubbish! The bastard is your spawn, not mine.”

“I didn’t meet Ling Lee until she was five months pregnant. Her daughter—
your
daughter—is alive. Half Anglo. Half Chinese. A converted Christian, which was the price her Buddhist mother had to pay to keep her protected from the highbinders and so-called
Christian
people like you and Kemp. And by the way,” he added, reaching out with his forefinger to jab at the hollow dimple on his father’s face, “the poor child is cursed with the Thayer chin, just as you are—square with a cleft.” He pointed to his own smooth chin. “I look myself in the mirror and thank God I was spared that mark at least.”

“I’ve never considered you a real Thayer, and your relationship with that slut proves my judgment was sound.”

J.D. gazed at his father with a murderous stare.

“Of course you never considered me a Thayer. Just like your little daughter, I’ve always been a
half
-breed in your eyes too, haven’t I, because my mother was half Spanish? Consuela Diaz-Reims, the little brown enchilada you were willing to marry because her German father had struck it rich in the Comstock Lode and you were up to your muttonchops in debt. From the first
day
, you called her ‘Connie Thayer’ in front of your friends, didn’t you? That is, when you spoke to her at all. You ordered her to make herself scarce and to stay out of the sun. You’ve treated her like dirt your entire life!”

“I’m warning you, J.D.…”

“I’m warning
you
, old man,” he said, seizing his father’s shirtfront again in a powerful grip. “You used your Yankee lawyering and your double-dealing to hound your wife’s own father to suicide.”

“That’s absolute balderdash!”

“
I
know what you did! I’ve had my own lawyers and accountants trace the paperwork.” He shoved his father back into his chair for a second time and wished he could shove him through the wall. “Your brothels needed an infusion of cash, so first, you embezzled Grandfather Reim’s fortune and then made it look like he made idiotic business decisions. You deliberately broke the man, Father. You stole his money and covered it up. You had that quack Ellers prescribe medicines that brought his spirits low and then you made sure he was publicly humiliated so deeply that he jumped off the ferry, preferring to drown in San Francisco Bay than face the disgrace that he knew awaited him among the Thayers and their friends.”

“You’ve lost a cog, boy,” said Big Jim, but his glance slid away and he stared at his uneaten bacon. “Reims was an unstable man and Connie and you are just like him.”

“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.” J.D.’s voice was calm now, and he spoke in a monotone. “I was fifteen and I saw him jump.”

“He was a self-pitying fool and a—”

“I’m putting you on notice, Father, and the same goes for your cronies who have invested in the Chinese brothels behind smokescreens and bribes to city officials. You’d all better move heaven and earth to put a stop to Ezra Kemp trying to extort me any further and from killing any more innocent people.”

“Or you’ll do what?” his father said with some of his old belligerence.

“Or I’ll go directly to Rudolph Spreckels and those Secret Service people from Washington who are nosing around San Francisco these days. I’ll let Jimmy Hopper of the
Call
in on the secret. I’ll lay it out before all of them exactly how you and some of the so-called cream of San Francisco society rape Chinese women without a care. How the ‘San Francisco Thayers’ really operate in this town. Where you invest your money. Where you bank your profits. I’ll show them the ledger sheets proving how Abe Reuf and Mayor Schmitz are just the fronts for men like you and Kemp. And if I do that, old man, you can kill me if you like, but your precious name and reputation will be ruined in the eyes of the people who
really
count.”

J.D. took satisfaction in seeing his father slump in his chair, silent and shaken by his son’s furious assault. At length, Thayer senior waved a hand in the air and let it drop back onto the table.

“I’ll take care of Kemp,” he said wearily, as if all the fight had gone out of him. “He’s been a thorn in the side of everyone on the Committee. He won’t be missed.”

“How? And how soon? My supposed wedding is three days from now.”

“I have to talk to some people, make some arrangements, but I’ll see to it in my own way—and
when
I wish it. Now, get out.”

J.D. was tempted to force the issue of the timetable for retribution against Kemp, then thought better of it. If Ezra continued to think the wedding was going forward, he would be less dangerous to everyone concerned.