Into the Firestorm (5 page)

O
NE
C
HANCE

“What did you say your name was, young man?” Pat Patterson asked.

They were sitting in chairs at the back of the store. Afterward, Nick was never sure exactly what caused Pat Patterson to change his mind. Maybe it was that Nick just kept standing there. Or maybe it was the moment that, with a big sigh, the large golden dog had stretched out on his back across Nick’s feet, begging to have his belly scratched.

“All right, Shake, my boy, I get the point.” Mr. Pat Patterson threw his hands up in the air with a sigh. “Let’s all have some nourishment, shall we? Just the thought of toiling all day in the blazing sun has made me parched and ravenous.”

After rummaging in a cupboard, Mr. Pat Patterson brought out two bottles of warm root beer and some generous slices of bread with cheese. The dog jumped up and stationed himself nearby, his plumy tail wagging like a pendulum.

Nick swallowed. “I didn’t say what my name was, sir. It’s Nick. Nicholas Dray, sir.”

“All right, Nicholas,” mumbled the stationer, his mouth full. “Just because I’m feeding you, don’t get the wrong idea.”

“I’ll try not to, sir.”

“And for God’s sake, don’t call me sir. Call me Pat. Everyone in San Francisco does. Except Shake here. He just barks. Isn’t that right, boy?” Pat broke off a piece of bread and tossed it to the dog.

The dog snatched it out of the air with a quick snap, sat back on his haunches, and barked for more, his white teeth gleaming in a happy smile. He stood in front of Nick, tail wagging hard.

Nick reached out to rub Shake’s black velvet nose. “When he wags his tail, his whole body wiggles and shakes, too. Especially, you know, the back part. I guess that must be why you named him Shake, isn’t it?”

Mr. Pat chortled. “Well, I must say I never thought of it quite that way. As a matter of fact, Shake is short for Shakespeare. He’s named after the bard himself—William Shakespeare.”

Nick felt his face getting red. William Shakespeare. He tried to remember what Miss Reedy had told them about William Shakespeare. About all Nick could remember was that Shakespeare lived a long time ago in England. Nick thought maybe he’d written plays. Yes, that was it. But he hoped Mr. Pat wouldn’t start asking him too many questions about any of them.

Why couldn’t Mr. Pat have named his dog something simple, like King or Brownie? Nick shook his head. He tried to focus on what Mr. Pat Patterson was saying.

Mr. Pat was waving a gleaming silver pen in Nick’s direction. He stood up straight, as if he were about to make a speech. Maybe Mr. Pat was an actor. That might explain why he’d given his dog such a funny name.

“Let me say at the outset, right from the top, Nicholas, that I am not the fatherly type. I don’t want a son. Shakespeare’s the only family I’ve got.”

“Yes, Mr. Pat.”

“So, the best advice I can give you is to go turn yourself in at the nearest orphanage—”

“But—” put in Nick.

“Hear me out. That’s the
best
advice I can give you. But clearly you are loath to take it,” Mr. Pat declared firmly with a shake of his pen. “No, you seem to have a spirit of independence and a sense of courage. And, I might add, an appreciation for writing and letters that is somewhat surprising in one of your background.”

Mr. Pat waved his hands proudly toward his store. Nick could barely follow what the man said from one moment to the next.

“I myself am a writer, you know,” Mr. Pat went on. “Not on the level of the beloved bard, of course.”

“You mean Shakespeare?” Nick asked.

The dog barked. His master nodded. “Exactly. Or even a fresh American talent like Jack London. Have you read his
Call of the Wild
? Magnificent.”

Mr. Pat scratched his nose with one long finger. “Let’s see, it came out, when was it? Three years ago, I think. Yes, that’s right, because that’s when I got Shakespeare here. He’s barely over his puppyhood! I almost named him Buck, after the dog in London’s book. But Shakespeare seemed a better fit with the stationery business, wouldn’t you agree?”

As if he knew he was being talked about, Shakespeare sat back on his haunches with a broad grin, his bright chocolate brown eyes darting from Nick to his master. Then he padded over to Nick and put his head in Nick’s lap.

“What a glutton for scratches that dog is,” remarked Mr. Pat. “He does seem to have really taken to you, young man.”

Nick grinned. “Do you think so? I never saw a dog with such sparkly brown eyes before. When he opens his mouth, he smiles like a person.” Nick loved the way Shake’s soft fur felt under his hand.

“Now, then, what was I saying?”

“That you’re a writer?” Nick offered.

“Ah, yes, that was it. Indeed I am. Well, not actually in print, like those luminaries who live on the other side of Montgomery Block.”

“Montgomery Block?”

Mr. Pat swept his hands wide. “It’s our little corner of San Francisco. That big block of a building at the end of the street is the U.S. Customs House—also called the Appraisers’ Building. Across from us is Hotaling’s whiskey, where my esteemed friend Ed Lind toils away on the accounts like a veritable Bob Cratchet. (Forgive me, Nicholas, that’s a reference to Dickens.) We have wine merchants, a rooming house, and a coffee-and-spice store. And where Montgomery hits Washington is a building where many writers live.”

Nick’s head was whirling. “It all just looks like buildings to me, sir.”

“A city is always more than its buildings. Buildings, of course, have their own characters. But I find that the true heart of a city is its people, always so fascinating and different. That’s what I love about San Francisco, don’t you?”

“I…I haven’t actually met any fascinating people yet,” Nick said. He almost added, “Except you.”

“Well, you will. At any rate, I think you can see why my little store is so perfectly situated here on Jackson Street. And although my literary hopes may never come to fruition, we haven’t been doing too badly in business, have we, faithful canine companion?”

Shakespeare jerked his head up and gave two sharp barks, baring his white teeth in a bright grin of agreement.
It’s almost as if they’re real friends who understand each other,
Nick thought. He gripped the hat Gran had bought for him and looked up, wishing he could say something to make Mr. Pat like him.

“I think your store is amazing, sir. Especially the inkwells and the pens, too. I wonder…I wonder if my teacher Miss Reedy bought her beautiful inkwell right here.” Nick gestured toward the gleaming glass cases in the front window.

“And maybe she ate in that Eiffel Tower Restaurant I saw just down the street. It sure was a pretty inkwell. Well, more than pretty.” Nick let out a breath. This wasn’t working. He didn’t know how to talk to a city person.

But Mr. Pat was nodding. “Yes, indeed, Nicholas. Aim for precision in language at all times. These inkwells
are
more than just pretty. They are exquisite, luminous, superb. But don’t get me started. I may have to show you my collection of old and rare inkwells, mostly from France and England.

“So, it certainly seems clear that, unschooled as you are, you have an appreciation, a nose, we might say,” Mr. Pat continued, leaning forward and tapping his own pointed nose with the tip of the silver pen, “for the finer things.

“But! And I must warn you this is an important ‘but’—our relationship must entirely be one of employer and employee,” he warned. “I expect absolute integrity and honesty. Absolute honesty! That is what I get from Shakespeare, after all. So, let us enter into a contract. You have one chance to prove yourself. One chance only. Do we understand each other, young Nicholas?”

“I…I think so. I guess….” Nick stopped. He wasn’t sure he understood anything. He gulped, his heart beating fast, almost afraid to ask the question. “Does this mean that you’re…you’re giving me a job?”

Nick’s job, as it turned out, was to watch the store for two days.

“This week I have some business in Oakland, across the bay. Just a couple of days,” Pat Patterson explained. “Unfortunately, I must leave Tuesday evening.”

“Unfortunately?” Nick asked, scratching behind Shakespeare’s ear. The big dog leaned against him and sighed. Nick was starting to get used to Mr. Pat’s unexpected way of talking. Not that Nick actually
understood
everything Mr. Pat said, but at least he didn’t feel quite so nervous.

“Don’t you know? Oh, well, now, that’s right. How could you? I said it was unfortunate, Nicholas, because being gone Tuesday evening means I’ll miss the rare and wonderful opportunity to hear Enrico Caruso sing the role of Don Jose in
Carmen
at the Grand Opera House. But business calls, and it can’t be helped.”

Nick’s face must have betrayed his confusion. Mr. Pat laughed. “Ah, you don’t know who Caruso is, do you?”

Nick shook his head and felt his face flush. “Or…or Don whatever, either.”

“Now, Nicholas, another rule of the establishment. Never be afraid to ask questions,” Mr. Pat proclaimed, pointing a thin finger at Nick. “It is not your fault that you’ve never heard of Caruso. But it will be if you choose to remain in ignorance.”

Nick looked down at his feet. He did feel stupid and ignorant most of the time. Especially now. About the only thing he knew was cotton.
Well, at least I know more about that than Mr. Pat.

Nick thought back to all the school days he and the other sharecropper kids had missed so they could work in the fields. Usually, from about late September until November, the whole school would close. Nick hadn’t given it much thought at the time. After all, cotton came first. It always had.

“Anyway, Nicholas, I won’t be gone long. I should be back late Thursday afternoon,” Mr. Pat was saying.

Nick looked around the shop, panic in his voice. “If you’re leaving tomorrow night, I…I don’t think I can learn all the prices by then.”

“Good heavens, boy. Do you take me for a fool? I have no intention of leaving you in charge of working in my shop. No, the shop will be closed and locked.” Mr. Pat’s voice was firm.

“Then what will my job be?”

“To keep watch over the shop and take care of Shakespeare, of course. You can stay in the basement with our noble canine companion here.” Mr. Pat bowed toward his dog. “I have an office down there with my important papers—business records and so forth. There’s a little sitting room outside the office that should suit you. There’s only one small window, but it’s comfortable enough.”

He nodded, apparently quite satisfied with his plan. “Yes, this should work out quite well. I was a bit nervous about leaving and taking Shakespeare with me, as I had a robbery last month. So if you see anyone suspicious loitering around, run for a police officer.”

“A police officer?” Nick swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure how he felt about running
toward
a policeman.

“Oh, there’s usually one or two to be found on Market Street. Mind you, some of them can’t run all that fast.”

Nick couldn’t help smiling to himself as he pictured Bushy Brows lumbering after him.

“Now, Nick, may I have your promise that when I return, Shakespeare here will be happy and well fed?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“And that none of my papers or the treasures we store here will be disturbed?”

Nick nodded.

“Excellent. If my business deal goes well, perhaps we’ll stroll over to the old Eiffel Tower Restaurant on Thursday evening and pretend we’re in Paris.”

Nick felt a smile grow at the corners of his mouth and spread across his face. He had a job and a roof over his head. He might even eat in a restaurant.

Suddenly Nick felt light and free. He imagined this was how a small cloud must feel skittering across a clear sky.

Nick rested his hand on Shakespeare’s head. “I don’t need to pretend I’m in Paris, Mr. Pat. Just being here in San Francisco is fine with me.”

S
OMETHING
U
NEXPECTED
& U
NSEEN

On Tuesday evening, Nick stood on Jackson Street with his hand around Shake’s collar.

“Better hold him, Nicholas,” Mr. Pat counseled. “He’s a faithful companion and likes to follow me. But if he should stray, don’t worry too much. Shakespeare can find his way home from anywhere in the city.”

Nick watched Mr. Pat Patterson stroll down the street and turn the corner at Sansome. Mr. Pat turned and waved cheerfully. “Until Thursday, then. Keep safe and strong.”

Nick waved back and Shakespeare whined a little, pulling at his collar. “No, you’re staying with me this time, boy.”

There was a part of Nick that wished he could go with Mr. Pat, too. It would be lonely without him. And then there was the responsibility of the store. Nick’s stomach felt fluttery. Not empty, thanks to Mr. Pat’s generosity, but nervous.

Things had changed so suddenly. He was no longer Nicholas Dray, cotton picker. Or Nick the Invisible, road kid. No, he was now in charge of what was, so far as he could tell, the most beautiful store in San Francisco. True, the store was closed and locked up safe, but that didn’t matter. It was a big job.

Nick cleared his throat. “Come on, Shakespeare. Let’s go downstairs and keep watch.”

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled around just as Annie Sheridan jumped out in front of him, hopping up and down on the cobblestones, her braids bouncing in the air.

“I heard! I heard everything he said,” she chortled.

Nick frowned. “Where did you come from? Were you spying on me?”

She pouted. “I couldn’t help hearing. I was just coming out of the alley. Besides, I already guessed. I saw you, Mr. Pat, and Shakespeare on your way to the store this morning.”

“So you know Mr. Pat?”

“Everyone knows Mr. Pat. He’s very funny.” Annie paused for breath and waved to a tall young man entering a building on the corner of Jones Alley and Jackson Street. “Oh, and there’s Mr. Lind! Hello!” she called out.

“Hullo there yourself, Annie. Who’s your young friend?” Nick was surprised to see the man stroll over and greet Annie with a little bow.

“This is Nick, Mr. Lind. He’s new. Mr. Pat has hired him, and he’s going to live here forever and be my friend,” Annie explained importantly. “Nick, this is Mr. Ed Lind. He works
a lot.
He hardly ever has time to talk on account of he’s practically in charge of Hotaling’s there. That’s the whiskey warehouse—and it’s the best whiskey in California!”

“Thanks for the compliment, young miss. But I hope you haven’t tried our whiskey yourself,” Mr. Lind teased.

“Of course not! Sometimes the men in the rooming house come home at night smelling of whiskey. It’s awful.” Annie scrunched up her nose.

“Well, I’d better get back to work.” Mr. Lind tipped his hat. “Nice to meet you, Nick. You’ll enjoy working for Pat. He and that dog of his really light up this street.”

Annie watched Ed Lind walk back to the warehouse. She twirled one of her braids around her fingers thoughtfully. “I think it’s important to have a lot of friends in our neighborhood. It’s almost like having a bigger family. Mama says making friends is my special gift. What’s yours, Nick?”

“Mine?”

Annie stared up at him with her bright, mismatched eyes. “Your special gift. Something you do better than anything.”

“I don’t know, Annie,” Nick lied.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Annie went on, barely pausing for his answer. “Hey, I know something. You’re good at shopping. I see you have a new set of clothes. And I bet I know how you got them, too. Mr. Pat! Did he take you to the Emporium?”

Nick nodded. Mr. Pat had marched him into the huge department store on Market Street. Nick’s jaw had dropped in amazement at the sparkling lights and displays. Mr. Pat had finally reminded him to close his mouth.

“I’ve never had ready-made pants and shirts before,” Nick told Annie.

He had to admit it was nice to have someone to talk to. Of course, it would be a lot better if he had a real friend his own age to talk to rather than this small, chattering girl. As soon as Mr. Pat got back, he’d go visit Tommy Liang to share the good news about his job. Chinatown wasn’t far.

“I’m glad you’ll be my neighbor,” Annie said, hopping from one cobblestone to another. “I just knew it when I saw you yesterday. Will you come meet Mama soon?”

“Sure, if I can get time away from my duties,” Nick said, feeling important. “How is your mother?”

Annie bent down, wrapped her arms around Shakespeare’s neck, and giggled as he licked her face. “All right, I guess. She’s been cleaning floors and doing fine sewing for some ladies who live in big houses up on Nob Hill. But with the baby coming, she only wants to do sewing. It’s hard for her to walk up the steep hills now, so I’m her delivery girl.”

Then in a voice so low Nick could barely hear, she added, “But the jar is getting awfully light.”

The jar. Nick didn’t need to ask Annie what that meant. Gran had kept a money jar on the top shelf in the kitchen. He didn’t remember that it had ever been heavy. Sometimes, when Gran did some extra laundry or sold some eggs, she let him open it and drop the coins in one by one.

After Pa left, Nick discovered that Gran had another, secret hiding place for money. One evening, Gran had reached into the back of a drawer and pulled out two faded white gloves wrapped in tissue paper.

“I wore these gloves the day I married your grandfather,” she told Nick, slipping her fingers partway into one of them. The glove no longer fit Gran’s rough, work-worn hand.

Gran drew out a few bills and some coins. “Not that I ever meant to be mean about keeping things hidden from your father, you understand,” she said, patting the small glove gently. “But my own mama told me a girl should always try to put a penny or two aside for herself and her babies. ‘A penny that won’t ever get drunk.’ That’s how she put it.”

Gran’s secret stash hadn’t lasted long. She’d bought Nick the cap he still had. And the money had helped tide them over until they found work on Mr. Hank’s farm. On that last day, Gran had given Mrs. Turner one quarter to pass on to Nick. Two bits. The coin was probably all that was left.

Nick reached into the pockets of his new pants. He’d been careful to take his two special coins out of the old pants and put them in his new ones.

He wondered if Annie and her mother were getting enough to eat. Once the baby came, it wouldn’t be easy for Mrs. Sheridan to have time to do enough fine sewing to pay their rent. Nick’s hands closed around the quarters, one coin in each pocket. But then he let go.

“Well, good night, Annie of the North Star. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Shakespeare and I have work to do.”

“Come on, boy, time for bed.” Shakespeare padded downstairs ahead of him, tail sweeping the steps like a golden broom.

“I’ve never had a dog before,” Nick told him. Shake pricked up his ears, almost, Nick thought, as if he could understand. “We didn’t have any pets. Not that you’re mine, exactly. But we can be friends.”

Once, when he was about seven, he’d begged to keep a kitten when Mr. Greene’s brown tabby had a litter. But Gran had shaken her head, and Nick had known not to ask again.

Outside Mr. Pat’s locked office door was a small room, furnished with an old sofa, a bedroll on the floor, a bookcase, and a table with a pitcher of water and some bread, cheese, and fruit. A narrow hallway led to a toilet and sink.

“The guest room,” Mr. Pat had announced with a flourish when he’d showed it to Nick the night before. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking, young sir. Of course, it’s not nearly as grand as the Palace Hotel. Not even a curtain on the window, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. Pat, is that you?” Nick had stood before a small photograph of a family on the top of the bookcase. It was a formal, old-fashioned portrait. The parents looked kind but serious. But the boy was slightly out of focus. Even though the mother had her arm around her son’s shoulders to keep him steady, he must have moved at the last second.

Nick had felt in his pockets and touched his two quarters. He wished he still had the photograph of his mother. But Mr. Hank had been harsh. He’d sent for Mr. Kelly to haul Nick off to the orphanage without even giving him a chance to sort through Gran’s belongings. Nick sometimes imagined that maybe little Rebecca and her mother had found it. They might even be keeping it for him, thinking that sooner or later, he’d turn up in the fields once again.

“Is that me in the photograph?” Mr. Pat asked, pulling blankets out of a cupboard and looking over his shoulder. “Yes, indeed. Poor Mother, bless her soul. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep me still.”

He turned back, his voice muffled by the blankets piled in his arms. “They never did get out from Boston to see the store. Now, then, I think these will keep you warm, Nicholas.”

On Monday, Nick’s first night with Mr. Pat, Shakespeare had bounded onto the corner of the tattered green sofa, yawned, stretched, and broken into a wide doggie grin.

“Any room for me?” Nick asked, grinning back. Mr. Pat had warned him that Shakespeare might not be too keen on sharing his favorite spot in the entire world.

“I hope you won’t mind a bedroll,” he’d said. “Later, once he gets to know you, perhaps Shakespeare will consent to your taking over the sofa. But he’s a creature of habit. He’d probably just plop down on top of you. I’m not sure how well you’d sleep with a sixty-pound dog on your chest, panting into your face at all hours.”

Tonight, with Mr. Pat gone, Nick expected Shakespeare to go straight to his place on the sofa again. Instead, as Nick stretched out on his blankets, the dog stood over him, legs apart, breathing hard. His chocolate eyes gazed into Nick’s. He whined low in his throat.

“What’s wrong? Do you miss Mr. Pat already?” Nick scratched the dog’s head and pulled gently on one ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

Nick stared up at the ceiling.

“I’m here, Gran,” he whispered out loud. “Safe. Safe in San Francisco. I even have a job and a place to stay, for now, anyway. Mr. Pat might keep me on if I take good care of Shakespeare and his treasures while he’s away. So you don’t need to worry about me.”

Nick frowned. Well, it really was too soon to tell what would happen with Mr. Pat Patterson. He was such an unusual sort of person. He seemed to streak through each day like the stars Nick and Gran had watched flash through the dark August sky—moving fast, almost too quick to see.

“I wonder if Mr. Pat took me on only because it was convenient. After all, I showed up at just the right time. He needed to go away and didn’t want to be bothered to take you with him,” Nick said, sitting up on the bedroll and addressing Shake. “Maybe, come Thursday, he’ll decide to send me on my way.”

Shakespeare didn’t seem to be listening. He whined, settled himself to the floor with a heavy sigh, and then after a minute got up again. The dog’s nails clicked as he walked across to the stairs. He stood for a minute, listening, then trotted back to Nick.

“Settle down, boy. You’re making me nervous. I’m trying to sort things out,” Nick told him. He kept one hand on the dog’s head, scratching idly.

It did seem to be a good sign that Mr. Pat was taking a chance on him. After all, not everyone would let a strange boy keep watch, even if the office and the shop were locked up tightly. And he had bought Nick those clothes.

Nick yawned. “What do
you
think, Shakespeare? Will Mr. Pat keep me on?”

Shake tilted his head, his ears pricking up at attention. He wagged his tail, which Nick decided was a good sign.

“Well, at least I know
you
like me, Shake. And I sure would love to learn this business. Did you see those folks who came in today to buy newspapers and magazines?” Nick went on, yawning again. “Mr. Pat said they were poets, writers, and newspaper reporters. It would be something to get to know people like that.”

As he thought about the shop upstairs, Nick’s sleepiness seemed to evaporate. He suddenly felt as jumpy as Shakespeare.

What if someone tried to break in? Would Nick be able to hear noises from down here in the basement? Would Shakespeare?

Nick peered into the darkness. Shakespeare had finally hopped up to his usual place on the sofa. He seemed asleep, but when he noticed Nick, he gave a few gentle wags of his tail.

Then, unexpectedly, he jumped off the sofa and paced around the room again, making the same whining sound deep in his throat. Finally he curled up on the floor next to Nick and put his head on his paws.

“That’s it, boy,” Nick said, throwing his arm around the dog. “Everything’s going to be all right. Let’s go to sleep now.”

CRACK

BOOM

Nick woke suddenly, with no idea where he was.

The light was dim, but it was morning. Early morning. Half asleep, Nick felt confused. His first thoughts flew to Gran. Where was she? Had he missed the bell calling Mr. Hank’s workers to the fields?

Then, more awake, Nick realized where he was. Still, something
was
wrong. A deep, horrible rumbling. A high-pitched whine. That, at least, made sense. Shakespeare! Yes, he was in Mr. Pat’s basement. The dog must need to go out.