California Gold (67 page)

“Y’don’t suppose it could be money?” Johnson drawled.

The Pup was just up Stockton from Market. He walked in at ten past seven. The little restaurant was crowded and noisy. Electric light glared off white-tile walls and floor, and odors of cigar and fish floated in the hazy air. Waiters in long aprons shoved and blustered in and out of the kitchen with mountainous trays of dishes. Two huge silver coffee boilers behind the counter created a strange distorted mural of the scene.

Abraham Ruef spotted Mack from the rear corner table where he customarily held court. He dismissed the police sergeant seated there and then stood up as Mack approached. Ruef was about thirty-five. He wore a smart single-breasted suit and a dark striped four-in-hand. Several things about him struck Mack at once: his Gallic nose, his bouncy energy, the gleam of his bright brown eyes, shiny as sable fur. He was smaller than Mack remembered.

Ruef shot out his hand. He smelled of sweet cologne. “Mr. Chance. What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thanks. Mutual.” Mack laid his stick and homburg on the table. He ordered black coffee, Ruef another slice of cherry pie.

The little pol gestured to the restaurant. “I hope the din doesn’t annoy you. I like the energy in here. I do more business at this table than I do in my law offices.”

Ruef’s smile was cordial and winning. Mack could easily imagine him stepping right off of a Paris boulevard. Ruef’s ancestors were in fact French. He enhanced the boulevardier look with a pink carnation in his lapel.

Ruef forked the pie with small, delicate motions, while Mack stirred coffee in a heavy white mug. “I watched the contretemps outside your warehouse yesterday,” the pol said.

“I noticed.”

“Everyone knew it was coming. I wanted to see how you handled it.”

“And?”

“You handled it admirably. Still, you were interfering with the rights of Oscar Himmel.”

“I was honoring the strike.”

Ruef kept smiling, but he jabbed like a prosecutor. “Come, sir. The pier itself—the access road—you don’t own those.”

“Strikers have tied up other public thoroughfares.”

“Breaking the law.”

“To enforce a higher one: ‘Thou shalt not squeeze blood out of my weaker brethren.’ ”

“I like that. I was raised on the Hebrew Talmud—the patriarchs and the prophets. I admire men with a passion for justice. I was testing you with my questions.”

“Cross-examining, I’d say.”

Ruef laughed. His mention of religion struck Mack as calculated. The man was a manipulator.

“Down to cases, then. We’ve scarcely exchanged ten words at Republican functions. I thought we should have a chat because you endorse the strike. Not many men with your wealth and status would take that risk.”

Mack kept stirring his coffee, waiting.

Ruef darted looks around, then leaned in. “I can tell you confidentially that Governor Gage intends to intervene to end the strike.”

“That’s bad news. Henry Gage is in the pocket of Walter Fairbanks, William Herrin, and the SP Political Bureau.”

“Nevertheless, the unions simply can’t win against hired strikebreakers and the police. I feel a settlement is inevitable, and I’m urging it, though it won’t be favorable to our side.”

So now it was
our side.
Mack’s wariness grew.

“I like the situation as little as you do, Mr. Chance. But continuing the strike is foolhardy, as foolhardy as your confrontation with those thugs. What if there had been bloodshed? Bloodshed accomplishes nothing. We must take control of the machinery. Win the workingman’s fight with votes.”

“Are you talking about your new party?”

“That’s right. The Union Labor party. Do you know Eugene Schmitz?”

“I’ve seen him conduct the orchestra at the Columbia Theatre.”

“Another confidence, then. Schmitz will be our mayoral candidate.”

Mack almost laughed. “He’s a violin player. What does he know about running a city?”

Annoyed, Ruef said, “Everything: Because I’ll teach him. Gene’s an ideal candidate, German and Irish parents, Catholic, a family man. The musicians’ union is less threatening than many others. And he’ll look good on the platform—they don’t call him Handsome Gene for nothing. He’ll be the champion of the workingmen of San Francisco. He’ll represent them in our halls of power. Just as Senator Abe Ruef of California will someday represent them in Washington. It took me years to understand that if you want to do good, the power to do it must come first. Power is the lever of Archimedes. Power is everything.”

The electric lights glittered in Ruef’s brown eyes, and he draped his arm over Mack’s chair with a false bonhomie.

Dangerous man
, Mack thought. “I hear what you’re saying,” he said out loud. “But I’m not sure why you wanted to meet.”

“Because we share a common objective. We both want to build power for San Francisco’s most important constituency.”

“So you really have abandoned the Republicans?”

“I’ll use them if I can. But most of them are entrenched plutocrats. Gutless. You’re an exception. The Union Labor party is looking for exceptional men, men with the courage to support the candidacy of Gene Schmitz—with their ballots…and their checkbooks.”

There it was. Mack leaned back. A waiter stormed by: “Goddamn it, coming through.”

“I’m afraid I’m not your man. After your league lost the primary, you put your allegiance somewhere else. Overnight. I’m for supporting the workingman. I’m not interested in exploiting him.”

The little pol’s toothy smile turned cold. “That’s a shortsighted view. Let me tell you what I foresee in San Francisco. I foresee a day when nothing moves on our docks—nothing happens in our government—without the sanction of the Union Labor party and its hand-picked mayor and supervisors. You may count on this, too. When we’re in power, we’ll assist our friends and remember those who disdained friendship.”

I don’t like this man,
Mack thought. He drew himself up in his chair. “In other words, money up front will guarantee favors?”

Ruef flung down his napkin. “I don’t think I care for that. I could name certain other intelligent, progressive gentlemen who don’t take such a cynical view of friendship. They’ve donated to the party and, what’s more, they’ve retained me on a regular basis to represent them in the future at City Hall.”

Mack stood up. “Ruef, I don’t pay extortion money. I especially don’t pay it in advance.”

The little pol’s mustache quivered. His closely shaved cheeks were white as the china mugs. “That remark was a mistake, Mr. Chance.”

“We’ll see. Excuse me.”

“Surely. We’ll meet again.”

His eyes promised it wouldn’t be cordial.

With the intervention of Governor Gage, the strike ended, the terms of the settlement kept secret. The union drivers simply picked up and went back to work. Mack’s warehouse men didn’t want to talk about it, except to say the union shop was dead in San Francisco.

Abe Ruef personally wrote a basic five-minute speech for Handsome Gene Schmitz. He rehearsed the candidate, and Schmitz gave the speech everywhere, bringing to it a natural flamboyance from his theater work. Soon the women in his audience were sighing and wringing their hands while their husbands stamped and whistled for everyone’s new idol.

The dismal conclusion of the strike had an effect on the campaign, driving union men to work hard for a political victory. They were helped by the lackluster candidates of the regular parties. The Republicans offered a hack, the city auditor. The Democrats put up Joe Tobin, a young supervisor with money; his chances were diminished by the widespread unpopularity of Mayor Phelan. The Monarch of the Dailies was unimpressed with the whole lot.

The major candidates have been carefully picked over by representatives of the Southern Pacific, the Market Street Railway, and the Spring Valley Water Company. Those chosen are sure to carry out orders with a fearless disregard of the public good.

On the night of November 5, 1901, at Republican headquarters, Mack watched them chalk up the tally. Tobin—12,000. Wells—17,000. Schmitz—21,000. “Well,” he remarked, “the wolf’s in the fold.”

O
N A DRIZZLY NIGHT
that winter, Mack went to Margaret’s for dinner. While she cooked pork chops, and green beans spiced with ham chunks and brown sugar, he sliced golden bell peppers and artichokes brought from his own warehouse. She served a rich, almost syrupy merlot from someone else’s winery; he made a comment about that.

Margaret had recently begun to fix dinner for them at least once a week when his schedule allowed. She lived in a flat next to the Maison Napoleon, but no connecting door breached the thick plaster wall between. It was as if she could shut out that part of her life by coming into these proper Victorian rooms furnished with the inevitable three-legged tables, potted greenery, old Rogers groups, and other assorted bric-a-brac.

Knife in his right hand, Mack pushed green beans onto the fork in his left. It was the European way; Margaret had taught him. His cravat was loosened, his collar unbuttoned, his vest open, his sleeves rolled up. Under the imitation Tiffany-glass electric, they sat together in a relaxed, almost domestic intimacy. While he finished eating she darned a tiny tear in a yellowed lace tablecloth. She never ate much—to preserve her figure, she said.

“I don’t know a lot about Abe Ruef,” Mack said after drinking some wine. “But I had a bad impression of him last fall, and it hasn’t improved. I’ve never seen anyone move in so fast. They’re paying court to him at the Pup until midnight or later, every night.” Ruef’s party had elected not only the mayor but three of its slate of eighteen supervisors. It was a strong start.

“I know him slightly. He dines next door about once a month. Always orders in French. He’s proud of all the languages he speaks. He never goes upstairs. They say ambition leaves him no time for women.”

“It’s a fairly common disease,” Mack said with a wry look. “Rhett Haverstick told me Ruef’s picking up clients right and left: Pacific Telephone and Telegraph, Pat Calhoun’s United Railroads. Rhett claims Ruef collects five hundred dollars a month from every one of them.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“While the voters let him get away with it, nothing. Schmitz is a lightweight, but he’s a superb actor, and Ruef has a certain brassy charm. People like both of them.”

He pushed his plate away, stretched, and patted his stomach. He felt the beginnings of a potbelly. “You’re a fine cook.”

“Anything for a friend.” She applied herself to her needlework but promptly pricked her finger. Then, avoiding his eye, she asked, “Will you be going next door tonight?”

“No, I just want to relax. This is the best refuge in San Francisco. Better than my clubs. There, someone always wants something. Usually a donation.”

He sighed, enjoying the rare contentment. A gold-plated clock on the parlor mantel chimed the quarter hour. He plucked a silver cigar case from his coat nearby.

“You said you were going south again—” she began.

“In a few days. I could stand some sunshine.” He lit up and puffed. Outside, rain fell harder, making their little island of light all the more cozy. “That’s a lovely old tablecloth.”

“Irish lace.” She raised it to show the pattern. “It was my mother’s only decent possession. I treasure it because it reminds me of her. It also reminds me that a person needn’t stay in one place swilling pigs forever.”

“Growing up was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

She turned her head on that lovely long neck. A swan’s neck, he called it in his thoughts. The face of a sad freckled child seemed to glimmer behind the face of the mature young woman. “The fine people of California, the ones who settled in the delta twenty years before my father, didn’t exactly welcome dirt farmers. ‘Pike’ was not a name you called a friend.”

“So you ran away. How did you ever get this place?”

“I worked for it.” Watching for a reaction, she added, “In someone else’s place. Resembling the rooms upstairs at the Maison. I’ll tell you this: Mission Street won’t be my last stop.”

“What do you want from life, Margaret?”

The rain fell, beating on bay windows hidden by heavy velvet drapes. Far away, a trolley clanged on Market Street. She pressed the tablecloth into her lap, her thimble shining like a nugget of silver. The line of her slim bosom trembled with a noticeable tension.

“Something better. I want something much better than this.”

Her eyes said the rest, and it made him uncomfortable. He put the burning cigar in a tray and stepped to her side, laying a paternal hand on her shoulder. She let out a breath, the tautness leaving her, and she averted her eyes to the precious tablecloth.

“I’d better start home.”

“Walking?”

“I don’t mind the rain. The air will do me good.” He patted her. “I’ll see you as soon as I come back. Meantime, thanks for the good meal.”

“I don’t have the budget for the kind of dinners you prepare. Or the talent.”

He laughed and kissed her temple in a chaste way. Her high-piled auburn hair had a warm fresh smell. “You’re a wonderful cook. A wonderful friend.”

Her right hand swept up and across to press his. Standing behind her, he saw her pained face in the back mirror of a heavy old sideboard.

Quickly, she lightened the pressure of her hand. “Well, I’m grateful for that much, anyway.”

After he went out, she locked the door, then leaned against it with the tablecloth held between her breasts. She closed her eyes and let the tears roll down.

He lay awake in the small hours. It happened more and more lately. Columns of numbers streamed through his head, lists of things to be done.

He kept a pad beside the great imperial bed with the
JMC
carved at the apex of the headboard. He was practiced at scribbling in the dark, though the notes were hell to read in the morning.

It stormed violently about 2
A.M
., thunder bumping over the Bay, and the high dark house seemed to breathe and shudder. Margaret’s face disturbed his rest. He knew what she wanted—what he could never give.

The stairs creaked. He opened his door and saw the glowing circles of Alex Muller’s spectacles. The young man was going downstairs in his nightshirt, lamp held aloft. He coughed, a sound like shoes scuffing cement.